When rating a film I ask myself these three questions: What is the director’s goal or purpose? How does the director try to achieve it? Is the director successful? Hence a big box office hit may get a “5” while a Eurosleaze sexploitation flick gets a “7”. My rating system in a nutshell:
10 = Brilliant!
9 = Exceptional
8 = Very Good
7 = Good
6 = Average
5 = Forgettable
4 = Bad
3 = Dismal
2 = Dog Barf
1 = Beyond Awful
~ ~ ~ ~
Daddio (USA 2023) (8): Returning to New York City after visiting her sister in Oklahoma, a woman (Dakota Johnson) hops into an airport taxi for the long ride into Manhattan. En route she strikes up a casual conversation with the cabbie (Sean Penn) which gradually turns into something far deeper and more personal than either anticipated as the unhappy woman and highly intuitive older man begin challenging each other on everything from love and relationships to sex, gender expectations, and being honest with oneself. Two lonely people—one looking back on his life, the other reassessing her own (as evidenced by some highly problematic text messaging)—and one transformative journey… Perhaps not as cerebral as Louis Malle’s My Dinner with Andre, nor as emotionally loaded as Steven Knight’s Locke, writer/director Christy Hall’s captivating two-hander is still a winning blend of precision editing and intelligent screenwriting. Shot for the most part within the stiff confines of a yellow cab, cinematographer Phedon Papamichael makes excellent use of mirrors and reflections to create a tension which slowly morphs into a kind of intimacy as the automobile itself takes on the characteristics of a confessional. Because the movie gives the impression of being filmed in real time it’s difficult to imagine that two complete strangers would open up so completely to one another over the course of 90 minutes, but Hall’s sharp script moves from light banter and innocent flirtations to open-faced admissions so naturally that one can overlook its theatrical touches. Plus Penn and Johnson are perfectly in synch throughout—his flippant cynicism unable to conceal a wise and gentle heart, and her pithy comebacks giving way to pensive silences as her phone screen continues to light up with increasingly ambivalent messages. Engaging from start to finish, this is a highly visual, dialogue-driven performance piece which oddly enough could work equally well over a pair of headphones.
War for the Planet of the Apes (USA 2017)(8): In this 8th instalment to the Apes franchise, ape general Caesar, driven by revenge, goes up against his bloodthirsty human counterpart with results both disastrous and triumphant. The CGI and motion-capture technology will make you believe monkeys can talk and the flash bang special effects will have you dodging flying tree trunks and flaming shrapnel. A little heavy on the sermonizing (Apes GOOD! Humans BAD!) but the sly nods to classics such as "Apocalypse Now", "Spartacus", and just about every WWII drama are well placed while the story arc sets the stage for the 1968 original. Plus the central struggle between Good and Evil (or Revenge and Justice) is played out beautifully by Andy Serkis' simian visionary and Woody Harrelson's zealous warlord. Good stuff!
Presence (USA 2024) (1): A couple and their two teenaged kids move into a new home and then discover that the previous tenant never really left... Composed of several short scenes each filmed in one continuous take (a technique that goes from intriguing to gimmicky awfully fast as the POV camera zooms up and down the damn stairs ad nauseam) and employing a script of contrived ad-libs, director Steven Soderbergh fails to elicit any tension whatsoever let alone horror. Then there's the cardboard characters and mediocre effects of the "hidden wires and flickering lamps" variety which turn an already hackneyed storyline into something laughable. Lucy Liu is wasted as the bitchy mom with an unhealthy attachment to her son, hunky Chris Sullivan mopes and emotes as her ineffectual husband, and Callina Liang and Eddy Maday compete for worst actor/actress as the kids: she a neurotic wracked by guilt, he a mouthy jock. But it's West Mulholland who truly earns the Golden Razzie for his role as Maday's mumbling psycho incel BFF. A truly awful film in every respect.
For Me and My Gal (USA 1942) (7): Boy meets girl. Boy loses girl. Then boy gets drafted... And in between leads Gene Kelly and Judy Garland belt out a handful of classic songs and light up the screen with some amazing footwork helped along the way by co-stars George Murphy, Ben Blue, and opera diva Mártha Eggerth. Crisp B&W camerawork and an avid orchestra certainly give audiences everything they'd expect from an MGM musical: romance, heartbreak, suspense, and—since it was released while WWII was still raging overseas—a healthy dose of stars 'n stripes. A love letter to showbiz in general and Vaudeville in particular wrapped up in stage lights and sealed with a kiss from the king of pizzazz himself, Busby Berkeley.
Barbary Coast (USA 1935) (6): A sweet ingenue arrives in Gold Rush San Francisco only to discover her intended fiancé has met up with ultimate bad luck at a local casino. Not one to curl up and surrender however, she winds up working for the crooked casino owner who also happens to control the entire town. Then a guilty conscience and a chance encounter with a handsome prospector turns her world upside down once more. Although the original screenplay was heavily sanitized by the censors, this gritty melodrama about life in the sinful cesspool of San Francisco's Barbary Coast circa 1849 is still a guilty pleasure. Perhaps it's screen diva Miriam Hopkins emoting as if her life depended on it, perhaps it's Edward G. Robinson revising his Little Caesar role with shameful abandon (is he going to smoke that cigar or eat it?), perhaps it's Joel McCrea's good guy good looks, or maybe it's the Oscar-nominated cinematography which turns a standard Western set into a fogbound circle of Hell. It's trashy and it's corny, but that final round of good-byes is guaranteed to make you feel as if you should be crying. You won't be, of course. Iconic character actors Walter Brennan, Brian Donlevy, Donald Meek, and Frank Craven add to the fun.
Wolf Man (New Zealand/USA 2025) (6): En route to his late father’s cabin in the backwoods of Oregon Blake and his wife Charlotte, along with their young daughter Ginger are attacked by a snarling beast which trashes their van and leaves Blake with a 10-inch gash. Barely making it to the abandoned homestead, the couple hunker down while just outside something hairy and malevolent snuffles and howls. But as the night wears on Blake’s wound starts to fester and he begins slowly transforming into something else leaving his wife to decide which side of the cabin door would be safest. To his credit writer/director Leigh Whannell’s reimagining of the werewolf story does have its share of jolts, and that creepy fairy tale forest would be no stranger to Little Red Riding Hood. His use of hideous creature prosthetics and in-camera effects (as opposed to strictly CGI) also gives his flick an old-school vibe which is further enhanced by grisly effects and guttural growls. Plus he adds an extra spin by shifting between POVs often within the same take—showing us a dark shadowy interior one minute before segueing into “werewolf mode” where everything and everybody suddenly starts glowing with fiery auras and human speech becomes unintelligible gibberish. Unfortunately his cast are unable to waver from their designated roles: mom (Julia Garner) is perpetually shocked, Ginger (Matilda Firth) whines and whinges to the point you just want to cover her in steak sauce and toss her to the wolves, and dad (Christopher Abbott) is an annoying cuck who only manages to stand up for himself after he grows a mouthful of fangs. In the end cool monster movie cinematography and a bit of visceral gore (apparently the effects team fashioned bones out of white chocolate to make them tastier) do compensate somewhat for a pedestrian script rife with navel-gazing, drippy daddy-daughter moments, and a big twist one can see loping along from a mile away—but just barely.
Beanpole (Russia 2019) (8): War can cause wounds which pierce deeper than mere flesh, a point which director Kantemir Balagov drives home with visceral force in this unsettling post WWII drama. Set in a ravaged Leningrad of broken facades and peeling walls the story revolves around two former army comrades, the freakishly tall Lya (nicknamed “Beanpole”) and the alarmingly intense Masha (shattering performances from leads Viktoria Miroshnichenko and Vasilisa Perelygina). Given an early discharge due to severe PTSD which causes her to suffer episodes of hysteric paralysis, Lya now works as a nurse at an army hospital filled with similarly damaged veterans. But war has taken far more from Masha leaving her an emotional cripple obsessed with creating new life by becoming pregnant by any means possible. Rocked by two back to back tragedies, Lya and Masha’s already turbulent relationship will devolve into something far more noxious as both women struggle to find the light at the end of a very dark tunnel… A master class in light and composition, Balagov uses a palette of vibrant sepia-tinged pastels and softly focused pans which turn his dreary industrial sets into a series of Renaissance paintings. Of particular interest is his use of greens and reds—the former representing life and hope, the latter blood, rust, and decay—as well as background cues ranging from rotting wallpaper adorned with fanciful birds to official party newspapers now being used to plug broken windowpanes. His supporting cast likewise reflects a traumatized society in flux: there’s a doctor who discovers his sense of ethics no longer applies, a paralyzed soldier who longs for the “ultimate discharge”; a platitude-spouting party official who comes bearing meagre gifts; and a bourgeois family with their own take on reality. In one particularly poignant scene a small toddler is cowed by a roomful of injured veterans trying to entertain him with animal impressions and throughout there are scenes of women scrubbing themselves alone or in communal bathhouses as if trying to remove layers of dirt only they can see. Unrelentingly grim and morally challenging with an emphasis on historical accuracy (they actually borrowed those old streetcars from museums), Balagov’s beautifully framed elegy on the wages of war is as far from “feel good cinema” as one is likely to get. Based on Nobel Prize winner Svetlana Alexievich’s book War Does Not Have a Woman’s Face and winner of both the FIPRESCI Prize and “Un Certain Regard” Best Director at Cannes as well as Russia’s official entry for Best Foreign Language Film at the 2020 Academy Awards ceremony.
Love it was Not (Israel 2020) (7): At the height of WWII Helena Citron found herself an inmate at Auschwitz where she caught the eye of SS commander Franz Wunsch. Falling in love with the vivacious and outgoing young woman—a love she may or may not have shared—Franz did everything he could to save Helena’s life as well as the lives of those she cared about, actions which could have gotten them both executed had they been discovered. But when the camp was liberated Helena wound up a wife and mother in Israel while Franz started his own family in Austria. Thirty years later, responding to a desperate request from Franz’s wife, Helena returned to Austria to testify at Franz’s war crimes trial… As the title suggests this may not have been love, exactly, so what was it then? A calculated gambit to stay alive? A unique twist on Stockholm Syndrome? A lopsided passion that sprang from one party's fear and the other's guilt? Using grainy footage, elderly talking heads, and B&W photographic dioramas writer/director Maya Sarfaty lets Helena and Franz tell their own story (albeit posthumously) with some rather pithy commentary from those who witnessed their unfolding relationship firsthand including Helena's sister whose own children were sent to the gas chambers. Neither judgmental of Citron's emotional predicament nor dismissive of Wunsch's culpability in the day-to-day atrocities at Auschwitz, Sarfaty leaves us to ponder what "right" and "wrong" even mean when the very rules of civilized behaviour are set on fire. An interesting addition to the compendium of Holocaust accounts.
Banel & Adama (Senegal 2023) (10): To sit through writer/director Ramata-Toulaye Sy’s brilliant piece of cinematic myth-making is akin to walking through an art gallery during a storm—each scene becoming a painterly composition while portents and thunderclouds slowly gather overhead. In a remote sunbaked village teen newlyweds Banel and Adama are determined to buck the system of strict gender roles and familial obligations which define daily life. Stubborn and headstrong Banel (an impassioned Khady Mane) does not want children and is not interested in “women’s work”, preferring instead to spend every waking hour with her husband tending the village’s small herd of cattle. Adama (a stoic Mamadou Diallo), more introspective and taciturn, has refused the position of Chief (a title he inherited from his late father) and instead plans to move to a nearby village, abandoned after it was decimated by a sandstorm, where he and Banel are currently excavating a grand house that was buried under layers of sand and dirt. But these transgressions do not go unnoticed by their families and neighbours—nor God (or nature) apparently for a sudden drought has begun to take its toll on man and beast alike. With living conditions worsening, Banel and Adama’s relationship likewise begins to falter leading to a final visual montage of truly biblical proportions… Winds howl, omens fall from the sky, and whispering angels take on the strangest of guises in Ramata-Toulaye’s dreamlike parable which itself is heavily influenced by religion (the villagers are devout Moslems) with a dash of African folklore and magic. Earth and water, fire and air, all become mystical archetypes while two star-crossed lovers create psychological ripples: the desire for individuality versus the need to belong for starters. Although Banel balks at the system which oppresses her, her relationship with Adama is itself the result of a prearranged marriage after her first husband died under odd circumstances. Meanwhile Adama’s desire to please his new wife is increasingly tempered by a growing sense of duty. And while Banel’s frustrations see her committing small everyday acts of cruelty, Adama struggles to merge his personal desires with the greater good. Visually arresting with an orchestral score whose spare passages makes it all the more powerful, Ramata-Toulaye has accomplished something quite estraordinary, namely uniting two seemingly disparate themes—a cautionary feminist fable addressing cultural sexism, and an equally cautionary fable on the pitfalls of casually breaking with tradition. The fact she managed to incorporate them both in such a way that they actually inform one another is nothing less than remarkable. Banel & Adama is yet one more of those small gems that remind me of why I love cinema so much.
Gold (Germany 1934) (7): Seven years after the release of their iconic silent film Metropolis, Germany’s UFA Studios made this sci-fi talkie which, although lacking the former’s visual impact, still managed to make its cautionary message of technology running amok loud and clear. Professors Achenbach and Holk are on the verge of an amazing scientific discovery—the ability to turn lead into gold through “atomic restructuring”—when sabotage not only destroys their machine but kills Achenbach in the process. Holk, consumed with grief and obsessed with vengeance, eventually finds himself working on a similar project headed by the very man he believes responsible for the tragedy, a ruthless British millionaire intent on controlling the world’s markets. But even as the experiments inch closer to success, Holk is planning a most fitting revenge… The retro future sets are appropriately grandiose with giant electrodes flashing indoor lightning in an underground laboratory worthy of James Bond. And even though sound technology was still in its infancy the accompanying explosions and electrical crackles are still impressive. Furthermore, director Karl Hartl takes time to explore the worldwide impact wrought by a sudden influx of artificially made bullion with a barrage of newspaper headlines warning of financial ruin, civil unrest, and rampant poverty as savings disappear and stock markets tumble (headlines which weren’t far from reality this close to the Great Depression). Unfortunately, by this time UFA Studios were firmly controlled by the Third Reich leading to some pointed anti-West propaganda while the German protagonist’s altruism looms larger than life. Still, as a product of its time, Hartl’s big bold parable on the pitfalls of Capitalism still carries more than a kernel of truth. Interesting to note that Brigitte Helm, who plays the millionaire’s spoiled but ethically sound daughter, also starred as the evil seductive robot in Metropolis.
Adoption (Hungary 1975) (6): Depressed close-ups and stark backgrounds creating a pall of isolation and disrepair set the tone for this dreary drama from writer/director Márta Mészáros, a slice of life which could be taken as either a bleak feminist lament or a soft punch aimed at Communist dictates. Widowed before she could start a family, 43-year old Kata has decided she now wants a baby but her married lover has no desire to further complicate his life. Teenaged Anna has run away from the “Children’s Home” (a kind of gulag for unwanted kids) that her parents placed her in due to her headstrong ways and now her only desire is to escape by marrying her boyfriend even though she is underage and will require written permission from the very parents who turned their backs on her. Two women, two dreams, and two sets of impossible odds (determined largely by men)—could their chance encounter and subsequent friendship end up helping them both? Filmed in gloomy shades of grey and white, Mészáros’ resolutely unsentimental camera follows the women’s evolving relationship—at various times they act as mother and daughter, or giggling sisters, or platonic lovers—while the forces shaping their futures continue to gather and mount. Anna’s parents have a few demands of their own while Kata’s maternal instincts lead her to an adoption agency which comes with its own set of complications. And when Kata, posing as a co-worker, meets her lover’s wife she begins to suspect that the grass is not very green on either side of the fence. Finally, in a downbeat double-ending both women find out that “wanting” and “having” can be two different things as fate throws them a pair of fast balls. The film’s glacial pacing and flat performances will most likely prove off-putting to those raised on Hollywood overkill—to be fair it is a bit of a cinematic trudge—but Mészáros does deliver a very human story whose lack of bombast and gilded edges makes it more truthful than anything Tinseltown could have squeezed out. Winner of the Golden Bear at Berlin.
Mune: Guardian of the Moon (France/Canada 2014) (8): This France-Canada co-production takes certain liberties with Greco-Roman mythology, mixes them with just a dash of Disney treacle and 60s psychedelia, and turns the whole thing into a delightfully animated LSD trip for toddlers. On an ancient alternate Earth both the moon and the sun are faithfully dragged around the globe tethered to the backs of lumbering behemoths—a shuffling mountain for the sun, a gigantic birdlike dinosaur for the moon. And making sure these heavenly bodies stay in their proper orbits are a pair of newly appointed guardians: Mune, a timid forest fawn, is in charge of the moon while macho braggart Sohone keeps watch over the sun. But trouble arises when the evil Necross, tyrant of the underworld, decides to steal the sun for himself thus threatening the entire planet with deadly darkness… With celebrities voices from the likes of Rob Lowe, Christian Slater, and Patton Oswalt providing the English dub, directors Alexandre Heboyan and Benoît Phillippon’s team create a fantastical Garden of Eden rife with glowing foliage, heroic maidens fashioned out of wax, and crayon-coloured landscapes which look as if they were lifted from the mind of Maxfield Parrish with a little nudge from Rousseau, Dali, and Picasso. Counterbalanced by a vision of Hades aglow with fiery lava and assorted demons the film’s facile message of “Good vs Evil” is given an unexpected complexity (for a kids’ flick at least) when the concepts of love, mercy, and sacrifice are woven in with colourfully dramatic flourishes before the final fade. Tots may not grasp some of the film’s trippier elements but there is plenty of animated action and cute cuddlies to keep them entertained—the moon is maintained by a horde of fluffy cooing wide-eyed spiders!—while adults will appreciate the mythological elements as well as the crew’s technical savvy. I especially enjoyed the way the directors switched from intricate 3D animation to old school 2D cartoons whenever characters entered the “world of dreams”. A fun cinematic rush if ever there was one.
Turn Me On, Dammit! (Norway 2011) (5): It’s bad enough that 15-year old Alma is stuck in the most boring town in Norway, but her hormones have started raging and thanks to a lack of appropriate diversions she has developed a masturbatory dependance on skin mags and a certain telephone sex hotline. And then Artur, the handsomest boy at school, exposes himself to her at a youth dance and try as she may to tell everyone about it no one believes her including her best friends, the stuck-up Ingrid and rebel goth chick Sara. Bored, horny, and now the pariah of her entire high school, Alma’s already terrible life takes yet another downward dip when her uptight mother discovers a bunch of scandalous charges on her phone bill… Writer/director Jannicke Systad Jacobsen’s coming-of-age sex comedy certainly captures Alma’s feelings of isolation—surrounded by mountains and forest, her village of Skoddeheimen doesn’t have much to offer a young girl aside from idle gossip and illicitly obtained alcohol. Given to erotic daydreaming, Alma imagines herself the target of everyone’s lust from the local shopkeeper whom she imagines doing a bump’n’grind dance number down the middle of the cereal aisle, to BFF Ingrid who introduces her to cunnilingus in between applications of lip gloss, to Artur himself whom she transforms into a romantic hero. Unfortunately the oversexed adolescent schtick gets played for too long becoming stale in the process—okay she’s frustrated, her mother’s a prude, and life sucks…we get it—and an already tepid script loses its punch at the hands of a largely amateur cast. At times lead Helene Bergsholm’s features seem frozen in an eternal moue while the other players likewise deliver one-note performances: Mom’s revolted, Ingrid is a bitch, Sara hates everything, and Artur is some kind of monotone heartthrob. Whether or not Jacobsen’s film speaks to disaffected youth (Scandinavian or otherwise) is debatable, but for more mature audiences it will most likely fall on deaf ears. Nice cinematography however, and a brief hike to the bright lights of Oslo adds a dose of reality to Alma’s plight.
Fast Times at Ridgemont High [Fast Times] (USA 1982) (7): With graduation day approaching the senior class at southern California’s Ridgemont High School face various setbacks and triumphs as they discover there is more to learn outside of the classroom than within. In much the same vein as George Lucas’ American Graffiti, director Amy Heckerling’s future alumni navigate the confusing world of impending adulthood in a series of parallel stories which follow a perpetually stoned surfer dude (Sean Penn), a frustrated virgin and her more worldly BFF (Jennifer Jason Leigh, Phoebe Cates), a lovestruck dweeb and his cavalier mentor (Brian Backer, Robert Romanus), and a cocky minimum-wage jockey (Judge Reinhold). But whereas Lucas exhibited a certain amount of finesse and restraint with his film’s shenanigans, Heckerling revels in lowbrow humour with clouds of pot smoke, casual rutting…and lots of tits. Yet somehow it all seems to work, at least for those of us who can remember the adolescent zeitgeist of the time. A lunchroom lesson on fellatio will make you look at carrots in a whole new light, and as if to provide counterbalance a bit of gravitas is introduced when a brief affair comes with unforeseen consequences. It may be crass to contemporary audiences (boo hoo) but there’s no mistaking the fact it struck a definite chord with an entire demographic back in the day. When it was released in 1973, Lucas’ classic asked a generation of then twenty-something Boomers “Where Were You in ’62?”, and all these years later Heckerling’s lightweight teen romp asks sixty-something GenX-ers “What were you in ’82?” Ray Walston shines as an autocratic history teacher, Vincent Schiavelli puts his droopy features to good use as a macabre biology professor, and the likes of Jackson Browne, Don Henley, and the Go-Go’s keep things rocking with a kick-ass soundtrack.
Bad Luck Banging or Loony Porn (Romania 2021) (7): After a sex tape Emilia and her husband posted on a supposedly secure adult website winds up going viral, her job as a history teacher at a prestigious private school is put in jeopardy and only her wits—and a couple of alternate endings(?!)—will be able to save both her career and her reputation. Using this very plausible scenario as a springboard, writer/director Radu Jude (who won the Golden Bear at Berlin) launches a caustic, and occasionally very funny, attack on his country’s social, political, and ethical mindset, concentrating on the hypocrisy and selective amnesia they engender. Trying to calm her nerves, Emilia takes a prolonged stroll through a Bucharest awash in hucksters and truculent confrontations, where crumbling architecture of a bygone glory now competes with garish billboards, faded posters extol everything from politicians’ promises to consumer culture, and passersby are not above hurling casual F-bombs at one another. Divided into three loose chapters, Jude takes a gleeful scorched earth approach to his subject, dredging up some problematic facts from Romania’s history and pissing on a few hallowed institutions starting with the Orthodox church. The middle chapter, dealing with “metaphors”, is a masterful example of rapid fire ironies and outright sarcasm. But he saves his best vitriol for the film’s wordy (and drawn out) finale in which an already harried Emilia must face down an ad hoc committee of irate parents and community leaders intent on putting her future to a vote. Representing all levels of Romanian society the committee contains a priest and an army officer, a wealthy patron and a cleaning woman—all rendered ridiculous in their tacky face masks (Jude certainly made good use of COVID precautions). And then, just to push the whole project into farce territory he offers a selection of possible finales including a very adult riff on Xena: Warrior Princess. Droll and in-your-face, Jude opens the film with Emilia’s sex tape itself just to jar his audience (hardcore sex warning!) and doesn’t let up until that last outrageous fade to black. Unfortunately most of his arrows will fly over the heads of non-Romanians unfamiliar with his intended targets, but enough get through to elicit more than a couple of laughs…after all, some human foibles truly are universal.
Alamar (Mexico 2009) (5): There’s a lot to be said for minimalism in cinema, the ability to tell a compelling story without having to gild it in special effects and widescreen spectacle. But there has to be a compelling story—or at least a compelling theme—to begin with and despite its pretty locales and photogenic subjects writer/director Pedro González-Rubio’s bland mash-up of documentary, home movie, and reality TV offers neither. Six-year old Natan travels to the Banco Chinchorro coral reef off the coast of Mexico to spend some quality time with his father, Jorge, before flying back home to his mother in Italy. Moving in with Jorge’s father, a fisherman who lives in a shack suspended above the water, the three men will divide the next few weeks between beach and sea—Natan will learn how to bait a hook, Jorge will befriend an unusually tame egret, and grandfather will make a pot of fish stew while extolling the virtues of living the simple life. And that’s about it. To his credit, Rubio’s two-man crew does capture some nice footage both above and below the waves and Natan is a born ham as he fastidiously ignores the camera (for the most part) while going about his day feeding the crocodiles floating just below grandpa’s front door or sealing a hand-drawn message in a bottle and casting it into the ocean. There is a sense of tranquility to Rubio’s film, his camera concentrating on everyday pleasures and the delicate bonding between father and son while grandfather’s pragmatism keeps things anchored. In the end however it never rises above the level of a cinematic Hallmark card—nice to look at but carrying little weight.
Late Marriage (Israel/France 2001) (8): Thirty-one year old Zaza is still single and still in school, facts which drive his traditional Georgian parents up the wall—especially the single part—but none of the potential brides they arrange for him to meet manage (or desire) to get past the first date. What mom and dad don’t know however is that Zaza is already heavily involved with Judith, a woman straight out of his mother’s worst nightmare for not only is she a divorcee with a young daughter (gasp!), but she’s also a few years older than Zaza (double gasp!). In spite of its occasional comedic moments, writer/director Dover Koshashvili’s family drama takes a thorny look at cultural constraints vs personal freedoms. Refusing to choose one side over the other, he gives us a cast of complex characters with all their strengths and flaws on display then throws them together and sets the pot to a slow simmer. Although espousing traditional values the parents are not without a few glaring skeletons of their own; if one is brutally honest Judith is not exactly a perfect match; and Zaza has not been completely honest with anyone—not his family, not Judith, and especially not himself. Directed with the gentlest of touches, Koshashvili opens his film on a light note and then sits back while things slowly spiral down to a crushing final segment made all the more powerful for its subtlety. Underscored by tough love and a sense of compassion for its protagonists (as well as a bit of naked carnality) Late Marriage is a sober look at a cultural mindset wherein family ties can both bond…and occasionally shackle.
Marvelous and the Black Hole (USA 2021) (4): Since the death of her mother, thirteen-year old Sammy (a one-dimensional performance from Miya Cech) has become an angry troublemaker taking out her frustrations on her dad and his new lady friend, her older sister, her school, and her own body. Now facing an ultimatum from her father—either pass a business course he’s enrolled her in or go to a “reform camp” for wayward kids—Sammy finds her already limited options drying up fast. And then she meets mysterious magician Margot (Rhea Perlman aiming for “quirky” but settling for “precious”) who takes Sammy under her cape and through the magic of magic shows her that there are better ways to resolve your grief. And Sammy, for her part, manages to teach the old conjurer a few life spells of her own. OMG, I guess everyone winds up learning something! Yep, another derivative tale about a conflicted sullen adolescent coming to terms with her conflicted sullenness, this time thanks to a lot of whimsical nonsense involving parlour tricks and a disappearing bunny. Writer/director Kate Tsang’s sophomoric script is brimming with pubescent clichés (oh, big sister is so mean…oh daddy’s new girlfriend is such a threat…oh no one understands me…ad nauseam) and warm fuzzy caricatures in the form of Margot and her hippy trippy magician friends. Tsang then tries to appeal to her demographic even further by inserting a bit of animated fluff and a rather violent daydream sequence. And finally, just to lower the bar another notch, the entire cast awkwardly emote as if they were reading their lines for the first time. Despite some blood and one lone F-bomb, this is one of those cutesy heart warmers designed to elicit a tear or two with Hallmark fans and wow film festival newbies.
Merrily We Go to Hell (USA 1932) (7): After meeting him at a party, naïve Chicago heiress Joan Prentice (Sylvia Sidney) falls head over heels for journalist and frustrated playwright Jerry Corbett (Fredric March) despite the fact that he is a drunkard still pining away for his ex—now a famous stage actress. But after a hasty marriage and brief honeymoon period, Joan finally has to face the fact that neither her love nor their marriage vows will be enough to keep Jerry from straying from the straight and narrow…but what can she do? What indeed! Made in the days before the Hays office began its reign of censorship in Hollywood, director Dorothy Arzner’s screen adaptation of Cleo Lucas’ novel (both women!) does not shy away from issues of alcoholism and adultery, with a little polyamory on the side. Twenty-two year old Sidney lights up the screen with her radiant smile and wide soulful eyes often brimming on the verge of tears as her husband’s affections run hot and cold. And March compliments her gullible debutante perfectly playing a man unable to numb the past no matter how much booze he imbibes, his own self-loathing painfully evident with every drunken stumble. Adrianne Allen also puts in a good performance as the slinky ex-lover who finagles her way back into Jerry’s life—her bleached blonde locks and haughty airs goading him like a piece of forbidden fruit now grown rotten. If you can overlook some pat narrative devices (why would a woman fall for a man like that in the first place?) and a melodramatic ending reminiscent of Silent Era overkill, this is a surprisingly contemporary treatment of a serious disease and its effects on others as well as a frank look at the lengths one co-dependent is willing to go in a vain attempt to make things right. Watch for a 28-year old Cary Grant making a brief walk-on as a dapper gigolo.
Victor Crowley [Hatchet IV] (USA 2017) (7): Ten years (and two sequels) ago, a deformed killer chopped up a bunch of people in a Louisiana swamp. Now, the sole survivor of the “Bayou Massacre” is returning to the scene of the crime as part of a movie crew when their plane crash lands in the middle of nowhere and thanks to some careless web browsing (don’t ask) the killer is accidentally resurrected for yet another bloody rampage! Writer/director Adam Green milks what should have been a dead cow by now and manages to come up with something fresh and disgustingly funny—a splatter movie which not only laughs at itself but gets its audience to join in as well. Forget logic however, for this is a demented gore-fest of snapping bones, gushing fountains of blood, and all manner of bodily indignities—is it really possible to shove someone’s severed arm up their own ass and still get cellphone reception? Beginning with a flashback to 1964 where a romantic proposal turns into a sticky nightmare and ending with one of the best comeuppances in horror movie history, Green knows what his fans want and he’s not ashamed to deliver. Turns out a sick sense of humour actually pairs quite well with blood-soaked carnage…cheers!
