Wonder (2017)

Score: 3.5 / 5

Ordinarily I don't go in for this sort of thing. Sickly sentimental flicks that usually show up between February and April with an A-lister or two to deliver some kind of sermon about love and family and friendship. Kids and pets are usually interchangeable, adults do mean adult things, and the star comes of age by learning to be his best self or be true to herself or using an odd quirk to save someone and be a hero. Sometimes they're sweet, sometimes they're trash, and I usually avoid them.

I'm not even sure Wonder is any different. But I loved every moment.

There's something to be said for a film that knows what it's doing (because everyone knows what it's doing) and still pumps it out with artistic integrity. This isn't just another dramedy. This one has intense conviction. It's not just yanking your heartstrings to make you cry; it's literally begging you to be human. In our age of social media, clickbait headlines, and obsessive labelling, this movie holds fast to its convictions that we're better than that. This movie doesn't just steer our emotional logic. It tells us exactly what we should feel every step of the way. It's manipulative and calculated and dangerously specific.

But it also takes time and effort to remind us why we should feel that way, a gamble that pays off riches in the end. Its sincerity in portraying realistic and idealistic love between parents, siblings, children, and friends is astounding. I cried my way through the movie because it's a portrait of absolute kindness and love. It's not even all about Auggie (an unrecognizable Jacob Tremblay), the lead who was born with serious facial deformities and is now scarred from 27 surgeries. It's also about his sister, who feels neglected by her mother and best friend but finds attraction in a young man from drama club. It's about his mother, who put her life on hold to care for her children. It's about a young man, balancing between popularity at school and genuine friendship. It's about an old friend, changing as she comes of age and navigating a difficult family life of her own. It's about young people banding together as oddballs to make community.

And, ultimately, it's an ensemble drama about how all these lives correspond and overlap. Whereas other big ensemble pieces find pleasure in the connections and no more, Wonder goes above and beyond. This movie shows how these interrelated lives not only connect but strengthen each other, build each other up, and empower us all to be our best selves. If every movie in this nebulous genre had this level of emotional intelligence and honesty paired with social conviction and sentimental sincerity, I might be able to fault this film for other flaws. But here we are, and I will simply sing its praises. If ever I enjoyed being emotionally manipulated, it was during Wonder.

IMDb: Wonder

The Zookeeper's Wife (2017)

Score: 3.5 / 5

Jan and Antonina Zabinski (Johan Heldenbergh and Jessica Chastain) run the popular Warsaw Zoo in 1939. Their idyll is shattered when the Nazis invade Poland, and their zoo is not spared the bombings. As Polish resistance fails and winter sets in, and many animals in the zoo dead from bombs or Nazi gunfire, the zoo becomes a pig farm for a Nazi zoologist, Lutz Heck (Daniel Bruhl). Under this cover, the Zabinskis begin to shepherd Jews from the ghetto to their zoo, and from there to whatever sanctuaries they are able to find. After five years of Nazi terror and violence, the approach of the Soviets causes Nazis to retreat and Warsaw is liberated. Though badly damaged, the zoo is eventually repaired and reopened. A postscript tells us that the Zabinskis saved some 300 people through their zoo.

It's not an original story. In fact, at times it feels more like a Hallmark special than a theatrical feature. The movie progresses with a sentimental eye for quiet moments of gentle affection, blurring the edges of shots and suffusing scenery with warm light reminiscent of Touched by an Angel. In terms of the plot, it's a little problematic that the Jews and the animals are viewed in much the same way, not just in where they are physically, but in the Zabinskis' (and our) emotional attachment to them. Many are nameless, though a few become familiar; that statement applies to both parties.

Contrasted with the likes of, say, Schindler's List -- which is, I think, what we automatically think of -- The Zookeeper's Wife falls woefully short of the genre. But its faults are mostly similar to those of the novel on which it is based, and as an adaptation of that work it is magnificent. It heightens the sexual tension between Antonina and the rival zoologist, a tension that, if it existed at all, was very subtle in the novel. It brings the beauty and warmth of zoo life to vivid reality, and plays your heartstrings with reckless abandon during the Nazi advance. Other moments work especially well too, such as Jan rescuing Jewish children under watchful Nazi guards' eyes and the burning of the ghetto during Passover. Those images will haunt as much as Spielberg's little girl in the red coat.

I'm not sure, though, that the film asks for this comparison. It's not titled The Warsaw Zoo, which we might expect to giver broader scope and greater detail to the horrors Nazis inflicted on Polish Jews and the ways the zoo saved people. The film is about a woman afraid for the lives of her family, her home, and her beloved animals. In fact, she doesn't even particularly want to help the Jews at first; when her husband rescues one, however, she proves indispensable, and her caring and gentle demeanor provides as much shelter for the hideaways as her home.

I'd go so far as to say this film is both timely and important in significant ways. It's one of the first films I know about World War II to give this much attention and agency to a female character, and Chastain's understated performance is a perfect parallel to the film's quiet strength and laserlike insight into the human heart. The film celebrates emotions and concepts almost never seen in movies about this era: sacrifice, patience, kindness, charity, empathy, integrity, and hope. It pairs these intangibles with children, animals, and women in revolutionary (if predictably sentimental) ways. Most of all, the film is a small, still prayer for peace, kindness, and gentleness in an age of wall-building and deportations, neo-Nazis taking to the streets, and, yes, efforts to roll back restrictions on the hunting of African elephants. As the face of America has changed drastically over the course of this year, The Zookeeper's Wife looks more and more prescient. We would do well to remember.

IMDb: The Zookeeper's Wife

Justice League (2017)

Score: 3 / 5

I've said it before, but I feel a bit of a disconnect with these DC movies because I'm not a hardcore DC fan. So I have no scruples about specific characterizations or honoring classic comics. As movies, I have found Man of Steel, Batman v. Superman (the extended cut, because it's much improved), Suicide Squad, and Wonder Woman to be fabulously entertaining, if sometimes darker and heavier than I'd prefer (though Wonder Woman might be one of my favorite movies this year, period). I don't know that they're really "good" movies, but that's mostly subjective anyway. Zack Snyder has his issues as a filmmaker, and here we see him trying again; what I'm not sure about is the extent to which Joss Whedon remade parts of this film. You can certainly see his touch (by which I mean his ham-handed machinations).

And, as in other cases, I found Justice League to be fabulously entertaining. Batman and Wonder Woman (Ben Affleck and Gal Gadot) are trying to gather strength in the wake of Superman's (Henry Cavill) death. A new threat appears in Steppenwolf, leading an army of bug-men from portals that open above mystical power boxes. These "Mother Boxes", once combined, will apparently destroy Earth, something Steppenwolf has had experience doing, and he ruthlessly attacks Atlantis and Themyscira to collect the boxes hidden there. While he hunts for the third, the team slowly assembles, including self-loathing Cyborg (Ray Fisher), self-doubting Flash (Ezra Miller, as the film's comic relief), and hunky Aquaman (Jason Momoa). Even with their combined strength, they are determined to get more help, so they revive Superman (he's back, thank heaven) to aid them.

What's most interesting to me with this movie is that, at least to my mind, it tried really hard to make things feel like a comic book. A lot of the visuals have intensified colors, dynamic angles, and sometimes laughably poor special effects -- poor, that is, from a realistic perspective. But when you have Atlanteans and Amazons and aliens and cyborgs and metahumans battling oversized bug-people, how realistic can the effects be, really? Some moments unfortunately look like they were lifted directly from Snyder's other films, especially 300, for better or worse. I don't find any of that off-putting.

What I do find off-putting here is the screenplay. The first half of the film is laboriously episodic, almost as if the filmmakers are establishing exactly where commercial breaks will go when this starts airing on television. We lurch from character to character with little sequential logic, learning vague bits of their backstories and getting some grim foreshadowing before we jump to someone else somewhere else. I'm not sure exactly how the filmmakers could have done it better, what with 3 new protagonists to familiarize and get us to root for, plus all their respective secondary characters. And I'm not saying it's bad, just distracting.

Similarly, it feels at times like the writers were battling for control over the film. We have incredibly tense, dramatic moments with the Amazons or with the revived Superman and Lois, but then we have some really funny punchlines the likes of which we haven't seen in this franchise. It's as if the producers and writers decided to take people's complaints about Batman v Superman and try to do the exact opposite with this movie. We have comedy, we have a super simple plotline, we have only one villain, we have much more action and less moody-broody-ness. This is a prime example of how audience reaction can dictate franchise content; I will refrain from monologuing about artistic integrity. What I will mention is that, while the humor ends up a bit predictable and sometimes groan-inducing, there are some gems here. In one scene, Aquaman begins to emotionally discuss his feelings about the team before realizing he's sitting on Wonder Woman's truth-telling rope. In another, the Flash saves a Russian family and, trying to say "goodbye" to them, says "Dostoyevsky!"

Other than those issues -- which are more about preference than anything -- I fully enjoyed Justice League. Well, those, and the fact that the villain was pretty awful. Though voiced by the lovely Ciaran Hinds, Steppenwolf is a totally CGI character, and frankly, it's not great CGI. It's like Polar Express-level animation, which just doesn't fit. Add to that the character's single-minded ambitions and rhino-like fighting style, and you've got a flat megalomaniac who is apparently powerless without his killing axe. I was so much more invested in the almost-fight between the revived Superman and the rest of the Justice League than in any scene with Steppenwolf.

Be sure to stick around during and after the credits, folks. The mid-credits scene is very funny, and the post-credits scene made me angry, but you already know I don't like Jesse Eisenberg.

IMDb: Justice League

1922 (2017)

Score: 4 / 5

Netflix's second Stephen King adaptation this year isn't as beautiful or brutal as Gerald's Game, but certainly matches its haunting quality.

1922, adapted from the novella in Full Dark, No Stars, follows Nebraska farmer Wilfred James (Thomas Jane, giving an awesome performance as what could easily be a flat caricature) as he navigates pride and hard work. Desperate to keep his land, threatened by his city-loving wife (Molly Parker) wanting to sell, "Wilf" gains the trust of his son Henry, and together they murder her. After slitting her throat, they dump her down the well; to excuse their filling it in, they also drop a cow down there, but not before Wilf sees rats feasting on his wife's corpse. It's all a bit icky, but it fits the backwoods-aesthetic well, not to mention Jane's morbidly fascinating deep-voiced drawl as he narrates the proceedings.

Henry, meanwhile, has impregnated a neighbor girl, whose angry parents (including Neal McDonough of Arrow infamy) send her away to be cared for. Henry, haunted by what he's done, leaves Wilf and helps his girlfriend escape before the two become robbers and she is fatally shot. With her death and the baby's, Henry kills himself. It's now the dead of winter, and Wilf's house is infested with rats. One bites his hand, which becomes infected and has to be amputated. Doors open and floorboards creak, and in full Fall of the House of Usher style, his dead wife returns to tell him the tale of his son, whispers he calls the knowledge of the dead. It's all nasty and still pretty icky, but mighty effective: A cascade of rats come down the stairs with her, and as they crawl around Wilf's helpless body, your skin will crawl too. (Oh, and fun fact for you King fans, the setting here is Hemingford Home, from The Stand!)

When Wilf finally sells the house, it is for mere scraps, as his neighbor wants nothing to do with Wilf or his (now dead) family. He moves to the city, drinks away what money he has, and tries to follow Henry's footsteps. Rats follow him, however, and eventually, haunted by the ghosts of his dead family, he writes the account of his tragic failures before the rats chew through the walls of his room and, presumably, kill him. This differs slightly from the novella, which I recall ending with the notion that Wilf's body was found with bite marks that may have been self-inflicted. That twist is not quite present here, though his sanity in the last scene is certainly questionable already. I liked the idea, though, that these rats ate his confession as well, something left unresolved here.

As it is, 1922 is a properly chilling haunted (farm)house flick, one that brings into sharp focus issues of financial strain, urbanized crime and isolation, and family dissolution. It's a tragedy of the highest order, a sort of Macbeth-in-the-cornfield in which one man's pride is his downfall. The film thus becomes a slow-burner of the most maddening variety, one that never terrifies you but gnaws at your skin like so many rats, causing you to suffer while you watch Wilf's punishments continue.

IMDb: 1922

Murder on the Orient Express (2017)

Score: 3 / 5

Everyone may be a suspect, but guilt may lie with the filmmakers here.

As if another Murder on the Orient Express was necessary or even really wanted, Kenneth Branagh helms this stylish whodunit with panache if not passion. He and his team do some fun and interesting things with the familiar tale, but its overall effect is cheapened by stuffy sentimentality, repeated attempts at superfluous spectacle, and a surprisingly unfocused screenplay by Michael Green (whose amazing breakout year has included American Gods, Logan, Alien: Covenant, and Blade Runner 2049).

It all starts with a strange opening scene at the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem, one that introduces not only Branagh's own Poirot (who I had more than a little trouble believing, but that's just my own taste) but the film's forced efforts at leaping into the twenty-first century. It's a bizarre little plea for interfaith harmony disguised as an introduction to Poirot, as he wryly solves a silly but consequential little mystery for a rabbi, a priest, and an imam. Unfortunately, the modern social commentary doesn't stop there. While the presences of Penelope Cruz, Leslie Odom, Jr., and Manuel Garcia Rulfo are a lovely addition, they do change the texture of the story in dramatic and unnecessary ways. If we're going to change the source material, can we please have a better reason than publicity?

Regardless, it doesn't take too long and our hero has boarded the titular train on his fateful journey. A particularly dour Johnny Depp plays Ratchett, a businessman afraid for his life, who unsuccessfully bullies Poirot into protecting him. Poirot is a man of apparently unshakable morals, it seems, and as he says early in the film, there is right and there is wrong. His opinion of Mr. Ratchett doesn't change for the better when the latter is found murdered in his bed. The thirteen passengers of that coach are all suspects, and as Poirot interrogates them and collects evidence, lies and trickery pile up into one of Agatha Christie's most beloved works. It's certainly one of my favorites, with a killer ending that, in my opinion, is one of the most satisfying and disturbing in all mystery literature.

Unfortunately, this film doesn't measure up to previous incarnations by a long shot. Sidney Lumet's 1974 version, though it too changed a few character names, is one of my favorite movies of all time. This film, like that, features no small amount of grandeur and style, in extravagant costumes and sets as well as in really dynamic camerawork by Haris Zambarloukos (Eye in the Sky, Sleuth, Mamma Mia!, Thor, Locke). His long tracking shots and attention to fabulous lighting are worthy of admiration. And while a feast for the eyes should be enough for a twisty mystery like this, Branagh and Green seem to think they need to add an irritating amount of spectacle. Swooping vistas of eastern Europe are grand in the 65mm film, but the extreme close-ups on actors' faces are a shallow attempt at intimacy and claustrophobia. Similarly, a few other camera gimmicks didn't work as well as Branagh may have hoped, such as the crime scene investigation, which all takes place overhead; cool, I suppose, but we are unable to see any faces or their emotion. Ratchett brandishes a gun at Poirot; one woman gets stabbed in the shoulder; a strangely Romantic lightning strike that causes an avalanche doesn't just stop the Orient Express from proceeding, but literally knocks it off its tracks. The film avoids any possible claustrophobia (a poor decision, I say) by having Poirot interrogate the suspects in various places around the train at various times, including one "picnic" as he calls it outside in the snow, as if he would do such a thing, much less expect it of a strong-willed British lady.

Irritated yet? Just wait. The film includes two ludicrous action scenes, which I would have laughed aloud during had I not been so anxious about what would happen. In one, a man attempts to burn incriminating evidence; he does so by inexplicably going outside the train, into the scaffolding under the bridge, and almost dying in the process. Why couldn't he have simply tossed the documents out a window? They're on a bridge in a snowy mountain range! Or burned it in the train, and scattered the ashes? It's just a cheap ploy by the filmmakers, who seem to think a good mystery has to have action sequences. In the other scene, another man shoots Poirot in the arm as he claims responsibility for the crime and the scene proceeds to turn into a fight between Poirot and the man. I could have accepted the scene, except of course that it is absurd and ends with no transition to the climax. Poirot wouldn't be caught dead fighting like a street thug, and more importantly, he'd never have to.

Speaking of characters, for the most part the cast is solid. The script does not allow for much characterization of anyone but Poirot, a sad fact for those of us who like character-based mysteries. Each interrogation of the suspects is interrupted either by (you guessed it!) spectacle or bewildering editing, which results in our inability to fully understand the criminal timeline and evidence amassed -- even those of us who know the story intimately. There are a few gems in the cast, mostly the A-listers who get the lion's share of screen time, including Michelle Pfeiffer, Johnny Depp, Josh Gad, and Daisy Ridley. Most of the rest of the cast gets severely limited exposure, especially Derek Jacobi, Lucy Boynton, and Olivia Colman. Judi Dench does her brief thing of scowling imperiously over everyone else, and Penelope Cruz turns the role that won Ingrid Bergman another Oscar into a bitter, shallow wretch of a Spanish missionary (wait, I thought this was supposed to be more culturally sensitive?). Whereas Christie and Lumet made their insular, claustrophobic stories to examine issues of human rationalization and projection, deception and delusion, and awful guilt, Branagh here mostly attempts spectacle and pleasure for a modern audience in focusing on celebrities in a more or less period film.

Apart from the film's reliance on spectacle, its greatest failing lies in its dripping sentiment. Nary a shot isn't Romantic or romantic, and while I like some eye candy like Branagh strutting along the roof of the snow-covered train for literally no reason, it doesn't mesh well with what is one of Christie's most disturbing and enchanting mysteries. We don't need to see Poirot fawning over a photo of his lover and repeating her name ad nauseam to have sympathy for his character. We don't need to see, at the climax, the suspects arranged in the mouth of a tunnel like the Last Supper to understand what's happening (and as if Princess Dragomiroff would deign to march through snow drifts!). And then there's the one-line groaners like Poirot's "There is right, there is wrong, and now there is you." There's a suspect's almost gleeful inability to maintain a lie during questioning, as he changes accents and behaviors on a whim without even attempting to look desperate, embarrassed, or ashamed. There's the revealed mastermind's "You are a clever man" before sobbing hysterically. And, worst of all, there's the flashback scene that depicts the murder in black-and-white; over the drama (which Lumet filmed as a straight-up horror scene to awesome effect) is played a romantic piano ballad that sounds like something from Twilight. It's not creepy, it's not warm and symphonic, it's not even a grandiose "AHA! It is solved!" Instead it's a sickly love song that makes no sense overlaying a gruesome murder and served only to irreparably rip me from the moment.

What else is there to say? It's an entertaining film -- until that climax -- and handsomely shot. I was disappointed more often than not, but if that's what it takes to keep Christie alive in the public eye, maybe it will be worth it. The ending suggests pretty overtly that the door to a sequel is wide open, but I certainly hope if Death on the Nile is green-lit, the filmmakers do it some justice. And, honey, do something about that mustache.

IMDb: Murder on the Orient Express

Gerald's Game (2017)

Score: 5 / 5

I may have misspoken. IT was a fabulously fun and terrifying flick, but it's not the best Stephen King adaptation this year. That label belongs firmly on Gerald's Game, available on Netflix. Mike Flanagan's newest film is yet another jewel in his severely underrated crown. It joins his masterpieces Oculus and Hush as some of the most emotionally intelligent, psychologically thrilling horror movies ever made.

If you still haven't read King's novel or seen the film, proceed with caution. Spoilers abound. Part of the thrill of this game was, for me, having no idea what might happen next.

To save their sexless -- even touchless -- marriage, Jessie and Gerald escape to an isolated lake house in Alabama. A successful lawyer, Gerald harbors expensive tastes and an assertive personality, while Jessie seems mostly along for the ride. She stops her husband from hitting a stray dog in the road, then cooks insanely expensive meat to feed the beast. When Gerald pops some Viagra and pulls out some handcuffs for a sex game, she seems a little unnerved but willing to entertain his desires. Unfortunately for her, he quickly becomes aggressive, even beginning to enact a rape fantasy, and she tries to stop him. Either due to her kicking him off, the emotional stress of the situation, or the extra pills in his bloodstream, Gerald has a heart attack, falls off the bed, hits his head, and dies.

This is only the first twenty minutes or so.

What follows for over an hour is intense psychodrama into Jessie's mind. Her attempts to free herself are unfruitful, and as dehydration sets in, she begins to hallucinate. Gerald taunts her and they discuss their failed marriage; a vision of herself appears and reminds her of a glass of water on the shelf above. The visions seem as real as the dog, who enters the room and begins to feed on Gerald's bloody corpse, and a haunting specter who appears at night with a box of bones and trinkets. She refers to the deformed man as "made of moonlight," and Gerald suggests that he is Death incarnate. Jessie begins remembering the past; as a girl, her family vacationed at a lake house where she was sexually abused by her manipulative father. For the rest of the film, flashbacks and hallucinations and reality meld into a nightmarish descent into her mind.

Carla Gugino gives what might be a career-best performance in a very difficult role, riveting our eyes to the screen and allowing each new horror to take her for a ride. Close-ups on her face provide her with ample opportunities to mine each moment for all their dramatic worth, and her multi-layered efforts are never taken for granted by the camera. Bruce Greenwood is almost as absorbing as a man navigating the waters of power and influence in a marriage. His is a thankless part, but one that allows for range and depth; at times he is vindictive and dangerous, at others sweet and eager to help.

Mike Flanagan's direction here makes what could easily be a boring or stuffy story a sort of Icy-Hot exercise. Alternating between heated, close-up action shots and distant, chilly horror shots, the film proceeds with calculated, deliberate pace, forcing us to invest our attention and feelings. He makes the film a sort of chamber piece, and more than once I wondered if he was making a case that this could (and should) be done on stage. Almost the whole film takes place in the bedroom of the lake house, and even those that don't seem informed by the bedroom set. Memories of a solar eclipse might well have taken place just beyond the outer wall; memories of dinner, cut hands, and daddy issues bleed into the waking reality of Jessie's situation. Especially in the second half, impressionistic lighting challenge our understanding of atmosphere and perception, as the vibrant red of fading sunlight warp shadows and inform the film's editing (well done, editor!).

Oh, and in case you were wondering, the specter of Death was actually real, a grave robber/necrophile/serial killer/cannibal who spared Jessie because he prefers male victims. The finale -- through no fault of the film, mind, but the source material -- is a bit weird, I'll admit, and I'm still not sure how I feel about it. It's horrific, to be sure, but there's a certain level of gimmicky coincidence that bothers me. Thankfully, it is tempered by Jessie's character arc, which triumphs over diseased, fatalistic modern masculinity and allows her to walk, at last, out from the bloody eclipse and into clear yellow sunlight.

IMDb: Gerald's Game

The Void (2016)

Score: 4 / 5

What do you get when you cross John Carpenter, Stephen King, and HP Lovecraft? Well there are a lot of answers, but one might be The Void. It's a tight little horror movie that, apart from some bewildering editing, keeps taut pace with its visceral scares. Fabulously unpredictable and thick with atmosphere, the film's low budget is no hindrance to its efficacy, thanks to directors Steven Kostanski and Jeremy Gillespie.

A cop finds a man crawling along a forested road and takes him to the nearest hospital, a small rural building manned by a skeleton crew. The hospital had recently suffered a fire, and the staff on duty are preparing to move; they are not as well prepared for a patient. The doctor, nurse, and intern already have one sleeping (or comatose?) patient, as well as a very pregnant Maggie with her grandfather. After the cop and his new patient arrive, all hell breaks loose. The nurse removes the skin on her own face before murdering the unconscious patient. Two strangers brandishing guns show up intent. A tentacled monster attacks the group. The cop has a seizure and envisions an alien landscape and enormous black pyramid. Cult members -- robed with bizarre KKK-inspired hazmat suits -- gather outside brandishing knives, though they seem more intent on keeping the hospital on lockdown than on invading. And that's just the beginning.

"Lovecraftian horror" gets thrown around a lot without much consideration for what it means. In the case of The Void, it's an apt descriptor of the horror at work, so let's talk about it. The film's immediate descent into senseless horror (the first scene features two young people fleeing a farmhouse before its inhabitants shoot the young woman in the back and set her on fire while she's still alive) effectively breaks any moral sense we bring to the movie. The characters are thinly drawn and thinly acted, suggesting that they don't matter; this is supported by (SPOILER ALERT) the fact that almost all of them die. In fact, only two survive, and they didn't seem to deserve it (I don't mean to sound harsh, but it is a horror movie, and I expected at least some conventional logic). The monsters -- oh, right, there are lots of re-animated corpses that play host to monsters with tentacles -- are slimy and fluid, with too many limbs and tendrils; these beasts are obviously not of terrestrial origin. (That said, the monsters are fabulously realized with hardcore old-school practical effects, and rubber aliens haven't looked so good since John Carpenter's The Thing!)

These elements are essentially Lovecraftian. The thin veil of reality is shredded by The Void as the impossible horrors of the unknown are made visible. Senseless terror and violence make the movie memorable, especially when we learn their cause. The doctor, bereaved by the death of his daughter, has been experimenting against God and nature and opened a portal to an "abyss", a triangular hole to another world or dimension. He attempts to re-create his daughter, to defeat death, to -- well, who knows what all? I'm not even sure he himself knows. In a lengthy, nightmarish monologue, he says, "You'd be surprised at the things you find, when you go looking," seemingly enchanted by the arcane knowledge he's absorbed. And, of course, though the climax does bring an end of sorts to the horror at the hospital, it by no means wraps things up cosmically. At least two characters remain stuck in the void, staring up at the shadowy alien pyramid. One of the two surviving characters in the hospital cries, "Is it over? Is it over?" We know it will never truly be over.

IMDb: The Void

Thor: Ragnarok (2017)

Score: 5 / 5

Easily the best of the Thor movies and perhaps the funniest installment in the MCU yet, Thor: Ragnarok is the opposite of the end of the world. Its visual attention to comic book style, bright and lurid colors, and absurd imagery provide a feast to view. More importantly, the film boasts fresh humor -- thanks be, no doubt, to director Taika Waititi -- that reveals character and propels the story while making for a bizarre, buddy-comedy that also happens to be about superheroes.

While searching for Infinity Stones to no avail (a quest he embarked upon after Age of Ultron), Thor has run afoul of a fire demon who prophesies the apocalypse, Ragnarok, and reveals that Odin (Anthony Hopkins) is missing. Upon vanquishing his foe and returning to Asgard, Thor confronts Loki (who had been posing as Odin since The Dark World while the Nine Realms fell into disarray) and the two search for Odin on earth. In a hilarious little scene, Doctor Strange sends them to Norway, where Odin reveals his imminent death. His firstborn, Hela (a deliciously campy Cate Blanchett), is freed from her prison by his passing, and she appears in gothic glory as the goddess of death before destroying Thor's hammer and casting both Thor and Loki into the void of space as she travels to Asgard.

The rest of the plot is largely inconsequential. Heroes do heroic things, villains do villainous things, and just about everyone delivers killer punchlines. Thor ends up on the waste planet Sakaar, lorded over by the Grandmaster (Jeff Goldblum doing the Jeff Goldblum thing, in a bluish getup like that of Benicio del Toro in Guardians of the Galaxy; the two are related somehow, if I remember my lore) who forces him to become a gladiator. After fighting the Hulk ("I know him! He's a friend from work!") and getting roundly smashed (Loki takes particular joy when Hulk tosses Thor as a rag doll, à la Loki's abuse in The Avengers), the two plan to escape back to Asgard and stop Hela. Why stop her? Well -- and here's where the film is strangely serious -- Hela's mission is to expand the colonial Asgard empire. She seeks cosmic domination, as though nine realms were nothing, and her giddy lust for power manifests as ruthless, wanton violence against her inferiors. The film does not shy away from implicating Odin in this imperial horror, and Hela's subtext is clearly to spread her master race across the universe. It's a subtle shift from mindless destruction to designed genocide; an incredibly timely portrait of the evils of supremacy and the privileged few who not only allow it to happen but are complicit in its ravages. In these moments, the film hits surprisingly close to home, especially given the ties to Nordic culture and religion often claimed by white supremacists.

But that social commentary is only a small part of the film, though I'd argue the most important. Some more fun if messy plot happens. Badass Valkyrie 142 (Tessa Thompson, who we will need more of, please-and-thank-you) joins the team, along with two other gladiators Korg and Miek (Korg is voiced by Waititi, Miek is silent and just as funny). They start a rebellion and commandeer a ship or two and do a lot of fighting along the way. Eventually they return to Asgard and stop Hela and Skurge (Karl Urban, in a sadly small role) from annihilating the citizens and Heimdall (Idris Elba). Then the Big Battle commences, and I'll let you watch the rest. Just know there's a giant wolf, a fire demon, a sacrifice, an eyeball, and a lot of smashing.

As a comedy, Ragnarok is stunning. Who knew Chris Hemsworth's secret skill was pitch-perfect comic delivery? As a superhero movie, it is no less impressive. Considering the amazing Civil War, I wasn't sure MCU could out-do itself, but lo, and behold the spectacle here! Of course it's all pretty absurd, but then this is a movie about gods and aliens, not billionaires and science projects. The tone aptly fits the material, and this movie's self-referential jabs reveal its refusal to take itself too seriously. Consider Thor's repeated efforts to calm Hulk by using Black Widow's "sun's getting real low" line, which obviously don't work coming from the earnest god of thunder.

Then again, this movie sets up some really interesting ideas moving forward. After two years of Hulk taking over Bruce Banner's (Mark Ruffalo) body, Banner fears that if Hulk emerges again, Banner will never come back. The climax features Banner letting Hulk rage, and we are left wondering if that was Mark Ruffalo's exit from the franchise. Also, (SPOILER ALERT) the destruction of Asgard and exodus of its people suggests that Thor will reign as king and set up a new home in Norway. Just as I was wondering if that is something we're going to see in a future film, the mid-credits scene happens, in which a larger spaceship intercepts their earthbound ship. What is happening? We just don't know yet.

IMDb: Thor: Ragnarok

XX (2017)

Score: 3 / 5

A box with a killer secret. A dead body at a birthday party. A monster in the desert. The spawn of Satan.

The horror anthology film XX isn't for everyone. I prefer my anthologies to be at least somewhat linked by narrative, like Southbound (2015) or Trick 'r Treat (2007); some people don't like anthologies at all. The only thing linking the short films here is the concept that these are films created by women filmmakers. It's a surprisingly effective gimmick, though, as the filmmakers assembled have strong, distinct styles and tell some chilling tales. There's nothing here to make you scream aloud -- the roughly twenty-minute-each short films just don't have the time -- but moments and feelings will stick with you.

As well they should. The films feature stories of women in (arguably) female-specific situations. Three of them feature mothers. All four comment on the unique standards and expectations our culture assigns to women, and how unfair or outright ludicrous that can be. What is a mother to do when her family refuses to eat? What is a mother to do when her beloved son becomes a man and seeks dominance? What is a girl to do when she doesn't want to be scared by her prankster friends anymore? What is a woman to do to keep selling the fable of idealized suburbia to neighbors and her own daughter? Perhaps not always the most compelling premises, and perhaps more intentional than what I describe, the shorts nevertheless keep our interest due to their collective combination of humor and horror.

XX also radically challenges the constructs of traditional storytelling and filmmaking style. There's a creepy living dollhouse made in stop-motion that frames all the short films. The shorts themselves do not develop much character depth or plot intricacy, obviously, but they do feature dynamic direction and editing that whet my appetite for their makers to do juicier, meatier work. We jump right into the action (or inaction) and are often left still in the midst (or lack) of it. What happened before, to set up this horror? What happens next, after the horror has struck? We may never know, and I'm not convinced we should care. These are brief meditations that force us to think, and that is more than some films can boast.

P.S.: Though the star power is limited (no doubt due to the project's low budget), Melanie Lynskey kills her role as the put-upon mother in "The Birthday Party". Oh, and keep your eyes open for Kyle Allen (The Path) and Mike Doyle (lots of things, including The Invitation and Jersey Boys) in "Her Only Living Son".

IMDb: XX

Marshall (2017)

Score: 4.5 / 5

Marshall is one of the most pleasant surprises in movie theaters this year. Chadwick Boseman plays a young Thurgood Marshall in the film that takes a close look at the man's rise to influence through one of his early cases. Called into town like a circuit preacher, NAACP attorney Marshall comes to Connecticut to defend a black man (Sterling K. Brown) accused of raping a wealthy white woman (Kate Hudson) and attempting to kill her. The white majority has already assumed the defendant's guilt, and the old white judge (James Cromwell) orders Marshall's silence. Despite the bleak circumstances, Marshall manipulates an insurance lawyer (Josh Gad) as his co-counselor to run the defense, with Marshall guiding him through notes, nonverbal cues, and extensive preparation out of court.

The film, which takes place in 1941 and concerns a case involving racism, sexism, and classism (along with healthy doses of adultery and corrupt justice), is surprisingly entertaining. It's an old-fashioned courtroom drama with a dash or two of thrilling moments at home or on the street. In fact, it's the kind of movie we're used to seeing older white men lead, and the fact that Boseman takes command of the screen is never once preached about or unnecessarily highlighted. He rocks the role with style and sarcasm, wit and strength, and not a little sexy suavity. I'd compare the film to A Time to Kill or even To Kill a Mockingbird in its scope and gravity, but his performance joins the ranks of Paul Newman and Henry Fonda.

Sure, Marshall is a serious picture, but the film also includes earned comedy and smart social commentary that keep the proceedings light, helped mostly by Gad's character's uncomfortable situation. Marshall, accomplished and stylish in his fabulous suits and cocktail hours with Zora Neale Hurston and Langston Hughes, immediately claims dominance over Gad's Sam Friedman. He manipulates and toys with Friedman until he really needs him, and then their oddball-buddy relationship takes glorious wing. It quickly becomes clear the two have more than met their match with the unjust judge: More than once during the screening, I heard outraged exclamations from viewers as the judge allowed ludicrous objections and struck vital information from the record.

Even out of the courtroom, though, the film examines some fascinating power dynamics of race, religion, education, and sex. We often view Friedman as a joke, but he is clearly respected in his family -- his brother and co-worker (John Magaro) works diligently to aid him -- and synagogue. One scene sets up a possible conflict with a member of his congregation before the parishioner gives him money to support the case; the setting of a restroom doesn't help our (or Friedman's) discomfort. Likewise, Marshall is a very different man when he's with his wife, or when he's confronted with violence in a bar or on a train platform.

I'm not sure how much of the film is truly factual or not, but I doubt that's the point. Its period work and heavy plotting serve to engross us in the drama of 1940s discrimination and injustice, to entertain us and make us think. It has nary a dull moment, breezily moving along some sticky situations and keeping us focused on the timely things 2017 America still needs to hear. As a mystery, Marshall is fairly flat, but as a pitch-perfect old-school courtroom drama and a fabulous depiction of a real-life hero, it's a damn good picture.

IMDb: Marshall