mother! (2017)

Score: 5 / 5

Ironically enough, Mother! is the most balls-out, aggressively weird movie of the year, maybe the decade, and it's a real motherfucker of a trip. Where to start? Fair warning: spoilers abound, because otherwise it's impossible to talk about the movie.

I guess to start: The movie is palpably pretentious. It's the sort of trash-meets-Art experiment that sometimes works, but in the hands of Darren Aronofsky it becomes that rare High Art that stabs you right where it counts. The characters have no names, referred to even in the credits as Mother (Jennifer Lawrence in the best role she's had in years), Him (her husband, played by Javier Bardem), Man (Ed Harris), and Woman (a delicious Michelle Pfeiffer). These characters are played as real, immediate, and consequential, but by the time the movie is over you realize they've played allegory with such nuanced, unrecognizable skill that you feel you've been had. Which is, of course, what Aronofsky intended. The master crafter of Black Swan hasn't used up all his tricks yet, thank heaven.

The film opens with a close up of a woman burning amidst a blazing inferno, her eyes glassy and calm as her skin bubbles and scorches. We jump immediately into a surreal sequence where Him places a crystal on a pedestal, and the burned and broken house around him transforms into a gorgeously renovated mansion. A pile of ashes on the bed form into the shape of a woman, and Jennifer Lawrence awakens, turns to look for her absent husband, and calls out, "Baby?" Already there's so much to unpack, and the movie hasn't even rolled on for five minutes. But we'll get to that presently.

The first half of the film works much as we expect from the trailers, a sort of psychosexual domestic thriller that combines imagery and themes from Rosemary's Baby, The Strangers, and Eyes Wide Open. There are many, many more obvious and subtle references, but that would require encyclopedic skill and time to relate; just know that Aronofsky's blatant grabs for other Art are only the tip of his ballsy project. Most simply: Mother is the renovator of this gorgeous mansion in an Edenic field, seemingly isolated in the country, and the perfectly wifely partner to Him, a famed poet suffering writer's block. She not only literally rebuilds his wasted ancestral home all alone, but she manages to clean after him, cook extravagant meals, and still look super fine doing it all.

But all is not well in cishetero-patriarchal paradise. Mother is cracking on the inside. She has spells of tinnitus, a debilitating ringing that makes her dizzy and weak until she pours a sickly yellow drug into a glass of water and downs it. She also has this tendency to stare into the walls of her home to perceive a beating heart there. These images seem to discomfort her, along with the bizarre and creepy comings and goings of Him, and we eventually learn that she wants a child -- or maybe her husband does? It's left quite ambiguous -- and that the couple doesn't make love often, if ever.

One night, a visitor arrives at their lonely estate, a visitor (Ed Harris) it seems her husband was expecting. He assumes his place in the house through shady storytelling and lies with great big holes. But Mother's protestations are put to rest by her husband, who demands her hospitality and compliance while doing nothing to help himself. She makes the bed. She cooks the food and boils the tea. She cleans up after him. And yet her express wish for him not to smoke is ignored. Her husband is enthralled with this man, who strokes his ego and puts stars in his eyes. Apparently this Man is a fan of the poet's work, and he lusts after the poet's crystal.

Soon enough, the Man's wife (Michelle Pfeiffer) shows up too, though he had neglected to mention her existence. Their obviously erotic relationship unnerves Mother but entrances Him, and the intrusive couple overstay their welcome in every possible way. They are terrible houseguests and awful people, and soon they invite their spiteful, bickering sons as well (Domhnall and Brian Gleeson), one of which slays the other. Soon more people arrive for the funeral, and it's right about this time I gathered what Aronofsky was doing. The movie is a psychological thriller, yes, but it's also a fiercely original vision of religious allegory. Man and Woman, the Man with a flesh wound where his rib should be, they break the crystal as a form of original sin, one son murders the other. Cut and dry, right?

WRONG.

The second half of the film gets really messed up. It's some aggressively weird filmmaking, but it's also some of the best filmmaking this year. After an angry, passionate sex scene, Mother finally becomes pregnant, but she still sees the slowly dying heart in the walls of the house, and the blood spot rotting away the floorboards beneath the murder scene keeps returning, much like in Poe's "Tell-Tale Heart." Also much like that story, we begin to fear for Mother's sanity, but we quickly lose that fear in favor of our own. When strange people keep invading the house and destroying it, we realize Mother may not be losing her mind, but we're losing ours. The frenzied, infuriating, abstract absurdity of the horrors are like a knife to the heart, and I had to occasionally close my eyes to wonder if I was having a stroke.

I didn't think things could get weirder, but Aronofsky seems pointedly aware that things can always get more insane. A quiet dinner gone wrong turns into a party, a rave, a riot, a war zone. But even saying that lessens what the film is doing. There's a concentration camp, a cult, cannibals, and before all is said and done Kristen Wiig shows up to sacrifice a baby. The previously timeless setting (Woman has a cell phone, but Him writes using a quill and inkwell) is taken to drastic extremes, and we lose all sense of place and logic. It's hardcore crazy-porn (if that's a thing?), and that's inflicted both on us and on Mother. It doesn't help that the film's utter lack of musical score heightens the drama, and carefully calculated, disturbingly edited sound effects raise the stakes to skin-crawling extremes.

Aronofsky keeps such a tight focus on Jennifer Lawrence throughout the film that it's sometimes hard to see the religious allegory. We get deeply invested in her brave performance, and the film encourages out sympathy with her character. In fact, Aronofsky seems determined to protect her point of view, which messes of course with our traditional understanding of the Judeo-Christian (or, actually, monotheistic) narrative. The director and cinematographer (Matthew Libatique), however, work even harder than that: their handheld camera is also active in the film, swirling and diving in, sometimes embracing Mother in its confidential gaze, sometimes prowling around her like a hungry wolf. Lawrence is never less than bare to our vision, but her strength and conviction is such that the wolf (us) can never take her down. In fact, during the crazed, extended climax of the apocalypse (I use the word because what else is the climax? Mother herself jokingly calls it that), the camera seems almost to suffer in its constant circling orbit around her character, as if she were a gravity well or black hole from which it (we) cannot escape. When, at her utmost, she screams for the death of her child and the ground shatters, we finally escape her orbit, briefly, to get an overhead view.

More than a psychological-supernatural thriller, though, and far more than a horrific religious allegory, Mother! is even still working harder to fight conventions. I think its ultimate goal is to depict the domestic horrors of a trophy wife to a Great Man, and the history of that in the world. Further, the film depicts this from said trophy wife's perspective, and forces us to live it with her. She's younger, more beautiful, but infinitely taken for granted. She's less confident, less praised, and less loved. Her final moments -- escaping the mob to the tankers in the basement, where she ignites the oil and destroys the world -- are a scream into the abyss, a cry of rage and pain and sorrow not unlike King Lear or Job, something I think Darren Aronofsky has tried to do with the film.

After the apocalypse, an unharmed Him carries her and she asks him, "Who are you?" "I am I," he responds cryptically, suggesting that he is God. But that phrasing also indicates that the film is suddenly switching its focus. It suddenly becomes about him. He finally becomes the subject of the film, and she becomes its literal object, something the film has played with ambivalently until that point. He kills her (mercifully? Who knows) by removing her heart, the ashes of which crystallize into -- you guessed it -- another beautiful gem he places on his shelf, which immediately restores the house.

Even if you read this review -- even if your skills at predicting a movie's plot twists are that good -- you will not, at all, in any capacity be ready for the way in which Aronofsky takes you through the picture. I guessed the religious allegory fairly early, and the nature of the poet's crystal. But there is nothing that could have prepared me for the sheer insanity and aggressive horror that got me to the end. You can talk about this movie for forever, in the right crowd. It's as though Aronofsky is taking everything that's ever been in his mind, splashing around in it, and throwing it at you point-blank. This is the rare movie that is totally uncategorizable because it is a consummate work of high art, containing so much trash and pulp that you feel icky for the entire two hours it violates your eyeballs.

It's magnificent. Easily my unexpected favorite this year and this decade.

IMDb: Mother!

It (2017)

Score: 5 / 5

The greatest joy of IT is that it's an absolute joy to watch. Stephen King screen adaptations tend to get a bad rap, by and large, because of how many there are and how bad many of them are. Poor production values and streamlined scripts have so often butchered the master of horror's work, though there are a few gems out there. I feared for this one. The sheer size and scope of the novel is daunting at best, and there has already been a fabulous adaptation in the 1990 miniseries starring Tim Curry in a now-iconic role. While that vision suffers, too, from some cheap effects and dated -isms, it has certainly stood the test of time as a classic iteration of horror-comedy. Sure, Tim Curry will freak you out a bit, but he's on screen so much and having such a blast, it's hard not to grin and bear the more horrific parts of the story -- namely, the wicked townspeople who harm and neglect their children.

Andy Muschietti's new film is everything we could have wanted and then some.

The year is 1988 (a logical update from the novel, which begins in '57; the film, catering to millennials and Gen Xers, seeks to evoke childhood nostalgia). The town is Derry, Maine, and children are going missing. The film follows a small group of concerned youngsters who call themselves the Losers Club as they unravel the mystery and confront the evil that plagues their town. We follow the seven Losers through the trials of their personal lives (abusive or absent parents, school bullies) as they come of age together. Indeed, the heart of the film lies with these breakout stars. Each kid owns the camera's attention like veteran actors, and each is so comfortable with the crude humor and abject terror that we believe each of them almost instantly. They navigate the hilarious waters of pre-adolescence with impeccable timing and laugh-out-loud delivery, which serve to make the horrors to come even more shocking. The writers and performers do some truly incredible work in those moments of friendship and camaraderie shared by the Losers. Their lighthearted banter and hypertalkative silliness are immediately endearing because it's so accurate. In fact, even without the titular villain, this movie would have been a good watch just for these kids. With such a large cast, it's hard to make the audience care for each kid equally and invest in their plights; this film perfectly highlights each one individually, and then as a group, so you never have to question, "Wait, which kid is that?" "What's his name?" "What's he going through?"

But this isn't just a sweet throwback to our youth, though the vibes of feel-good '80s dramedies are palpably present. There is true horror lurking under Derry, and Muschietti pulls no punches. In fact, apart from the excellent coming-of-age narratives, the greatest achievement of this film is in its horror. That may not mean much at first glance -- this is a horror film, of course it's good at that -- but look again. Horror is hard to film. Jump-scares are a dime a dozen, and though effective, don't usually sit with you long afterward. Movies that seek to genuinely disturb are often lost in psychosexual drama or gore-porn that confuses or irritates us. As I've said before, there are small but crucial differences between scary movies and horror films, and IT has the brilliant good sense to embody both.

Bill Skarsgard plays a damned terrifying Pennywise the Dancing Clown, to be sure. His rolling eyes, lilting inflection, and salivating lips are immediately chilling, but he has enough control to avoid any comparison to Tim Curry's aggressively psychotic iteration of the character. More importantly, the filmmakers here know that the best way to scare us is not to have Pennywise in full view or even physically present most of the time; rather, they keep him in shadows if he's present at all. Usually it's just a balloon or a subtle peek-around-the-corner that serves as knowledge of his presence, and it will drive you back in your seat. Effective, too, are his incarnations of the children's fears. Pennywise, you see, is a shapeshifter that takes on the form of children's fears to season their meat, so to speak. Gone are the embodiments of '50s pop horror, such as the Mummy, the Creature from the Black Lagoon, and the Wolf-Man. (That is, they are not present explicitly, though there are more than a few nods to the fanbase; during the climactic fight, Pennywise -- thanks to some eye-popping visual effects -- transforms from monster to monster faster than a boggart, and we do in fact see the werewolf's claw enlarging momentarily, and the icky moment of a mummy's bandages binding Ben's face to Pennywise's.)

Instead the filmmakers have delved deeper into the psychological trauma of the Losers and developed what really makes them squirm. Ben, having been researching the 27-year tragedies of Derry and stumbling upon the photo of a child's head in a tree following an Easter explosion, follows smoldering eggs to the library basement and is attacked by a child's headless specter. Mike, haunted by the memory of his parents burning to death in the Black Spot, sees burning hands reaching for him from behind a locked door. On the other hand, some of the children's fears are directly transferred from the novel. Beverly's onset of puberty and the incestuous abuse of her father set the stage for her bathroom horror show, the excessiveness of which recalls Carrie and the blood rain during the climax of the Evil Dead remake.

Apart from discussion of adaptations and details, though, I want to impress that my favorite element of this film is with its spirit. This is one of those adaptations that -- though remarkably faithful to source details -- captures the essence of King's novel so absolutely I find it astonishing he wasn't a producer or co-writer. IT has the distinction of being a horror film that feels like a waking nightmare. Partly because of its familiar design, and partly due to expert delivery, it starts as a dreamlike flashback and quickly darkens (after all, what good's horror if it doesn't come out of joy?). Sweeping camera motions and unnerving angles push us to view what we don't want to see by entrancing us, much as Pennywise entrances his prey. Muschietti even takes on Pennywise's inherent theatricality, distorting images and sounds as if they were in carnival funhouses, and regurgitating them on screen with gleeful malice. Even only two-thirds of the way through the movie (for fans, the encounter in the house on Neibolt Street) feels like a climax, simply due to its in-your-face violent terror. It was in that sequence I realized what Muschietti was doing: Scaring the shit out of us kids, gathered around a lit campfire, as he tells a story with every trick he's got. Heightened volume, incoherent children's screams, whirlwind cinematography and bewildering editing, and some spectacular special effects make this film a nightmarish descent into the hell of your imagination.

Don't cover your eyes. It might be worse than what you see on screen. That's how deep IT gets under your skin.

IMDb: It

Ingrid Goes West (2017)

Score: 4.5 / 5

Ingrid Goes West is the darkest comedy I've seen in a long time. Naturally, I loved it!

Ingrid Thorburn is a product of our culture. Can we call her mentally unstable? Legally, sure, as she's seen to stalk people via Instagram. Well, one person, initially, named Charlotte. Charlotte has a large following, and apparently once commented on one of Ingrid's posts. Ingrid took that as a declaration of intimate friendship, which climaxed in violence when Charlotte did not invite Ingrid to her wedding. After showing up and macing her in the face, Charlotte is sent to a mental hospital. Even there, she has access to her phone and magazines, and soon learns about Taylor, another social media "influencer" (celebrity is far too strong a word) who lives in sunny California. Thanks to the unexpected death of her mother (yes, it's a shady, shady world) and a sudden inheritance, Ingrid packs up and indeed goes west.

Aubrey Plaza plays Ingrid with lots of gumption, not shying away from the chilling stalking episodes but imbuing honesty and compassion into a character we would say is a freak, a weirdo. She's the definition of a creep, but Ingrid is also all of us. Plaza gets us to root for her from the get-go, even as we watch her cross line after line in the sand. She's a nearly perfect antihero, and she owns every second. And why shouldn't she? We get her. Everyone who uses social media is a kind of stalker, or someone who encourages stalking, right? Which is worse? Can we blame people for getting so invested in the lives of others, when they're splashed on screens we carry in our pockets? When all they post is the sweet, sexy, lovable images of their seemingly perfect lives? How can we defend the Instagram/Facebook/Snapchat media when, by definition, it invites envy and greed and discontentment into our lives?

This film doesn't answer that, but it certainly provokes those thoughts. It's a hilarious film, bubbling over with whip-smart comedy that strikes smack in the middle of young adult culture. It's also deeply disturbing, and more than once I expected it to take a horrific turn. Taylor (played to perfection by Elizabeth Olsen) is the sweet icon of grace, and her innocence begs for disaster to approach. Not unlike Cate Blanchett's character in Notes on a Scandal, she allows the unbecoming predator into her intimacy, disregarding all the warning signs, and is subsequently forced to enact extreme damage control. Her savior -- in the form of a magnificently pseudo-naked Billy Magnussen -- keeps his eye on Ingrid, though even that isn't quite enough to spare her humiliation and some fear.

Writer-director Matt Spicer knows exactly what he's about here, and the greatest pleasure of the film is watching his total control over the proceedings. He allows the actors to play, the scenic beauty to enchant, and the humor to wax and wane naturally. He exhibits time and again his uncanny knack for pure awkwardness, an unconventional but highly effective form of cinematic humor like we saw in the sixth Harry Potter, and the pauses in dialogue when people have said or are trying not to say something are absolutely squirm-inducing. I nervously giggled my way through the entire film, because while little is laugh-out-loud funny, the whole damn thing will trigger any latent social anxieties you have.

Of course, it does drop a few guffaw-worthy gimmicks, mostly delivered by O'Shea Jackson Jr., who plays Ingrid's boyfriend née landlord Dan. An aspiring screenwriter, Dan loves Batman. In fact, he loves Batman so much, that during their unexpected but highly entertaining first sexual encounter, he has Ingrid dress up as Catwoman, call him "Batman" as he repeats it, and recite to him "Gotham needs you." That scene took the cake, though there are plenty more belly-laughs where it came from.

The ending is of particular interest to me, because I think it can be read a couple ways. After her unrequited friendship-affair blows up in her face, Ingrid confesses her loneliness and reveals her true self on an Instagram video, after which she overdoses on pills. Dan's intervention saves her, and following the attempted suicide Ingrid awakes to find herself a star. Her video has gone viral and supporters are lauding her honesty. As she scans the comments on her phone, she smiles. And that's the end. At first, I wanted to read it as her finally becoming content, expressing her pure joy that she is finally loved. And that would be a lovely sentiment, especially since the last twenty minutes or so of the movie work so hard to make her sympathetic and tragic. But I'm not convinced. The whole film before that showed her to be desperate, creepy, and downright dangerous. I think her smile is a sort of falling-off-the-wagon moment, realizing the high she has been denied her whole life. She won't rest now. If her attempted suicide got her this much attention, what will she possibly do to one-up that? It's a sly ending, one that deftly skewers the issues the film had been juggling up to that point, and one that will prompt good conversation at dinner after the screening.

IMDb: Ingrid Goes West

Tulip Fever (2017)

Score: 3 / 5

Who knew tulips could be so sexy?

They were, at least, in 1634 Amsterdam. Everyone wanted tulips, so their market soared until they, inevitably, crashed. So too with love, apparently, as Tulip Fever paints it. The macrocosm of city commerce during a time of obsession and sacrifice is mirrored by the romantic drama of a small household. Choosing a compelled (not forced or arranged, exactly) marriage over becoming a novice in a nunnery, beautiful, orphaned Sophia (Alicia Vikander) weds and beds wealthy widowed merchant Cornelis Sandvoort (Christoph Waltz). Cornelis desires a child above all, though the two are apparently unable to conceive.

Christoph Waltz starts his role with eccentric flair and strange nuances. Cornelis, obsessed with fathering a child but no less concerned with the happiness of his stoic wife, develops a comical ritual of prayer for fertility, pissing in the chamberpot, and calling his "little soldier" to attention. It's a sad sort of self-deprecation that at first feels disgusting, but over time is endearing; never mind the little moment when he climaxes and refers to cannons firing. We learn over time that he genuinely loves his wife, something Sophia also realizes too late. He's not Ralph Fiennes in The Duchess, and though this film has its fair amount of dark stylizations, it's not a domestic horror picture. Indeed, during the climax as the baby is being born, Sophia sheds a series of single tears, ashamed of her deception and the pain she will soon cause her husband.

Still trusting in their marriage, Cornelis arranges for a portrait to be painted of the two of them, and hires young Jan van Loos (Dane DeHaan). It's a Titanic-style romance that you know won't end well. Without even having met her properly, Jan stares at her during their first sitting, and it's a miracle her husband doesn't catch on. Then again, if Dane DeHaan glared at me that way, I'd probably call the police, but movie logic isn't always a thing. He compulsively paints her, and she seems so pleased I kept expecting her to say something like, "Paint me like one of your Dutch girls, Jan." No such luck. They begin a heated affair, one she disguises with voluminous robes and speedy excursions. Running through the marketplace as she does, it's a wonder no one recognizes her. Jan and Sophie share intimacy that sharply contrasts with her stilted, stunted sex scenes with Cornelis. In fact, a memorable sequences juxtaposes the cold officiousness of the portrait sittings with the hot kineticism of adultery: "You may rest, Mr. Sandvoort," Jan once says, knowing full well that the cuckold isn't doing much else in bed.

At the same time, there's some fire down under in the Sandvoort house. Maria the maid (Holliday Grainger) and the local fishmonger (Jack O'Connell) really turn on the heat in the kitchen until they put a bun in the oven. In order to save Maria's reputation and job -- and her own marriage -- Sophia embarks on a preposterous plan to hide the pregnancy but also to pretend to be pregnant herself. It's a convoluted, totally unbelievable scheme, but everyone involved seems to make it work without a hitch. Even the creepy but ultimately helpful gynecologist Dr. Sorgh (Tom Hollander) manages to convince Cornelis of the proceedings.

I don't want to spoil it for you, but Tulip Fever follows the period-romance template to the letter. In fact, it plays ever so slightly with becoming an erotic dark romance, especially about halfway through when the tulip market inflates and so do the sex organs of our lead players. They scurry around town like rats, hump like rabbits, then return home like angels. Candlelit interiors, heavy wooden hallways, beautifully thick costumes, and lots of staring out windows keep the drama rich if a bit silly. Silly, you ask? You betcha. Tom Stoppard's script (Anna Karenina, Shakespeare in Love, Rosencrantz & Guildenstern are Dead) is thin and confused, trying to do too much at times, and barely doing anything at others. When another fishmonger shows up at Maria's kitchen door offering his wares, he earnestly looks at her and says, "I've got a nice thick eel." Another: Jan tells Sophia, in one post-coital scene, that their plan will work, "All we have to do is put all our eggs in one basket." The movie is filled with howlers like these, effectively ripping us out of the drama of the movie.

They should have kept the humor to a minimum, or at least leave it in capable hands. And no, I don't mean Zach Galifianakis, who shows up for a couple times for some idiotic reason, mostly to proclaim his inability to adopt a convincing accent and become the butt of jokes regarding his alcoholism. I mean someone like Tom Hollander, who steals his scenes, or Dame Judi Dench as the Mother Superior of Sophia's home. The abbess also has her hands in the tulip trade, and her utterly arresting stoicism makes you squirm as she delivers one-liners with bone-dry conviction. Or even Matthew Morrison, who shows up a few times as Jan's dear friend, which prompts me to wonder why Sophia doesn't choose him to have an affair with, because -- well, no explanation necessary.

The film feels narratively busy, helped along by feverish editing that jumps between people and places faster than necessary. Coincidences pile on misdirection, and by the finale I felt that I'd been had by the filmmakers. It began with such promise, we might say, especially with the lush production value (thank you, Weinstein Company!) and casting choices. But all crashes -- much like the tulip trade -- and the impossible climax and implausible denouement, plus a series of false endings, strip away the stylish guise of the film and reveal a cruel trick. Is the story a steamy period romance? A sad melodrama about idiots who get in over their heads? A dry tragicomedy that champions lower class workers?

Does it matter?

IMDb: Tulip Fever

Valley of Bones (2017)

Score: 1 / 5

Okay, class, today we'll be learning about MacGuffins. Who here can explain the exact nature of the MacGuffin? No one? 

Good, you all get an A for the day! A MacGuffin, a plot device usually taking the form of an object, often has no precise explanation or concrete details. It may not be totally mysterious, but even if it is explained, the MacGuffin's essence is usually unimportant to the story anyway. What is important, though, is its effect on the other characters and therefore the events of the story. Hence, it's a plot device. It may also be a symbol, but be wary: Symbols, though perhaps not crucial to the plot, are often crucial to themes and character development.

Still a bit confused? Let's try a few examples. The One Ring could be considered a MacGuffin, as its mysterious nature isn't something we can understand, though its very existence is enough to cause the Fellowship to seek its destruction halfway around the world. The Holy Grail, similarly, or the Ark of the Covenant often ignite searches and quests that possess treasure-hunters for monetary or religious reasons. If you're watching an adventure movie or action thriller, chances are a MacGuffin either incited the action or becomes the plot's vehicle. Consider just about every spy movie: A MacGuffin will appear as a "list" or "file" of secret agents, shady conspirators, or potential targets, and it will motivate characters to fight and kill to repossess it, though the names themselves may never be revealed to us and if they were it wouldn't much matter to the plot.

Valley of Bones is an abject failure -- albeit a really fascinating one -- precisely because almost everything in it is a MacGuffin. Is that such a problem? Not at first glance, as the film's various elements seem almost immediately poised to launch us into breakneck action. The opening scene of a Spanish-speaking man who may or may not be law enforcement pulling a prisoner out of his trunk, preparing to kill him, and being subsequently murdered by the man struck me as intriguing, though I could have told you nothing about the characters or why they were in the middle of nowhere fighting to the death. Soon we learn they are in the Badlands, the bleak and dusty north of US cowboy country where apparently Mexican drug cartels (I know, I know, somebody stop Trump from seeing this movie) hold violent sway. The prisoner, McCoy (played by co-writer Steven Molony), having dispatched his would-be killer, buries his foe and takes his truck, but not before finding a huge T-Rex tooth in the dirt and a bag of heroin in the glove compartment.

Enter our protagonists (McCoy is arguably the protagonist, but he's also villainous, so just shut it), mother and paleontologist Anna (Autumn Reeser) and her second-grader son Ezekiel (Mason Mahay). "Eze" (pronounced "easy") or "Zeke", as he is called by his doting uncle Nate (Rhys Coiro) is having emotional trouble with his mother, whose frequent and lengthy digs keep her away. She isn't even aware of the general things he likes, as she tells her concerned father one night. Her deceased husband, Nate's brother, holds a mysterious control over Ezekiel, and apparently can only be replaced by Anna. When Anna and her family start digging in McCoy's location to find the rest of the massive Rex skeleton, McCoy plots to use the find to pay off his debts to "El Papa" to save himself, his daughter, and their dog.

Sound like an interesting premise?

Just beyond the halfway mark, we begin to realize there is little worth our attention. The tension dissolves as quickly as it builds, or, should I say, slowly, because it takes about an hour to put everything into motion. The skeleton (a MacGuffin if ever I saw one!) is never revealed to us, though apparently the dig unearths the whole damn thing. It has motivated both the archaeologists and the criminals and ends up --  wait for it -- in Dubai. The Rex tooth similarly serves only to point to the skeleton, and does little else narratively; that is, until the end, when Ezekiel casually stabs McCoy with it. (Did I mention spoiler alert? Oh well.)

The heroin (at least, I assume it's heroin, though that too is left undetermined) is also a MacGuffin, as it motivates McCoy for no reason other than a reminder of his debt to the cartel. Actually, this one hung me up for a bit, because instead of hocking the drug for money or, you know, a decent tent, McCoy uses the shit to get high and violent. We might argue that this illogical turn reveals his overwhelming stress, or even that it serves a later plot point that McCoy is a recovering addict, told to us by the lone shining star of the film, Alexandra Billings (Transparent), as his friend and supporter. But that rings hollow when the drug's presence serves almost no purpose; McCoy would be just as desperate and violent without the drug simply due to his love of his daughter and dog and his efforts to save them from El Papa. The drug, ultimately, is the actor's excuse to be awesome and terrifying in the violent climax, where he screams delivers a bone-chilling gutteral lullaby while hunting for Anna and Ezekiel in the starlit wasteland.

Just when I thought all the MacGuffins were over, writer-director Dan Glaser throws more into the pot, right at the end where they simply do not belong. During a brief shootout when a cartel hitman discovers McCoy at the dig, Anna tosses her keys into a rocky fissure; okay, she "drops" them, but who drops things horizontally that land a good five or more feet away in the one place you can't reach? I digress. The keys are to the truck, now loaded with boxes of bones ready to be taken (somewhere?). The keys serve to bring all the characters back to the dig site under cover of darkness, seeking the keys for their escape. The truck, too, is a MacGuffin, and the bones it carries, when McCoy finally takes the keys and, for some reason, Ezekiel (because why wouldn't you want to add kidnapping and child endangerment to you numerous crimes?) with him to his cartel rendezvous. Shall we continue? There's a rattlesnake in the crevice, which aggressively chases Ezekiel and bites both him and his mother (is this how snakes really work? I think not), which is totally unnecessary because their lives are already in danger and they both survive anyway, so it's just a needless little bit of nothing to spice up the screen.

MacGuffins abound in the Badlands, apparently, and despite the lovely score and cinematography, they drag the film down in the dust. "Some things are better left buried," the film's tagline reads, a cruel sort of self-parodying indictment of the film's inane existence. I didn't think it would be possible for a movie about dinosaur bones and family dysfunction and drug cartels could be so awful, but these filmmakers unearthed a real doozy. I'm going to go make dinner now, which is not a MacGuffin because it has essence and interest and because it serves the narrative purpose of getting me off this topic.

IMDb: Valley of Bones 

Tallulah (2016)

Score: 1.5 / 5

It's my first review of a Netflix film, so I thought I'd start on a light note: A fun little crime dramedy about motherhood. I was wrong.

Tallulah or "Lu", played by Ellen Page, really wants to be a gypsy. Travelling around America in her van, living off stolen credit cards, and actively avoiding planning any kind of future with her boyfriend Nico (Evan Jonigkeit), she seems content with a life some of us might call miserable. When Nico expresses a desire for more, she argues vehemently until he abandons her one night, igniting her desperate search for him. She travels to NYC, where Nico's mother lives, though she hasn't seen him in two years.

Her only hope dashed, she decides to steal from guests in a fancy hotel, only to have one of them to mistake her as housekeeping staff. Intoxicated and about to go cheat on her absent husband, the woman leaves her toddler in Lu's care, who stays because the woman is obviously dangerously neglectful and abusive. Eventually, Lu kidnaps the child and takes it to Nico's mother's place, where they attempt to eke out an ab-normative family life together. Of course, the toddler's mother comes to her senses and soon the police are looking for the kidnapper.

Tallulah is an absurdist melodrama, and if you like those kind of things, this might appeal to you. Unfortunately, it's so confused and meandering that I found myself choking more than giggling on its improbabilities. Whereas the absurd humor of, for example, David Lindsay-Abaire's earlier scripts resides in sharp focus on otherwise bizarre and unnatural topics, the humor here tries to rest on vague, unilateral caricatures and clichéd tropes on otherwise familiar, tired narratives. For me, the whole movie doesn't work because you don't care about anyone; the film doesn't work to make them sympathetic or even understandable. They're all whining, miserable assholes who do stupid, illegal things without any regard for consequences and manage to still, somehow, be dull and uninteresting the whole time. I quit Mad Men in season two for the same reason; why do I need to see hour after hour of terrible people doing terrible things to each other for boring reasons?

Okay, that's a lie. There is one saving grace in the film, and that is in Allison Janney. Playing Nico's mother, she features prominently and injects a lot of heart into her performance. She is the sole sympathetic voice in the movie, and it's a testament to her work that she makes the picture watchable. Even though her character is thinly written and also makes some bad choices, she at least steals the part she was given. Even the movie seems to understand that she is its soul; the final scene is about her realizing her own value and taking her life back. Why wasn't the movie named Margo after her? Ellen Page doesn't deserve title characters. The only other good part of Tallulah is Tammy Blanchard, who plays the toddler's mother; she's entrancing to watch in her emotionally heightened, intoxicated pseudo-stupor, but the character is so infuriating I still have trouble defending it.

So I won't anymore. Don't waste two hours on this flick.

IMDb: Tallulah

Wind River (2017)

Score: 4.5 / 5

If Wind River doesn't cool down your summer, you're probably already dead. Taylor Sheridan's newest desert crime-thriller is as bleak and violent as his others (Sicario, Hell or High Water) but takes place in a frozen Wyoming winter. When a young woman's body is discovered half-naked in the snow of the Wind River Indian Reservation, a lone FBI agent teams up with local law enforcement to investigate, despite the hostile bitterness of nearby residents. Clue leads to clue, leads beget leads, and eventually they find themselves in a mire of mystery. The killer, though, isn't alone, and in a frigid wasteland, it takes hardened predators to hunt murderers.

Taylor Sheridan, finally in control of his own script, displays his keen sense of timing and pace here, keeping things slow and entrancing while he drives you to the edge of your seat. He knows the power of silence, and half the scenes feature no dialogue at all, relying on striking images and the immersive eyes of our leads to carry the film. Speaking of which, Elizabeth Olsen plays our FBI investigator, a woman of small stature and questionable judgment when she arrives at Wind River. Showing up in the thick of a snowstorm, laughably unprepared for the environment, she resorts to asking a resident for proper attire and recruiting the Fish & Wildlife agent to help her solve the case. That agent is played by Jeremy Renner, and he is a nearly perfect foil to her. Knowledgeable, pragmatic, and sensitive, he found the corpse in the snowy field while hunting a mountain lion that had been preying on livestock.

The two ill-matched trackers, however, develop a working relationship quickly and sift through possible suspects with aplomb. They know they're on the right track when one of their first suspects reacts with sudden violence. Slowly, the two impress each other with their skills and ability to adapt, and in one memorable scene, Renner's character emotionally bares himself to Olsen's, and it'll tug at your tear ducts something awful.

But the violence is nowhere near over, and if you know Taylor Sheridan, you know there's a doozy of a climax still to come. Arrive it does, but not in traditional fashion. I've never seen a flashback be a climax (unless you count the revelation of Snape's unrequited love in the last Harry Potter, but that's another conversation), but Sheridan pops this one in kind of in the middle of nowhere. If you're keeping your eye on the clock, you know it's about time for things to wrap up, but otherwise you think this new search of a suspect's property is going to result in a final clue. Then -- blooie! -- here we are in a flashback to what really happened the night of the murder. It's lovely and sad and dark and horrifying, plus Jon Bernthal shows up and makes you feel things. Then, not even five seconds after we revert to the present -- blooie! -- some of the most gasp-inducing violence on screen this year explodes into your eyeballs.

Even then, it's still not over, because Sheridan has invested us so deeply into these characters that we need significant closure. That we get, thankfully, in a series of denouement scenes that mostly serve to wring out whatever tears you haven't shed. It's not a letdown at all, and Sheridan reinforces his themes of trust and care and sacrifice while underscoring the central characterizations of the film: that of predators and prey, and just how far one is willing to go to survive.

It may not be official Oscar season yet, but we've already seen too many possible big contenders. Keep your eye on this one for a nomination for original screenplay, and maybe cinematography or direction.

IMDb: Wind River