Suburbicon (2017)

Score: 4 / 5

Don't pay attention to the critics on this one. It's an absolute delight of a flick for pre-Oscar season nuts like us.

Suburbicon takes two stories and meshes them into one, though the synthesis isn't quite inspired. Think Stepford Wives meets mob-affiliated home-invasion thriller. The bare bones story is that of the Myers (?) family, consisting of a black man and woman and their young son; their presence serves little narrative purpose other than to demonstrate the horrors of Suburbicon, the all-white paradise of Trump's America. Oops, I'm sorry, I meant 1959 America, when America was "great" to begin with. There's a difference, right? Only the day after the Myers move to town, the mailman starts spreading the word, and neighbors begin picketing their property. The neighborhood decrees privacy fences will be installed around their yard. Groups of chanting malcontents gather on the street, shouting insults and appropriating spirituals to taunt the family. Ultimately, the rioters, despite halfhearted attempts by police to restrain them, attack the house, burn the car, and terrorize the family.

But their son makes tentative friends with another young boy, the white boy whose backyard mirrors their own. That boy, young Nicky, has family problems of his own, and though his skin grants him salvation from community bigotry, he goes through another kind of hell, and it is this that the film centers on.

Matt Damon, the patriarch of this family, plays a weak and desperate sort of suburban white-collar worker. He spends his days in an office pumping away on stress-relief squeezers, and it seems he has gotten terribly involved with "the mob" from another city. He lives with his infirm wife (Julianne Moore) and her sister (also Julianne Moore, praise be to Jesus), and their relationship is only barely introduced before their home is victimized one night. Two thieves appear and molest the family, tying them to kitchen chairs and chloroforming them before supposedly robbing them; they end up murdering the wife/mother Julianne Moore in front of little distressed Nicky.

I don't want to spoil anything, because half the joy of the film is its ability to story-tell. Nicky is the only sympathetic character -- apart from the Myers family -- and his ability to observe the corrupt dealings of adults informs our understanding of the evil at work in white suburbia. The white people are all variously destroyed by an effort to perfect their lives: through order and sense, through money, through status. Well, not "all", because of course the general population lives on to spin their own story. The final shot is of media interviewing "bystanders" who are declaring the Myers family responsible for the violence in their midst. Survivors and victors get to determine history.

Director George Clooney isn't making a treatise here on racial dynamics or white morality. He isn't making a statement on feminist culture or domestic patriarchy. These elements are present, of course, and arguably make up the meat of the movie. But he stays somewhat aloof, allowing the elements to blend and conflict at their own volition, and forcing the viewer to think. If nothing else, that's a damn valuable thing these days. And as a white lower-middle-class American, this movie made me even angrier at white middle-class America. The Coen brothers with Clooney have crafted a script that doesn't pursue the directions it could have taken -- intensely subversive domestic horror, hilariously scathing satire of white hegemony -- but certainly suggests all of the above and more. I laughed out loud more than once, and covered my eyes at least twice. (Seriously, why the hell wasn't that fire truck sounding its siren?!)

It's not a great mystery. It's a mediocre thriller, and a not-very dramatic drama. But as a quirky sort of crime flick, it works really well. Its well-rounded cast (including Glenn Fleshler and a scene-stealing Oscar Isaac who will make you feel all sorts of spectacular things in his brief onscreen appearance) provide a fabulous hour-and-three-quarters of entertainment. Workable if uninspired vision from the usually exceptional cinematographer Robert Elswit and typically mesmerizing music from Alexandre Desplat provide enchanting visuals and aurals to soak in, even when the plot isn't as daring as we might want. And, if murder and sexism and money and racism and child endangerment and classism weren't enough, there's always a crazy Julianne Moore, a sweet and terrifying Matt Damon, and a sexy and suave Oscar Isaac to soothe your soul.

Check into Suburbicon. You won't be sorry.

IMDb: Suburbicon

Victoria and Abdul (2017)

Score: 4 / 5

Victoria & Abdul is one of those movies it has quickly become cool to hate. I saw it and loved every minute.

Yes, it takes place at a time of and with people who were instrumental in the oppression and violence of British colonialism in India. No, it does not accurately represent their plight, and yes, it trivializes the severity of racist imperialism that amounted to genocide in many parts of the world. But Victoria & Abdul, as the title suggests, is about two individuals. It is not a historical film; it immediately declares itself to be "Based on real events" with a cutesy knowing little "...mostly" tacked on. Trite as that may be, it is also more honest than most films touting their historical accuracy. Stephen Frears (Florence Foster Jenkins, Philomena, The Queen) knows how to do this well, and this picture is no exception.

The film centers on an ill, aging Queen Victoria, whose court is riddled with scheming aristocrats and cruel bigots seeking power. Judi Dench, returning to screen as the empress, gives one of her best screen performances, riveting and often painful to watch. Her honesty about her health, age, and loneliness is some of the most vulnerable screen acting I've ever seen; I'd compare it, oddly enough, to Patrick Stewart in Logan earlier this year. She also has a curious sense of humor, which broadens and enlivens as the film progresses, but the filmmakers seem intent on projecting that onto the screen as well. Other characters are flat and caricatured, and, as far as Victoria and we are concerned, simply irritating.

As I say, the film centers on Victoria and her experience. With a few notable exceptions (we'll discuss presently), the film forces us to view the world much as Victoria does. We see sumptuous feasts for consuming, wicked underlings scraping and bowing while conniving behind closed doors, and duties so banal and confining that we -- like she -- would rather be in bed. Fabulous castles, decadent style, a whole world of beauty and extravagance at her fingertips. The camera paints for us a portrait of gardens and tapestries, food and music, and it's easy to forget the horrors of British-ruled India. "Aha! The film is reinforcing colonial racism!" Maybe. It's also making sure we sympathize with Victoria, because her life of luxury is all she knows. I think it's all most of us know, too; the film has a pretty specific target audience.

Enter Abdul (played expertly by Ali Fazal, matching his co-star with grace and humor), a young clerk from Agra, who is selected for his stature (and, likely, education) to gift Victoria with a gold coin, a symbol of gratitude and loyalty to the empress. After brazenly looking Her Majesty in the eye, Abdul finds himself summoned by Victoria to attend her personally. She is intrigued by this exotic man, but her commodification of him is never consummated; he begins to teach her. She grows hungry for knowledge of Urdu and the Qur'an, much to the horror of her household, and elevates Abdul to the position of her Munshi, teacher. Their friendship is also deeply personal, as they confide in each other and treat each other as intimate family. Victoria's will to live returns, and she embraces the culture of India which she, admittedly, has overlooked and forsaken.

Of course all will not end well, as Victoria's age and illness lead to her eventual death (but not before she delivers, in close-up, an Oscar-nomination-worthy speech about her situation). Her efforts to protect Abdul are undone by her cruel and jealous son, Edward VII (a delicious Eddie Izzard), who burns their correspondence and casts Abdul and his family out of the country. It's a difficult film to watch as we see this intolerance and violence, but it makes you re-consider who is really to blame in the situation. Sure, Victoria had been hated for her seeming attempts to bridge the cultural divide and promote tolerance, but isn't it horrifying too to think that her cultural appropriation and lack of genuine action on behalf of her Indian subjects could be cast as humanitarian, even progressive?

Movies like this are feel-good movies that work by appealing to our ignorant whiteness, that try to let us forgive ourselves for the unspeakable horrors we have enacted around the world through colonized oppression. We don't deserve that. But on the other hand, let's not discredit the effect movies like this can have on people who don't think critically about these issues. This isn't a lesson in history; it's equally not a moral treatise. I spoke with an elderly white man outside the theater who was amazed that "someone like Abdul" could be so kind and loving to people who hated him so much. I read a post from an acquaintance saying that if Judi Dench wasn't horrified by being friends with a Muslim, she would try not to be either. Whatever those statements are ultimately worth, it is encouraging that the people for whom this film is aimed may be getting some good messages out of it.

If all movies being released had messages like this, then we could certainly be more vocal in critiquing its subtext of imperialist rhetoric and racial treachery of Abdul (yes, his role could be read like Samuel L. Jackson's in Django Unchained). There is no arguing that this film could and should have done better. But this is one humble film with a heart of compassion, and to write it off because of its depiction of false history -- which has little to do with the drama it's really portraying -- is a weak and petty position to take.

IMDb: Victoria and Abdul

The Snowman (2017)

Score: 2 / 5

We had such high hopes. Michael Fassbender in a frozen wasteland, hunting a serial killer who leaves snowmen (sometimes supplemented with human remains) as his calling card. What could go wrong?

Everything, apparently. The film feels like a ripoff of other, better, material, especially The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. Fassbender, the tortured detective on the brink, allows the film to be watchable, if only just; his name, after all, is Harry Hole, and he's sinking. Supposedly he's a genius, but that never really emerges from his sluggish, bleary demeanor. The rest of the cast is largely wasted, with big players like J.K. Simmons, James D'arcy, Val Kilmer, and Toby Jones barely even on screen. The script is confused and unfocused, making the mystery as flat and frigid as the icy landscape. There's little of interest, with the notable exception of Chloe Sevigny as (SPOILER ALERT) twins in an unexpectedly funny (if macabre) scene.

The film has its moments of tension and beauty, the former being menacing shots of snowmen and the occasional bloodstain, the latter being a couple shots of a gorgeous bridge the characters drive over. That's it. The basic mystery is subverted and ruined by the screenwriters and director (Tomas Alfredson, Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, Let the Right One In), who try to misdirect us in almost every scene, allowing red herrings to pile up so much that we're not sure what to care about. I'm still not sure if the plot is too convoluted or too simple for its own good, which is a problem. The editing doesn't help, as we are often forced to look away from important images and genuine emotions that might help us make sense of the film. Sure, the minimal, impressionistic visual approach is a bit interesting, but aesthetic form has to match substance, and here it does not.

What else can I say? It's just disappointing. How could so many good artists make such a mediocre mess? Save your time and money. Actually, go watch the trailer; it's more entertaining and makes more sense.

IMDb: The Snowman

Battle of the Sexes (2017)

Score: 4.5 / 5

I approached this film knowing next to nothing about its real-life origins. It was obvious, still, to me that the film took great pains in reconstructing its '70s period to make it accurate; it occasionally felt like a dramatized documentary, especially with its use of (apparent) stock footage, news highlights, and some expert cinematography by Linus Sandgren (La La Land, American Hustle, Joy). Yet for all its hard stylistic work, Battle of the Sexes can't help but be arresting in its timeliness.

If your ignorance matches mine, the titular battle refers to a 1973 tennis match, played by Billie Jean King and Bobby Riggs, which was broadcast and billed as a definitive moment in feminist history. Either a woman would succeed in a sport dominated by men, or a self-proclaimed chauvinist pig would prove the male body's mastery. While presumably many people were aware of how this match turned out, I found the buildup and execution of the game riveting, and cheered along with the on-screen crowd as King reigned victorious. Stories like this are not only wildly entertaining, as so many people are emotionally invested in sports dramas of its ilk, but also fiercely important. When stories of high-profile women being paid less for equal work, dozens of women being molested in the workplace by male superiors, and millions of women hashtagging "#MeToo" become regular news, those who proclaim feminism is evil or stupid or wrong or unnecessary are forced to eat their words.

But Battle of the Sexes isn't simply a platform for these issues. It's also a vulnerable, sometimes quiet film that focuses on King's life, a story I found as absorbing as the primary plot of tennis. Her marriage to a loving supportive man is put to the test during her lengthy travels and time away, and as she begins to explore her taboo sexuality. Emma Stone delivers what may be her best performance yet as King, and bravely shows the emotional and physical tolls placed on her. She navigates the waters of misogynist professionals with wit and charm, relying on her strength of body and character to make her point. She shows vulnerability and burgeoning affection, especially when Andrea Riseborough enters the picture as her hairdresser and lover Marilyn Barnett. Riseborough masterfully makes a very difficult part that could easily be labeled negatively into a sympathetic, profoundly human character.

Steve Carell, who I hadn't thought well of until Hope Springs in 2012 but now turns out one great performance a year, serves up another amazing turn as Bobby Riggs, though he is overshadowed at every turn by Stone's brilliance. That's mostly the script's doing, though; this is the woman's movie, and there's not much place for an outspoken misogynistic chauvinist in it. Carell transforms much as he did in Foxcatcher, disappearing into the role, though, to his credit, here his flamboyance is more infuriating than in any of his comedies. Much like Carell's performance, though, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris don't let the film buy into the extravagance or hype of the spectacle created by Riggs and the game's producers. Their film, seemingly indifferent as to the nature of tennis as a sport, focuses on the historic people and their contemporary social issues, making this film infinitely more resounding than most sports feel-good flicks out there.

IMDb: Battle of the Sexes

Professor Marston and the Wonder Women (2017)

Score: 4.5 / 5

For those of us who haven't always been DC fans but who found this summer's Wonder Woman to be phenomenal, this new film serves to increase our appreciation and love of the character. But before you take the kids to enjoy this real-life origin story, you may want to read up on your history. Or at least double-check the title.

William Moulton Marston, the American psychologist who created Wonder Woman, was inspired by not one but two women to create the Amazon goddess superhero. One was his wife, attorney and fellow psychologist Elizabeth Holloway Marston, and together they created a prototype for the first lie detector test. The other, Olive Byrne, defies strict description, as she graduated from student to assistant to lover of both Marston spouses. Their work together challenged not only scientific and academic tradition, but defied normative sexual and marital dynamics we still have today.

Professor Marston and the Wonder Women, as a no doubt fictionalized and dramatized account of their life stories, falls invariably into familiar biopic patterns. Their work leads to their love, their love is questioned and threatened by outsiders, and their lives ultimately transcend the bigotry and traditions of their community. The film succeeds exactly in this: its subject matter can't be so easily tied down by genre conventions. Its radical feminism (Marston himself would be a fascinating psychological study of a radical feminist straight man) and surprisingly sympathetic portrayal of polyamory and fetishes make this flick the most interesting and empowering biopic I've seen in years.

In an age of salacious scandals and voyeuristic sexual psychodrama, the human heart is often forsaken in favor of other organs located south of the equator. Not so in director Angela Robinson's movie, where the erotic exploits of its leading characters are so much a part of who they are that each sex scene is effectively riveting character growth. In many ways, that makes it even sexier than, for example, any scene where Mr. Grey and Anastasia Steele do the nasty in Fifty Shades, though at a glance motifs of bondage and polyamory would beg otherwise.

Bella Heathcote is mostly forgettable as third-wheel ingenue Olive Byrne, the wide-eyed student whose assistance to the Marstons extends beyond the "vanilla". Luke Evans delivers a fascinating performance as an especially difficult character. He is not the piggish frat boy who gets turned on by two women making love; he is a radical feminist who experiments on his psychoanalytic ideas -- immorally, arguably -- with his livelihood and marriage in the balance. He is never afraid to wear his heart on his sleeve, and his bare emotional state allows him to be frank and honest, even to a fault. But Rebecca Hall is the real MVP of this flick. She exudes a violent type of vulnerability I found at once hauntingly absorbing and a little too familiar. Encouraging her husband to adulterate and almost immediately harassing the object of his desire with threats, she defies simple description or clear motivation. She is a woman far ahead of her time but still in love with love, though perhaps in ways not socially acceptable at the time. Which is to say, of course, still not socially acceptable, despite some declarations that our culture is sexually free. This movie is far more timely than simply cohabiting 2017 with June's blockbuster.

IMDb: Professor Marston and the Wonder Women

Happy Death Day (2017)

Score: 4.5 / 5

College student Tree's birthday is about as trashy and awkward as any you could expect, and it ends with her own murder. But she wakes up as if from a dream and soon learns it is again her birthday. Seemingly trapped in a time loop, she is forced to relive her birthday (and death day) time and again, and after attempting to avoid her killer and failing, she determines to identify and confront her killer. It's a fun premise, one that promises (and delivers on!) lots of violent and creative murders, all with a knowing sense of humor.

Director Christopher B. Landon (writer of Disturbia and the Paranormal Activity series) has crafted a Scream-like flick that will at once make you laugh out loud and cringe, as the not-quite likeable heroine sasses her way into the slasher's killing grounds. The almost unbearably creepy baby-face mask of the killer is offset by the beauty-model standard of the rest of the cast, and they're all having so much fun it's hard to look away.

The filmmakers do their duty in keeping things interesting, combining what would be a rote slasher movie with meta references (a sorority house, a hospital, a parking garage; creepy roommates, jealous lovers, absent parents) and underscoring the whole thing with a heart of gold. It's all a sort of morbid It's a Wonderful Life as Tree learns that, under repeated pain of death, it costs precious little to be nice to the people around you. As she lives the same day repeatedly, the little things that change are sometimes better and sometimes worse, but all seem interconnected. Perhaps because the filmmakers (and Tree, as she eventually learns) know that anyone has more than enough motive to do the deed. She's been awful to everyone, and chalk it up to her privilege or good old-fashioned cruelty, in the first few scenes I was even rooting for the various players to kill her.

Jessica Rothe's starmaking turn as Tree is more than enough reason to watch this flick, as she carries the complex psychological trauma with enthusiasm and vigor. The rest of the pitch-perfect cast falls in sync, especially a downright lovable Israel Broussard as her one-night-stand who happens to be a wonderful person and I love him. Oops, got a little carried away there.

What else is there to say? I won't spoil the end for you, just be aware that all may not be as you suspect. There are a few nice little red herrings and a big crazy turn that will make you either gasp or want to scream "I KNEW IT", as I was tempted. It's a delightful genre romp that creeped me out, made me laugh, and encouraged me to think. A sweet center, so to speak, laced with whodunnit suspense, baked in metafiction, and iced with sweet slasher spectacle. I might have preferred a hard "R" rating and a few more interesting turns, but this film knew not to drag itself out. "What a sneaky little byotch!"

IMDb: Happy Death Day

The Mountain Between Us (2017)

Score: 2.5 / 5

What happens when a surgeon and a journalist are stranded in the Rockies after surviving a plane crash? Oddly enough, that's not the question asked by The Mountain Between Us, despite what the exciting marketing sold us. The real question asked by the film is (SPOILER ALERT, if you are incapable of predicting the sun will rise every 24 hours) why wouldn't Kate Winslet and Idris Elba survive a plane crash if not to fall in love? And unfortunately, that question is the one no one should have ever bothered to ask.

It's not even the stars' fault. Delicious as it is to hear their beautiful voices and watch their gorgeous bodies (almost always covered in layers of survival gear), the movie undermines most of their typically wonderful work. Elba, the surgeon eager to operate on his patient, delivers a warm portrait of a romantic man caught in an impossible situation; pragmatic and able to survive a long time, he's also cautious to a fault, unable to make decisions that would lead to rescue. One might think he read Hatchet in his youth, or has seen too many episodes of Lost. That's where Winslet comes in. Effectively a damsel in distress due to a broken (?) leg in the crash, her photo journalist is almost entirely useless in the film, a burden actually, except that she is force that leads the duo off the mountaintop and toward salvation. In case you couldn't gather, it's not a riveting premise.

But maybe that's okay. After all, director Hany Abu-Assad seems to relish in the movie's emotional core. While that comes as a disappointment to those of us eager for a well-acted disaster/survival flick, it would certainly make for a cozy Valentine's Day date. The two leads are at relaxed odds from the get-go, as they gaze at each other through their small plane's cockpit windows. Their emotional distance is not helped when they are forced to care for each other (and a perfectly delightful dog) in the ruins of their fuselage, nor when Winslet's curious character repeatedly tries prying into her partner's personal life. There is are some interesting juxtapositions of chill and warmth, particularly as the film progresses. As the icy distance between the eventual lovers is lessened, and they decrease their altitude, the visuals turn from ice and snow to water, as we eventually see Elba walking in the rain and Winslet swimming in a pool.

This transition is predicated earlier in the film, in a scene when Winslet almost drowns in an ice-covered lake. Scenes like this, interspersed with the sentimental romance unfolding before us, do somewhat break up the monotony. But the best of these occurs early on as a cougar attacks Winlset; that was a wee bit terrifying. Oh, and Elba almost falls off a mountain. But these exciting moments of spectacle do precious little to offset the sickly warm chemistry exuded by the leads, whose efforts carry the movie far more than its inept script ever could. Abu-Assad has his shining moments as well, especially during the plane crash scene (done in a single, spinning take); cinematographer Mandy Walker (Australia, Shattered Glass, Truth, Hidden Figures) also deserves her fair praise in making the rugged, gorgeous terrain a character in itself. Between the stars and their director, The Mountain Between Us is definitely worth a watch. Maybe try streaming it the next time you want to cuddle up to your sweetheart and not really care what you're watching.

IMDb: The Mountain Between Us

Blade Runner 2049 (2017)

Score: 5 / 5

What happens when you throw some of the best artists in the biz together for a long-overdue franchise? A damn masterpiece.

Blade Runner 2049 sees producer Ridley Scott, director Denis Villeneuve (my personal favorite, of Enemy, Prisoners, Arrival, and Sicario), cinematographer Roger Deakins (another favorite, of too many great films to list), and screenwriter Michael Green -- having a great year between American Gods, Alien: Covenant, Logan, and this winter's Murder on the Orient Express remake -- teaming up for a pitch-perfect sequel 35 years after the iconic original. It really doesn't get much better than this, and the product proves it.

Thirty years after Rick Deckard (Harrison Ford) hunted down a group of illegal, murderous replicants in a fabulously bleak Los Angeles, the game hasn't seemed to change much. Replicants, now largely integrated into human society, seem to be a factor in humanity's continued existence. K (Ryan Gosling) is now the titular blade runner, "retiring" older, rogue models. Whereas Deckard may or may not have been himself wholly human, the original film raised a lot of questions about the nature of humanity as we saw the "villains" exhibit admirable, even Christlike, qualities between their murders of humans who were cruel, stupid, greedy, and detached from their feelings. This sequel, however, starts off by declaring K to be a replicant, and continues by following his journey to transcend the limitations we cognitively place on his kind.

The inciting incident parallels K's journey of self-discovery, when he discovers the remains of a replicant who died in childbirth. As replicant pregnancy was thought impossible, his superior in the LAPD (Robin Wright) orders him to destroy the evidence and kill the offspring, afraid that this knowledge could lead to a sort of race war. As he delves deeper into the case, however, he begins to suspect he himself may be the offspring, and we learn that the replicant in question was Rachael, Deckard's amorous liaison thirty years prior. After questions of identity and implanted memories lead K to find Deckard living in isolation, the action really heats up, as replicant manufacturer Niander Wallace (an effectively understated Jared Leto) ruthlessly seeks the knowledge of replicant reproduction to bolster his business. I'll leave the plot there. Spoilers come and go, but the finale of the film is one that needs to be felt more than understood.

The film feels, impossibly, like a logical and artistic extension of the first one. While it carries its artists' distinct flavor, it also recalls similar images, themes, and texture of the original. It's still a neo-noir sci-fi mystery in all its glory, with impenetrable shadows at times awash in lurid blue or red hues, meditatively static camerawork, and enchanting scene designs of a decadent urban future. The droning music pounds into our ears, magnificently juxtaposed with some amazing sound effects that turn simple movements into grating tactile violence. My favorite scene, near the end, occurs in a watery chamber of golden ambiance, with sparse overhead light that reflects the gilded fluid ripples into the surrounding blackness; the mobile light sometimes sheds light on the two men in confrontation, sometimes leaves them shrouded, much as their dialogue does. Moments like these remind us that this vision of the future is one in which silence can be as abhorrent as the bewildering bustle of the street, and that reality is as thin as perspective and can be dramatically altered by a shifting light.

As I say, the film grows and expands on it premise organically while carving out its own place, making it the rare sequel to match its predecessor. I didn't see it in IMAX, but I wish I had. Go see it on as big a screen a you possibly can. It's a feast for both eye and ear and a treat for the mind, whirling with great themes and begging mainstream audiences to think at the movies. It's the latest in a trend of big-budget A-list Hollywood blockbusters to elevate the form to the level of high art. Come for Ryan Gosling, stay for Harrison Ford. Come for the devastating spectacle, stay for the riveting power of good sci-fi at work.

IMDb: Blade Runner 2049

Kingsman: The Golden Circle (2017)

Score: 3 / 5

The primary sin of the Kingsman sequel is this: It begins to take itself too seriously.

Like its predecessor, this film knows how to have fun. It's all light and silly and happy, and you could do a lot worse for a late-summer escapade. I won't waste your time with a synopsis, because who really cares what happens in these movies? But there are a few highlights that demonstrate the fabulous meta quality that made the first one a successful parody of spy-action flicks. There's a smash-bang car chase that opens the movie. There's another crazed villain -- this one without a lisp or monochromatic wardrobe -- in Julianne Moore, whose global drug cartel has enshrined her atop a Cambodian mountain in a terrifyingly polished '50s kitsch theme park. There's a bizarre scene where hunky star Taron Egerton has to plant a tracking device inside a woman at a music festival. There's a smart parallel of Kingsman culture in cowboy Americana "Statesman," led with panache and boots by Jeff Bridges, Pedro Pascal, and Channing Tatum.

Like the first one, this one is pretty much what it was marketed as. A smutty excuse for ultra-violent action and ultra-silly parody, filmed as if it were the product of a tryst between a video game and graphic novel. It's sexy and stupid, violent and strange. It throws blood at you while grinning from behind bared fangs and joking about anal sex. (Actually, there is a particularly gut-laugh-worthy moment when Elton John, playing himself, dressed in lurid artificial feathers, offers Colin Firth a backstage pass to his concerts.)

As I said, all is fun and light and silly until it starts weighing itself down with sentiment and Big Ideas that just don't mesh with the nonsense spewing at you from the screen. Mark Strong's role gets weird when he starts singing John Denver songs in his Scottish accent in the middle of a jungle. The climax gets weird when huge mechanical dogs enter the fray. Colin Firth's presence is just generally weird, as he gets awkwardly resurrected and cured of amnesia. Halle Berry and Emily Watson show up a couple of times for little real reason.

If you have a mind for mindless action and humor, or if you enjoy self-reflexive awareness in movies, this sequel might be for you. It's certainly dazzling to look at, even if you can't quite swallow its half-baked preposterous bilge.

IMDb: Kingsman: The Golden Circle

Columbus (2017)

Score: 4.5 / 5

Who knew Columbus, Indiana, could be so majestic? Apparently Kogonada did, and his directorial debut aims to prove it.

Columbus is an impossibly quiet film with a wisp of a plot. Casey, a recent high school graduate who loves architecture and works in a library, worries about leaving for college because she cares for her mother, a recovering addict. Her home life is flat and hard, and it seems every time she enters the door she's not sure what she'll find. In fact, we aren't either, as each time we enter it, the lighting is drastically changed. Haley Lu Richardson expertly plays Casey, quietly maneuvers romantic feelings and family duty and hard work with enchanting grace and absorbing realism. You don't doubt her for a minute, and she carries an "everygirl" vibe to mesmerizing effect from her opening scene. And her flirtation with Rory Culkin warms the heart.

Over a cigarette one day, she meets Jin, played by John Cho. An American working in Korea as a translator, he has returned to care for (if that's the right phrase?) his father, recently comatose. The plot revolves around their connection, an unlikely pairing of loners navigating a world of silence and introspection. Filled with gentle humor and even gentler poignancy, the film succeeds mostly because the two never overact. Like the architecture they tour, they remain mostly stoic. The sharp lines of Cho's face and the soft edges of Richardson's do not extend to their wit or their affection, qualities that become as visible as the facades they visit.

Speaking of which, the film, shot on location, centers on the fabulous architecture of Columbus in ways that frankly flew over my head. I had to have my date explain modernist art to me after the film, and from what I gather, a lot of the film is a meditation on just that. The plush comfort and style of Jin's hotel room feel intrusive and alien, so he escapes to the outdoors. The practical lines and shelves of Casey's library begin to spatially entrap her. The two embark on a tour of local architecture; the film includes numerous lengthy shots of bridges, alleys, houses, and other buildings that often display more emotion than the leading characters.

Kogonada seems to beg for us to pour our own feelings into these images. A building with glass walls seems open and inviting, but we're voyeuristically spying on its inhabitants just like Casey. As Casey and Jin discuss metaphysical conceits, a tower on a hill points upward to heaven. The characters sit under an angular archway with two arms that don't connect. In fact, some of the images are so descriptive and evocative that the already sparse bits of dialogue often distract from the experience. I was so busy trying to account for their heightened conversational bits that I sometimes lost track of what I could have been feeling. I didn't pour thoughts and emotions into the silent sights of Columbus, something the characters have absolutely no problem doing. The structure of the film and its structural objects reveals that cinema doesn't have to be plotty, detailed, or dressed in convention; sometimes it can just be a way of viewing the world around us.

IMDb: Columbus