The King's Man (2021)

Score: 3.5 / 5

This series is so very strange. Back when The Secret Service launched in 2014, it seemed that Matthew Vaughn just wanted to make a silly, vulgar James Bond movie for a new age. And that's fine, just like the first two films. Wild and wacky, they stop just shy of full camp due to the earnestness with which they lean into their action sequences (not to say that Elton John flirting with Colin Firth after kicking ass in a parrot costume in The Golden Circle isn't camp). Overplotted and overwritten, they toy with larger ideas to validate their often cringey comedy moments, which makes for solid entertainment if not always anything more. And you can hardly fault the series for its considerable body count, which often includes main cast members.

The King's Man, the prequel origin story of the Kingsmen organization, is much more tame than the two that came before. Perhaps this is due to its setting, on the brink of war in 1914, when much of the smash-bang, gadget-driven action of the modern installments by definition can't happen. This one is much more of a spy movie, concerned with actual historical characters and events and the political games that led to open war. 

Ralph Fiennes (who finally proves his mettle at the kind of Bond character he could have played so well) plays the protagonist, Orlando Oxford, a VC-decorated former army officer and now sworn pacifist. Having lost his wife in the Boer War, Oxford has become more reclusive, determined to protect his son Conrad (Harris Dickinson) at all costs. Covertly, he has recruited two of his household servants (the excellently cast Djimon Hounsou and Gemma Arterton) to help him start his own spy network, hoping to head off unnecessary conflicts before they erupt. Oxford mentions more than once that they are able to hide in plain sight as servants ignored by the privileged. He, however, is an important advisor to King George (Tom Hollander, who deliciously also plays Kaiser Wilhelm and Czar Nicholas) in the time leading up to the Great War, and so hiding is not an option for him.

After setting itself up as a measured commentary on colonialism and pacifism, the film does inevitably turn toward violence, and it's not as classy as one might have hoped. A primary delight in the first film was seeing Colin Firth's character go from dapper gentleman to bloodthirsty maniac. Here, Fiennes is more restrained, which is great, but the film itself is about as bonkers as ever. To try and prevent Russia from leaving the war and opening the Western Front, the team journeys to Russia to stop Rasputin (an almost unrecognizable Rhys Ifans). The mad monk is working for the mysterious Shepherd (a sort of Moriarty or Blofeld figure), who is orchestrating the world war. Oxford's confrontation of Rasputin is an amazing sequence that blends actual history with bizarre action fantasy -- and a particularly uncomfortable scene in which Rasputin heals Oxford's leg wound by licking it -- and is a highlight of the film.

I found myself wondering more than once if this was initially conceived as a standalone WWI film before Vaughn co-opted or pirated it and then shoehorned it into his burgeoning and unlikely franchise. Some of the spy stuff and most of the war stuff is really solid filmmaking, with another excellent sequence taking place in a no-man's land hellish field of mud and blood; it reminded me of Wonder Woman and 1917 perhaps more than it deserved. But because of its greater emotional intelligence and slightly more accessible tone, The King's Man might be my favorite of this franchise yet. 

Minari (2021)

Score: 4 / 5

A Korean-American family moves from California to rural Arkansas in the hopes of setting up a home and farm of their own. The young father Jacob (Steven Yeun) and mother Monica (Han Ye-ri) work in a chicken farm/factory, identifying and separating chicks by sex. Their two children are Anne, a serious and more mature girl (Noel Kate Cho), and David, a more rambunctious six-year-old (Alan Kim). They are incredibly isolated, of course culturally but also geographically. The opening shots are of vast, green fields and a wide open sky. The world would seem to be theirs for the taking!

Autobiographical films like this -- especially ones about immigrant families -- can often be cloyingly sentimental, even to the point of opacity. It was my central problem with Roma, which often felt like we were being forced to watch the director thumb through old photo albums. Thankfully, this year's Belfast avoided that problem, and so does Minari. Writer and director Lee Isaac Chung clearly has a personal story to tell, but he knows how to make it accessible for others, even thoroughly entertaining. For a movie ostensibly about the American dream, culture clash, and difficult discussions of assimilation, Minari is also about intergenerational family relations and growing up in a strange new world.

Much like the sweeping cinematography that captures the beauty -- and dangers -- of life on the plains, the actors are also often wordless. When they do speak, it's a mixture of English and Korean, though mostly the latter. But in between, they work hard to tell a bountiful story. Jacob has clearly been practicing his American masculinity -isms, including his John Wayne shuffle and the cigarettes in his chest pocket. Monica comes from a higher social class and is now foundering in this rougher country life; she seems to want to head back to the cities, and maybe even back to Korea. They argue often over their vision for the farm and for their lives; they have differing parental techniques, and seem to have different goals in mind, especially regarding their children assimilating to the local community. One of the funniest scenes in the film comes when they visit a local church, where the reactions of the locals are at once horrifyingly problematic and hilariously honest.

While the film is nominally a coming-of-age dramedy about young David, its importance and good humor hinges on our realization that all the characters are in fact learning right from wrong and the best ways to behave with each other. The kids might be less savvy, but the adults are awkward too. The family's new neighbor, played by Will Patton, is an evangelical farmer whose delightful eccentricities are as specific as they are surprising. And then there's Monica's mother Soon-ja (a magnificent and brave performance from Youn Yuh-jung) who travels from South Korea to help watch the children while Monica and Jacob work. We learn a lot about Monica from her, as she is used to a fast-paced and loose-lipped social life in a big city. David doesn't think a grandmother should use so much profanity or engage in practical jokes, and his efforts at resistance only bring the family closer together.

Well, at least to some extent. There is a somewhat sobering confrontation looming before all is finished, and at least one nasty shock. But Minari is an unflinchingly hopeful and sweet movie, determined to absorb even a hesitant viewer into its lush imaginings. It understands people uncommonly well, and Chung is content to let us sit with his characters in silence and in awkwardness, just to breathe with them and get to know them better. Then, when they do act out, we laugh knowingly and caringly rather than out of total surprise. 

City of Lies (2021)

Score: 2 / 5

It just feels like too little too late. Even if it hadn't been shelved for so long, it would have felt late had it been released in 2016 when it was shot. This is partly due to the news specials, documentaries, shows (Unsolved), and movies (All Eyez on Me) that have already covered so much of the same ground: the murders of Tupac Shakur and Christopher Wallace, The Notorious B.I.G. This movie doesn't add much to the conversation, but I suppose it could act as a reasonably diverting entering point for younger audiences. Unfortunately, it's also not interesting or entertaining enough to make much of a splash, no doubt further hindered by public opinion around its lead actor.

Much like the crime procedurals we're all familiar with by now, Brad Furman's City of Lies (he has also directed The Lincoln Lawyer and The Infiltrator) is arguably more interested in the detective than in the victim or even the mystery. We start with a grizzled Russell Poole (Johnny Depp), a disgraced former LAPD detective still musing over the case that was never solved, meeting with LA Times reporter Jack Jackson (Forest Whitaker). Most of the meat of this movie takes place during flashbacks, as Poole spins his yarn about the initial investigation into Biggie's murder and his actions that led to resigning and losing both his pension and his family.

These flashbacks flesh out a younger Poole as he is first summoned to investigate the fatal shooting of an off-duty Black cop by another white detective. He's pressured to be sensitive, given the LA climate of the decade with Rodney King's murder and the OJ Simpson trial. But evidence arises quickly that the murdered cop had Bloods affiliation; moreover, he was on the payroll of Suge Knight, the head of Death Row Records. It becomes clear that Knight is Poole's primary suspect, and the investigation launches. Its twists and turns lead Poole, burdened too by pressure from oversight, to the brink of a mental breakdown; the case, in his mind, can't be solved because to do so would bring down the entire LAPD. Too many high-level officials have their hands in dirty money and dangerous circles.

The frame story ends, notably, with similar tragedy. Poole, whose ongoing friendship with Biggie's mother Voletta Wallace has seemingly kept him afloat, is reinvigorated, even going to the LA Sheriff's office to reopen the investigation. But a sudden heart attack kills him in a poetically ironic twist. Jackson publishes an article lionizing Poole before resigning what he sees as a hypocritical system of injustice and corruption. After all, almost two decades had passed, and the murders were still officially unsolved. Their seemingly dual obsessions converge on solving the murder, which the titular city is determined to forget about, and they both fail, because ultimately even worthy men can't always beat the system. For a movie that could have had an axe to grind -- and should have, a la Zodiac, perhaps -- this one is just really sad.

Even for someone only marginally familiar with the case specifics, I found the film largely uninteresting, thanks to lackluster and even downright confused direction and writing. Over-written, contrived dialogue causes the actors to gargle on exposition and repeated phrases like "you're off this case" and "unless we're not meant to solve it." Depp is really solid in his role, but almost everyone else feels bewildered or at least phoning it in, and I suspect that big names like Whitaker and Shea Whigham only appear badly due to misdirection. This ineptitude exists on the scene level, but also for the whole picture, as shapeless storytelling blurs the lines between past and present without apparent desire to shed new light, make any argument, or even really honor the characters. It worked hard to appear to be a murder mystery before dovetailing as a police procedural and character study, and finally ends up like a watered down PSA about police corruption and unjust murderous police behavior against people of color. Maybe if the screenplay had chosen a style or focus that would have helped.

Spider-Man: No Way Home (2021)

Score: 4.5 / 5

One of the most exciting entries in the MCU -- amidst an unpredictable slew of new titles, too -- No Way Home is a triumphant third Spider-Man movie. That's a phrase we've never heard before. Jon Watts and his team have crafted what amounts to a DCEU Arrowverse major crossover event, a playful and endlessly entertaining mashup of heroes and villains who react to their circumstances in unpredictable ways. What could have been a logistical nightmare, with so many big names, big titles, and big expectations, is instead energetic, creative, and utterly joyous. That's all thanks to a brilliant screenplay and confident directing, although frankly, I found the editing in this movie bewildering more than once (and that's the only reason it's not scored 5). Until, that is, the final act, which is shockingly emotional.

Beginning immediately after the end of Far From Home, the story launches Peter Parker (Tom Holland) into the public sphere. People on the street know who he is now, and so does the government. Peter, his girlfriend MJ (Zendaya), his best friend Ned (Jacob Batalon), and Aunt May (Marisa Tomei), are brought in for questioning before their charges are dropped, thanks to some quick work by their lawyer. And this, within the first ten minutes of the film, is when I started crying, because lo and behold: Charlie Cox reprises his role as Matt Murdock. Thanks to this applause-generating cameo -- and the presence of Vincent D'Onofrio's Wilson Fisk in the Hawkeye miniseries -- it seems the MCU has reclaimed the rights to their characters from the Netflix shows.

Then there's some basic dramatic hoopla about the kids applying for university and getting denied from all (even MIT!) due to their notoriety. The story in earnest begins after Peter asks Dr. Strange to cast a spell and make the world forget that he is our friendly neighborhood webslinger. Interrupting the wizard's work, Peter fractures the spell by requesting exceptions for MJ, Ned, and Aunt May. It's more than a little annoying to me that Ned is such a central character in these movies, because I find him almost unbearable, but MJ and Aunt May each finally get some really golden scenes in this movie. Not long after the spell, we learn that his meddling somehow caused a rift in the multiverse, allowing other individuals who know Peter's secret identity to access this universe. Thus enters characters from previous iterations of Spider-Man in some of the best-handled retconning I've ever seen.

In what we all feared would simply be a casting gimmick, a huge cast of fan favorites appears spontaneously, wreaking havoc in their search for Spider-Man. The Lizard (Rhys Ifans) and Sandman (Thomas Haden Church) are quickly contained by Dr. Strange, and Peter confronts Doc Ock (Alfred Molina) and Electro (Jamie Foxx). Norman Osborn (Willem Dafoe), still wrestling with his split personality of the Green Goblin, makes friends with Aunt May, and works with Peter to rehabilitate the villains. They aim to help these characters rather than simply send them back to the moments of their deaths. It makes for several surprisingly funny sequences of the characters bantering and discussing how to be "fixed." It's not an overcrowding mess, but in fact buttresses this "Home" trilogy's central themes of belonging and integrity and comfort. It's also an effective way of finally allowing Holland's version of Spidey to mature and really grapple with his mantra, "with great power comes great responsibility."

And with the weight of these heroic decisions comes dire consequences. The filmmakers here know this, as they strive valiantly to honor the legacies of previous Spider-Men franchises while more or less correcting our cultural narrative around the intellectual property. Enter, as they do near the halfway point, two other Spider-Men in the form of Tobey Maguire and Andrew Garfield. What I thought would be cameo appearances are actually crucial plot and character points that carry through the end of the film. Their scenes are laugh-out-loud funny, often tear-jerking, and irresistibly welcome, and the writers clearly wanted to honor rather than rewrite their characters, especially in Garfield's case, who was unable to make a third outing as Spidey. One wonders, now, if Sony will attempt to capitalize on his re-entry for their growing efforts to continue pumping out darker Marvel titles. It helps that Venom will apparently now become a shared property, as told by the credits scenes in Venom: Let There Be Carnage and in this film.

tick, tick... BOOM! (2021)

Score: 3 / 5

One of my most anticipated movies of the year, tick, tick...Boom! is also one of the most disappointing to me. Not because it's "bad" in any dubious attempt at objectivity, but because, for this fan, it's not representative of the musical on which it is based. The show, which features three actors in total, perhaps isn't rich with cinematic possibility, I'll grant, but Lin-Manuel Miranda's directorial debut seems determined to make this a big-budget movie musical for the ages. And while some of his choices are inspired and inspiring, many more feel inflated with a profoundly off-putting sense of self-importance. Which might be appropriate, come to think on it, given its main character.

To be fair, Jonathan Larson's original show with the same title was, in fact, a musical monologue of sorts, and it is a dramatization of this which takes up a large portion of the film. Andrew Garfield, in Oscar-worthy form, enters the stage with panache and urgency in telling the autobiographical story much as Larson himself had in the early '90s. In his delivery, he talks about the incessant internal clock ticking as he's about to turn 30 and has nothing to show for it. He's been working for more than a decade as a waiter in a diner while concocting a sci-fi musical called Superbia, which is finally about to be workshopped for the first time. His hopes and aspirations -- he introduces himself at a party as "the future of musical theatre" -- are dangerously tied into his self-worth, so much so that he has no money to support his meager lifestyle. His best friend and roommate Michael is "moving on up to the east side," his girlfriend is trying to get a better job out of town, and his friends are dying of AIDS one by one, and while these things clearly wear on his mind and heart, Jon can't quite focus his attention on any of them.

Much like the whirlwind of Larson's mind, the film careens wildly between its scenes. Bizarre editing forces us to jump from Larson's musical monologue, where his narration teeters on the manic, to a more or less realistic version of events in his flat and the surrounding environs. The plot is less important in this project than theme, and so the film is essentially a character study of its protagonist/narrator, which allows some forgiveness for peripatetic storytelling. Garfield's Larson is a genius, frustrated at the annoyances of the everyday world that take away from his creative time. He is occasionally mentored by his idol, the late great Stephen Sondheim (Bradley Whitford and, in a voicemail, the man himself); he also writes odd little "jingles" during the day to help pass the time and entertain his friends. He also swims regularly at the YMCA, hosts parties for theatrical friends, and sabotages his own half-hearted attempts to earn real money at a potentially soul-sucking white collar job.

Miranda clearly understands the character and the real man -- he once played Larson onstage in this musical -- and he loads the film with countless references to other shows (especially Rent), other artists, and of course, the '90s. Turning the film into a consummate work of fan service, he puts in as many famous faces and cameos as he seemingly could, especially into the most meta musical number in the show, "Sunday," which features so many stars the actual meaning of the number is almost lost behind the limelight. And that's largely true of the film as a whole: Miranda channels Larson so well that the film's pretentious delivery feels neglectful of the things that really matter, cashing in on weepy sentimentality over marginalized people even as it hamstrings their efforts to be heard. Don't believe me? Check out that, after Michael reveals his diagnosis, his solo "Real Life" is limited in the film to him crying and gazing out a window as he repeats the four-word chorus and none of the actual song.

And then there's the film's weird push to act like a documentary, using what appears to be stock footage in a small frame to apparently dramatize Larson's young, brief life, and using the actors for voiceover narration, twice referencing his untimely death and often explicitly tying this work to Rent. It's possibly the most heavy-handed directing and writing I've seen all year, and it felt more overwhelming than entertaining.

Nightmare Alley (2021)

Score: 5 / 5

I'm embarrassed to admit I knew nothing of the William Lindsay Gresham novel on which this movie is based, nor on the 1947 film adaptation. But that perhaps made watching this Nightmare Alley the most darkly pleasurable cinematic experience this year. Despite gauging early on that this was no typical fare from writer/director Guillermo del Toro, whose work always seems to include elements of the supernatural to buttress his real aims of skewering wealth, the pious, nuclear families, and genre conventions, it became clear quickly that this is one of his best. There are no fairies or ghosts in this film, at least not literal ones; Nightmare Alley is his astonishing foray into film noir, a crime thriller dripping with style, hinging on plot, and toying with no small amount of irony.

While the ending initially surprised me, it shouldn't have. Without spoiling things, del Toro here crafts a parable about the cyclical nature of self-destructive behavior. Primarily interested in his antihero protagonist, Stan Carlisle (Bradley Cooper at his best), del Toro frames the film as a character study. Generally nonverbal, Stan leers his way through each scene with Macbeth's ambition glinting from his hungry eyes. Before he says any words at all, we've already seen him drag a corpse into view before setting a house on fire; fleeing the scene, he materializes in a circus circa 1930. Think AHS: Freak Show with a distinctly Gothic palette. Upon seeing the carnival "geek," a feral man who has been abused and dehumanized by the owner (Willem Dafoe) to sell more tickets, Stan gets the itch to make money with this traveling group.

Del Toro, by this point, has shown us a world rich only in desperation, selfishness, and violence. We're keenly aware that Stan's decisions -- mysterious as his criminal past is -- are entrapping him, and we suspect that he is a little masochistic. It's telling that, in walking through the circus before encountering the geek, the only attraction he enters is a giant devilish facade for a "fun house" themed after the circles of hell. It seems Stan knows he is destined for damnation. What he doesn't know, and what del Toro brilliantly highlights through production design, lighting and colors, and cinematography (the excellent Dan Laustsen), is that he is seeing his own future unfold before his eyes. The circus, much like the as-yet-unknown interiors of Stan's mind, is a downward spiral, one that will repeat and deteriorate until he is hopelessly enmeshed in a web of his own making.

Speaking of spidery predators, let's move on to a few other delightful characters. After learning the arts (and tricks) of mentalism from the circus fortune-tellers, Zeena (Toni Collette) and her partner Pete (David Straithairn) who use a clever code to read and cheat people, Stan desires power over the simple-minded masses. Courting another carny named Molly (Rooney Mara) as his lover and assistant, Stan leaves to make a name for himself as a traveling psychic. When things get a little boring or he's not raking in enough money, he starts offering "spook shows," meaning preying on the bereaved and suggesting ghosts of their loved ones mean to communicate. He was forbidden to do this by Zeena, who knew the emotional pain this can cause, and Molly is deeply uncomfortable with the practice too. But Stan, in Cooper's hands, uses his charm and panache just enough to make us doubt that he's a heartless, avaricious wolf in handsome skin. Could his daddy issues -- flashbacks reveal his boyish need for approval and his earnest hope to succeed at any cost -- be sincere, or did they create a black hole of sociopathy?

Enter Dr. Ritter (Cate Blanchett), a psychologist with no small amount of hatred for those who prey on the weak-minded, just as Stan reaches the height of "making it big" in Buffalo, New York. His high society aspirations -- and his disgusting new moustache -- are challenged publicly by the deep alto and satin-sleek woman of his dreams. From her introductory shot, we are keenly aware that she is a standard femme fatale. As written, she's a panther stalking the man she will destroy; in Blanchett's uncommonly intelligent and elegant style, she's a demon in curls and heels, knowingly disarming in her every movement and turn of phrase. As she lures Stan into her sanctum, she vampirically sucks him dry, romantically, sexually, cognitively; his masochistic tendencies make him feel drunk with power in these moments, but we know it's only a matter of time before the good doctor's fangs are bared. It's a masterful performance and one of the most exciting characters on screen this year.

Laustsen's lighting has the uncanny glow of timelessness, a youthful aura that is deeply unsettling as it de-ages its subjects. I'd kill to see this movie in black and white, if only to better appreciate the noir aspects: deep, opaque shadows, sets that feel more like prisons than offices or houses, shades that frame characters like bars on a cell or cages in a zoo. Then again, the gorgeous colors -- strong especially in gold and green hues, the colors of money -- add immensely to the toxic atmosphere and beguiling nightmarish aesthetic. The circular imagery is inherent too repeatedly, from the giant Ferris wheel over the circus to the funhouse tunnel Stan traverses to reach the geek, from the dark and narrow streets of Buffalo to Dr. Ritter's recording cylinders and even the deep hallways of her office building. Even some transitional editing uses old-fashioned iris out before a scene ends. And then, by its final tragic shot, the film suggests to us that we are not so removed from this waking nightmare as we might have hoped. Del Toro's craftsmanship here is one that will keep you thinking long after the credits have rolled; a nightmare indeed.

The Vigil (2021)

Score: 3 / 5

I always enjoy when the typical possession or exorcism movie trades its trappings from Catholicism to another religious tradition. To name a few favorites: The Babadook and Relic were more about developmental psychology, The Exorcism of Emily Rose was more ecumenical if not universal (much like The Soul Collector / 8: A South African Horror Story), The Wailing drew from Korean shamanism, Arabic spiritual horror reached Western audiences in Under the Shadow, and Jewish folklore provided the inspiration for The Possession in 2012. This last mention is key moving forward now, with the new title The Vigil also concerning Jewish mythology, though with a distinctly different focus.

Yakov (Dave Davis) is in trouble. Unemployed and recently having left his Orthodox Jewish community in Brooklyn, he founders for connection. Shy and meek, we gather that he has undergone some traumatic event, no doubt exacerbated by guilt or shame associated with his family, faith, and ethnicity. So when he is approached by an Orthodox acquaintance for a job, he takes it out of necessity, and we can see his psyche starting to fracture. The task, we learn from the film's opening text, is that of a "Shomer," a watchful guardian who is paid to sit near a dead body overnight. It's a tradition born from guarding the deceased against grave robbers or scavengers, but some traditions believe one's spirit remains near its body until the funeral.

Shortly after entering the house of recently deceased Rubin Litvak and his wife (a wonderful Lynn Cohen), Yakov feels ill at ease. Is he just tired, stressed, and desperate to make his ends meet? Or could the trauma experienced by Mr. Litvak -- a Holocaust survivor -- be somehow triggering Yakov's own trauma? It doesn't take long for us to learn this mysterious even may have had a part in him abandoning his faith community; and why does he keep hearing the disembodied voice of someone asking why he let them die? The Litvak house is very dark, and the filmmakers seem determined to make this a veritable haunted house, with some dark force moving in the shadows and toying with Yakov's sanity. But we're never quite allowed to know if it is all simply in his mind, shadowy manifestations of his guilt, or if there is indeed something more diabolical afoot.

Aesthetically, the film is moody, broody, and dark, but offers little novelty in the way of visuals or sound design. Thematically, the film is also moody, broody, and dark, but locked in its own mind and that of its introverted protagonist. Unlike The Ritual, which dealt with similar themes among a small group of characters (who could then verbalize these matters), here most of the emotional weight must be intuited. We get some help, but frankly it's uninspired: Yakov is literally "in the dark," searching for a light to guide him out, often in the form of him texting or Facetiming people during his long night's vigil. Then of course there's his therapist (Fred Melamed), not seen but heard over the phone, and Mr. Litvak himself, who recorded his ramblings about the demonic manifestations of guilt in the form of a "Mazzik."

It's all a nice atmospheric descent into one man's search for escape from trauma and a religious tradition, which is at once nothing new since The Exorcist but still pretty cool to see from a Jewish-American perspective. It's also not particularly scary -- more sad than anything -- and, worse, not particularly interesting. Mrs. Litvak is a bit wasted as a character, though thankfully the film didn't turn her dementia into anything demoniac, and the idea that the parasitic villain will simply transfer to Yakov makes the film, in the end, pretty nihilistic. Then again, The Vigil features, in its climax, what amounts to a Jewish Rambo, when Yakov wraps his tefillin around his arm and head to confront the demon and his guilt. The synthesizer music shifts us into an '80s nostalgic mindset, and faceless spirits push through the walls of the Litvak home like something out of Poltergeist or A Nightmare on Elm Street. It's easily the best scene in the film; too bad my mind was already starting to drift by that point.

West Side Story (2021)

Score: 5 / 5

This is exactly how it should always be done. This is a perfect movie musical and a perfect remake. Steven Spielberg reminds us, after about fifteen years of solid but typical movies, that he is a legend for a reason. I mean, I loved Bridge of Spies and The Post and especially Lincoln, but his last truly great movie for me was Munich in 2005. Interestingly, that same year he also did a remake, War of the Worlds, which at the time was, for me, also a nearly perfect remake. But West Side Story, an adaptation of the 1957 musical and, to a lesser extent, the 1961 classic film, is easily already in my top 5 of the director's long, storied filmography. It's also -- and forgive the possible heresy here -- a better film than the original. Which is saying a lot for a movie that swept the Oscars and is regularly still shown in high school music, theatre, and dance classes.

Some may decry the "need" for a remake, but after four years of a president who repeatedly denounced "shithole" countries and whose racist policies and remarks often targeted Latin American, Hispanic, and even Puerto Rican people, updated works like In the Heights and West Side Story are exactly the kinds of musicals we need for mass audiences. Plus, the original WSS film was very much filmed on large sound stages, as if we were meant to experience the theatrical production even more than its cinematic delivery. Spielberg keeps the impetus if not the vehicle. His new film is clearly a dynamic movie and meant to avoid comparison to a stage production (like the many produced in theatres around the world every year). And yet, he also avoids the frenetic editing, frenzied pacing, and overall overwhelming spectacle that has plagued most recent movie musicals; it's in vogue now, but Spielberg challenges us to experience a slower, more intimate, gritty reality much as if we are present with the characters in the same darkened auditorium. It's a riveting, engrossing experience.

As someone keenly fascinated by the adaptation process and effect, I'm going to focus now on that instead of a synopsis or anything else. Because, ultimately, this new movie is extremely faithful to the original. In fact, it occasionally felt like a shot-for-shot remake but with better cinematography (by the amazing Janusz Kaminski), updated choreography (by Justin Peck, who still honors the Jerome Robbins original), and effective, timely, and thoughtful dialogue (by the incomparable Tony Kushner). Not much has changed, but the bits that have changed make a lot more sense. They help the flow of the story by offering motivation, explanation, and background. In fact, with these ideas in mind, I'd compare it to Beauty and the Beast (2017) as an example of improving what needed help but simply polishing the rest. Shall we take a look?

We begin with Spielberg's historian side as we swoop around a wrecking ball and a pile of rubble that was once part of San Juan Hill; the camera eventually pulls over a sign declaring the site the future home of the Lincoln Center for the Performing Arts. For those who know its history, this was gentrification at its most blatant, pushing immigrant communities out of the district in the name of high-brow art and business for wealthy whites. Emerging from the rubble as dusty wretches, the gang of white Jets led by a surprisingly sensitive Riff (Mike Faist, surely soon to be a major star) take to the streets with the iconic dancing synonymous with the title. They're angry about their "turf" getting taken over "by people we don't like." Spielberg's iconographic shorthand reveals a lot in a short amount of time, as when one of the Jets removes a Puerto Rican business sign, revealing an old Irish business sign underneath.

Then we're thrust in amongst the Sharks, a competing gang of Puerto Ricans, fighting to have a place in a city determined to ignore or kick them out. David Alvarez imbues his character Bernardo, the Shark leader, with fresh levels of urgent protectiveness, especially over his sister Maria (stunning new star Rachel Zegler) and girlfriend Anita (a brilliant Ariana DeBose). He has to be protective because Maria is coming of age and wants to meet boys; he forbids her to meet any gringos, but at the dance she meets her Romeo, a beautiful white boy named Tony (Ansel Elgort in his best performance yet). These characters are given more backstory and more rounded characterizations than their Oscar-winning counterparts (Bernardo and Anita, that is) in the original. 

Speaking of which. Tony lives in the basement of the store where he also works. But Doc, the kindly old white man of the original, is notably absent here though his name remains above the door. Instead, the store his owned by his widow, Valentina, a Puerto Rican woman played by the effervescent Rita Moreno, who won the Oscar as Anita in '61 and frankly could do so again this year. Of course Tony has changed his ways under her watchful care; how could he not? And then, near the end of the film, when this movie gives her the chance to sing "Somewhere," I openly wept. It's the single best thing this film could have done, and she nails it.

But the movie gets a lot of other things right, too. The context of "Something's Coming" is changed to be less about fate and more about Valentina's hopes for Tony's future. "Gee, Officer Krupke" is set in the precinct, allowing the boys to tear up the office they so despise. The showstopping number "America" gets pulled down off the nighttime rooftop after the dance and into the bright, sunlit streets the morning after. It's a rousing, vibrant number not unlike scenes of In the Heights earlier this year, and if there is one thing that really gets me going in any movie musical, it's a huge number on the streets. Much later, "I Feel Pretty" is put back into its original slot in the plot, immediately after the rumble resulting in the deaths of Riff and Bernardo, making Maria's naïve optimism unbearably ironic. At first I was angry that "Cool" was taken from Ice after the rumble, but now delivered by Tony to Riff before the rumble shows that he actually was trying to stop the impending fight and even broke faith with the Jets at the most crucial point (fun fact: the stage show also has this song before the rumble, but it's Riff calming everyone down while they wait in Doc's store).

These changes, for me, make the story more accessible, more realistic than the original. Everything else is essentially the same. It's endlessly faithful, to the point of improving what needed to be improved. There is a lot more spoken Spanish -- none of which is subtitled -- and a lot more urgency to the proceedings, even though the pace is as deliberate as it always was. Add sumptuous costumes, performers giving their all to the craft, and a team of pure geniuses behind the camera, and West Side Story isn't just one of the best movies this year. It's one of the best movie musicals ever made.

Supernova (2021)

Score: 2.5 / 5

Supernova is one of those movies that was inspired by a single brilliant idea, then fluffed up and fleshed out with a bunch of vague supporting details and scenes, but is ultimately saved by its stars. A quiet, somber look at aging love, this romance hits almost no points of novelty in a remarkably tame story. It has few, if any, aspirations to be profound, instead contentedly hovering between arthouse chic and Hallmark schlock. When it aims for your tear ducts -- and it does, several times -- even I (a crier in most movies anyway) felt more annoyed than touched by its heavy-handed blows. And yet, thanks to some of the most emotionally honest work I've ever seen from its leading men, this movie is more than worth a watch.

A campervan driving across the gorgeous English countryside carries two men, partners for twentysomething years. Sam (Colin Firth) drives while Tusker (Stanley Tucci) navigates, and the two lightheartedly bicker about the directions, about who gets to drive, about the music on the radio. Their sweet pooch lies behind them tranquilly. There is no exposition in this film, and very little history is shared of their relationship through dialogue. Rather, Firth and Tucci inject powerful weight into every interaction, so much so that the stilted dialogue tends to become more distracting than anything. The two men often react to each other wordlessly but slightly physically, as old partners who are probably more aware of each other's body language than their own. They can sense a shift in attitude, a mental block, emotional subtleties in an instant. It probably helps that the two actors are longtime friends in real life. Thankfully, writer/director Harry Macqueen seems to be aware of his own writerly inadequacies, and so most scenes are in fact silent.

It's clear there is a melancholia to these life partners, and it doesn't take long for us to see that Tusker is slowly slipping away into the abyss of early-onset dementia. He wanders, sometimes physically but mostly mentally, and he's keenly aware of his own shortcomings. Carrying the knowledge that his brain is failing, Tusker is retreating into himself, often remaining still and reflective in moments that would ordinarily call for a response or even an outburst. I was reminded of Still Alice a lot, though this film's beats are less unexpected and brutal, more sentimental and safe. Sam, on the other hand, dutifully and proactively attempts to care for him, but is having trouble finding the sweet spot of care over control. His every look at Tusker puts him on the verge of weeping, not because of the loss that is to come but because of the loss that is already happening. These are clearly not the same men who fell in love long ago, and it won't be long before neither of them knows the other anymore.

When they reach their destination, we learn considerably more about what's going on, and it's a devastating revelation. Not for us so much -- we've seen this story before, most recently in Blackbird, but it's an important issue for people to consider -- as for the characters, who suddenly have to decide if their extraordinarily believable and honest love for each other is selfless or selfish. The relative doldrums of the first half of the movie are left behind when the friends and family show up, even though the movie still belongs to Sam and Tusker, and things gain speed and traction. But there is no real action in this movie; it's a character study, and a fairly maudlin one at that. But the discussions become more interesting and urgent. There's one amazing scene -- surely the inspiration for creating this film -- in particular when, over dinner, Tusker, who is a writer by profession, attempts to read a speech in honor of his life partner. When he is unable due to his dementia, Sam steps in to read it. It's the best writing in the film and a masterclass in acting, as Tusker externally beams over his own words about Sam and internally crumbling as the reality of his condition sets in. I can't praise the film for much (this kind of thing isn't really in my wheelhouse), but Tucci and Firth are firing on all fronts and it's a wonder to behold.

Don't Look Up (2021)

Score: 4.5 / 5

Adam McKay does it again with a surprise big-name, big-budget comedy right in the middle of awards season. I didn't like him before The Big Short, but that movie and Vice are two of my favorite topical comedies; perhaps they endear me to him because they both have cruel dark sides (actually, I'm not sure I personally consider Vice a comedy, but here we are). His biting satire in these feature films is finely tuned to be at once riveting, informative, absurd, and often bleak. So naturally, after tackling the housing crisis of 2007 and Dick Cheney's rise to power, he decided to tackle climate change. Seems doable, right?

Actually, in his hands, yes. Not because it's like the uncannily realistic analysis of history in his previous two films; some may argue this movie has more in common with Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt or even It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World than anything else. An enormous ensemble cast of A-listers assemble here to deliver a rollicking mess of comedy, a collage of vignettes meant to overwhelm our senses, assisted by breakneck editing that tosses in heavy amounts of seemingly random stock footage. McKay's screenplay, too, sometimes feels like an amalgamation of memes, sound bytes, and conspiracy headlines awash in wry clickbait humor. The film may be, generically, a political commentary on the climate change crisis, but in terms of scope, it is equally interested in social media, celebrity worship, technology and big business, political corruption, scientific sellout, and, yes, global warming. By its triumphant finale, it even reaches a level of existential contemplation on par with Samuel Beckett's work.

Leonardo DiCaprio leads as an unpretentious astronomy professor in Michigan whose PhD student (played by Jennifer Lawrence) discovers that a huge comet is flying directly toward Earth. Its size and movement indicate it will strike in approximately six months and cause an extinction event that could destroy all life on the planet. With their colleague (Rob Morgan), they quickly attempt to warn the White House of impending doom. But the president (Meryl Streep), a Trumpian woman who cares more about her appearance, re-election, and private life more than anything else, won't have it, and her son and Chief of Staff (Jonah Hill) tries to limit their access. To get the message out, they take to televised news, but the newscasters (Cate Blanchett and Tyler Perry) are more interested in lighthearted banter and viewing numbers than in news of disaster. 

In many ways a comedy of errors, the film's bleak attitude toward our cultural institutions of media, government, and celebrity would be tragically infuriating if not for the absurdist humor lacing each scene. Each new scandal or distraction is more enticing to the American public than bad news, specifically that of the death of our planet. It's telling that DiCaprio feels the need to go on shows like Sesame Street to scream "We're all going to die" when the news only makes fun of the crazy scientists. It doesn't take long for the scientists themselves, in moments like this, to become memes and sound bytes themselves, adding to the chaotic distraction that is social media. It's also telling that the frenetic editing of Don't Look Up increasingly leans into the annoyingly short attention spans cultivated by social media -- even cutting between scenes in the middle of characters' sentences -- implying that we (the audience) are as much a part of the problem as the ridiculous people we're watching. 

It has its odd moments, to be sure, and a couple really wacky inclusions. Mark Rylance pops in as a sort of senile cross between Elon Musk and Steve Jobs to try and save the world while making even more money. Timothée Chalamet shows up for a few scenes near the end, doing his usual grungy thing as a superficially precocious young adult, but he does help facilitate the surprisingly emotional climax of the film. And then there's the chillingly realistic shift in the final act, when the scientists finally attempt to harness all the tools of social media to their advantage by starting a new trend of #JustLookUp, before the president and other non-believers challenge it with the titular catchphrase, chanting "Don't Look Up" at rallies and branding their red hats with their new mantra. These only help make the texture of the film more fascinating politically even as we see the parallels with deniers of climate change. And while few moments have real depth to them -- often the film literally cuts away just as characters experience epiphanies or prepare to make meaningful declarations -- the scope here makes it all work. It might be a message movie, but it's got a lot of messages, like any quality SNL skit worth its time. And this one is far more than worth it.

Saint Maud (2021)

Score: 4.5 / 5

And just like that, newcomer Rose Glass bursts into the horror scene with a daring, confident feature film. The material may not be totally fresh, but her uncompromising vision of it is the kind of deliberate, measured, and aggressively strange work of a veteran filmmaker. Saint Maud is, to be sure, an independent film and has probably pittance for a budget, but necessity breeds invention, and Glass is certainly delivering on that creative front. Moody and brooding, the immersive experience is akin to being baptized: an inspired color scheme of greenish hues and thick darkness interrupted by thin rays of light gives a visual impression of being submerged. The horror creeps in when you realize that the film isn't letting us come back up for air.

The story, too, is immersive: we're situated quite close to the title character's perspective. Maud (an unbelievably nuanced Morfydd Clark) is a live-in nurse in Scarborough in Yorkshire. Previously working in a hospital, it seems she has been traumatized by a violent death under her hands, precipitating her choice to switch to palliative care. It also may have initiated her apparently sudden conversion to Roman Catholicism and the religious piety that often dictates the behaviors and thoughts of zealots. Maud (we learn it's a new name she likely gave herself out of devotion) is our only fully-fleshed character here, and she's in every single scene; the camera often hovers close to her, forcing us to be aware of her quiet intensity at all times. Her prayers form the occasional basis for voiceover narration, and her discussions with God are quite conversational, even sometimes casual; when things don't go her way later in the film, she even scolds Him slightly. If this doesn't sound exactly right theologically, your suspicions are correct.

Hired to care for Amanda (Jennifer Ehle), a famous former choreographer dying from cancer, Maud seems intent on also saving her soul. It's the spiritual zeal of any recent convert, but Maud's actual experience with the church is vague at best. Unlikely that she had any formal means of ingratiating or acclimating to a bona fide congregation, her behavior increasingly suggests a shattered psyche, one that is suffering from intense (and self-imposed) isolation, chastisement, and torture. We don't get much of this until later in the film, but the breadcrumbs are in place long before we're aware the filmmakers are guiding us down a thin, winding path. Though clearly unbalanced and harboring dark secrets, Maud seems a responsible and well-meaning caregiver to her charge, a vain and proud woman surrounding herself with relics of her famed past and desperate attempts to feel pleasure before death claims her: she drinks a lot, smokes even more, and sleeps with a young woman she met online. Maud is horrified and determined to save Amanda from damnation.

It's hard to discuss this movie in linear terms, so do forgive my hopping around. I went in knowing precious little about the film, and thus found its deliberate and enigmatic unraveling to be endlessly pleasurable. Glass is taking us for a ride, mobilized by an actress and a character so beguiling and fascinating that I had absolutely no idea what would happen next. And the experience -- for indeed, Glass intends us to feel Maud more than understand her -- is harrowing. Much like the main characters of Taxi Driver or even Carrie, Maud is just a little wrong, a little off, but because we're kept so close to her narratively and visually, we don't really "get it" until about the halfway point of the film. In the rare moments we're taken out of her tight perspective, we see the reactions of others to her words and her behaviors, and we gather that she's intensely uncomfortable and unwelcome. She rubs literally everyone the wrong way. As an unreliable narrator, she's remarkably opaque. The film feels like a Paul Schrader feature in its relative disregard for plot and its hyper-awareness of itself as a character study. More than once, I thought of First Reformed; then again, it also fits into the recent drive of indie horror that is vaguely religious such as Amulet and She Dies Tomorrow. It barely even interrogates its own religious tenets, but rather focuses on the performative religiosity of its desperate, isolated protagonist.

By the end, we do know more about Maud and how she came to be this way. But it's not treated as an epiphany or explanation; if anything, the film uses that to say all that matters is what she'll do next. Clark plays the character like an ethereal spirit, floating through the world (she is, at least once, wheeled through the location to appear uncannily levitating) but operating on a different plane of existence. The film occasionally challenges our perception of reality, too, by morphing her face into a grotesque, gaping gasp of ecstasy (or torment?), by darkening the faces of those around her into demoniac jeers, by imbuing Amanda with diabolic knowledge and power. And while the final result of all this is ultimately less a story than a warning -- if you subscribe to needing a message in films -- and perhaps not the most urgent one at that, it's a hell of an experience.

Encanto (2021)

Score: 3 / 5

Mirabel is the youngest daughter of the Madrigal family, who live in an isolated community in rural Latin America. I don't think the film itself identifies its location, but interviews with the filmmakers suggest its setting to be in Colombia. At least three generations of the family live together in a large house they affectionately call their casita. They work and live together in harmony, and appear to be the hotbed of culture in the village around them; everyone is welcome, and everyone is blessed by the love and fellowship the Madrigals cultivate. But Mirabel feels a bit out of place. She feels mounting pressure to contribute to the family work and to fit in; everyone else uses their unique talents and are loved for them, but Mirabel doesn't seem to have any special skill. 

Thankfully, the film -- which would otherwise be a fairly dull, melodramatic Bildungsroman -- imbues its story with magical realism, a genre most appropriate for Latin American artists. The unique talents of family members are in fact superhuman powers granted to the family after their abuela survived a tragedy. Abuela Alma's special candle provides each child, upon their coming of age, a magic gift as well as a magic bedroom in the casita, fashioned after their interests and talents. Mirabel's mother can heal ailments with her cooking; one sister has superhuman strength, and the other creates beautiful flowers in her wake on the merest of whims. Her abuela seems to compare her to each other family member and finds Mirabel wanting, her chilly disappointment slowly dissolving Mirabel's sense of belonging. When Mirabel notices growing cracks in the casita, she fears that the magic of her home will fade due to her own ineptitude, and she embarks on a journey of self-discovery to save the family magic.

Encanto is a beautiful exploration of a place and culture Disney hasn't really embraced before. My favorite element of the film was the animation of the characters, most of whom are in the same family and all of whom have differing skin tones and hair color and texture. These characters are fully dressed in traditional Colombian garments, with an abundance of colorful skirts, ponchos, and guayaberas. The casita, too, is a fun character in itself, seemingly alive and eagerly responsive to the needs and wishes of its inhabitants. Lin-Manuel Miranda lends his musical talents to this film through its original songs, and the music clearly uses traditional Latin American instruments and melodies to transport us aurally to Colombia.

Unfortunately, the songs here never quite manage to lift off; several of them feel like workshopped pieces scrapped from other projects that never got fully polished. The musical theatre-y numbers all sound derivative in style and substance (the introductory "Family Madrigal" is a verbose trainwreck poorly imitating the opening sequence of In the Heights), not helped by the singers themselves who sound much too like Miranda, whose singing voice has never been endearing to me. And while a couple of the songs (especially the two sung by Mirabel's sisters Isabela and Luisa) are fun, they are almost immediately forgettable, which is an utterly damning problem for a film that almost entirely exists to charm us with cultural delights. I mean, it's in the title!

Apart from the vague initial conflict -- a young Abuela Alma seems to be fleeing some kind of violent conflict before her husband is taken from her -- and the completely mysterious nature of the magic candle, there is no real mythology at work in this film. There is no real villain, either, other than the nameless, threatening doom slowly destroying the casita and causing mishap and mayhem for the family with magic powers. These facts result in a movie more meandering than intentional, and for most of its run time I found my mind wandering far from the spectacle on screen. Notably, while the story centers on Mirabel's discovery of a particularly dark family secret -- which is revealed in one of the more shockingly scary images in a Disney movie in my memory, which leads into a distinctly sad subplot about emotional sacrifices for family -- it is actually Abuela Alma who goes through a lovely dynamic character shift.

While I hope more Disney movies engage with this kind of emotionally honest storytelling, to say nothing of their recent run of movies that span the globe in terms of cultural showcases (a la Epcot), I found this movie shallow in its depiction of Latin cultures and deeply boring in terms of plot, pacing, and theme. Its characters -- brought to life by a brilliant cast of Latin actors -- are beautiful and charming and have lovely developmental arcs, but watching a young girl learn about her potential in relation to her magical family is hardly the stuff of Disney. I kept waiting for her to go on some kind of fabulous adventure (the directors previously worked on Bolt, Tangled, and Zootopia, among many others), but she almost never leaves the casita. I also waited for the film to lean into its potential for abstract visuals in the house (where is the arresting ingenuity of recent Pixar releases like Coco, Soul, or Onward?) but those are disappointingly tame here, despite still being beautiful to view. If nothing else, this movie adds to a growing roster of increasingly culturally aware features under the name of Disney, and it's a fun, safe way to enjoy family time at the movies during this holiday season.

The Fear Street Trilogy (2021)

Score: 4.5 / 5

It seems appropriate that this is my 666th blog post. Fear Street was released without much fanfare (at least, I knew nothing about it before it popped up on my Netflix suggestions back in the summer). Its candy-colored images started to multiply, and then a friend asked me casually if I had seen the trilogy. Without knowing what he was talking about, I added them to my queue and let them sit for a while. After all, I much prefer to binge, and if there were suddenly three, surely there would be more, right? Well, there aren't (yet, anyway), and now that I've seen them, they feel pretty complete together; they are also one of the most ambitious and accomplished new projects I've seen from a young, fairly new director (Leigh Janiak, who also directed Honeymoon in 2014).

The trilogy's story, based on a series of books from Goosebumps creator R.L. Stine, concerns two neighboring towns, distinctly not alike in dignity. Sunnyvale seems to have it all: nice kids, happy nuclear families, no crime. Shadyside, on the other hand, is a hotbed of perennial crimes, specifically mass murders, across many centuries; as a result, its residents are depressed and its economy suffers. The films don't really dig into this, and I think that's a profound disservice to the material's potential. Much time is wasted on dialogue about how terrible "Shittyside" is in comparison, especially by the smug Sunnyvalers, but we're not really given much else to understand the breadth of the problem. Kind of like Derry in IT, the town clearly has its issues; at least in that example, Stephen King identified bad parents and careless adults as the root of evil. Here, it's not so clear.

Well, at least not at first. Much like in iconic horror movies -- Janiak honors and borrows freely from staples such as Poltergeist, The Shining, Jaws, and Night of the Living Dead among many others -- the team of oddball protagonists are a group of outsider kids who have to come to terms not only with the evil hunting them but with the evils inherent in their town. History and future collide as they race to stop the people around them from dying, solving mysteries and looking for clues like a deadly extended episode of Scooby-Doo for adults. Much like King's masterpiece or Stranger Things, everything is awash in a glow of nostalgia; fortunately here, it's less thick or sentimental, allowing those other emotional heavyhitters to have done the work of whetting our appetite and providing a shorthand for these references. It's savvy on Janiak's part, because she's got stories to tell and can't waste time setting the stage. She's ready for blood.

Part One: 1994 starts it all with a fresh batch of killings. Anxious and excited -- as most horny, existentially-conscious teens are -- some adolescents disturb the secret grave of a witch. They don't know it until much later in the film, but explaining the series step-by-step would take a long time here, and its lovely, thoughtful pace deserves to be appreciated on its own terms. The witch, disembodied but apparently awoken, can evidently possess certain individuals and get them to kill; once these possessed folks die, she can also revive them to continue slashing away. And so what could be a Blair Witch-type premise becomes something more akin to a fever dream in which many undead murderers rise and continue their onslaught (something like Scream in attitude, if not in narrative). Deena (Kiana Madeira) and her brother get a group of misfits together to stop the witch and her minions before learning that Deena's ex, Sam (Olivia Scott Welch), is the witch's primary target. It ends with a bloodbath of a climax and an alarmingly high body count

Part Two: 1978 takes a bit of the infectious fun away, which some may find disheartening. I actually preferred it, as it honored the sacrifices at the end of 1994 and legitimized a level of brutal, bloody terror I didn't expect from this series. Taking as its apparent impetus one of the undead killers we've already encountered, 1978 launches us back in time to Camp Nightwing at the time of an infamous massacre (caused, too, by the witch). Less meta than the previous film, this one earnestly attempts to recreate the raw horror of slashers before the age of information: its obvious debt is owed to Friday the 13th, but it piles on references to The Texas Chain Saw Massacre, Carrie, and others. We focus on Ziggy (an amazing Sadie Sink), a bullied Shadyside girl who has to team up with her older sister to stop a possessed counselor from murdering everyone. The film takes its sweet time building the witch's mythology, too, as the wide-eyed campers learn increasingly horrifying details of the curse on Shadyside; indeed, we discover, that Sarah Fier, the witch, died badly and is determined to make others suffer her fate. It's a bleaker, more violent and nihilistic movie than 1994, and that's a good thing. Because things are ramping up for a killer finale.

As the previous entries relied heavily on period Amblin Entertainment flicks and slashers, Part Three: 1666 owes about as much to The Crucible, The Witch, and Nathaniel Hawthorne. I don't want to spoil too much because this series is extraordinarily brilliant, but pretty much any talking about this movie will spoil something. Essentially, we are thrust all the way back to a Puritan town apparently where Shadyside was born. Madeira now plays Sarah Fier herself, an equally misunderstood young woman of poor means in love with another young woman. The casting is key, because Deena is seeing the witch's story in real time (it's a plot point when, after the halfway point of this film, we return to 1994 for the showdown), and we are able to immediately parallel the experiences of the two characters. The accents are all over the place (most are, bewilderingly, Irish) and there isn't much accuracy in historical details of the colony, but it's clear that it was made to make sense to a high schooler. And that's not a bad thing here.

While we expect the witch to be a locus of horror at this point, the horrors here largely stem from the witch hunt. After the well is poisoned, produce withers, and the pastor commits heinous sins, the townsfolk prepare to lynch the young women seen loitering together in the woods by night. Interestingly, the real witch here (Jordana Spiro) has a lot to say without saying much of anything; in 1994 the actor played a babysitter (again, connecting the story to the genre) and in 1978 she was the nurse to tried to kill the killer before he killed anyone. This time her book of spells, etc., causes trouble when it falls into the wrong hands, and her best (or at least, not-malicious) intentions are tragically misunderstood. And then, yes, Sarah is lynched and curses the town. But then, quite suddenly, we are slapped with another title card and put back in 1994, and now Deena knows what must be done to stop the curse.

Apart from its fascinating storytelling and incredibly broad scope, this series works well for me in its aesthetic. It doesn't seem to take itself too seriously -- Janiak's penchant for pumping retro jams is too fun for that -- but it crucially does take its characters seriously, making us get to know them well so that we care for them and their survival. Especially in 1994, she is playful with frenetic editing choices and expressive lighting even as she patiently allows the dialogue (often frantic, between angsty kids spewing exposition at each other from their "research") to take us through each twisty new plot evolution. More importantly, it honors the burgeoning same-sex relationship at its core between Deena and Sam without capitalizing on it, even in a similar way to how any sexual relationship was often treated by slashers of the time period. Even the secondary misfits -- two of the Shadysiders sell pills -- aren't traditionally punished for their behaviors, because the film flips the trope to be a tool of compassion for their struggle and even of shallow admiration for their street smarts.

It's all a tightly wound ball of mythology and history, one that offers numerous parallels in plot even as it does in cinematography and design. The endless pleasures of this series involve reused locations and the way the camera and lighting treat certain characters in certain situations. Repeatedly suggesting that time -- or, at least, time under a curse -- is a wheel, the movies push us and its characters to escape fate and challenge the status quo. It was at the point of the jump forward that I realized what an amazing feat this series accomplished simply by existing. These days, we can watch a 6- or 8-hour miniseries without batting an eye. But three 2-hour movies are still a very different game, and these are unusually polished even for feature film standards. Plus, they all culminate in a fun, wickedly clever climax that left me on a thrilling high note, endearing to me everything that had come before. Do yourself a favor and visit Fear Street. It'll treat you right.

House of Gucci (2021)

Score: 5 / 5

For the second time this year: God bless Ridley Scott. Not only did he provide us with two of the best movies of the year (along with The Last Duel), they are also completely aesthetically and tonally different, proving himself yet again a master of the craft. Willing to change his style to fit the story he's telling, Scott is this time engaged in high fashion and high crimes. Not unlike his exploration of class, family, and wealth in the Getty dynasty (All the Money in the World), he is keenly interested in fraying lines of loyalty and dissolution of civility when powerful families are put under the pressure of greed. This isn't American Crime Story: The Assassination of Gianni Versace, but I wondered more than once if Scott had viewed Ryan Murphy's similarly sweeping, campy study of murder in an Italian fashion family. Whereas that miniseries delved into dark secrets and an outsider preying on insiders, House of Gucci works more as a soap opera.

Based on the book of the same title, the sensationalist story only works with the flamboyance and larger-than-life perspective we'd expect. As such, Scott and writer Becky Johnston work hard to make this movie an assault on our senses. The cinematography by frequent Scott collaborator Dariusz Wolski (also of Pirates of the Caribbean, The Crow, The Walk, News of the World) affords us luxurious views of impossible places, doused with warm light and vibrant colors. Music by Harry Gregson-Williams sweeps us into sumptuous highs before the film's abundant soundtrack of Italian pop or opera jumps to the next loud track. Costumer Janty Yates dresses the players in unbelievable outfits and ridiculous hues, clearly enabling them to do their thing in style if not comfort; the costumes also clearly inform our perception of the characters (and doubtless informed the actors' performances as well), as certain characters become notably animalistic in their devolution.

One wonders how much the stylized nature of this film was planned in advance by Scott and his team, or if it was primarily the result of casting choices. One can hardly expect a film with this starring lineup to be dull, but each major player seems handpicked based on their reliably campy deliveries elsewhere. Obviously any discussion of this movie will begin and end with the glorious Lady Gaga, whose fierce performance as Patrizia Reggiani is an unholy cross between technically proficient chameleonic acting and cheap dive bar drag. Patrizia, a willful and conniving working-class woman who stalks and falls in love with Maurizio Gucci (a less volcanic but no less intentionally wry Adam Driver), weasels her way into the family business to make something of herself. Or, perhaps, for herself. Her lack of high society manners is shamed by Maurizio's ailing father Rodolfo (an oddly stiff Jeremy Irons, not long for the world of this film) but welcomed by his commercially-minded salesman uncle Aldo (Al Pacino doing what he does best).

Like Aldo, Patrizia wants more money and to boost Gucci's international market. Redirecting Maurizio away from law school, she charges headfirst into the flailing family and attacks its weak spots. Namely, and most obviously, Aldo's flamboyant and absurd son Paolo, played by an unrecognizable and utterly arresting Jared Leto. With no taste or talent, he's the lone guppy in a sea of sharks, and Leto capitalizes on this, turning the character into a kitsch king as unaware as he is repulsive. Oh, and who can forget Salma Hayek's scenes as Patrizia's friend and psychic, Pina, who guides Patrizia through her feelings of desire, lust, fear, and greed in increasingly practical ways. She's hilarious as a naïve and unassuming fortune-teller, then a little disturbing as she cultivates Patrizia's dependency; not unlike the sisters in Macbeth, one wonders if Pina isn't enabling her friend rather than simply supporting her.

The first half of the film is radiant, bubbling, and darkly humorous in its foreshadowing, crowned by a brilliant and jaw-dropping sex scene that epitomizes much of the proceedings. The second half leans less into camp and more into crime drama, not unlike The Godfather I suppose, with a tighter focus on Maurizio's maturing attitude toward taking over the family business. Like the aforementioned Scottish king, he seems to have swallowed the Kool-Aid, to mix potent and relevant cultural touchpoints, and Driver's potential for danger oozes out from his impeccable suits (I will maintain that he has never looked better). And in this tonal transition, the film delivers on every single one of its promises. It's a messy, brazen, glamorous cocktail of sin and style, as audacious in its faith to storytelling as it is to its own sickly beauty. And thanks to Scott's tried-and-true direction, it's one of the best movies of the year.

Belfast (2021)

Score: 4 / 5

Knowing nothing about this movie in advance except its title, cast, and writer/director, I can tell you it's a complete and utter shock. Because it does indeed take place in Belfast during the earlier part of "The Troubles," the ethnic-nationalist series of conflicts that traumatized Northern Ireland for three decades. Yet the film doesn't really concern those issues, at least not at any macro level. Rather, Branagh tells a story of a young boy named Buddy who grows up in a working class family and tries to make sense of the conflict around him even as he learns to love the city they call home. The film is hardly fresh in its delivery -- it will invariably and unfortunately be compared to Alfonso Cuaron's Roma -- but Branagh is wearing his heart on his sleeve in a way that is accessible and meaningful to wide audiences, unlike that other over-lauded flick.

Its sweetness and sense of joy might feel, initially, undermined by Branagh's decision to shoot the film in black-and-white. But this vision endears it to a certain understanding of memory, reminding us that our past is plastic and as fantastic now as it was real then. It also helps us, perhaps see things from Branagh's childhood perspective a bit better, as Buddy is obviously meant to be a stand-in for the writer/director. His innocence and view of the world is occasionally complicated by sudden bursts of color, less traumatizing as in Schindler's List and more sentimental. Actually, tonally, I'd compare this more to Jojo Rabbit; although it is less absurdly comedic and more warm-hearted, there is a distinct effort to make sense of childhood trauma framed by ethnic and nationalist conflicts that, in turn, have fostered generational trauma still affecting descendants today.

Surely, as Branagh drew from his own experiences coming of age as a boy, we see and hear about the tumults in 1969 largely in broken fashion. Someone who knows nothing about the political problems in Ireland still won't be able to claim understanding after watching this movie; it's not a historical text, per se, but a memoir. Frankly, I don't know most of the details of this time period or location, but I knew enough to catch on that this movie wouldn't teach me anything new. Rather, through adult conversation heard through eavesdropping, Buddy (and we) learn that his parents are Protestant but unwilling to join their neighbors and fellow churchgoers in intimidating and, ultimately, attacking the local Catholics. As such, their household is in danger, and they face the choice to flee to England.

It's a fascinating look at the breaking of childhood molds for most of its first two-thirds. Buddy likes a girl in class -- the best girl in class -- and works hard to catch up to her academically so they can sit together in the front row. To help, Buddy is tutored by his wise and loving grandfather "Pop" (Ciaran Hinds), who simultaneously helps mend any potential fractures in his son's marriage. His son (Jamie Dornan) works in England and can only return home sporadically to his wife (Caitriona Balfe) and sons. Buddy overhears his parents arguing about a certain neighbor (Colin Morgan) who has targeted them for not standing up for the Protestant cause, a threatening figure who repeatedly comes calling. Buddy also learns to love his home from Pop, and how to love a woman like his grandmother (Judi Dench); when the day comes that the family discusses leaving Belfast, Pop indicates he will almost certainly stay in the place he's lived his whole life.

It seems like everyone in this movie knows darkly that they are operating on a quickly ending timeline, but they put on brave smiles and keep making do, celebrating holidays and playing in the streets even as barricades are erected. When Pop becomes ill and hospital-bound, at the worst possible time for the family, they still joke with each other and encourage each other to move on. Even as their homeland is crumbling around them, Buddy's grandparents shift from bellyaching about each other affectionately to intimately dancing in the living room as Pop sings Camelot's love ballad "How to Handle a Woman." In breathtaking moments like these, we see Branagh's determination to bring nascent, impressionistic memories to vivid life. But unlike Roma, which felt like a disjointed and badly annotated scrapbook of images, Belfast consistently makes itself accessible to people whose only context is that a conflict of religion and politics is brewing. Entrenching us in the experience of a child, one attempting to live his own life despite hardships, evokes the kind of "dear reader" feeling we get from reading The Diary of Anne Frank. 

Thankfully, this story doesn't involve that level of genocide, and apart from one particularly nightmarish gunfight in the street there isn't even much violence. But the emotional turmoil in Buddy's heart revs its engines in the final act of this film, when his family is forced to decide to leave their home, their neighbors, and their family. But to where will they transplant? England, where Pa already has a job? Or a more romantic, distant place like Vancouver or Sydney, as he mentioned earlier in the film? We don't ever really find out (of course Branagh in real life moved to England) except for the final sequence of the film, as Granny sends her son and his family away on a bus and achingly walks alone back to her house. Branagh dedicates this film thus: “For the ones who stayed. For the ones who left. And for all the ones who were lost.”

Everybody's Talking About Jamie (2021)

Score: 4 / 5

Confession: I knew about the stage musical but had never seen or listened to it. Now, thanks to this adaptation from the same writer, it's a full feature film experience, one that demands to be seen on a large screen with an impeccable sound system. Unfortunately, a lot of its charm will be lost on audiences due to its exclusivity on Amazon Prime Video. By the end of its opening musical number, I was skeptical to say the least; it's not particularly catchy, and largely portrays a certain superficiality to its title character. In a strange mix of pop-rock music and the themes and narratives of The Prom or Kinky Boots, this movie felt at first like a ripoff. And maybe, to some extent it is, as the stage show premiered in 2017, some time after a lot of other, arguably "better" shows with similar themes had already changed the face of Broadway and the West End.

There's a glitz and glamour to the proceedings that, for me, didn't mesh with the material at first. Where are the stakes? Jamie (played by excellent newcomer Max Harwood) is a gay boy, living in Sheffield with his single mother, who dreams of becoming a drag queen. His mother (an equally excellent Sarah Lancashire) is endlessly supportive but struggling financially and emotionally, presumably due to Jamie's father (Ralph Ineson) having up and left due to his discontent and disapproval. His opening number is presented in the style of Glee or Chicago as a fantasy-reality that transforms his daily commute to (and through) school into a nightclub where he is the fabulous star. Then, after a sharp cut to harsh daylight, we follow Jamie into school on his sixteenth birthday, where he and his classmates are rebuked by their nominally villainous teacher (Sharon Horgan) for having unrealistic career goals. She tells them that they had all better prepare for a life in working-class suburbia and the doldrums of their futures.

Jamie is the rare bird in these stories who embraces his theatricality and performativity with little regard to his own safety or those around him. True to himself to a fault, he will prove, I expect, a divisive image in the thick but recent history of queer-coded kids coming of age in these films; confident in his identity, he doesn't experience shame and doubt and fear so much as hope, excitement, and the thrill of possibility. He's not self-sufficient, though, and relies on his friends to help him self-actualize. His best friend -- maybe his only friend -- is Pritti (Lauren Patel), the best in class and aspiring doctor who is ostracized due to her religion. Often bullied together, they stand up for each other whenever possible. It's a lovely example of healthy and unproblematic allyship rarely portrayed in any real depth in this genre.

To complete Jamie's triumvirate of supportive friends, we are gifted with the astounding Richard E. Grant as Hugo, the owner of a boutique that caters to, shall we say, the flamboyant. Once the famed drag queen Loco Chanelle, Hugo has survived more heartbreak and horrors than Jamie -- or, one imagines, most of the people who will watch this film -- will ever understand. In a single song, titled "This Was Me" and newly written for the film, he works to teach Jamie all about how to be a drag queen. More importantly, though, he teaches Jamie the roots of the craft, the profound (and profoundly sad) history of urban drag and queer culture. In some of the most effective use of stock footage (and some recreated historical scenes) I've ever seen in a film, we're presented with images of what Hugo's community suffered during the AIDS epidemic, street protests and police brutality, the death of Freddie Mercury, and of course Princess Diana meeting with sick patients. Some of these may not mean much to the unfamiliar, but the effect is still the same: a sobering reminder that drag queens did not always have syndicated shows and global fanbases, that AIDS was a social death sentence and almost always a medical one, and that queer communities were (and often still are) targeted for far more than just schoolyard bullying.

Thankfully, Jamie's bubble is toughened but not popped by his learning of this history. He still has some maturing to do, and he will get in fights and arguments on his path to prom, where he intends to stage his second "coming out," this time as a 16-year-old drag queen. Harwood navigates a particularly difficult role with grace and knowing, wide-eyed and optimistic even as he fights back tears at his father's rebukes or the school bully's taunts. Effervescent to the end, he dazzles in musical and non-musical scenes alike, often in glittering red heels that reminded me more than once of a young Judy Garland coming into her own. By the end, the film has the rare distinction of having felt like too much of a good thing -- a candy-colored feel-good rush of energy and light that is, admittedly, tonally chaotic with peripatetic pacing -- yet needles its way into your heart nevertheless. As the credits rolled, I consciously thought it was a fun but forgettable time; that was four days ago, and I still haven't stopped thinking about it.

And for a film from a first-time director (Jonathan Butterell) and starring a new actor, that's utterly fabulous.

Cinderella (2021)

Score: 2 / 5

Not that anyone was excited about another Cinderella story, but I was looking forward to this one. The story gets revived perennially for a reason, and musicals often worm their way into people's hearts. Add a fun and diverse cast, lots of pretty costumes and special effects, and make it available to stream? It's sure to be a good time!

But writer and director Kay Cannon (writer of Pitch Perfect) seems to have been swallowed by the beast she made here. Much like the live action remake Disney produced in 2015, this one suffers from lack of inspiration. There appears to be very little originality in its ideas, and the film flounders until it founders in a sea of its own purposelessness. Nothing is added to the characters that hasn't been added (and better) before, there are no narrative surprises, and even the jukebox-style music isn't a new lens for this story. What Cannon does exceptionally well is drive home the overwhelming spectacle and draw special attention to Ashley Wallen's (The Greatest Showman, Jingle Jangle, Ghost the Musical) exciting choreography.

Singer Camila Cabello plays Ella, and I just didn't get what she was doing. She looked pretty awful while singing, as if she's never lip-synced before, and her voice felt hopelessly filtered and doctored. Then again, I've never heard anything she's done before, so maybe that's just the way she sounds, which is unfortunate. Her acting was all over the place, no doubt due to the lackluster way she's treated by the screenplay. Cannon didn't give this character much of a reason to exist in yet another rendition. Drew Barrymore and Anne Hathaway had so much agency and inner complexity, Julie Andrews had a better voice, and Brandy had a better voice and shattered the diversity ceiling. Here, Ella's dreams of being a fashion designer and owning her own business feel a few decades late in tone and scope. While there are some suggestions of diversity in the casting of this film, it pretty much only goes skin-deep, so to speak, and doesn't affect much in terms of tone or theme.

Idina Menzel is one of the only good things in this movie, and we can certainly hope this will entice her to star in more live-action features. Playing Ella's stepmother with gusto, she dazzles in two solo numbers (including Madonna's "Material Girl") and is clearly having more fun than anyone else. The film even gives her a bit of sympathetic background, making her character infinitely more interesting than in Disney's aforementioned remake. Billy Porter also steps in for some fun as Ella's fabulous fairy godperson in shining gold folds, though he's sadly only in one scene. The rest of the cast is just weird, and for the most part don't get to do much: Pierce Brosnan and Minnie Driver are the angsty (and, discouragingly, aging) royals, and their proto-feminist daughter (Tallulah Greive) is the butt of more jokes than I was comfortable counting. James Corden even pops in awkwardly as one of Ella's mouse-turned-footman, which was just unpleasant. And then there's the prince, Nicholas Galitzine, looking very pretty and singing nicely in several songs, but whose character is somewhere between pitifully stupid and hopelessly spoiled for the entire movie.

There is some really great dancing in this movie, and the production design and gorgeous costumes make it a really lovely viewing experience. Just be sure to leave your brain at the door. The film's jukebox music is, for me at least, mostly forgettable because I either didn't know the songs or didn't particularly like their employment. For example, the prince's rendition of "Somebody to Love," while serviceable, left me bitter because Ella Enchanted already did that, and much better. The opening number features the townsfolk dancing to Janet Jackson's "Rhythm Nation," but there's not much social justice activity going on in this story. The screenplay can hardly even handle its own unbearably cheesy dialogue; I wondered more than once if it was aiming for camp, but by the end I realized the movie really does believe in its own superficial charm, which makes everyone's efforts to breathe life into their lines all the more pathetic. Case in point: the repeated comment about the prince getting spanked on his "tush-tush." Feel icky? Yeah. That's about right.