The Burial (2023)

Score: 4 / 5

Heading into another mixed-race "feel good" film nominally about justice always makes me trepidatious. They're not usually deserving of the scorn they get from both sides of the political spectrum, but they are almost always dangerous if taken at face value or skin deep, so to speak. Think of The Help, The Blind Side, Green Book, The Best of Enemies, and Son of the South if you want the tip of the iceberg. Some are technically proficient films, which endears someone like me, but if you can't see the trees for the forest, you'll walk away from these pictures feeling fuzzy things about the white protagonists who sacrificed so much for their Black neighbors to be treated as equal. Positing an audience so firmly in that salvific perspective has proven problematic time and again; on the other hand, it's a rhetorically sound means of attempting to undermine someone's racist prejudices by associating them with the narrator or main character who is transformed by story's end. Hoping, naturally, that those people would even see a movie like these in the first place.

So when I heard of The Burial, released on Prime Video last year, starring Tommy Lee Jones and Jamie Foxx, I was worried for more of the same, especially given the context of an inspirational courtroom drama that was all the rage in the '90s and early '00s. But director Maggie Betts and co-writer Doug Wright (a personal favorite playwright of Quills, The Stonewater Rapture, and I Am My Own Wife) inject surprising humor into the story, a story that is eminently about race but centered on a plot that is distinctly not about race. In this way, the writers reveal profound truth in demonstrating how any issue in a racist culture is always somewhat about race; they sidestep the annoying trope of only being able to discuss racism in the context of the most obvious and extreme examples of racism in our culture. How many tirades have we all experienced about how, for so long, movies about Black people relegated them to archetypes in slave narratives, stories about maids and laborers, prison exploitation flicks, and sagas of urban crime?

Here, we first meet personal injury lawyer Willie E. Gary in a church, preaching the good word in a steamy Florida sanctuary. Shortly thereafter, he arrives with his signature flamboyance in Mississippi to begin work on the case that mobilizes this narrative. But it is Gary -- as played by Jamie Foxx -- who steals our attention from start to finish. Foxx is doing some of his best work in years, pulling out all the stops in fashioning this fashionable, razor-sharp smart man as someone who is as passionate for justice as for winning. Gary is also arguably the most fully-fleshed character in the film, and Foxx takes it to showstopping extremes, no doubt a result of Gary's repeated wish to face off with Johnnie Cochran in court. One can clearly see the influence of the O.J. Simpson trial on these characters, even surely spurring the plaintiff's personal lawyer, young Hal Dockins (Mamoudou Athie), to recommend contacting Gary for help in appealing to their probably mostly Black jury.

Speaking of the plaintiff, the court case that motivates the plot involves mild-mannered good old boy Jeremiah O'Keefe (Tommy Lee Jones), an owner of several funeral homes and a burial insurance business in Mississippi, who is suing a massive corporation for contractual negligence and scheming to monopolize his business. As played by the reliable Jones, who can do this role in his sleep, O'Keefe doesn't go through much character development, though his general lack of racism is refreshing in a film like this, endearing him to us and to Gary with efficiency. If anything, O'Keefe's journey is more of learning to assert himself and stop racist criminals from running the country. For indeed, through the twists and turns of the case -- which turns ad hominen very quickly -- we learn that the CEO (Bill Camp) has been exploiting Black members of the National Baptist Church to make money on overpriced packages.

Thinly written characters and melodramatic narrative manipulations make The Burial a mostly breezy two hours of entertainment. An awareness of racial injustice is baked into the fabric of this film, though, which is both more realistic and more intelligently nuanced than we typically see, especially in fictionalized accounts of real stories. That makes it interesting and important in ways I wasn't prepared to see. That and that this film is arguably more "for" its Black audience than its white one; while O'Keefe is a primary character, he's not the primary character, and he's not remotely the white savior who learns how to be a better person. The screenplay is comfortable with its culturally specific Black humor and historical references, too, obviously with Gary and his persona and presentation, but also with Hal facing constant microaggressions, the history of financial exploitation of people of color by corporate capitalists, the church scenes, and the late '90s dialogue about other prominent court cases involving racism as a key component. I haven't even mentioned it yet, but Jurnee Smollett makes a big splash playing Mame Downes, the CEO's attorney who is also hired to help win over a Black jury, and her dynamism shows best as she emotionally navigates defending a corrupt white man while facing off with someone she actually probably admires and respects. Foxx takes us to church, there's no doubt, but it takes a village, and this one is wholesome.

I.S.S. (2024)

Score: 2 / 5

Space thrillers are always a fun time. By definition an exercise in claustrophobia, the subgenre works best when leaning into the restrictions of maintaining life in an impossible location. Whether it's in body suits and top-tier actors floating off into space, a derelict ship riddled with parasitic predatory aliens, or ghostly memories warping the minds of isolated astronauts orbiting a mysterious planet, the movies let paranoia mobilize their plot, inform and torment their characters, and infect and entertain their audience. I.S.S., the new thriller from director Gabriela Cowperthwaite (Blackfish, Megan Leavey, Our Friend) is well aware of its fearsome potential and utilizes its brief runtime to effectively chill and thrill us.

While there's a lot to be said for a B movie that knows exactly what it is and confidently presents itself, there's also a lot to be said for one that is also smart about what it offers. Unfortunately, that's where I.S.S. fails. Its brilliant premise -- as anyone who has seen the trailer knows -- takes us and a new astronaut to the titular International Space Station, home to a crew of three Russian and three American scientists. The six characters watch in horror when what appear to be nuclear explosions litter the surface of Earth shortly before each team receives private orders from their respective countries to take control of the station by any means necessary. Will their scientific and humanitarian camaraderie win the day, or will they disintegrate with suspicion and violence?

A brilliant premise only goes so far, though, and this screenplay by Nick Shafir squanders its opportunities at nearly every turn. A laborious opening act drops so many foreboding breadcrumbs it feels like a beginner's lecture on how suspense works in narrative; moment after moment drips with Portentous Significance, often with accompanying camera zooms and musical stings. We know the mice (there to be studied) are going to have a hard adjustment and their behavior will likely mimic that of the humans; we know the ominous warning about trusting the hum of the life support system will come true as if it's Chekhov's gun; we know the astronauts' supposedly spiritually revelatory view of Earth from their observation "cupola" will take on new horror when Earth is alight with radioactive fire. We don't need a screenplay to label and index the excessive amounts of breadcrumbs, pick them up for us, and then shove them down our throats. It's okay to trust your audience.

Even with the inherent tensions in this story, the screenplay further insults us by adding unnecessary and somewhat unbelievable conflict to the characters. Their early moment of viewing Earth without borders and coming to a transcendent mentality is swiftly undermined when, at a celebratory welcome dinner for the new astronaut, they aggressively split along nationalistic lines, defiantly allowing their linguistic differences and dubious microaggressions to trump what should be their unified, scientific, humanitarian purpose in being there. This also takes away their realism as characters, as it would have been much more interesting to see six apolitical people agonizingly decide whether or not to trust each other and obey their countries. Instead, except for the pair of star-crossed lovers, they are immediately painted on opposing teams vying for control, which would be more appropriate for an action movie than a thriller.

There are also too many weird story problems that didn't make sense to me; while it was only a single viewing for me, and usually these things don't bother me, the number of plot holes and conveniences shattered my suspension of disbelief. The transmissions from Russia and the US are supposed to be secret, but they chime aloud at the same time in the same room and nobody questions that, indeed sharing that they didn't actually receive any missives at all. When one character, working maintenance outside the station, becomes untethered and drifts away, we find out (SPOILER ALERT) much later that he was able to grab on to a panel and stay safe, which is absurd and deeply annoying after what Sandy B. had to deal with in Gravity. It's also bizarre to me that, whoever the aggressor was on Earth (we're never told), the initiating country in the conflict didn't give their team on ISS any advance warning, especially considering the potentially life-saving radiation-healing science aboard.

Despite my nagging, it's not all a bad time at the cinema (though my recommendation is to wait for rental or streaming, if you watch it at all). The film features some cool moments of space spectacle, such as when a character opens a liquor bottle without thinking, and they subsequently slurp the floating liquid spheres like anti-gravity shots. Semi-immersive cinematography by Nick Remy Matthews -- never as graceful as Emmanuel Lubezki's in Gravity or Seamus McGarvey's in Life -- bobs and twirls around the station effectively, making us feel adrift like the astronauts (though their suspension via wires is obvious more than once). There were some weird glitchy moments in my screening that seemed like digital buffering, but that could have just been a technical problem and not reflective of the film itself. But the film's uniquely terrible editing in all its frenetic confusion makes for a messy experience of even the best visual moments.

A likable cast of solid performers make the film watchable, but even they can't save it from itself. Ariana DeBose, fresh off her Oscar win, carries the film mostly through physical prowess and a certain queer charm about her. Her character is so thinly written and basic that she has almost nothing to work with, a near-complete waste of her talents. Chris Messina does his best as the American leader, and John Gallagher Jr. actually scared me for maybe the first time in his career as the (SPOILER ALERT) unbalanced and desperate quasi-villain. Unfortunately, his reveal as such is predictable and unsatisfying -- again, thanks to the screenplay's tendency to repeat anything important ad nauseam -- but he chews scenery with magnetic aplomb. Masha Mashkova, Costa Ronin, and especially Pilou Asbaek are solid as the Russian crew, though other than Asbaek their characters are also flat and uninspired.

Elementary writing and frenzied editing render I.S.S. mostly a breezy mess of a flick, enjoyable enough if you're not paying attention. Clunky fight scenes and dubious drama sap the film of what could easily be streamlined, adrenaline-pumping efficacy. Though far too numerous and awkwardly spliced in, the image of a burning Earth looming in the background is enough to make up for the film's budget; I'd have preferred fewer omniscient shots of the station superimposed over the fiery planet and more shots of the spectacle from within the station, to keep us grounded and immersed. That would also strengthen the focus on character drama, shifting loyalties, and interpersonal tension. Instead, the filmmakers try to balance those elements with practical matters, faulty technology, and lackluster action, watering down the potential on all fronts and losing focus on what should matter most. Kind of like the scientists-turned-would-be-patriots.

The Book of Clarence (2024)

Score: 3 / 5

Biblical epics are largely a thing of the past, but burgeoning pop-culture auteur Jeymes Samuel doesn't accept that as a reason not to make a speactacle of it. In much the same way he reinvented, reimagined, and/or reclaimed Westerns in his Netflix feature The Harder They Fall, here he turns his considerable aesthetic skills to a genre that really shouldn't include him. Or, rather, hasn't historically. He knows this, he disagrees with this, and he charges forward anyway with knowing charm and style to spare. That doesn't make the film "good" as many audiences will surely claim, especially since the film does not -- and I repeat, does not -- fit the bill of a sacrilegious comedy as its marketing suggested.

Don't get me wrong; it has plenty of outrageously funny moments. But The Book of Clarence has a lot more on its mind than simply positing a Black Jesus in the historical shadow of the white one Westerners long ago accepted as truth. Its trailers suggested that was the width and breadth of this film, but really, most of the funny bits in the film were the same as in its marketing. The rest of the substantial film -- which feels every minute of two hours and then some -- is dramatic, thoughtful, calculated and curated, and more than a bit bewildering.

Without retracing its plot, which is sweeping and strange, suffice it to say that your general concept is accurate: Clarence (the endlessly fabulous LaKeith Stanfield) is a street hustler in Jerusalem at the time of the ministry of Jesus of Nazareth. Seeing the success of Jesus inspires Clarence and his vagabond friends, so they launch their own messianic cult, one of cynical atheists and outsiders who want money and influence, yes, but also to prove that the so-called Messiah and other false prophets are just that: false. Clarence seems as eager to make an easy buck as he is to pull back the curtain on mysticism and faith. Naturally, they run afoul of Jesus's apostles, the Pharisees, and eventually the Roman overlords. What starts as a clever, insightful, and culturally relevant satire quickly morphs into a sincere attempt at historical drama before careening unexpectedly into heavy tragedy of faith and a conversion story for the ages.

The problem is, by the time it loses its sense of humor, the film also loses its originality. SPOILER ALERT. When Clarence is inevitably captured and brought before Pontius Pilate (a recklessly funny James McAvoy, whose hammy performance just feels nasty at this point in the tragedy of Clarence), it's oddly indiscernible from a layperson's summary of the passion of the Christ, complete with a climactic carrying of his cross to Golgotha and graphic crucifixion sequence. Sure, it acknowledges the horrific racist lynchings and spectacle of bleeding Black bodies that excites the white Romans (and, by extension, us), and it encourages thought of the men killed with Jesus and martyred for Jesus afterward, but the story of Clarence is not fundamentally different from that of Jesus except that he himself carries no salvific or supernatural powers of his own and that, in the end, it is his spiritual conversion and resurrection by his unwitting teacher that saves him.

This conclusion feels inchoate at best -- incoherent at worst -- after so many brilliant, insightful, incisive scenes that came before. Opening the film with a chariot chase (a la Ben Hur) between Clarence and Mary Magdalene (Teyana Taylor) is a stroke of genius, along with a bizarre subplot that motivates Clarence's need for funds to repay crime lord Jedediah the Terrible (Eric Kofi-Abrefa). It helps, too, that the film's on-location shoot in Italy offers breathtaking landscape views at every turn, and cinematographer Rob Hardy makes the most of every scene. Other performances steal their respective scenes, including David Oyelowo as a sassy John the Baptist, Marianne Jean-Baptiste as the longsuffering mother of Clarence (and his brother, the apostle Thomas), and especially Omar Sy as ex-gladiator-turned-disciple-of-Clarence Barabbas. Yes, that Barabbas.

There's the magnificent scene with Alfre Woodard as Mary, mother of Jesus. There's the surprise and delightful inclusion of Benedict Cumberbatch as a dirty beggar who, once cleaned up, looks like every painting of Jesus ever made, and who gets crucified for that. There's the odd but interesting dynamics between the real Jesus (Nicholas Pinnock) and his followers, especially Judas (Michael Ward), and the mystifying focus on the telekinetic powers Jesus manifests, such as stopping stones in midair before they hit Mary Magdalene. As a curious counterpoint to visual effects like this, Samuel features moments of postmodern tomfoolery such as literalizing a couple lightbulb moments over Clarence's head as he hatches his schemes.

I just don't know who this movie is for. It flirts with lambasting Christianity, or at least the historical bent toward unifying white supremacy with Christianity, but repeatedly and intentionally stops short. It offers many profoundly affecting moments of insight about liberation theology, even positing a literal Black Jesus as a crucial character and having him engage with all Black disciples, but then focuses on so many other things than them. It provides presumably satirical Black gangsters and whores for a drug-induced Clarence to fraternize with, which feels notably less racially tasteful even as it suggests more Americanized storytelling (worth noting: Samuel also provided music, and significant moments feel drawn-out solely for his masturbatory musical sensibilities, including needless slow-motion scenes and a fun but bizarre nightclub dance routine). It tries to be funny, is often subtly so, but ends up feeling pretty tragic and melancholy. It tries to be smarter than faith allows, and ends completely giving into Clarence's conversion and seems to ask us to, too. If Samuels wanted to remake The Passion of the Christ with a Black Jesus, he should have just done that; if he wanted to do anything else, he should have stuck to his instincts and done that. Instead he gave us a strange exploitation film that makes fun of its own sensibilities as much as it tries to legitimize itself, making the whole experience a fascinating and endlessly debatable fever dream of half-baked ideas and missed opportunities.

American Fiction (2023)

Score: 5 / 5

One of the most surprising releases of this awards season, American Fiction hit cinemas somewhat unceremoniously in wide release in January and I had no idea what it was. If you'll forgive some geeky waxing here, I was stunned to learn it is the film adaptation of Erasure, a 2001 novel by Percival Everett that was my favorite read in grad school. It's an extraordinarily complex and riotously funny examination of commercial and academic discourse around the publication, marketing, and consuming of Black literature in America. That it has taken this long to find new life is surprising; then again, public discussion of critical race theory and antiracist movements in the last decade surely helped "rediscover" this gem. And indeed it is timely, as the Academy finally honors Black filmmakers and large movements have been mobilized to subvert, counter, and ignore mass market demands for typical, expected, "safe" stories about Black people focused on slavery, reconstruction, and urban crime. This material, on the other hand, flips the script literally, relocating where Black life and Black art meet in our culture and critiquing the racist powers that keep both in check.

Jeffrey Wright leads one of the best movies of the year with an award-worthy performance as Thelonious "Monk" Ellison, a college professor and academic author whose published works aren't exactly lucrative. Increasingly frustrated by the designation of his works on "African-American literature" shelves in bookstores and in the minds of the masses, he is further incensed when a colleague Sintara Golden (Issa Rae playing a character based on Juanita Mae Jenkins in the source material) publishes a bestselling sensation based on crude stereotypes and what he perceives as poor writing: We's Lives in Da Ghetto. Deciding that if this is the kind of trash paying customers, pandering critics, and media personalities will buy and praise, he'll make his mark, Monk crafts a joke novel along the same lines -- mostly nonsensical, artificially melodramatic and criminal, knowingly stereotypical -- entitling it My Pafology. To his horror, it's also a smash hit, swiftly eliciting awards nominations and contracts for film rights.

Having published it under a pseudonym -- the tongue-in-cheek "Stagg R. Leigh," named for the mythic murderer -- that carries with it a criminal persona, Monk soon has to arrange anonymous interviews, hiding his face and altering his voice to sound more "hood" and dangerous while concealing his real identity. While his alter ego becomes the talk of the nation, Monk himself balances his new income with his simmering rage, at one point hilariously changing his title to simply Fuck in the hopes of having it finally blacklisted (so to speak), only to have it embraced by his white, elite publishers. Meanwhile, his private life takes some nasty turns when his sister (Tracee Ellis Ross) passes away, his brother (Sterling K. Brown) returns from his life of alcoholism, recreational drugs, and sexual abandon in the wake of his divorce, and their mother (Leslie Uggams) declines with Alzheimer's disease. These family woes exacerbate Monk's wrestle with identity, kinship, and belonging.

The weightier elements fortunately do not, in fact, weigh down the film. Screenwriter and director (in his debut!) Cord Jefferson deftly adapts the material into a fast-paced, intelligently hilarious roller coaster of emotions that provokes tears from laughter and sympathy. The family dynamics are the most real and raw, but not in a tragic way, despite their issues; the family's live-in housekeeper Lorraine (Myra Lucretia Taylor) shines the brightest light into Monk's life and into the film, followed closely by his new girlfriend Coraline (Erika Alexander). Monk's journey -- his dubious pilgrim's progress -- would not be possible without the often breathtaking insight of these characters he brushes up against, who often also help us like Monk more. Because, rude and snobbish and stubborn as he is, he's not particularly likable, even though he's our conduit for learning through increasingly complex issues.

Poor Things (2023)

Score: 5 / 5

Some of the best cinematic scholarship of the year will center on the latest trip-and-a-half from Yorgos Lanthimos, whose auteur streak has just reached profound new heights. If you love him, you love him; if you don't, definitely avoid this film. The most profound, bizarre, and deeply literary film of the year is also one of the most purely entertaining and unforgettable viewing experiences in years. Poor Things is at once a natural extension of Lanthimos's oeuvre and a brazen evolution of timeliness and complexity, sure to launch him into a new strata of filmmaking in ways that The Lobster, The Killing of a Sacred Deer, and even The Favourite weren't prepared to do.

The Greek auteur here seems interested in his usual theming -- the awkwardness and easy fallibility of human relationships -- and finally embraces the Gothic pastiche with which he's always flirted. Without rehashing the full plot here, suffice it to say that Poor Things is a postmodern feminist reimagining of Frankenstein in a manner analogous to Guillermo del Toro's Cold War-era answer to The Creature from the Black Lagoon in the form of The Shape of Water. Which is to say that it takes the bones of that "source material," if you will, rearranges and redecorates it with contemporary style and ideas, and repurposes it for unique and culturally disrupting ends. It might also be fair to say that this is perhaps Lanthimos's most funny and positive -- or, at least, comedic in the most classically Greek sense -- film yet, which could arguably make it more accessible to those less familiar with his previous, darker films.

The entire production -- all nearly two and a half hours of it -- is impeccably, impossibly detailed with outrageously inventive artistry. Stilted and occasionally horrific dialogue elicits as many embarrassed chortles as it does explosive belly laughs. Sets reminiscent of something in a Tim Burton film or Dr. Seuss story are palpably realized, and I thought more than once of Barbie in terms of production design, practical effects, and theme. Otherworldy costumes fill the usually fisheye lens with popping colors and tactile intrigue. Victorian London becomes steampunk Paris with a few stops at Lisbon and Alexandria along the way, making the protagonist's journey indeed something of a road flick, allowing the filmmakers ample time and space to realize the splendor of their awesome, wholly original world.

Other writers will cover the endlessly fascinating characters with better insight and theory than I could summarize here, but this is one of the most radically feminist stories I can recall seeing in ages. It's helped, yes, by a magnificent cast, all here performing at their very best. Emma Stone pulls out yet another performance for the ages as Bella Baxter, the protagonist, whose journey of self-discovery and external discovery forms parallel plotlines; her intellectual enlightenment is woven with threads of her sexual and emotional maturity, and as she learns about the fantastic world around her, she learns to trust -- and to what extent -- the odd characters she meets, most of whom angle to use her in some way. She'll have none of it. Stone's performance is a tightwire act of impetuousity we rarely see from any leading actress; completely unpredictable in every scene, one wonders the extent to which she was allowed to improvise versus calculated specificity. The cast is uniformly great, but I'd note especially Mark Ruffalo as the greasy villainous cad (whose sexual proclivities reach a certain Streetcar Named Desire climax that had me weeping from laughter) and Kathryn Hunter as the powerhouse madame of a French brothel (whose comparatively brief screen time offers devastating and challenging nuance in what could easily be a one-note character).

The continuous references to Dr. Godwin (Willem Dafoe) as "God" deserves unpacking, as does most of the film in general, and I confess to know nothing about Alasdair Gray's novel of the same name which this screenplay by Tony McNamara adapts. It would be nice to know, but I'm hesitant to borrow the book from a library because I don't want to tarnish the raw experience of seeing this film's beauty and strangeness as filtered through Lanthimos's vision. But it is precisely the language of dialogue that I'm most curious about, having seen the film, because of the way it evolves along with Bella, both in terms of subject/substance, yes, but also in terms of rhetorical style and increasingly complex turns of phrase that bear multiple meanings. Witty in the best, most devious sense, McNamara pulls no punches with his biting sensibility. The smorgasbord of artists assembled here are all performing at the top of their craft, aligned to perfect effect by a director coming into his own with each new project. Poor Things is one of the best -- read: most important -- films of the decade.

Night Swim (2024)

Score: 1.5 / 5

What an unfortunate start to 2024. January, jokingly known as the graveyard or dump of horror films, gets a bad rap because of films like this, coming on the tails of awards season and reminding people why sometimes it's better to stay at home in the winter. And this particular title -- one that frankly seemed out of place in this snowy season but suggested intriguing originality -- heralded the first theatrical release of the newly merged horror superstudios (Jason Blum's) Blumhouse and (James Wan's) Atomic Monster. We all deserved better.

You go into a film like this expecting shlock, at least to some extent. An inanimate object or place that eats people? It's B-movie material at best, either in the form of a murderous doll or carnivorous car or a sentient hungry house, and that's partly what makes it fun. What clever kills can we expect? What harebrained nonsense can the writers string together to make a mildly compelling plot? After all, if it's an inanimate object, you can always get rid of it, right? If it's a location, you can just leave. Sometimes these films will surprise us with arthouse ventures like In Fabric, and reach for more lofty, heady ideas layered in symbolism and parable. But those are rare exceptions. Evidently.

Night Swim is indeed a horror film about a haunted suburban pool. SPOILER ALERT (not that it matters, really) because this paragraph will briefly summarize the plot. A typical Americana family moves into a house that features a backyard pool that is, notably, spring fed; it seems ideal for them, as the father recently had to retire from baseball due to illness. Using the pool for his physical therapy, the father grows healthier, but his cat and children are attacked by something in the pool, not to mention the ghostly apparitions that stalk the family by day and night. They eventually learn the spring was originally a healing spring that required sacrifices, and this time, to satisfy the father's wish for healing, it attempts to claim the life of one of his children.

That's about it for plot, as well as character, which leaves a lot of time and energy for... what, exactly? Certainly not character, and the reasonably likable actors all seem disheartened to be in such a mess of a movie. Presumably atmosphere, effects, and thrills are the focus, then. Spectacle is the name of the game in flicks like this, and actually I didn't hate everything the filmmakers brought to the table in this regard. Charlie Sarroff's cinematography is sometimes really wonderful here, finding visually entrancing moments of terror in a pristine backyard lit from below by a cool blue light only to have the light flicker out. Annoying as they can be, shots from the camera bobbing in and out of the pool at water level -- accompanied by solid sound mixing -- serve to concurrently immerse the viewer and bewilder the viewer; anyone who has ever swum knows that particularly vulnerable position of not being able to see both under and above water while you're in it.

Truth be told, the concept of a natural wishing well is pretty cool, and I would have liked the film to lean into that mystique more. Not in the Stephen King Pet Sematary way of making it an old Native American burial ground, although multiple times during this screening my friend and I wondered aloud if it would go in that direction, a la Poltergeist. Not even really in a "Monkey's Paw" manner. But, in retrospect, there was room for a lot of fascinating ideas around water, baptism, rebirth, therapy, and submersion that could have come into play. Hell, even M. Night Shyamalan's popularly unpopular Lady in the Water (which should be critically reappraised because it's a beautiful dark fantasy years ahead of its time) had more tricks up its sleeve regarding the nature and magic of a swimming pool. 

Instead, we got a film in which the water does nothing except occasionally "swallow" people into a void that visually rips off the "sunken place" in Get Out, slow motion and bright floating rectangle included. That's it for water features. Everything else is blurry bluish ghosts prowling around the pool and house, looking like waterlogged ghosts of J-horror fame as they'd appear in a Pirates of the Caribbean knockoff. The jump scares are mostly predictable and ineffective, though a few potentially fearsome moments had me bracing for the worst, which never really came. Writer and director Bryce McGuire, in his directorial debut, tries to follow formula at every turn, hamstringing his own efforts at realizing what could have been a cool idea of ancient evil, water's revenge, the insatiable nature of, well, nature against modern man.

Alternatively, this could have been equally satisfying if the pool remained a malevolent mystery. What if a suburban pool just ate people? No ghosts, no magic, no wishes. Just occasionally vanished someone from the midst of a pool party. Maybe you'd find a few teeth or jewelry or bone shards in the gurgling filter now and again. I'd have watched that, too. Anything other than what we got.

Migration (2023)

Score: 2 / 5

It has become popular to hate Disney movies -- we've discussed this ad nauseam -- but it's when movies like this pop up that I get back on my high horse to defend the studio's creative output. Migration is one of the only non-Disney animated films I've been eager to see in cinemas in years, and frankly it repelled me. Apart from its stellar voice cast, some pretty animation, and a delightful premise, the film fumbles itself until it founders in terms of plot, dialogue, and theming. If this is the asinine, low-brow kind of material we encourage our children to absorb, our future generations are doomed.

This comes from Illumination Studios, those who created Despicable Me and the prevailing ubiquity of "Minion" characters, which I've thankfully never seen. There is a "Minion" short that unfortunately opens for Migration, and it was a disgusting display of banality I'm ashamed to have witnessed. Hopefully the studio has other, better, material, but if that's its bread and butter, I'd rather starve. By the time this main feature began, I was eager for a palate cleanser. And the first several scenes of Migration were both delightful and charming.

The Mallards are a family of ducks residing in an insular, picturesque New England pond. Patriarch Mack (Kumail Nanjiani) is a nervous worrywart while mother Pam (Elizabeth Banks) has an itch for adventure and spontaneity; their kids Dax and Gwen are largely interchangeable, though the much younger Gwen has a bizarre pseudo-semi-British accent that feels less authentic and more like a shy kid's attempt at overcoming a speech impediment by mimicking cartoons like Peppa Pig. When another family of ducks rests briefly in their pond, Pam and the kids eagerly want to join them on their migration south for the winter. Mack's fears of the dangers in the wide world stop him from joining -- or is it his pride? -- until he is reminded of his inevitable fate by Uncle Dan (Danny DeVito) were he to stay stuck in one place forever. It's all heavy-handed and offers no real stakes, but whimsy is a valid basis for an adventure-comedy, so I was willing to roll with it.

And the plot begins promisingly. One of their first stops en route to Jamaica -- much like the Madagascar frenzy a decade ago, this film is annoyingly eager to capitalize on the iconography of an exotic, tropical island -- is a nearby swamp under the cloud of a dismal storm. There they meet Erin the heron (an endlessly hilarious Carol Kane), who steals the entire film. Erin is homicidal and crazed, much like a Gollum-type, who is always on the verge of eating the young ducklings. I won't spoil the sequence for you here, but it's a truly magnificent bit of swampland haunted house storytelling that I can hardly wait to watch again.

Too bad it's all couched in a movie that, shortly thereafter, reveals just how much hooey it is. The Mallards head the wrong way and end up lost in New York City. Running afoul (sorry, but I'm avoiding bird puns as the lowest of low-hanging fruit) of a flock of pigeons, they meet Chump (Awkwafina playing herself, as usual), a veritable gang leader who gets them connected with a captured parrot named Delroy (an obnoxious Keegan-Michael Key) who knows the way to Jamaica. A lengthy sequence sees the ducks going full Ratatouille in the kitchen of a villainous (and bizarrely animated) chef who keeps Delroy locked up to free the parrot. Things only get weirder from here, including the chef's apparent wealth in chartering a helicopter to hunt the ducks and parrot and being absent from his restaurant for an indeterminate amount of time. There's even a resort for ducks where the Mallards pause to recuperate that is revealed to be a fattening farm for ducks to be sold to this insane and bloodthirsty chef.

Devoid of interest for all but the youngest of children, Migration doesn't even manage to end with any reasonable morals, lessons, or revelations. Not that it should or has to do so, but it's also devoid of developing its own characters or ideas in any meaningful ways. Writer Mike White (of the brilliant The White Lotus, among other, lesser titles) clearly had some clever ideas going into this project, but what churned out could by no standard be described as intelligent or even intelligible. By the finale, I was so checked out of the whole thing I can't even remember how the film ends, apart from the family deciding to be nomads and continue adventuring elsewhere, which makes even the title of this film a point of contention. Sure, the relentless slapstick humor and bright colors will distract kids for its mercifully brief running time, but if I had kids I would not have this on for them, even in the background. 

It's a Wonderful Knife (2023)

Score: 4 / 5

Despite its title, It's a Wonderful Knife successfully won its way onto my yearly holiday watchlist. Part of the new vogue that is teen slasher and poppy comedy in one, this hybrid will lure audiences who want a mindless stabfest relating in some way to the Frank Capra 1946 winter classic It's a Wonderful Life. I confess to enjoy that film less than its made-for-television remake that gender swaps its protagonist and is led by a magnificent Marlo Thomas (1977's It Happened One Christmas). I also confess that I have always considered it more of a New Year's movie than a Christmas one, for whatever that's worth. Regardless, this new twist on the formula lowers the age of every character, does away with familiar names and titles, and modernizes it to the present day. It also adds a serial killer.

Henry Waters is the premier realtor in Angel Falls, aggressively angling to acquire enough land to establish a monopoly on commercial retail. His sole obstacle, revered patriarch Roger Evans, rejects Waters shortly before a masked man in stark white materializes and slits his throat and murders his granddaughter. Winnie Carruthers, resourceful and quick-thinking teenager that she is, both flees and fights the killer before electrocuting him and unmasking Waters himself, now deceased. Note: there's a chilling moment of recognition with Waters, who indicates (as a certain recent American president has) that he could kill someone without scrutiny or penalty.

But this is where things get interesting. Because all this happens before the title card appears. 

The breathless opening sequence effectively sets up the rest of the story, which fans of the source material know all too well. Central to understanding that story is a patient approach to exposition and theme -- namely, the humdrum life of a small town and its busybody citizens -- which isn't necessary nor welcome in the updated spin. Rather, after the title card, our story leaps ahead in time one year, during which time Winnie (Jane Widdop of Yellowjackets) is spiraling in grief and guilt. Her loving family -- led by father David (Joel McHale, handsome as ever) -- is the apple in Angel Falls's eye, but they refuse to talk about the horrors of the previous year or to get Winnie the psychological and emotional help she clearly needs. Winnie gets rejected from college, cheated on by her boyfriend, and still mourns the death of her friend, and so when it all becomes too much one night, she wishes on the Northern Lights that she was never born.

Immediately, the killer reappears and starts cutting people up. Winnie slowly comes to the realization that her wish came true and has to attempt to identify and stop the killer, who we quickly learn is no longer the same man. And this is where I actually fell in love with the film. Director Tyler MacIntyre and writer Michael Kennedy (who also wrote Freaky) pay homage to Capra's classic in countless references and arcs, but they constantly subvert and reverse the things most familiar to us. And while it would have been easiest to simply make the material a bloody fun time, they bake some timely and complex themes and character development into the otherwise delightful pie. If you had told me I'd cry not once but twice in a brief movie of this tenor, I'd have choked on my eggnog.

But I did, and it's that profound sense of heart that makes the film a surprising win. It helps, too, that the gays are numerous in this movie. But the real point of this story is how to deal with grief, especially internalized grief; it's less about the ripple effect we have on others and more about how we find purpose, lose it in doubt and despair, and then reclaim it from the grasp of self-harm and suicide. It's about that internal work, something I'm not sure I've ever really seen a slasher flick explore before. And the screenplay smartly shies away from melodrama, keeping things about as un-Capra-esque as possible. Even when the filmmakers rip him off, as in the finale sequence when Winnie runs down the downtown sidewalk hollering greetings and affection at everyone nearby with her joyful George Bailey born-again-ism. 

The horror elements don't take much of a backseat to all this heavy emotional work, though, which should please genre fans. I found it less bloody than its title suggests, which is fine, though I'd have preferred a bit more on that front, if only for the aesthetic of blood on white snow (and robes). The killer's design is deeply creepy, sleek in all the wrong ways and hinting at a sort of religious piety or avenging angel (again, note the town's pointed name). Unlike many slashers, the characters do fit some expected archetypes, but most are deceptively well-rounded, making them hard to identify as "jock," "geek," etc. Even the few characters the film does label are then relabeled by the film itself, as if it anticipated our criticisms of that. The cast is uniformly delightful, even Justin Long's off-putting antics as the "Mr. Potter" of Angel Falls, and Widdop herself effortlessly combines the George Bailey stand-in with something like a Nancy Drew detective. And to have the whole thing be queer positive and pro-family and spiritually cathartic was the balm of the season for me.

Cobweb (2023)

Score: 3.5 / 5

Eight-year-old Peter is shy and bullied and at risk. Thankfully, his substitute teacher notices and tries to take him under her wing, but his emotionally distant parents put a firm stop to that. With Halloween approaching, Peter -- who many kids but especially queer and neurodivergent kids would relate to -- wants to celebrate and go trick-or-treating, but his parents won't let him. They say a young girl disappeared on Halloween once, and they don't want Peter to be in similar danger. But staying at home hardly seems pleasant with those two demanding, disconnected parental figures. And Peter has been hearing knocking in the wall of his bedroom, taps accompanied by the voice of a young girl, who claims to have been trapped in the walls by Peter's "evil" parents.

Scared yet? You should be. There's not a lot of terribly original material in Samuel Bodin's directorial debut, Cobweb, but it's a fabulously fun time and a suitably spooky addition to anyone's Halloween horror roster. Think something along the lines of The People Under the Stairs and The Babadook and you'll appreciate the heavily stylized horror of this film along with its layers of psychological complexity. We may not talk about Bruno, but this voice in the walls is the stuff of nightmares. The more she sympathizes with Peter and builds rapport with him, the more he acts out and upsets his parents. Then Peter's bullies are brutally attacked by, well, whoever belongs to the voice. Is she his guardian angel, or a monstrous fiend looking to break in to the house?

It doesn't always matter, in this film, as our focus is tightly drawn on Peter (Woody Norman) and his psyche as he weighs the value of the various people in his life. The aptly named Miss Devine (Cleopatra Coleman) tries to help him, but she's repeatedly hindered by his parents Mark and Carol (Antony Starr and Lizzy Caplan) doing their brilliantly understated creepy thing at every turn. Their dynamic makes up the bulk of the film, interspersed with nasty sequences of people getting their comeuppance for interfering in this insular family's affairs. There aren't a ton of jump scares, but the few that exist are inspired and chilling, earned by their raw, low-budget creativity. It helps that Bodin's atmosphere, helped by grim production design and showstopping cinematography by Philip Lozano, is not unlike that within a haunted house. A real one, not a carnival attraction. For the most part.

Its plot is simple even if there always seems to be something happening. The film is an exercise in misdirection; one might think that Hitchcock would have made something like this had he survived this long and gotten a taste for the "maybe supernatural, maybe psychological" horror so popular in recent years. As its title suggests, it's as though the writer (who also wrote the unspeakable 2022 requel Texas Chainsaw Massacre) tossed several ideas onto a web before deciding all the dangly bits made for good ambiance. There's an intentionally off-putting stilt to most of the dialogue, especially from the parents, which makes the proceedings unnerving because it's all so unnatural, and this is a rare occasion when that effect enhances the film rather than detracts from it. By about the halfway point, it becomes clear what's really going on in Peter's house, but by then we're more than ready for the scary showdown we've been promised. And while it won't be to everyone's liking, if you let yourself get on Cobweb's odd wavelength, it'll creep its way under your skin, too.

Pet Sematary: Bloodlines (2023)

Score: 1 / 5

Please let this franchise die. Sometimes dead is better, right?

Mary Lambert's 1989 film adaptation of one of Stephen King's most popular early titles has become, like it or not (though frankly, it's delightful and I have basically no notes), a classic. It even has the iconic theme song. So when the 2019 remake was announced, meant to capitalize on the successes of IT and its ilk, I was pretty excited. Original adaptations of King have their charm, but many were hindered by special effects constraints of the '70s and '80s, to say nothing of soundstages, stoic cameras, and choppy editing. King's most horrifying works tend toward the excessive, the immersive, and the boundary-breaking. We deserve Pennywise through a whirling dervish of a camera, and we deserve the monkey's paw with a bit more bite.

Unfortunately, that film left a lot to be desired, both in its stubborn faithfulness to the original and in its universally acknowledged terrible ending. Faithfulness is good, mind you, but in a remake or prequel you want some insight, explanation, or expansion of the material. We didn't get that in 2019, though it timidly hinted we'd get more information regarding the Mi'kmaq tribe, their burial ground, and the "wendigo" evil that haunts the forest of Ludlow, Maine. Those are the elements fans wanted, not a clumsily reworked pattern of family dissolution in a more palatable way.

Enter Bloodlines, the stupidly titled prequel that takes us back to 1969 for no apparent reason beyond the aesthetics of Vietnam-era rural Americana, a perennial favorite of horror flicks. The story attempts to shed light on the character of Jud Crandall, here dramatized as a teenager (Jackson White) eager to escape his hometown with his girlfriend Norma (Natalie Alyn Lind). Their aim is Michigan, where they want to join the Peace Corps and avoid military service, despite Jud's peers judging him for it. While leaving, Norma is brutalized by a neighbor's dog, a neighbor (Jack Mulhern) who notably just got back from the war and hasn't been acting normally at all. The film's depiction of PTSD is laughably annoying (arguably not unlike several "crazy" horror fiends in '70s movies) until it becomes disappointingly annoying as the neighbor becomes a relentless killer. Sure, the movie claims he's possessed by an evil spirit, but that's only ever clear in the dialogue itself.

A cast that includes Henry Thomas, Pam Grier, and -- I was gobsmacked -- David Duchovny should have meant a good time. They're all hopelessly wasted in roles far below their pedigree. All seem in it only for the paycheck; I'm guessing, from the pathetically low production value, it was either low budget to begin with or what money was budgeted went entirely to those performers (and it still wasn't much). Even the younger performers are grasping at straws here from an underbaked screenplay that does nothing to cultivate the bonds of townsfolk burdened by sour ground and cursed secrets. Even though the boyhood besties get flashbacks to establish shared history, they're weaker moments than you'd find in late seasons of a soap. Worst, though, is the bastardization of the fan-favorite character of Jud, whose personality, voice, and antics don't make sense in this movie and absolutely do not align with the older version of himself we know and love already.

Even watching in a pitch-black room doesn't help the nighttime cinematography, which is largely opaque and inscrutable. The editing is wildly anti-tense, bopping along as if the whole thing were a trailer for a longer, worse movie; it's not even lengthy, but it feels torturously long because there is no suspense or tension to carry us through. The "scares" are basically moments of gore that are so poorly captured, one wonders if the film would have been better to ignore them entirely. The only scene I actually enjoyed was a flashback -- because every prequel should have multiple flashbacks, right? Right? -- to 1674, when settler Ludlow dies while looking for fertile land. He's buried in the "sour ground" and comes back "bad," and the settlers following him apparently make a pact to protect their town from evil spirits who could return. We deserved a hell of a lot more meat to chew on regarding the Wendigo and the Mi'kmaq and the basis of this horror, and even the possibility that the white colonists enhanced or empowered the horror; alternately, we could just leave the story alone, well enough as it is. 

The Iron Claw (2023)

Score: 3 / 5

It's always a matter of time until the next sports biopic hits cinemas, and wrestling is one of the more popular topics. Showmanship often matters as much as sportsmanship in this sub-subgenre, and these qualities are often dramatized in sharp contrast to the sordid or challenging private lives of the athletes themselves. The Iron Claw, a rare sports biopic from A24, is hardly different from the mold in that regard as it chronicles the real life story of the Von Erich family from Texas. By film's end, you'd be hard-pressed to categorize this story as anything other than tragedy, but what's fascinating is that the film itself stubbornly refuses to lean into any defining aesthetic or intrigue in its approach to the Von Erichs. Which ultimately makes the film indistinct and forgettable, seemingly undermining its purpose for existing.

Protagonist Kevin is the oldest of the five living Von Erich sons (his older brother Jack died at the age of six) and recently decorated Texas heavyweight champion. Zac Efron has beefed up almost alarmingly for the role, which he inhabits with a muscular suavity that makes him at times unrecognizable. Kevin is a good man, level-headed and patient, whose greatest joy in life is spending time with his brothers, in the ring or out. It almost makes him miss out on the romance of his life, Pam (Lily James), who is a fan until they marry and she bears his kids. Their interactions are shallow and one-note, sadly, when compared to much more dynamic scenes with the brothers, and you can feel the actors not knowing quite what to do with each other.

Meanwhile, patriarch Fritz is utterly terrifying as played by Holt McCallany, a former professional wrestler who encourages rivalry and conflict between his sons to push them to be higher achievers than they themselves desire. Despite the heartache (and deaths) his behavior causes, McCallany remains similarly stoic and one-note, which would work wonderfully if the other characters weren't also inert. His wife Doris (Maura Tierney) is rendered practically silent, which is a crying shame, though her gravitas is welcome. The film belongs to the four sons included in the screenplay; real-life youngest brother Chris is omitted entirely by the film, which makes no sense whatsoever, since the whole point of their story is their unwittingly toxic family unit and the joys and dangers of fraternal ties. So much for honoring the source material.

The brothers included, however, are wonderfully realized in the capable hands of their performers. Apart from Efron, who does absolutely everything he can with the dialogue, the brothers are rounded out by Jeremy Allen White, Harris Dickinson, and Stanley Simons. White's Kerry is an addict and tends to sabotage himself, though he's palpably better when with his brothers. Dickinson's David is the best on camera and in front of an audience, though he seems to feel bad about upstaging his brothers while deferring to their father's demands. Simons's Mike, the youngest depicted, is a musician and doesn't even want to fight; he's supported in his endeavors by his brothers (especially Kevin), but even their combined willpower cows before that of Fritz. 

Writer and director Sean Durkin (who helmed Martha Marcy May Marlene and The Nest, both similarly dark and brooding features) seems to have woefully misstepped here, though it's hard to pinpoint exactly what went awry. It's not in acting, despite his flatly written characters and thickly melodramatic dialogue. It's not in production design, which seems overwhelmed by its own nostalgia at times when we're forced to linger on bad '80s hair and clothes and the accoutrements of a Texan homestead. It's not in sound or camera, which coalesce into a muted, somber, steamy atmosphere of sweat-slicked bodies that never seem clean and the counterpoints of roaring crowds in dark arenas and family car rides through sun-soaked plains. It's rather a failure of writing, editing, and over-directing. Durkin leans into the feel of the film and sacrifices its tragic meat, forcing the characters into one-note caricatures their actors then desperately scramble to salvage. He also sacrifices meaningful character development in order to push the plot forward and cover more historical ground, which is almost laughable considering Chris's absence.

The Color Purple (2023)

Score: 5 / 5

It's perfect. I rarely say that about movies, but this one is just perfect, from start to finish. Seeing this with my parents on Christmas Day was a perfect way to relax in the middle of the holiday, despite lots -- and I mean lots -- of shed tears. If you haven't seen it yet, drop what you're doing, grab your nearest and dearest, and get to a cinema posthaste!

The 1982 source material is also perfect, to be fair, which is why it has been canonized as a classic already, in addition to Spielberg's awesome adaptation in 1985. When I first heard the soundtrack of the 2005 Broadway musical, I knew it would be great on stage, though never got to see it. Thankfully, director Blitz Bazawule is at the top of his game after The Burial of Kojo and of course Black is King, and his musical sensibilities and unique visual artistry coalesce here into a transcendent work of consummate art. The music informs setting, the characters inform costume, the design informs choreography, theme informs performance, and all elements speak to each other endlessly in what appears to be a harmonious collaboration of artists working toward a single glorious goal. Bazawule knowingly stages each scene like a stage show, films it like a music video, and combines it into a singular vision of rapturous beauty. Movies like this don't happen often. More impressive because this is an epic, a meticulously detailed but vast canvas of life from heaven to hell and back.

Uniformly brilliant performances grace the film, from the hatefully vile male characters like Colman Domingo's Mister and Corey Hawkins's Harpo to the radiant and longsuffering female characters like Danielle Brooks's Sofia and Taraji P. Henson's Shug Avery. Both these women pull no punches (literally), banging down the door and staking claims for best supporting actresses in any film this year. Brooks is the only Broadway alumna (from the acclaimed 2015 revival) to reprise her role apart from headliner Fantasia Barrino (who replaced the original, LaChanze), whose performance as Celie will earn similar accolades. She imbues Celie with everything that makes her such a compelling character, from her childlike innocence to her looks of pure horror as the worst things keep happening to her and she still takes it in stride. Everyone deserves awards here, though, even those who aren't top-billed, like Phylicia Pearl Mpasi and Halle Bailey as young Celie and Nettie, respectively; their heartfelt and harrowing first act of the film provides more than enough emotional and spiritual gravitas for an entire film on their own.

In a story that spans so much time -- an entire lifetime -- screenwriting and editing are crucial, and here they work seemingly effortlessly in tandem to keep the proceedings lively, engaging, and energized. I wasn't always convinced, when another musical number would begin, that it would mesh with the heavy drama that came in scenes before, and yet each time it astonished me by increasing the thematic weight, doubling down on either the comedy or the tragedy, and buttressing the characters and tone I already thought I knew. This is the kind of film that will only add to its boons upon further screenings. Look what God has done, indeed!

Aquaman and the Lost Kingdom (2023)

Score: 3.5 / 5

Apparently this is goodbye to the DCEU, the Snyder-pioneered shared universe of DC superheroes in cinematic features. That makes me sad, as I've very much enjoyed all these movies, perhaps even more because of popular disdain for them (compared to the MCU, which I also love, but which poisoned cultural approach to these franchises). Now with James Gunn taking over, who knows what will come next? I confess here and now that I have never much cared for his aesthetic -- it's amazing and singular, just not always a flavor I prefer -- and so I'm nervous about an entire universe under his artistic control. At least we'll always have the Greg Berlanti/CW Arrowverse and, of course, the already existing films, though I'll forever mourn the untimely ending of Patty Jenkins's Wonder Woman series.

James Wan is back at the helm of Aquaman's latest adventure, in which Jason Momoa's iconic Arthur Curry works to save the planet from a new villain and increasingly devastating climate change (note that the title text appears in a melting glacier). "New" villain may be a stretch, but Yahya Abdul-Mateen II's hunky and brooding Black Manta is a bit different this time, still hell-bent on revenge but now possessed by a demonic spirit from the titular lost (read: "dead") kingdom of Atlantis. The whole escapade is a delightful romp through eye-popping CGI worlds, both underwater and on land, and the fabulous production design, though largely impractical, is wonderfully rendered. But all eyes are on Momoa, and he seems determined to go out with a lot of fun. Especially with Patrick Wilson, who returns as Orm with a dry streak that foils perfectly against the star. They've got an unlikely buddy-bro routine here that is infectiously funny in every scene, perhaps all the more because Orm was the big bad last time. 

Wan and his returning screenwriter, accomplished collaborator David Leslie Johnson-McGoldrick, jump right in to keep things moving immediately, building off what came before and wasting no time getting to the action. The rest of the wonderful cast seems to get a bit less time in this film, which made me a little sad because Nicole Kidman and Temuera Morrison didn't have all that much to do the first time around either; Amber Heard's Mera, a new mother, is clearly cut from most of the film, appearing only a couple times holding their baby in the background, and her limited inclusion is easily the weirdest part of the film, notable mostly due to the awkward editing around her. The entire theming of this film -- its heart, if you will -- is around Arthur and Orm, learning to forgive each other and redeem themselves, finding balance and trust in their brotherly rule of the oceans.

There's not much substance to this, but fans of the first Aquaman should eat it up. It's more of the same, and while I appreciate a director that grows and evolves, it's also nice to capitalize on tried-and-true material. The family/royal melodrama, the slapstick humor, the fabulously inventive worldbuilding and neon-colored CGI, it all makes these films feel something like superhero camp. I mean, seahorses whinny! Wan gets that, he reigns it in only to let 'er rip, and he glories in the excesses he creates. In a movie like the original Justice League from Joss Whedon, these excesses are the result of chaos behind the scenes making the whole thing unwieldy and erratic if fun; in this movie, they come from a place of love and respect of the material and for the fans. Wan knows we just want to see Momoa punching giant bugs with his devilish grin, so he lets us get to that quickly and often.

Wan's knowing nudge-nudges continue on a more literary level as well, though perhaps not as clearly as in the first, which uses lots of Jules Verne as shorthand. Now we get more of the H.P. Lovecraft that was a surprise in the climax of the first film -- though sadly Julie Andrews's Karathen character is absent this go 'round -- especially with the necropolis and demonic creatures that dwell there. More sci-fi comes in the form of the mechanical enemies, which recall the bots from The Matrix movies and tripods from War of the Worlds. Surely other references abound, given Wan's love for genre filmmaking, but the fabulously ridiculous Clash of the Titans vibes of this globe-spanning adventure make it pure entertainment and spectacle, and I had an absolute blast watching it. That said, I also remember precious little of the actual story, which is clearly not ideal, so I look forward to a rewatch soon.

Wonka (2023)

Score: 2 / 5

Few filmmakers could recreate the "Chocolate Factory" source material in a fresh and family-friendly way after what has already been done to it -- and considering the deeply uncomfortable themes it carries -- but Paul King is perhaps the best bet working today. After his work on Paddington and its sequel, and short of a Disney-fied approach, King does indeed gently pry open the possibilities of the material while honoring and challenging what has come before. In his capable hands, this origin story of Willy Wonka takes the form of an original movie musical that flies by in bright colors, wacky performances, and entertaining tunes in two hours of escapism. It's also one of the weirdest and most forgettable movies of the year.

I am a little biased in that I've never liked this story. Roald Dahl is not a writer I appreciate nor enjoy, and the previous cinematic adaptations of this story (1971 and 2005) are not movies I ever actively choose to watch. Thankfully, a lot of the ickier parts of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory have been swept aside here, as Wonka himself becomes the main character as he comes into his own as a business owner. King leans into the magic of Wonka -- I've never really thought of the material as consisting of "magic" in a fantasy sense, so this was off-putting to me -- letting him fly around and do all sorts of impossible things. His edible creations are absurdly concocted, and there is no explanation for his magical potionmaking nor his fantastically contrived briefcase. It seems King's goal here is to turn Wonka into a male version of Mary Poppins, sugar and all.

And that's about the long and short of it. King's control over tone and whimsy is masterful, and the film's exuberant flair is never short of astonishing. The mostly Dickensian backstory for Wonka doesn't do much to give him an actual character, but it allows a spectacular contrast to form between the world as it is and the world as Wonka makes it. In the shockingly brief time it takes him to buy a condemned store and turn it into his first factory -- looking alarmingly like Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes -- we are transported from a mostly brown -and-gray stone-and-wool palette to, well, candy colored confections that do magical and impossible things in real time. In addition to its aggressive production design, costumes and hair are wonderfully eccentric here.

New music -- songs composed by Neil Hannon of the Irish band The Divine Comedy -- is mostly charming in this film, though even after leaving the cinema, I couldn't have even hummed a single tune for you. Not that every musical has to have endless "bops," but it's telling when the Oompa Loompa song and "Pure Imagination" are the heavy hitters now as they were half a century ago. None of the performers are particularly adept singers, which doesn't help. Timothee Chalamet plays Wonka himself, in turns eerily uninterested in the role and horrifyingly enthusiastic, doing a strange balancing act of Wilder's jubilant sociopathy and Depp's innocent predatory qualities while trying to make the character his own. He's not unwatchable, though his singing leaves something to be desired; his voice is too earnest and unpolished for a character who's both a mad magician-scientist and a Dickensian young man trying to escape debtor's prison and the workhouse.

The rest of the cast fares little better. Sally Hawkins is wasted in flashbacks as Wonka's mother, who inspired in him a love of chocolate. Hugh Grant as an Oompa Loompa is the most horrifying and uncomfortable thing I've seen on film all year, and I had nightmares about him, even apart from his nonsensically written role and the disturbing lack of in-film logic about his character, motivation, and narrative. The rest of the cast is essentially split into dual ensembles. The good guys include the terribly named Noodle (Calah Lane, an orphan girl who becomes Wonka's assistant), accountant Abacus (Jim Carter), and other debtors Piper (Natasha Rothwell), Larry, and Lottie. The villains comprise a network of corrupt business folks and officials making sure the monopoly on chocolate is maintained by the wealthy at the top: the Cartel is led by (admittedly delightful) characters played by Paterson Joseph, Matt Lucas, and Mathew Baynton. They are assisted by a chocolate-addict priest (Rowan Atkinson), a similarly corrupt (Keegan-Michael Key, fulfilling Dahl's trope of moral ugliness manifesting in unnatural and unappealing body forms), and the insatiably greedy (and horny) boardinghouse owner Mrs. Scrubitt and her henchman (Olivia Colman and Tom Davis).

It's a fine film, all in all, and a pleasantly diverting two hours. And I don't think there are any "bad jobs" in terms of filmmaking (with the exception of that monstrous Oompa Loompa). So it's odd, maybe, that I disliked Wonka as much as I did. The production design, cinematography, and choreography are annoyingly good; the screenplay, score, and performances feel forced and a bit dissonant. While a few larger themes are introduced -- race is an interesting entry point in terms of casting, but also the class system, indentured servitude, and even briefly colonialism -- but none are brought to fruitful meaning or significance half so much as simply having faith in the impossible, which fairy tales and Disney taught us long ago. By its finale, the film tries hard to tug your heartstrings, but it's such a heavyhanded effort that I started itching to leave the auditorium. Kids will enjoy it, as I imagine will fans of the material. But the lack of earned sentiment or even higher purpose in this production, along with the "too much of a good thing" aesthetic it embraces, made this one rot my gut.