Scoop (2024)

Score: 4 / 5

Much like a courtroom drama, films about journalism require a certain writerly excellence simply by nature of its subject. When your story hinges on the use of language to particular ends, it needs to be written in such a way that its performative creation of the drama is both compelling and revealing, especially through its structure. It might seem obvious that an investigation -- whether that of reporters or of lawyers -- lends itself easily to a screenplay, with various discoveries forcing certain developments in an "a + b = c" manner, but actually writing these takes far more care and forethought than the prevalence of procedural television shows might suggest. So when a feature film about key historic moments that were brought to life through the journalistic efforts of a select few is released, it's really important to take note and pay attention. Especially these days, as reporting and the freedom of speech and of the press have quickly become dangerous hot topics of debate in our politically polarized culture.

Case in point: Scoop, a British production and Netflix release that dramatizes the behind-the-scenes intrigue and lead-up to Prince Andrew's devastating 2019 BBC televised interview. Surely some artistic license is taken in adapting the fairly recent events to screen, but for those of us who generally don't care about the monarchy and were only aware of the interview itself, Scoop fulfills its title in providing us with a richly contextualized backdrop to the bombshell. For example, we consciously know his answers in that interview were laughably weird, but it wasn't until watching this film that the bubble in which the royals live really came into clear distinction. How out of touch with reality would a person have to be to, in self-defense against accusations like that, simply say idiotic and tone-deaf things like "I don't sweat"? Or to end the trainwreck of an interview with "I really nailed that!" Incredible as it was that he thought it went well, it's equally bizarre that he and the entire royal PR team thought it was a good idea at all to go into such an open-ended interview meant to needle perhaps the most shameful and shocking scandal to rock the crown in more than a generation.

The film is as entertaining as it is excoriating, adapted from Sam McAlister's book by Peter Moffat and directed by Philip Martin, though it takes a while to make sense to an outsider. Billie Piper plays McAlister herself, here a junior producer on BBC's Newsnight, desperate to fulfill her primary duty of booking high-profile guests, especially those who are notably hard to get. Recent staffing cuts leave her shaken -- and her streetwise, chic demeanor, which is perceived as less professional and unworthy by her uptight colleagues -- and suddenly she gets a daring idea. Coming across a nine-year-old picture of Prince Andrew and Jeffrey Epstein walking together in Central Park, and knowing full well the dark rumors about their longtime friendship (note that at this point the convicted sex offender was still alive), McAlister shoots her shot by making contact with Amanda Thirsk (Keeley Hawes), the Prince's closest aide. Their negotiations are fraught, neither speaking freely about their aims or making promises about anything, until news of Epstein's death rocks headlines in August of 2019.

Sam pounces, enlisting veteran news anchor and hardlining journalist Emily Maitlis (a chillingly brilliant Gillian Anderson) to do the interview with Prince Andrew (an equally chilling, though in a different way, Rufus Sewell). While Maitlis, whose camera-ready makeup and hair are never less than picture perfect, even as she glides through their office with her leashed whippet, is certainly one of those icy executives who looks down on McAlister, the two women eventually lean on each other, each learning to rely on the strengths of the other to pull off this unique opportunity. The camera loves both actresses, sweeping us along with them through offices, lobbies, and regal halls alike, propelling the film forward just like their hard-hitting footwork (in thigh-high boots and sensible heels, respectively). While depicting the general staff at the BBC as bureaucratic boors might be unnecessary, the focus is on McAlister and her unique way of fulfilling her mandate. The one person (a producer, no less) no one expected to do anything remarkable managed to wrangle the scoop of the decade.

There are some insights into Prince Andrew, which will probably ruffle more feathers than the tightly wound scenes at the BBC. Sewell injects Andrew with an incompetence and cruelty that is almost distracting, playing him even in private moments as an overgrown kid, a schoolyard bully who only ever craves his own mummy's approval and can hardly relate to other adults apart from puffing up his charisma and letting his title do the work for him. Rumors of working for him reach a blistering head when, in one scene, he angrily chastises a poor maid, and Sewell's delivery (with a keen, uncanny reproduction of Andrew's voice) makes the proceedings feel like we're seeing a reality we were never meant to witness.

Andrew's irritation and general bewilderment is most apparent by the time he enters his now-infamous interview. While he tempers his blatant superiority in the room, devolving to something like a bad kid pretending to be nice during a parent-teacher conference, his simple confusion about why "this whole Epstein business" even matters is damning enough. The film dramatizes the whole interview, more or less, with the heightened mise-en-scene, patiently absorbing cinematography, and unbelievably tense performances perfectly recreating the real life event. While I was at first annoyed with the cutting edits to the folks behind the scenes, this technique too fulfills the promise of this film's title, providing us some insight into the BBC personnel being actively gobsmacked by the Prince's words and into his steely-faced staff, who don't seem to realize what a mess they've unleashed.

Some may question the purpose of a film like this, making the most out of recent history we all remember a little too clearly. My personal interest stems from not having known the context of the interview, and I suspect that will provide enough interest to most. But even those familiar with what happened will surely appreciate the female-led behind-the-scenes journalism, the details of inner BBC workings, the fraught nature of dealing with Buckingham Palace, and especially the film's chilling reminder that despite what the world says and jokes about Epstein and even Andrew, our focus should always be on the teenage girls who were so violated by evil men with money and power. Given where we as Americans are right now, with a former president currently on criminal trial for fraud and corruption, we would all do well to attend to recent stories of the elite preying on the vulnerable and getting away with it for far too long.

Out of Darkness (2024)

Score: 3.5 / 5

After several years in the festival circuit and international releases, Out of Darkness is finally available for US audiences! The Scottish production was filmed on location during the height of pandemic lockdowns and the experience of watching it forces remembrance of the isolated frisson many of us felt at that time. But this adventure thriller is far from 2024; in fact, it's set some 45,000 years in the past, what its creators suggest may be the first Paleolithic horror film. It's about as sparse as a film can be in terms of character, plot, and setting. Much like Roland Emmerich's 10,000 BC (a personal guilty pleasure if ever there was one), this allows a sharper focus on atmosphere, action, and spectacle. What's not to enjoy?

The film starts with six early humans arriving on an unknown shoreline looking for a better life. Its leader Adem and his pregnant mate Ave (aptly named, no?), his younger brother Geirr and young son Heron, and two tagalongs in the form of a stray young woman called Beyah and an old man named Odal. Around a campfire, they listen to Odal's oral histories and lessons, much as we are gathering close to our lit screens to witness their own story. All their dialogue is in a language called Tola, invented by a linguist and archaeologist based on their research; it's a cool note, though perhaps unnecessary given the scope of the film as a whole.

Odal tries to scare Heron with a story about demons before Adem, a practical and pragmatic leader, emphatically declares that there are no demons. But as they approach the nearby mountains in search of shelter, a mysterious entity stalks them and snatches away Heron in the dead of night. As if the prehistoric terrain wasn't treacherous enough, now they must indeed contend with some malevolent force in the wastes around them. Adem takes it upon himself to rescue his son, charging into the darkness and leading the others in a mad frenzy before they become lost. When Adem returns badly wounded, they know their days are numbered unless they can identify and fend off their predator.

For a story that could have been taken a lot of different ways artistically and thematically, this one plays things simply. Its straightforward delivery, with apparently all practical effects and a strong sense of integrity regarding its characters, slyly cuts out any potential excesses. Hardly a moment is wasted, making its strictly action-oriented plot nearly devoid of emotional attachment on our part. Or on the parts of the characters, who are so determined to survive intact they'll turn on each other in a moment if they think it will help them survive. The icy cinematography and bleak landscapes captured therein cast a chilling pall over the proceedings that seeps out of the screen and under your skin. Even the layers of fur and leather worn by the characters -- so bulky they are sometimes indistinguishable, much less discernible by any perceived sexual characteristics -- don't seem to be insulating as much as simply protective from the wilderness.

Like many fictional stories of survivors in a strange place, this one features shifting alliances and attempts at individualism that don't usually end well; using each other as bargaining tools and scapegoats works much better when you actually know what or who your real enemy is. The actors thread these needles remarkably well, perhaps too well considering the threadbare screenplay to which they are clearly committed; their physicality alone could make the case that this film should probably have been devoid of dialogue altogether. Then again, there are some especially effective, chilling moments that worked faster (if not better) because of their dialogue, such as when Odal decides it is Beyah's menstrual cycle that is luring the demon to them. Even in moments like these, the characters feel somehow out of time, beyond the reach of much contemporary influence, which is a fabulous feat in our recently-post-Roe v Wade climate.

Its finale will starkly divide audiences, I expect, half of whom would prefer something akin to a Stone Age Blair Witch Project and the other half no doubt hoping for some kind of bleak epic a la Apocalypto or The Northman. It is, ultimately, neither of those things. I won't spoil the ending here except to say it's much sadder and more grounded in reality than anything I was expecting, a sort of parable about human violence and desperation for survival in the face of existentially threatening evolution. Regardless of your mileage in the finale and denouement, Out of Darkness casts an undeniably chilling spell on its audience if you allow yourself to get on its wavelength. And with this score, cinematography, and acting, it's hard not to relish the shadowy world beckoning to us beyond the campfire's glow.

Damsel (2024)

Score: 1.5 / 5

What in the made-for-television hooey is this? The era of exciting feminist reclamation sorely missteps with Damsel, a bizarre attempt at a twisted typical fantasy trope. Opening narration spoils the whole thing, letting us know explicitly that there will be a damsel, she'll be in distress, and she'll be rescuing herself, thank you very much. But the overwrought and annoyingly vague story, here, makes this entire exercise less an empowering cinematic experience than a mildly diverting bedtime story that could have been written on any free fanfiction website. Worse, it's far less than the sum of its parts, a glaring problem that constantly reminds us of its own inadequacies.

Titular protagonist Elodie, played by Millie Bobby Brown (who really should take some acting classes to branch out of her Winona Ryder-esque range of moody adolescent indignation), accepts an invitation to marry the prince of a faraway land called Aurea. Seemingly doing so to help her impoverished, unnamed snowy home -- where they sell drapes for food, a plot hole I will never understand -- Elodie and her family travel to the warmer, wealthier Aurea; her father (Ray Winstone) and mother (Angela Bassett) are woefully wasted characters who serve no real purpose, while Elodie's younger sister Floria (Brooke Carter) will prove the damsel in distress in the film's long-coming second act. Upon their arrival, Elodie and her betrothed charming Prince Henry (a clearly bored Nick Robinson) are cool towards each other, though they soon enough warm to the idea. Meanwhile, his mother, Queen Isabelle (a reliably icy Robin Wright) outright rejects the friendship of her new in-laws under the guise of matriarchal rule.

While the production design and wardrobe feel like a feast for the eyes, it also feels unmoored and uninspired throughout the film. Dodgy CGI and green screen settings are the name of the game in this fantasy romp, and multiple times this film felt visually like it belonged in television shows from the last decade (I thought of Once Upon a Time and Merlin, among others, more than once). That's not necessarily a bad thing, but for a film like this to be taken at all seriously -- which it patently desperately desires -- you can't have this cartoonish quality framing your action or drama. Director Juan Carols Fresnadillo (whose filmography is interesting but wildly unfit for this kind of project) doesn't seem to have purposeful understanding of how to present this material to any audience, let alone the Netflix crowd. Even thematically, the film makes far more suggestions than it ever satisfies: early, as Elodie is being fitted into her bridal gown, it's not a Cinderella moment of rags-to-glam, but this intriguing divergence from expectations is never explored beyond her own eventual gumption in fighting back.

The film dramatically shifts when, during a weird post-marital ceremony on a stone bridge above a cavernous abyss, the two newlyweds share their blood (it's not sex, unless you read a LOT into Grimms' fairytales) and Henry casts Elodie into the pit. She's the latest in a long string of female victims sacrificed to an enormous dragon in the cave for, apparently, centuries: an ancestral king of Aurea killed the dragon's babies and so the dragon seeks eternal recompense in the form of virginal descendants of his line in return for not destroying the kingdom. Despite this elaborate and unnecessary setup (there is a prologue of sorts that dramatizes this inciting incident, revisited by flashbacks anon), the film does not teeter further into fantasy at this point, rather engaging its action sensibilities as Elodie runs and ducks and hides in the labyrinthine caverns while being stalked by the dragon.

The dragon itself is well-designed and mostly well-animated, voiced with breathtaking skill by Shohreh Aghdashloo, whose smokey resonance gravelly brings the beast to life. She's not to be trifled with, and her predatory menace is the only thing that makes this film worth watching. Oddly, the film is structured in such a way that, once the monarchy's ruse is revealed, we are made to feel sorry for the dragon, a bizarre sensation that never amounts to much. Attempting to distract from the dragon is Elodie, though, tearing her dress apart to fashion tools and weapons while looking suspiciously stylish in a tattered sort of way. Her antics lead her to a wall of names of previous (deceased) princesses, who clearly had time and energy to sign their Jane Hancocks for no apparent reason; she also discovers a cave of glowing worms who light her path and also heal her wounds. Because nothing says incompetent screenwriting like multiple deus ex machinas less than halfway through your story! Not to mention the entire premise, which simply does not follow: the king of old killed three dragon eggs, but the dragon has now killed dozens (if not hundreds) of maidens?

For most of its middle section, the film grinds on more like a video game, as Elodie works and tries and fails and tries again to escape the cave, defeat the dragon, retain her health, etc. She is grimly determined and badass in the manner of a Tomb Raider type character who is neither prepared nor trained for this, making the whole thing increasingly unbelievable and utterly devoid of stakes. Other characters start popping into the cave, which allows more action and death at the cost of further absurdity and narrative gimmicks. Add to all that the finale's tired final message of sisterhood above all and healing the enemy to foster alliance, and the whole house of cards comes tumbling down. A reasonably competent film -- even one as far-fetched and often outright laughable as this -- can't always overcome a story without enough inspiration, craft, or nerve to follow through on any of its potential intrigues (mind you, this was penned by Dan Mazeau, whose only other feature writing credits are the criminally badly written Wrath of the Titans and Fast X), and this one simply tries too hard to be something it never takes the effort to define for itself.

P.S.: Since simply bashing isn't as helpful or thoughtful as I try to be, I'll note as a final thought my idea for a better film. Reformat the story as a medieval horror film, shot on location in a crumbling Carpathian castle. Increase the "weird fantasy" elements -- a la Gretel & Hansel but with more gritty action -- and dress it all with creepy, dark Gothic style a la The Castle of Otranto, considering the adolescent sexuality and bloodsharing and political angling inherent in its conceit. We wouldn't have even needed a dragon; use Aghdashloo's presence as a witch or spirit of the forest or even a stupid cave, a presence of malice playing with young girls swept into this world they don't know or understand their own significance in. Rewrite it as a real feminist existential horror story so that Elodie coming into her own to burn down the monarchy (literally) actually feels earned. That way, too, its derivative basis (clearly meant to be something like Andromeda being fed to the Kraken) would be sidestepped and it could actually be a novel piece. Hell, even a Gothic thriller about a queen trying manipulate three girls into marrying her son at the same time to satiate a monster or curse or bloodthirsty mob would have been more interesting than anything Damsel has to offer.

The First Omen (2024)

Score: 4.5 / 5

Rarely have I been so gobsmacked. If you had told me that in spring 2024 -- less than a month apart -- we'd get two supernatural Catholic horror films, I'd have added it to my bingo card. If you had told me they'd both be essentially the same story but designed and presented in radically different ways, I'd have laughed at you. If you had told me one of them would be a prequel to the 1976 classic The Omen, I'd have called you crazy and called for backup. That film, somewhat overshadowed in cultural memory by The Exorcist and Rosemary's Baby, launched three sequels best left ignored and one 2006 remake that I actually quite like (there's nothing wrong with a simple, straightforward remake done with updated filmmaking techniques and a new cast). There was also a fabulous 2016 sequel series on A&E entitled Damien that sadly lasted only one season before cancellation. But a standalone film prequel so long after all those efforts to revitalize the franchise? And one that, perhaps most shockingly, is intensely faithful to the original and its aesthetic while also setting itself up as a formidable and accomplished production on its own merit? Again, I am still gobsmacked.

For those interested in its contemporaries, we'll talk a bit about Immaculate right away. The ground each film covers is roughly the same: a young, new nun joins an Italian convent only to witness abuse and supernatural scares before discovering a conspiracy to create an Antichrist centered on her. But, even apart from the wider context of meaning associated with The First Omen, the former seems interested in paying homage to giallo and nunsploitation while the latter -- still trafficking in the same material -- feels visually and aurally rooted in the '70s. The differing aesthetics manifest differently, of course, and while both films are disturbing and frightening, Immaculate relies a bit harder on conventional jump scares to unnerve and delight its audience. The First Omen, conversely, attempts to earn its scares in a more original way, pushing a darker agenda and seeking the kind of brazen novelty that makes the scares in the original film so memorable. My point of divergence between the two films comes at the climax and finale of each: The First Omen, by nature of what it is, has to blend into the opening of the 1976 film (which it does!), whereas Immaculate is free to bring its insane story to its full potential, culminating in one of the most shocking and empowering and liberating endings of an original horror movie I've seen in a long time.

Taken on its own, The First Omen gets a lot right, even with its somewhat prescribed plot (the typical danger of prequels). Director Arkasha Stevenson's feature debut is a love letter to the original film, honoring it through references and homages to the likes of Gregory Peck, of course, but also through its unnerving tone and emotional vibes. Its strong visual stylizations (featuring appropriately grandiose cinematography by Aaron Morton -- No One Will Save You and 2013's Evil Dead -- and some really slick editing) feature dizzying aerial views of Rome accompanied by wailing operatic music (the music by Mark Korven of The Witch and The Lighthouse is notably strong here, which is crucial considering the original film's landmark soundtrack by Jerry Goldsmith). There's a purposeful, melancholic, almost lamenting energy to this film, helped by the moaning music and somewhat '70s-tinged camera with earthy colors, emphasizing the serious tone of this story in ways that we don't see a lot anymore; consider the funhouse, Gothic, even camp atmosphere of recent religious horrors like The Pope's Exorcist and The Nun. This is most decidedly not that.

Important to this distinction is this film's focus on earned drama with deadly stakes more than on scares. Its uniformly great cast, led by an astonishing Nell Tiger Free (of M. Night Shyamalan's series Servant) as the novitiate Margaret and featuring Bill Nighy and Ralph Ineson, leans into the physicality of this film, carving out fascinating and always slightly original reactions to the otherwise predictable ooga-booga. The abbess (Sonia Braga) is less bitchy and more coldly matter-of-fact than we might expect, there is a priest who seems pretty gay (Father Gay-briel, if you please) and a cardinal whose kindly demeanor offers no hint of malice, and even the nuns in general are much less strict than we typically see. She befriends a mentally ill orphan only a bit younger than herself named Carlita (newcomer Nicole Sorace in a powerhouse performance) who is far more important than we might at first suppose.

There is a lot here to talk about for fans of the original, and this is the kind of prequel that makes you immediately want to go home and pop in the original to continue the story. Doing so would only heighten both films, as this feels like an aesthetic companion piece that also deepens our understanding of the plot of the original while emphasizing certain thematic conceits that were present in the original if not fully explored. Moreover, like Immaculate, this film seems eager to pounce on contemporary American anxieties about women's bodily autonomy -- especially in a religious context -- in the wake of Roe v. Wade's overrule. Underlining the hypocrisy of religion, especially Catholic traditions, doesn't end there, bleeding as it does into the plot itself: the conspiracy at work in this convent is unique in its aims and shockingly believable in today's political games. An institution perverting its own purpose to gain adherents and clout? Through fear? Yeah, this one hits a little close to home. Not bad for a late-in-coming prequel set in the '70s with a whole lot more on its mind.

Monkey Man (2024)

Score: 5 / 5

Dev Patel for the win! The longtime personal heartthrob and masterful actor makes his debut as writer, producer, and director of one of the best films of 2024 (yes, it's already on my list), bursting with vibrancy and passion the likes of which we rarely see from a newbie. Especially in an action film. This muscly, daring, endlessly novel film is less a viewing pleasure than a visceral experience, one apparently shared by its suddenly blooming auteur who shed blood and broke multiple bones to get this labor of love crafted the way he wanted it. Thank goodness for Jordan Peele, who saw it and purchased it from Netflix, knowing full well it needed to be seen on the silver screen rather than direct to streaming. And he was more than right. There is something synergistic between the tribulations Patel underwent to create his film and the trials of the titular character -- between craft and substance, that is -- that makes your appreciation of both pale in comparison to the sheer brutal effect of both once Monkey Man enters your eyeballs.

A consummate myth, the story uses the legend of Hanuman as its impetus and its goal as it dramatizes the life of a man who becomes his own god. Patel plays our protagonist, the eponymous POV of this film, never named but using several names in the film, credited as "Kid," who scrappily fights for money most nights, making more when he bleeds to satiate the voracious crowds and their bets. You'd never know it's him in daylight, though, because in the ring he dons a gorilla mask, and on the urban streets he barely speaks a word. Only his haunted, intense visage indicates his character, which seems driven by terrible purpose; that and, important to note, his horribly scarred hands, which he tends to keep under wrap. Most of the film takes place at night in its fictional Indian city of Yatana, and it's under cover of night the kid seems most comfortable and powerful.

He's not well-off, and the first half (or so) of the film follows him closely as he wheedles his way into a serving job working at an exclusive club and brothel run by Queenie Kapoor. I say "wheedles," but really it's through thievery of a kind even the Disney prince Aladdin or the Dickensian Artful Dodger might envy. Once in, the kid hones in on key power players, namely the chief of police Rana Singh, and angles his way closer. Certain other characters begin to show up more regularly, and it is quickly apparent that the kid has calculated, cultivated knowledge of what he's getting into and why and how best to advance his mysterious goals. A large part of the movie is essentially Patel carrying us and the narrative through an alien world of street urchins and sleazy elitists on an unfamiliar and enigmatic path, and it's through sheer charisma and intensity that it not only works but sweeps us up in his schemes.

Each of what becomes its three acts (this may be debatable) is stylized slightly differently, though most of the film is presented with a somewhat shaky handheld camera, often revolving disarmingly closely to Patel's body. The first act could be a reimagining of the Bourne series, a gritty, grimy frill-less affair designed to pull us in and repel us at the same time, stripping the veneer of respectability or conventionality. The second act -- if you accept my reading -- allows that rising action to explode in one of what are essentially two major action setpieces; then, as things crash around the kid, he is rescued by the most unlikely (and apparently unlikable, socially) people group you can imagine as he recuperates and restrategizes. The final act finally reveals the inciting incident, the tragic history of the kid as it pertains to his current terrible purpose, before launching him into the second major action setpiece and climax of violence both physically and emotionally. Each act features slightly differentiated cinematography, sound design, lighting, and acting, starting with hyperrealism and moving toward something more operatic in style. It's a masterclass in direction, one that should and will be studied for years to come.

Many will say it's John Wick in Mumbai, and while that's the easiest way to sell it to its likely intended audience, some might be disappointed by a comparative lack of action. Most of the film works because of its white-knuckle grip on suspense, but of an unusual kind: Hitchcockian suspense involves us knowing more than the characters as we wait anxiously for them to catch up, while the suspense here is that the kid knows everything he's about and about to do while we desperately grasp for reason and rationale. Granted, it's not exactly the most complex mystery, and some may be underwhelmed by the simplicity of the big reveal, but if you let its emotional resonance guide you -- rather than trying to "figure it out" in advance -- you'll weep multiple times before the film's final blackout.

And Patel knows this, which is probably why he injects so much blood into the film. Literally. While John Wick and Atomic Blonde offer finesse and unusually effective aesthetic styles with long, unbroken takes and icy palettes, Monkey Man strips its shirt and goes in for raw brutality unlike most of what we see these days. Every punch shudders through expertly calibrated sound editing so that you feel it, and while bones break and blood spurts, you can't look away by sheer virtue of its oddly improvised feeling. While it's clearly choreographed within an inch of its life, it never once feels that way; it feels, rather, like we're seeing things we should absolutely not be seeing, especially at such flinchingly close range. While the narrative at large may be somewhat predictable, the moment-to-moment choices are absolutely impossible to foresee, helped by camera work that makes us feel like we're there and by editing that knows exactly when to look away: after the worst has just happened, each time.

This is already going longer than I intended, and I'm only skimming the surface of this film. Its mythological elements -- mostly in the beginning and end, though reinvigorated at the start of the third act -- add unique flavor and gravitas that eventually coalesce into significant thematic import (though I do kind of wonder what might have happened had Patel leaned into a visual representation of those primate themes, a la Black Swan or the recent Love Lies Bleeding; if you know, you know). The film's neo-noir elements, which didn't really become clear to me until the grand narrative structure of revenge, writ large, became obvious, provide a sense of desperation and nihilism to this world of exploitation and crime and evil men consolidating power. It's clear, too, that Patel is trying to make keen sociopolitical commentary as well, exquisite and richly detailed in specificity even as its scope consistently, increasingly expands to include nationalist parties, transgender temples, and womanly autonomy and agency in a world run by wealthy men. 

With so much in a single film that generally neglects to verbally express itself, I confess some minor frustration with not quite being able to appreciate everything going on. Obvious political and social commentary must be rooted in reality in ways that I, as a white Westerner, simply won't get. I look forward to rewatching the film with subtitles, to be sure, and to read analyses by people who know more about Indian castes and Hindu faiths and more. But those are "me" problems, not Patel problems, and anyone who can't at least grasp some of what he's doing and make it relatable to themselves is simply not putting in any work. Cinematically, the only issue I had with the entire film was Patel's repeated use of flashbacks, which I found too numerous and frequent, though an argument could be made that for a character of so few words, those flashbacks are some of our only hints into his internal character, so they're easy enough to forgive. Especially since they allow you brief moments to breathe in this roller coaster of a thrill ride.

Shirley (2024)

Score: 2.5 / 5

Little is more disappointing than a group of amazing artists getting together to tell a story -- one far too long in coming -- and having it fall devastatingly flat. The story of Shirley Chisholm should have been represented cinematically ages ago; while I confess most of what I know about her comes from my U.S. history and civics classes in high school, the first Black woman to be elected to Congress and to campaign as a major party presidential candidate deserves more popular awareness than that. As such, I entered this film with more a mind to learn about the historical figure and her historic campaign than I did to appreciate it as a film. And while it suitably held my interest in that regard, this film -- annoying titled simply Shirley, which does it absolutely no favors -- is as dry as those textbook pages I pored over back when I was learning to drive.

John Ridley, writer and director of this Netflix biopic, is no stranger to relentlessly engaging material. Most famous for his Oscar-winning screenplay for 12 Years a Slave, Ridley also created, produced, penned, and directed much of American Crime, one of the best shows ever aired on network television, in my loud and proud opinion. So what struck me as most unforgivable, from him, in this latest project is how sanitized, simple, and stoic his approach is to such a groundbreaking, galvanizing person. 

Thankfully, Regina King is the primary reason for this film's watchability; she might be the only reason, unless you, like me, wanted a history lesson in two hours. Opening the film with Chisholm's victorious entrance in Congress, her Black womanhood stands out in a large group picture of the new congressional class, and she proudly holds her own in a sea of mostly white men, deflecting microaggressions (and straight-up aggressions) with confident, proud respect and nary a moment of hesitation or worry. At one point, she even says that humility is its own form of arrogance, and that's a profound insight from a character largely stripped of actual dramatic heft in context of this film. She's earned her position, she knows it, and she's going to continue breaking barriers. Not in spite of her sex or race, but emphatically because of them. I like the ideas here, but it looks terrible from a cinematic perspective. The greenscreen is obvious and garish, and the cinematography feels like something out of the period after a low-budget remastering, everything fuzzy and faded.

Unfortunately, we skip the intrigue of any of this time in her life, jumping ahead from 1968 to her presidential campaign in 1972. Clearly this is the point of the film, and more than once I had to wonder why; wouldn't it be more dramatically satisfying to see the story of her success rather than of her failure? Or, more ambitiously, a miniseries that actually charts the course of her entire political career? As it is, we're made to endure a subpar mishmash of political-business speak and largely writ characterizations that offers far more flavor of the period depicted than any substantial meat regarding history or the real people here dramatized. Perhaps my disdain stems partly from Netflix's other recent biopics that were rolled out in the height of awards season, notably Rustin (to which this will inevitably be compared), and how "too little too late" this one feels. 

Shirley features no real concept of the political process, and no shared understanding of how campaigns operate financially, politically, or socially. Characters make bizarre and repeated use of "delegates" as an idea more like trading cards or cryptocurrency, where neither we nor the characters seem to grasp what actually happens with them other than vague claiming and taking and giving. The film rolls on without caring for its characters (other than Chisholm), moving from scene to scene in what feels like check marks on a bulleted list of key points to hit, sacrificing at every turn character development for exposition dumping, interpersonal nuance for forced "big picture" moments, and real historical or political insight for all the details a kid's school report could offer. Even moments that should be showstoppers, like the assassination attempt on her, are glided over with all the grace of a ball rolling across the court; the closest we get to real intrigue in the whole film is when Shirley finally meets the leader of the Black Panthers on "neutral ground" in the home of actress Diahann Carroll (Amirah Vann, who is delicious), a meeting brokered by Barbara Lee (who appears in the film only to parrot Chisholm's ideas in the background, despite that she is currently -- I think -- the longest-serving Black woman in Congress), and the scene is really uniquely terrible, even from a storytelling standpoint. "She looks like an angel, but she fights like the devil for civil rights." I mean, really? John Ridley, what are you doing?

Even more damagingly for us: it's never made clear exactly what Chisholm could or would do with her power if elected; her actual platform, glaringly ignored by this film, and even her personal goals in pursuing elected office are treated as immaterial. In fact, one of the only points I distinctly recall her making in this film is her interest in inner city politics, but even that is about the scope and breadth of it as presented to us by the screenplay. In this way, and forgive me for overstepping but I don't forgive the film for ignoring, Shirley oddly seems to posit that Chisholm's identity alone is her reason, goal, drive, and endgame for seeking the presidency. In an era (meaning 2024, not 1972) when talk of identity politics is somewhat dying down as the American political system is actively morphing into something new and unknown, why on earth would A-list filmmakers want to make a movie about someone with real, tangible political history (whose known catchphrase "unbought and unbossed" indicated her lack of major donors or corporate backings to influence her, something which would be amazing to be reminded of and see directly right now, meaning 2024) and sanitize all of that out of it, choosing instead to lionize her otherwise artistically barren legacy as one of identity politics above all?

King is incredible, of course, and I liked most Chisholm's private scenes with her husband (Michael Cherrie) and advisors, played by Terrence Howard, Brian Stokes Mitchell, and the late Lance Reddick (who appears here in what I think is finally his final filmed role). The way she navigates their support and occasional challenges is fascinating and inspiring, though her dominance over her husband is more telling than even I expected in a film this watered down. There's even multiple hints of her resentful sister, who is never elaborated upon, beyond a vague accusation that their father loved Shirley best and left her more money. Oh, and Lucas Hedges joins the team as its optimistic and energetic white young man whose studies in law are helping keep the campaign in touch with new voters. I also found the scenes of Chisholm with citizens to be interesting and I'd have liked more exploration of that; it's clear she knows people and how to engage with them, and that she fully believes in a real democratic government for and by the average polity, whom she treats like real people with real needs. This film would have done better to treat her like a real person, too. 

As an addendum, and because I feel bad for so many criticisms here, I'd like to share what I think would have made a better story. Make it a miniseries (even four episodes would suffice) that charts Chisholm's political career, allows us more insight into her as a person, and most importantly engages with the political processes of the time. Give us the knowledge of how delegates are handled by campaigners. Give us actual, substantial scenes of infighting at the Black caucuses and with members of Congress. Give us more about the people who join the process, fall off, compete, and offer support again. Give us more about her suing the network for air time and more of her interview. Give a reference to the fact that Chisholm was not the first Black woman to run for president (that was the Communist, Charlene Mitchell, in '68, where the film started anyway!). Give us reasons to care for these characters and the history they represent so that we want to know more, not just feel like we learned enough to pass the next pop quiz.

Society of the Snow (2024)

Score: 4 / 5

An extraordinary story, perhaps made more ordinary by its mass public circulation in various media, this dramatization of the Uruguayan crash in the Andes reminds us not only of the raw power of disaster storytelling but of the profoundly human crisis of man against nature. Movies like this don't come along often -- not ones based on real life, anyway -- and they are riddled with potential pitfalls. The emotional buildup, the disaster itself, efforts of survival that lead to more death, ramped-up melodrama, a brave action, and finally some heroic/tragic climax that leads to rescue or escape; it all starts to feel predetermined, a gimmick playing on our pathos. Not so in Society of the Snow, Spain's submission to the most recent Academy Awards, which follows the story with striking attention to the emotionality of existentialism.

After some introductory scenes of a Uruguayan rugby team on the field, the film gathers them together on a plane chartered to take them across the Andes Mountains to Santiago, Chile, for their next game. Accompanied by family, friends, and fans, the team mostly comprises twenty- and thirty-something-year-old men, all eager for their next big win. Note that their club name is the "Old Christians," a historical fact that research might reveal as integral to their personal ideologies but that this film immediately identifies, perhaps as a clue to its eventual impact. But their ill-fated trip is dramatized in highly spectacular fashion shortly after this rote introduction, and less than thirty minutes into the film, I was glued to my seat.

J.A. Bayona, in his typically visionary way, spectacularly dramatizes the infamous crash of Uruguayan Air Force Flight 571 in one of the most arresting and wrenching plane crashes I've ever seen on film. Since 9/11 especially, plane crashes have entered cinematic consciousness with increased horror (consider the differences in thrills between Air Force One and, for example, Flightplan or Red Eye), and even on television, as Lost so devastatingly demonstrated in 2004. Bayona's project climbs right up near the top of the list, perhaps only overshadowed by the impossibly intense United 93 from 2006. In a terrifying early climax, the plane is shoved too low by conflicting air pressure before it can summit a mountain pass, getting bisected by a rocky outcropping as its tail end free falls on one side of the range and its front half slides violently down a glacier on the other side. More than a dozen people were killed in the initial crash, including one who survived a free fall out the tail end but died from exposure in the deep snow and thin air.

Out of the original 45 people aboard, 16 would ultimately survive the entire ordeal, once they are rescued 72 days later. It's an astonishing story, one that in no small way requires heavy consideration of what constitutes a tragedy and what constitutes a miracle. Again, this is where the film's real interest -- at least for this viewer -- lies: somewhere between the tragic and the miraculous lies doubt and faith in tandem, something that forces us all into active participation as we witness the survivors attempting to continue surviving despite terrible odds. Not insurmountable odds, the film reminds us, as it is summer in the southern hemisphere at this time; as with most disaster films, this one blasts us with information about how the characters are both helped and hindered in their survival. So while they aren't as in danger of freezing as they would be in winter, and can even collect water from melting snow, they are also subject to problems like a late-in-film avalanche that comes out of nowhere and nearly buries them all.

With no climbing gear or even much weather-appropriate attire, the survivors of the initial crash have to resort to relatively primitive measures to stay alive, crafting makeshift splints and the like to tend to their injuries, urinating on each other for warmth, and gnawing on the leather of plane seats to try and absorb nutrients. When all else fails, they resort to eating the frozen corpses of those who had died. Of course, this cannibalism added a certain nasty sensationalism to the story, historically, and Bayona and his writers work hard to sidestep that, turning what could be a moment of graphic horror into something profoundly moving and even religious. The characters, mostly Catholic, explicitly compare the sacrifice of their fallen friends to the Eucharist, saying that God has indeed provided for them, and that greater love hath none than this.

It would be tempting -- and easy, in our current cinematic market -- to make this film a thrill ride, a disaster story of roller coaster proportions. It would be easy to center the film on a single survivor (such as one of the brave two who eventually hike off the mountain and find help after a week in the wild) and experience the whole ordeal through his limited perspective, immersing us in a man-over-nature narrative. But Bayona and his team avoid these methods and strive for something that honors the characters and honors the intelligence of his audience: he gives us an ensemble film that collectivizes the characters from a wide lens, making us care about them all equally and asking us to listen to all their perspectives in context of each other. So when some ideas are raised about various survival techniques, there is no obvious answer to us, just as there weren't to the real survivors; when someone dies, we feel a communal loss more than a heartstring-tugging attempt at heightened dramatics.

As a consequence, we don't really get to know many of the characters beyond their names and a few basic characteristics, frankly most of which escaped me by film's end. And while that will certainly bother some audiences, I actually found it liberating in a way, because these people weren't heroes. They were average athletes and fans and friends, some of whom resorted to heroic measures to survive, of course, but none of whom was singlehandedly meant to be a leader or savior. As much as the film tries to identify the characters by name via dialogue, more memorable are the lists of names of characters who have died, presented in onscreen text often along notations of how many days have elapsed since the crash. It's a study in the sublime, a strangely beautiful and haunting story that rings more true the more you consider yourself in the picture, awash in a wasteland of white, hoping for rescue when what is needed is an intentional effort of agency. God helps those who help themselves, no?

Late Night with the Devil (2024)

Score: 3.5 / 5

Transporting us immediately to Halloween night, 1977, a documentary introduces us to a fourth national network (as opposed to the three that then aired) featuring its late night host Jack Delroy, whose variety talkshow Night Owls has never quite held a candle to the reigning king Johnny Carson. It's sweeps week, and Jack and his greedy producers are desperate for major Nielsen ratings so they can finally put a jewel in their crown after six seasons in Carson's shadow. To add flair and sensation to their usual Halloween-themed episode -- complete with audience costume parade -- they invite four paranormal-adjacent guests to appear live. First is Christou, a mentalist and likely charlatan. Second is Carmichael, a skeptic and debunker of seeming phenomena. Finally, bestselling parapsychologist June and her young ward and cast study Lilly, the only survivor of a cult's mass suicide who exhibits symptoms of demonic possession. We've got a great show for you tonight, folks!

The film presents itself as a documentary of sorts, setting up itself in a montage-like prologue that acclimates us to the setting and key figures, especially Jack Delroy, played by an incredible David Dastmalchian. While his dialogue is sometimes stilted and his jokes on the flat side, Dastmalchian injects his character with a nervous joy of showmanship that betrays what must have been a grueling character study of old television hosts. His every look and gesture feels calculated and pitch perfect for the period, and his somewhat slimy charm carries the whole film. I'd like to see him in more leading roles. Jack politely handles Christou (a too-brief but effective Fayssal Bazzi), whose antics don't quite work until he falls suddenly ill and vomits black sludge before being rushed to the hospital. It's left unexplained, and while Jack is clearly shaken, even he grins and bears it as good for his ratings.

Carmichael, on the other hand, is an insufferable pessimist, played to irritating perfection by Ian Bliss. His takedown of Christou and subsequent naysaying paints him as a curmudgeon more concerned with appearing in control than in actually considering the feelings or experiences of anyone around him. Again, it makes for great television, so Jack entertains his antics. There's a really fascinating scene, later in the film, when Carmichael attempts to disprove an earlier phenomenon by hypnotizing Gus (Rhys Auteri) and, secretly, the whole audience, then playing back the footage to prove mass delusion. It's a chilling sequence, suggesting in no small part our own complicity in making meaning from the spectacle, and one that features graphically upsetting imagery. But it also begs us to question, perhaps more than anywhere else in the film, the objective truth we're meant to be seeing, even on talk shows. 

Enter June and Lilly, the centerpiece of this Night Owls episode, fresh off the success of the former's book about the latter, Conversations with the Devil. Laura Gordon is stunning as June, beautifully dressed and clearly eager to make a splash on this TV special, and we find out later her that she and Jack are more than acquaintances, though it's never clear who initiated or why or to what exact ends. Meanwhile, Lilly (Ingrid Torelli, the runaway star of this film) is unnerving from the outset; too precocious and comfortable in a room full of expectant viewers, she immediately locks onto the camera and exudes a confidence beyond her years. Her unsettlingly deep voice wants to be heard, even before we know she's "psychically infested," as June says. Her demon, she shares with Jack, is "Mr. Wriggles," so named for the sensation of him moving around inside her. It's one of the most disturbing moments in the film -- which boasts more than a few -- and one I'll never quite unhear. It reminded me of Anthony Hopkins talking about "God's fingernail" scraping around inside him in The Rite.

I don't want to share much more about what happens in the film's final act -- mind you, it's all a fairly quick 90-ish minutes -- because experiencing it is what matters. Or not, because frankly, the finale didn't do much for me. But regardless of personal taste, the film earns its wackadoodle images and ideas. The Australian Cairnes brothers who wrote and directed this film clearly put hard work into this production and care about it a lot, as its production design and visual prowess indicate in almost every frame. I think their screenplay could have used considerably more workshopping, and I'll elucidate why, because in polishing what is already solid, we can learn a lot about comparatively small changes earlier on that might have strengthened the film's impact.

Were I to have made this movie, I'd have axed the prologue. It's a fairly lengthy setup that uses stock footage of the '70s to no dramatic effect, mostly reminding us of the hot topics of the decade and the general anxieties of American viewing audiences, from antiwar and racial protests to the beginnings of a Satanic panic. Worse, it uses thick exposition to paint a picture of our protagonist before we've met him and, in a grave misstep that nearly spoils the film, gives us an insight into exactly where all this is going: it outright tells us, not five minutes into the film, that Jack has frequented "The Grove," an exclusively male social club in California for rich and influential men, many of whom have found extraordinary success in business. Given the setting, the opening montage in pseudo-documentary style, and the genre, we'd guess it's a cult even without the video footage depicting it as such. Wouldn't it be more effective to skip this, throw us directly into the "lost episode" or whatever it is, and make us piece things together on our own? Everything spelled out in the prologue could easily and organically have fit in the present, especially in the behind-the-scenes B&W bits.

I also would have sliced significant parts of the climax to make things more ambiguous. Since the rising action, which is the body of the film, hinges on explicit suspension of disbelief -- and, indeed, is thematically all about arriving at empirical truth -- it would have been far more satisfying for the story to embrace its own uncertainty about the nature of truth, especially as filtered through television. Think of the ways The Exorcism of Emily Rose mastered its own manipulation of courtroom dramas and, more importantly, our expectations of courtroom dramas to literalize the central conflict that we can never be absolutely certain about potentially supernatural phenomena. Late Night would have done well to mine the rich specifics of bringing live television into the homes of "innocents" and the incredible influence this had back in the '70s. Moreover, by literalizing not only Lilly's possession but also the psychological torment Jack undergoes in the final stages of this apparent ritual, the movie saps its own enigmatic mystique along with its thematic power.

All in all, it's a hell of an original concept and a delightful movie. By eliminating the faux-documentary setup, we would have been spared the frustrations of its dubious "found footage" gimmick that here distracts from the raw excitement of live television of its period. Similarly, and in reference to the behind-the-scenes bits, there were a hell of a lot of commercial breaks in this television episode; even if it were meant to be an hour-and-a-half special, the number of breaks is staggering. And tightening up the climax to be more ambiguous (consider ending with a question of whether we were still hypnotized, or if Carmichael were part of the cult and covering up demonic influence, or other similar possibilities that open up once you cut the effects-heavy bloodbath) would have strengthened the film's explicit thematic concerns of truth through the tube. Then again, maybe cutting the entire subplot tying Jack to the Grove would have helped, and it would have been an easier adjustment, making him more innocent before having to finally choose between his soul and his ratings. But for production value and design, you can hardly do better, especially set as it is in the '70s as opposed to the much overused '80s nostalgia these days. And despite its missteps, I'll support novel, fresh filmmaking in a tired genre any day!

Love Lies Bleeding (2024)

Score: 4.5 / 5

Sexy, subversive, violent, unexpectedly funny, and intentionally messy, Love Lies Bleeding is the breath of fresh air queer audiences -- and audiences in general -- have needed from a crime thriller for years. Who knew it would come from Rose Glass in her sophomore feature? Not this viewer, who could never quite shake the feeling that something profound was happening before his eyes in a screening less appreciated by the other viewers. Blending its lesbian romance, absurd criminal thrills, and a constantly evolving plot, the film manages to reinvent itself a few times while never straying from its intense, focused purpose of... well, I suppose that is up to interpretation. And it's got a phenomenal score.

Lou (Kristen Stewart, ballsy and excellent) is living anything but the dream, elbow-deep in a shit-filled toilet in a forgotten shithole town somewhere in the American West desert. She manages a gym, a swole -- forgive me, sole -- source of pride for the tough go-getters in this unforgiving land. Her father Lou Sr. (a wonderfully made-up Ed Harris) is essentially the crime kingpin of the area: owning a gun range allows him some cover as he runs weapons across the southern border. He also disposes of evidence against him, i.e. the remains of his enemies, in a canyon not far from town. And I just realized two things: one, that the setting is probably New Mexico (I may have missed that detail), and two, that Stewart's character was probably meant to be a boy as she is clearly (not verbally) named Lou Jr. That's hilarious and tragic. Anyway, we can assume Lou's history involves working (and "fixing" or "cleaning," as we see her do regularly) for her father in a criminal capacity. She also chain smokes while listening to self-help tapes to assist her cessation. The humor in this film is unexpected and bold while never releasing the at times unbearable tension.

Lou has a strange relationship with women, no doubt due to her lesbian identity and the likelihood that her dead mother is also at the bottom of her father's secret canyon junkyard. She is a close friend to her sister Beth (Jena Malone), who suffers cruelly under the violent hand of her husband JJ (Dave Franco with an unforgivable mullet), trying to encourage her to leave while also supporting and nurturing her as she is willing, even in the hospital. Lou has an on-and-off fling with Daisy (Anna Baryshnikov), whose enamored obsession is more than a little off-putting (in the most delightful way; she's probably my favorite part of the film, for the handful of scenes she graces). So when a hitchhiking gal chasing a dream shows up at Lou's gym, she falls in love hard. It helps that the visitor is a musclebound bodybuilder named Jackie (Katy O'Brian), en route to Las Vegas to compete and realize her life goals. We don't learn as much about Jackie, keeping her past a bit of a cipher, though we meet her having sex with JJ to find a job and fund the rest of her trip; there are also a couple references to Gulliver's Travels, which I think help make the film's surreal ending scene make a lot more sense. It's 1989, and these young women are going to make a better life for themselves, dammit, regardless of how "pretty" they are perceived to be by others or who dares to assert power over them.

The thing about power, though, is its cyclical effect, regardless of your positioning in it, over it, under it, or around it. The power these characters want is only really accessible through violence: guns and muscles. Jackie, clearly physically powerful, and Lou, emotionally and mentally powerful as we learn, get caught in a loop of attempting to assert themselves and escape from a world in which they are constantly objectified or controlled by men. Their romance manifests in wonderfully erotic scenes -- of, let's say, physical activity -- glaringly designed for queer audiences rather than for the straights. Jackie's strength increases each time, due perhaps to Lou's increasing affection as well as their reckless (and mutual) use of steroid shots. As things with JJ and Lou Sr. heat up, we get an impression that a Thelma & Louise flee from town is in their cards, but when a series of shocking acts of violence (partly fueled by misogyny, partly by roid rage) get blood on their hands, the film reinvents itself yet again, suggesting that violence is sometimes not only necessary but morally defendable. 

Embracing a sort of Blood Simple, early Coen brothers flavor, Glass dives headfirst into this lesbian noir drama in a way that forced me to think this is what Drive-Away Dolls could have been if it took itself seriously. A key difference, though, is that Glass pointedly avoids the tropes of that genre: we have no hard-boiled detective or reluctant protagonist, no distinguishable femme fatale, no real intrigue into criminal power structures. Instead, she keeps zigging when we expect zagging, keeping her plot wholly unpredictable as we wait for the next gritty, grimy, gory jolt of energy as the film teeters into surrealism. Perhaps my understanding of this film stems from Glass's previous work, the ethereally brutal Saint Maud, but it read to me as a bit of an indictment of obsession and the terrible costs of pursuing it. In a somewhat wry way, the film is about love, lies, and bleeding, amped up with drugs and roids much like its characters. recreating itself in increasingly shocking ways. From its haunting Cronenbergian or Refn-esque shots of Lou Sr. doused in red spotlight to its Aronofsky-lite bits of body horror as Jackie grows into her bodybuilding ideal, the film comfortably and daringly knows its place in cinematic history while blazing its own uncompromising path. 

Malum (2023)

Score: 4.5 / 5

An unexpected remake of 2014's Last Shift, both co-written and directed by Anthony DiBlasi, Malum dropped last year with no fanfare and it took me some time to even learn it existed. I've been a vocal fan of Last Shift for a decade now, and it still shocks me how few people have seen it; as such, this will be a review for both films. They are remarkably similar, including their setting, plot, characters, and theming, but they divert in a few notable ways that will fascinate and delight genre fans. Fair warning: these are both suspenseful, violent and gory, and deeply unsettling horror films that aren't for the squeamish.

The premise is straightforward enough: a young woman named Jessica works her first shift as a rookie cop: the overnight watch at a decommissioned police station before it is permanently closed. Her father previously worked the same precinct until his death, a year prior, when members of a dangerous and violent cult were brought in and committed suicide. As she tries to settle in for the night, strange and frightening occurrences play with her perception of reality as she learns more about her father's history with the place, her own relationship with the male-dominated force, and the likelihood that the station is haunted. Both are fairly low-budget films but, under DiBlasi's masterful leadership, pack a gritty determination to scare the pants off you with earned fear. 

Last Shift surely had the smaller budget of the two films, providing it a gritty urgency and raw terror hard to shake. Lit mostly by aggressive fluorescent lights, flattening and almost blinding some of the tracking shots through white-tiled halls, it sometimes gives the impression of an uncommonly confident student film. Long takes in which the camera hovers over Jessica's shoulder give the impression of a survivalist horror video game, one that uncharacteristically allows her the option to fire her gun at will. Hypnotic cinematography isn't just a fun aesthetic here, though: it directly stems from and then informs the plot and our understanding of the protagonist. Much like in Mike Flanagan's Oculus, nothing in this film is as it seems or to be taken at face value. Nothing. 

Malum as a remake works mostly the same way. Taken on its own, it clearly has a larger budget for gory effects and more dynamic lighting. Its editing (also by DiBlasi in both films) is choppier; though occasionally off-putting to me, because I like long takes in films with isolated settings, it ratchets up psychological tension through increased manipulation of our perception of what's happening to Jessica. We're even less sure we can trust what we see when it's so clearly being cut in crucial moments. By blurring this clarity of sight, we feel more hopeless and less certain of reality, much like Jessica herself. This film also stretches certain sections to, arguably, increase the emotional trials Jessica has to endure, as it directly dramatizes her relationship with her father, his monstrous crime, and his untimely death. This makes the film a bit more standard in terms of the genre, but it also plays out less like a carnival haunted house or thrill ride due to our emotional investment.

Malum as a reimagining, however, pushes beyond the scope of the original film so much as to radically change the final act and metafictionally insert itself into the last six or so years of the genre. SPOILER ALERT: the Manson-esque cult that had been brought in a year prior worshipped a demon and shed blood to increase its power. Jessica's father saved three young women in the raid on their compound but failed to save a fourth, making his guilt unbearable and leading to his slaughter of several other cops and himself. Jessica's endurance of the haunt reveals that the cult is likely still alive and well, determined to complete their ritual of blood sacrifice as the city outside the station erupts into violent chaos and the cult's ghosts (and a few invading members) assault Jessica to provoke her violent reactions.

It's an artistically and creatively satisfying concept. Not only to have imagined and realized a single-setting thriller with a horrifying mystery slowly explored over a brisk 90-ish-minute runtime, and to have crafted it with extraordinary filmmaking skill and flair, but to have revisited and reimagined it almost a decade later as essentially the same thing but with updated technique and delving into variables before letting them organically conclude themselves. The first is much more psychologically devastating, its horror focused on the individual woman against her sexist surroundings while attempting to fend for herself and clearly perceive an indefinable threat. The second launches straight into religious horror, going so far as to literalize the ghosts and physicalize the demon itself in one of the most jaw-dropping reveals I've experienced in a film like this.

What else is there to say? So many clues and red herrings (well, are they really herrings?) pile up that the film is less a roller coaster than a slide, constantly building its own tension in increasingly unhinged and violent set pieces. Both films do this, actually. Earned, effective jump scares abound, and the acting from every featured person is pitched to unsettle Jessica and the audience. Your mileage for the final act -- in either film -- will vary based on what interests you more: the dissolution of Jessica's mind or her desperation to prevail over the invading forces of evil. The former feels like Oculus or Amulet whereas the latter hints at something like Hereditary or mother! in effect. Neither is "better" and both are more than worthy of a watch. I'll resort to double featuring these every damn time: one is a threadbare nightmare with acoustic score and straightforward storytelling tricks, the other is a giallo-like maximalist descent to hell with droning synth score and gory excesses. The most amazing part is that both films work so well, even as companion pieces. Especially if you like unexpectedly and astonishingly brilliant cinematography.

Godzilla x Kong: The New Empire (2024)

Score: 2 / 5

Oh boy.

Maybe the most disappointing viewing experience I've had in a cinema in years, the bafflingly titled Godzilla x Kong doesn't stop its confusion at the title. How do you even say it? Godzilla times Kong? Godzilla ex-Kong? Should it be an ampersand? And what about the subtitle, The New Empire, which makes even less sense the more you unpack it. Godzilla was previously touted as King of the Monsters, but now he's an emperor? Or is Kong the emperor of Hollow Earth? Is it "new," really, and who exactly are their subjects after they've killed so many other titans?

And we haven't even gotten to the film itself yet.

The latest installment of Legendary/Warner Bros's MonsterVerse franchise crashes and burns in a way I feared but did not expect from this series. I've been a fan all along, from Gareth Edwards's Godzilla -- which, contrary to popular opinion, did the whole "focus on the humans, not the monsters" thing a full decade before Godzilla Minus One -- through the stylized romp of Kong: Skull Island, the soaring epic religio-fantasy of Godzilla: King of the Monsters, and even the fabulously pastiched escapist mess that was Godzilla vs. Kong. Then, when the Monarch series launched on Apple TV+, I binged that and then did again because it's so much fun.

But Adam Wingard helms the latest and seems insistent on embracing schlocky nonsense over gritty pseudo-realism with his committee of screenwriters, at least two of whom should know better than to churn out this trash. Much like the absurdity of Godzilla's fiery radiation breath drilling a hole through Earth's crust to the Hollow Earth exactly into Kong's throne room (disregarding the film's own internal logic of a gravity well and inverted physics to get there and back), Godzilla x Kong throws its own dignity out the window in favor of cartoonish balderdash with about as much sense as Saturday morning shows under the influence of acid.

I won't waste time trying to recap any plot here, because there isn't a worthwhile one. A few familiar faces return, namely Rebecca Hall and her adopted Iwi daughter (an older Kaylee Hottle) and their friend, conspiracy podcaster Brian Tyree Henry. A new character, played winningly by Dan Stevens, is such an artistically bankrupt creation that I can only hope they paid him well; the character (I won't use their names because who can remember them when they matter so little) pops in to save the day as a titan veterinarian and engineer, replacing injured teeth and using Iron-Man like technology to mobilize a frostbitten hand. His deus ex machinas appear almost at whim, and you really have to wonder how and where and why but you can't because the breakneck pacing forces us to just accept it and move on. Suspension of disbelief should be the result of flawless internal fictional logic, not the result of necessity due to aggressively fast storytelling.

The endless plotholes, of which the titan vet's tech only scratches the surface, are not the film's only faults, though perhaps should be explored further. I still don't understand the dimensional portal to Hollow Earth, nor how there is sunlight down there, among many other issues. The film's insistence that the dual landscapes of Hollow Earth aren't enough space lead it to invent yet another secret, "uncharted" realm (as if most of Hollow Earth wasn't indeed uncharted) where an entire army of giant, violent apes prepares to wage war on their ancient foe, Godzilla, and conquer Hollow Earth and the surface world. Their leader, Scar King (I know, I know, I told you this is really stupid shit) controls a secret weapon through *some* mysterious means:  yet another titan, Shimo, who has the chilly power to change the world's climate and usher in a new ice age. Because somehow that would be good for giant apes, too? Hmmm....

This film works especially hard to anthropomorphize the apes, and it get less cute as it continues. Kong himself is treated like a big baby who fights good, and the humans just keep cheering him on and retrofitting him with artificial aid. When he discovers his own kind, one young one (who is objectively visually off-putting) acts like Tolkien's Gollum, repeatedly trying to trick and trap Kong to eliminate the potential threat to his master, Scar King. The lengthy scenes of apes communicating nonverbally bored me to distraction, and it all plays out much more rote than even I could give it credit for.

And all this has been centered on the Kong side of things because the film itself is Kong-centric. Godzilla is mostly absent from this film, apart from a few money shots like sleeping in the Roman Colosseum. The film globetrots more than a cheap spy flick as Godzilla hops around to eliminate other titans (one wonders what happens to those carcasses) before we even get to see or experience them. The humans, in their unforgivably exposition-heavy dialogue, suggest he's collecting and storing energy for a major upcoming conflict (for no clear reason), and when he goes to kill the most energy-rich one named Tiamat, he does so with almost no ado and very little screen time (which renders the whole climax of that subplot flaccid and facile). 

The disaster scenes here, as in the previous one, are woefully monster-centric, and you know that tens of thousands of people are just arbitrarily dying en masse without so much as a moment of respectful screen time. Like the climactic battle between Kong, Godzilla, and Mechagodzilla previously, here the fight scenes devastate heavily populated cities before a new and totally unexpected climax in Rio de Janeiro, which was dispiritingly nihilistic in its lack of a human element. Even the sudden emergence of a new Mothra -- which completely ignores the previous hint of a Mothra rebirth from earlier in this same franchise -- doesn't help refocus things on the human element despite a bizarre quasi-religious sect of Iwi people who apparently worship her and share a psychic link with her through Rebecca Hall's daughter. The kaiju take center stage in the end, no matter how hard Brian Tyree Henry and Dan Stevens try to let their humor win the day.

Road House (2024)

Score: 3.5 / 5

There is a certain charm to movies that know exactly what they are and don't reach for more. Road House, a remake of the Patrick Swayze cult classic, has that going for it along with more than a bit of style. Gone are the '80s trappings and, in their place, a delightfully breezy action film with sweeping vistas of the Florida Keys. Thankfully, director Doug Liman and his team don't do away with the '80s cheese, and so this violent romp never feels weighed down by melodrama or even any thrills. It's simple and direct machismo, presented with direct-to-streaming B-movie panache to rival many others of its ilk out there (remember that Netflix disaster, Heart of Stone?). It's a goofy, arguably stupid film, to be sure, but that's part of its slick, "spring break vibes" charm.

Consciously -- and repeatedly -- referring to itself as a Western, the basic plot concerns Elwood Dalton, a former UFC middleweight fighter, whose suicidal depression leads him to take an odd job as a bouncer at "Road House," a roadhouse in the sunshine state's Glass Key. The owner, Frankie (Jessica Williams) needs him to stop the constant, violent fights and vandalism caused by a gang, and Dalton is perfect for the job: Eventually we learn that he gained notoriety after killing an opponent once, earning him fearful respect that leads the likes of tough guys (like one played by Post Malone) to forfeit outright. After Dalton literally takes the gang members to the hospital for what he does to them, he becomes a popular figure in the town, even mentoring others to defend and care for themselves. Unfortunately, there is more violence on the horizon.

Dalton, as played by Jake Gyllenhaal in yet another eye-poppingly brutal performance (remember Southpaw, for one?), is so physically intimidating that his mild-mannered demeanor might be overlooked if not for his endearing curiosity and zinging quips. His charm switches to calculated menace with sudden alacrity, and that makes him an infinitely interesting and watchable character, aided significantly by Gyllenhaal's always dedicated and arresting presence. His scenes with local bookstore owner Charlie (Hannah Lanier) and her father are cute as heck, though thickly written to force-feed us the Western genre, while his scenes with local doctor Ellie (Daniela Melchior) are gimmicky to a distracting fault in their attempts at injecting romance. The screenplay does him no favors, but Gyllenhaal shines.

When the network of villains are revealed -- the gang was on the payroll of real estate kingpin Ben Brandt, inherited from his incarcerated father -- things heat up quickly, because this film knows its audience just wants to see more fighting. Brandt himself, as played by a delightfully unhinged Billy Magnussen, doesn't do a heck of a lot hands-on, and so he brings in a bloodthirsty enforcer named Knox to take care of Dalton and burn Road House to the ground so he can monopolize the shoreline and build a luxury resort. He's got the local sheriff in his pocket, too, and the reveal that the sheriff is Ellie's father is another twist in the profoundly silly plot that tries so hard to stay interesting. If Melchior and Gyllenhaal had any real chemistry -- or if the screenplay allowed them earned heat at all -- this might have been a worthwhile bit of melodrama. As it is, not so much. But who would want that anyway?

Knox, notably, becomes the big bad of the film, because he's the one who actually wants to lay hands on Dalton, seemingly for pay at first, but later perhaps for the increased street cred he'd get for killing a killer. Played by Irish boxing and fighting champion Conor McGregor, he's a deranged psychopath who actively seeks pain and chaos, showing up about halfway through the film and re-energizing it with a whole new flavor of weirdness. Sometimes played for laughs -- like the movie as a whole, really -- Knox feels like a character from an entirely different movie, dropped in this one to wreak havoc; McGregor feels like a cartoon villain, aggressively smiling the whole time and delivering lines, quite simply, badly. It's a disorienting experience to watch and hear him because you're never quite sure if it's just him or the character who doesn't behave like a real human. 

And that's really true of all of Road House, even apart from the realistic and nuanced Gyllenhaal performance as opposed to those of McGregor and Magnussen. The sweeping vistas, usually obviously shot via drone, and the frenetic editing suggest an escapist fantasy, beautifully highlighting the titular roadhouse that looks much nicer than it should be. But instead of feeling immersed in the material, we're swept along with the spectacle that relies too much on CGI fighting and overdone sound effects that sap the violence of its impact on us. Most action films want us to experience, more or less, the weight of body slams, the jolt of a punch, jarring headbutts; this movie's delivery skims the surface, pushing us through the occasionally brilliant but mostly silly fight choreography to get to the next set piece.

For action movies, this was a fun ride. I definitely prefer gritty, hyperrealistic violence like in John Wick or Atomic Blonde, and I'd have been curious to see Road House done that way. Read: taken seriously. But that's simply a matter of taste. For what it is, and what it clearly wanted to do, it mostly works according to its own logic, and you can't really fault a film for that. Plus, we get a lot of Jake G. with his shirt off, which is never a bad thing.