MaXXXine (2024)

Score: 4 / 5

The third part in Ti West's radical slasher "X" series has finally arrived! No one was ready for A24 to so fully embrace slashers when they did with gusto in 2022. West had a unique, uncompromising vision. A sort of American Horror Story anthology approach to the horror subgenre -- X proudly paying its respects to '70s exploitative slashers and Pearl offering a bloodstained version of '40s-era Technicolor -- these films' aesthetics only enhance their otherwise complex themes of art imitating life (or vice versa) and the ways film impacts the lived experiences and desperate dreams of average Americans in times of social and artistic anxiety. MaXXXine furthers these themes while emphasizing the inversion of that: to what lengths will a young wannabe starlet go to truly live in the movies she so loves?

Enter Mia Goth once again as the titular Maxine Minx, the sole survivor of the events at Pearl's farm in 1979. Now, six years later, she's made it into Hollywood, though her career of pornography is no longer fulfilling her goals. She auditions for an exploitation horror film, The Puritan II, winning the part and thrilled at the opportunities it presents. Unfortunately, several other young folks (mostly women) are being hunted in the city of angels, and while we know Maxine isn't the killer, a couple detectives (Bobby Cannavale and Michelle Monaghan) are keeping a close watch on her. After all, the Night Stalker is active, and details of his gory crimes have all but petrified the city with fear; his murders have, however, mobilized the religious right, loudly criticizing movies and music for corrupting youth with Satanic ideas. 

West lovingly allows these elements to simmer in a hazy ambiance, stoking the atmosphere into a heady cocktail of garish neon lights, shadowy liaisons, and the sort of dusty grime that comes with dry desert heat. While he mostly avoids too much lurid display, he gets the sound and feel of the era exactly right, and a droning synth score feels transportive in the best way. Too many films and series lately have done "the most" regarding nostalgic, materialistic trappings of the '80s, and this smartly and beautifully sidesteps those pitfalls. And the endless film references make for so much cinephile discussion fodder that I actually ran out of space on my notepaper during the screening. These are films for horror fans who also love movie history, and West is offering boons for those willing to get on his level.

Additional new players make for a really lovely context, including Maxine's icy, commanding film director (Elizabeth Debicki) who knows the screenplay is trash but is determined to elevate it, and a threatening private eye (Kevin Bacon with a deliciously weird New Orleans drawl) who knows too much about her sordid past. These powerful new characters open up the "X" world in wonderfully inventive and entertaining ways. They also, arguably, limit Maxine's agency in the movie that bears her own name. Rather than taking charge of herself and her fate -- as Goth so muscularly did in the previous two films -- here, she tends to be more reactive to the big threats in her orbit. Perhaps that's an intentional way to remind us that with bigger fame come bigger restraints; where better to critique issues of celebrity and paparazzi than literally beneath the Hollywood hills?

But the exploitation that returns to her life with a vengeance is the real star of this film, not its final girl. "Hollywood is a killer" reads the film's tagline, and that's about the long and short of it. An artistically challenging and narratively satisfying way to potentially end the series, MaXXXine succeeded for me even as it made me hope for more installments. Goth has made quite an icon of herself, involved as so much more than actor in these movies, and West has finally broken into mainstream cinema in a big way. If criticisms of gimmickry or contrivances are to be leveled at this film, I'd hope they are couched in considerations of how to suitably conclude such a wide-ranging, intangibly themed franchise without some forced writing and heavy-handed direction. But sometimes the material also calls for that, and I'm eager to dive into this seedy glamor all over again.

Fly Me to the Moon (2024)

Score: 2.5 / 5

In his first directorial outing since Love, Simon, Greg Berlanti brings his considerable efforts to a period rom-com set in the '60s space race. Notably not queer, this material is an odd fit for Berlanti for other reasons: the Arrowverse and Broken Hearts Club mastermind hasn't handled anything this specific or detached from the millennium in many long years. The unwieldy material here vacillates from frothy, silly romance to surprisingly satirical political and historical commentary, and Berlanti is in way over his head. Perhaps it's primarily due to an unfocused screenplay, but evidence lies elsewhere: namely, the lack of chemistry between the two leads undermines the entire point of the film (as marketed). That's on Berlanti.

 An accomplished pilot who wanted to be an astronaut himself, NASA launch director Cole Davis (Channing Tatum) can't pull himself out of his own past. The tragedy of Apollo 1 haunts him daily, even as he prepares for what is now Apollo 11. Putting American men on the moon is his goal, and he suffers no fools to distract him. Enter Kelly Jones (Scarlett Johansson), the immaculately festooned advertising exec selected by a mysterious government agent (a delightfully rakish Woody Harrelson) to sell the moon landing to the American populace. Despite repeated comments on her beauty, Johansson knows her character is a shark among the scientists and engineers: Jones is really good at her job, probably due to her chameleonic ability to lie and manipulate others, constantly using verbal smoke and mirrors to disguise her machinations. 

Naturally, the two aren't going to work well, and the film's plot hinges on that. After a meet cute, she sets her sights on charming him while he actively erects walls to hinder her advances. Their banter feels straight out of old Hollywood, to the point that I half expected Doris Day or Cary Grant to pop onscreen. the difference is that Johansson at least appears to be having fun; Tatum is perhaps needfully stoic and dour, but he sticks out like a sore thumb, unable to muster his usual inner charm. It doesn't help that he's made up to look somewhat plastic, and his costumes do nothing to highlight his physique or confidence. One wonders what another casting choice might have done to boost this aspect of the story, which was maybe unfairly marketed as its primary conceit.

The film does, however, work remarkably well when Jones's last-ditch Plan B kicks into gear. Her assignment is to hire a film crew to fake the moon landing footage. It's couched in a believable, high-stakes concern that something could go terribly wrong, and we certainly don't want the general public to see that live on television. It's a familiar idea to anyone who's heard the conspiracy theories about Kubrick's similar involvement in real life, and the film has a lot of fun dramatizing this effort in thickly fictionalized manner. Jim Rash graces the film with intoxicating panache as the ostentatiously flamboyant director working with Jones to realize this scheme. He's in it for a chance to test his artistry; she's in it on government mandate, and has to keep the operation secret from Davis.

Rash might be the only person in this film who really understood and leaned into what the movie could have been, aggressively chewing the scenery and prancing around in bespoke suits with outrageous patterns and color. Johansson is solid, and Harrelson's final scene makes up for his wonky, scattered appearances, but the rest of the cast and crew don't seem to know what this material should be or how best to execute it. The longer the film continues, the more heavy-handed its dialogue, devolving into groan-inducing exposition dumps between main characters as the comedy flips to forced romance and contrived stakes. Logical steps aren't taken for granted, and instead of letting the audience catch up organically, the film constantly reminds us of motives and rationales that should be obvious and frankly aren't necessary anyway. Let the astronauts fly, let the filmmakers create, and let the lovers work (or not), but don't concurrently commentate. 

Gorgeous production design and occasionally inspired cinematography make the film eminently watchable, and anyone interested in the period or the space race itself will find plenty here to enjoy. But a historical treatise -- even a farce -- about the faked moon footage this most certainly is not, nor is it a satisfying comedy, romance, or combination of the two. Specificity would have won the day here, methinks, to make this material rise above mediocrity and mean something to audiences in 2024.

Sting (2024)

Score: 3 / 5

Another killer spider movie in the same year? Why not?! Sting is a far cry from the French socio-political semi-realistic nightmare fuel that is Infested, but that doesn't mean it's not a heck of a lot of fun on its own weird terms. 

Its plot, as described, is annoyingly familiar: Charlotte, a pre-teen plagued with ennui (played by Alyla Browne), finds an unusual-looking spider in her great-aunt's apartment and decides to keep it as a pet. It grows alarmingly quickly and develops a predatory, carnivorous appetite, requiring Charlotte and her family to fight for their lives. Ugh. Monster movies are tough, because you want to either really have them represent something specific or feel unique. "Sting," as Charlotte names her pet, is not unique, so we have to suspect it stands for something regarding her, such as childhood trauma or puberty or something.

But a rote plot does not a movie break. This B-movie knows exactly what it is and introduces itself to us as such immediately. There's a fun, almost Spielbergian quality to its opening sequence, loaded with bizarre scares and deadpan gallows humor, and then we flashback to an inciting incident: a little green meteorite burns through the atmosphere before crash landing in an old woman's apartment. Specifically, in her dollhouse. From the smoking shell comes forth a spider that crawls around the dollhouse while opening credits manifest around it. It's all very clever and fun, like if Little Shop of Horrors and Hereditary had an arachnoid bent.

The film's thematic concerns eschew real issues such as gentrification, xenophobia, classism, sexism, and conflict between rural, urban, and suburban communities, any of which can and have been used in other stories. Rather, this one makes things domestic and private, focusing tightly on Charlotte and her stepfather (hardworking, somewhat absent, artistically inclined), mother with whom she never quite sees eye to eye, and baby brother. Perhaps I didn't care about the emotional core of this story simply because I didn't like Charlotte; willfully rebellious kids taking full advantage of parents beyond their means never intrigue me beyond irritation. If you're into characters like her, you might be more interested in their strained relationship and how it exacerbates the plot and pending horror.

Instead of those elements, I absorbed the shock and excesses of the traditionally scary moments of this bizarre flick. I wouldn't go so far as to qualify the filmmakers' approach as camp, but it definitely feels more than a little inspired by Grand Guignol aesthetics. The face-value scares indeed pop out at you, often glistening and gritty and palpably gross (thanks in no small part to creature effects from Weta Workshop). But it's the fairly brightly lit film that is most surprising and effective. This is not the Gothic, shadowy fever dream that is Infested. This is a jewel-toned, active camera romp through an R-rated haunted house. Case in point: (SPOILER ALERT) there is a single shot that had me gagging and laughing at the same time, as Charlotte rounds a corner and sees a cat, splayed and frozen in a midair web, eviscerated and looking like if Mrs. Norris had been dissected, not petrified, by Ginny Weasley. What should be deeply sad is so alarmingly posed and lit that your discomfort has to allow for a choking guffaw. That's a tough tone to craft from a filmmaking perspective.

That level of polish permeates the film, demonstrating that its creators knew full well the trappings of the material and wanted to both honor and elevate it above its station. Sting -- the alien spider -- itself is relatively unimportant to the story; it could just as easily be a pet lion or gator or dragon that Charlotte raised in secret to soothe her adolescent mind. But the giant flesh-eating spider from space helps cross generic boundaries while literally draping the set in its atmospheric snares.

Flat characters doing exactly what you expect them to, and without much thematic conceit to drive them, makes the film fall pretty flat in context of what has come before. But Sting is a spooky, icky, breezy way to pass the time as we get ready to turn away from summer horror to autumn horror. Its credulity-straining narrative turns notwithstanding, a handful of violent, horrifying visuals and some dynamic cinematography certainly make it more than watchable. And Jermaine Fowler even joins in the fun!

Infested (2024)

Score: 4.5 / 5

Arachnophobia has always held the corner, for me, on spidery horror films. From the ilk of a black-and-white superimposed predator in Tarantula through the laughably icky CGI creatures in Eight Legged Freaks, big, man-eating spiders stem from the "nature horror" subgenre I dearly love. But they are a league unto their own, firmly entrenched in classic literature and epics and making appearances in a variety of horror flavored by everything from fantasy (Itsy Bitsy) to sci-fi (Sting). Arachnophobia perhaps holds the dearest place in my heart because it is the most realistic in terms of the size and behaviors of its wee beasties, offers the least by way of CGI effects, and manages to be as heartwarming and funny as it is terrifying and deeply disturbing. Sébastien Vanicek's feature film debut, Infested, follows this mold shockingly, horrifyingly closely. I haven't screamed this much in a first time viewing in many long years.

It doesn't help that I'm terrified of spiders, but this film's extraordinary use of hundreds of real, live huntsman spiders is the definition of horror to me, especially when they get digitally enlarged. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

The nightmare begins quickly, and with a distinctly punk-rock style, in modern Paris as we zoom in on a large low-income apartment complex with a vast assortment of immigrants and brown-skinned citizens. A young man named Kaleb (a very handsome Theo Christine) purchases a large, nasty looking spider from the back room (read: black market) of a convenience store without knowing anything about it but excited to add it to his collection of bugs, amphibians, and reptiles. He takes the spider home, where his sister Manon is none too pleased about his wall of expensive, tanked critters. Manon is busy trying to renovate their crumbling unit to sell after the death of their mother, and their friends Mathys, Jordy, and Lila are helping too. Kaleb curiously doesn't seem to be helping them much -- his "job" of hustling high-priced sneakers is suggestive of his lifestyle and prospects -- but he is caring and affectionate for many of their neighbors as well as the staff of their complex.

We get to know these characters well enough that we care for them. So, when the spider escapes its box, we are immediately worried for their welfare. We -- not Kaleb or anyone else -- already know how horribly aggressive and venomous it is, thanks to a nasty opening sequence.

I won't describe the bulk of the film in detail, but it's essentially a sprint through a haunted house. Each new scene falls domino-like into the next with such a sense of taut propulsion that you'd think it'll never stop. Its score, thrumming and driving like a greasy goth band at some dive (yes, I thought of Green Room more than once), pushes and pulses like its own character. Grim, grimy set design makes every shadow look like -- well, not a spider so much as a fucking nest of spiders. Ones that keep getting larger, learning to attack in packs, biting for fun rather than for food, breeding rapidly and in expansive colonies, and with generally unpredictable behavior but deadly impact. The film deftly indicates their evolving horror, from simple bites and running around to laying egg sacs every-damn-where, eventually swarming girls in showers and pouring through air vents, and ultimately taking up residence in the bodies of corpses to crawl out of their orifices. Their insidious infestation is the stuff of literal nightmares, whether or not you've yet had any.

The horror is buttressed, too, by the genuine, earned fear we have for the characters. Beloved side characters die in quiet, violent, cruel ways. One neighbor's death is so shocking and deeply sad that my friend and I had to pause the film and process it in the moment. Our core group of friends/family don't all make it, and when one in particular dies a particularly nasty death, there is a single scene of the survivors, lit by a flare, screaming and weeping as they apparently try to remain sane. It's one of the most believable scenes of instant, earned grief I've ever seen on film.

There's something additionally chilling about this film apart from its spiders. Like in [REC] or Shivers, almost the whole film takes place inside a large apartment building, and much of the horror stems from seeing one's intimate neighbors succumb to violence and death. As the characters try to escape, doors are barred and the authorities outside have quarantined the building, locking it down and preventing inhabitants from exiting. In our post-pandemic age, this carries extra weight. But what's most fascinating to me is a quote from the director that indicates the original French title of this film was, translated, Vermin, and that he wanted to demonstrate how, like unwanted bugs, immigrants and laborers and the poor are not wanted by popular society and relegated to an endangered, dirty living situation as a result of xenophobia and classism, even and especially in the heart of a metropolis. 

It's a smart, artistically and technically proficient roller coaster of a horror movie, one that had me literally screaming time and again, scratching at the prickly tingles that ran up and down my limbs, and burying my face in my shirt collar even as I sweated my way through my clothes. Vanicek's debut is more than impressive: it's important. If you can handle it.

Longlegs (2024)

Score: 3.5 / 5

Oz Perkins, like his style or not, only makes fascinating films. His latest, Longlegs, is an effectively disturbing and entertaining example of both what works best in his movies and what never quite lands with his stories. The Blackcoat's Daughter featured a puzzle box of a screenplay that never quite pays off but embraces its own stabs at time and place; I Am the Pretty Thing that Lives in the House is indeed pretty and haunting to behold but feels generally inert; Gretel & Hansel fabulously attempts folk fantasy horror while gradually forgetting its own source material in favor of original, half-baked ideas. Perkins seems to get lost in his own head a lot as a writer, cleverly tinkering with his own ideas until they become difficult to absorb as the audience. Not that films should always explain themselves; it does help to have a few firm handles for us to grasp, though, so our discussions aren't solely attempts at interpreting basic symbols, characters, and themes.

I won't spoil the plot, but it's not what you think. Its most basic setup is not dissimilar to The Silence of the Lambs, but a young female FBI agent investigating a serial killer while using a possibly insane scary man in white as her informant is where the structural similarities stop. Visually and aurally, the film ramps itself up almost to the level of camp, with violent color shifts and bold, uncompromising choices of costume, makeup, cinematography, and scoring. Its exaggerated sensory experience feels matched by its performances, particularly its two leads in Maika Monroe and Nicolas Cage: Monroe is unbearably stilted and forced (for a reason), while Cage is utterly transformed into a new creature (in which his typical overacting is somewhat muted and spectacularly stylized). There's a surrealist streak in Perkins's work, and this is as ripe as it's ever been.

A mildly exaggerated '90s setting -- refreshing in our era of endless fantasizing about the '80s -- belies the rich colors and stoic cinematography that provide our view into this strange and uncomfortable world. And even from the film's opening scene, Perkins and his editor craft a perverse dream logic that pervades our experience of the film, yes, but also of the story. This helps us understand Monroe's protagonist, Lee, a bit better, as she manages to correctly intuit and interpret clues from crime scenes, several of which reminded me of the real-life Zodiac killer, though her suggested pre- or extra-cognition is a bizarrely underdeveloped subplot. 

Which brings me to my issues with Longlegs: I just don't understand it. SPOILER ALERT. This is going to be a fairly random series of questions and thoughts on particular points of the film, and please feel free to comment your own ideas, because that's all we're going to get from a discussion of this weird movie.

- Lee's partner (Blair Underwood) near the beginning makes a reference to the Manson family right near the beginning that, fittingly, ties in to the reveal of Lee's mother's complicity near the end, but I didn't think the film would fully go that direction. In addition to the Zodiac killer and the Buffalo Bill/Hannibal Lecter references, Longlegs himself seems to have some Ted Bundy or Dracula or even the singer Tiny Tim in his performative DNA. The smorgasbord of serial killers seems to have been circulating in the filmmakers' minds to an unusually emphasized degree. 

- Lee's mother Ruth (Alicia Witt) always asks her if Lee has said her prayers; her ultra-religious identity isn't satisfyingly mined until the climax. It's unfortunate, because it seemed at first to be aiming for something akin to Carrie White's mother Margaret. Her revelation as the villain's assistant is shocking, maybe, but more emotionally sound than logically; the visual of her in a brown habit delivering enormous dolls feels ripped from another movie entirely. Perkins has gone on the record saying that this is his most personal film yet; one wonders the extent to which he feels his own mother was complicit in family secrets and generational trauma regarding his own father, Anthony Perkins, whose queerness was certainly kept hush-hush at home. It's telling, then, that Ruth suffers so much at the hands of Longlegs. (Also note that our introduction to Ruth is as she comes up the stairs, after taking too long to answer the phone, suggesting she spends time with Longlegs in the basement often.)

- Longlegs (Nicolas Cage) as a character would be fascinating to read. I suspect his dialogue has significance beyond what sounds like mostly random ramblings. A rewatch with subtitles will help, as I am sure all his dialogue in itself would reveal more about his character or motivations and probably clear up a lot of the confusion; it's just mostly hard to capture on a first viewing. The dialogue of the film in general is stilted and stylized, and I'd also love to see the strange monologue from Kiernan's Shipka's Carrie Anne (?) in her single scene, when she delivers super calm threats to Lee like a Pennywise on overdosed mood stabilizers: she'd be "as happy as peaches to watch your head go pop pop pop."

- What's with the intense use of red and white shots? What's with the almost subliminal shots of snakes in red light? What's with the unnecessary silhouette of a horned, robed Satanic shadow? What's with the metal balls in the doll heads, and what's with the black smoke that comes out of them? Other than the atmosphere of coloring, these elements don't add to the story as I understood it. The snakes might tie in to my next point, but a literalized devil takes away so much mystique of Longlegs's Satantic aspirations, and the dolls could have been possessed and evil without a sci-fi or fantasy element involved that used excessive effects to demonstrate something that should be merely implied at best.

- It seems Perkins, in addition to packing in references to other serial killers, imagined the nature of evil in this film to be a reverse trinity, a diabolic trio of Satan/dragon/red snakes/horned shadow man, Longlegs/Antichrist/Beast from the Sea (and the repeated verse about seeing him while standing on the sand of the sea), and Ruth/False Prophet/Beast from the Earth (she spreads Longlegs's message to others). Perhaps the dolls or metal orbs are the mark of the beast? Is this stretching too far? I'm not sure it is, given the references to the Book of Revelation, and of course the film's central themes (and, as Perkins indicated, his most personal theme) of a realization of hidden knowledge, with "apocalypse" and "revelation" both referring to that hidden knowledge being revealed or made known.

- Does the finale indicate that Lee herself will become the next Longlegs, as she does not (cannot?) destroy the doll? Remember that Longlegs -- who should be dead at this point in the story -- calls Lee to remind her of little Ruby's party. Longlegs is sort of Lee's director or mentor, having apparently orchestrated so much of Lee's life and manipulated her, even her psychic abilities. Lee has always wanted to be an actor, as she told Ruby early in the film. Longlegs later says he laughed when she became an FBI agent; perhaps because she was fulfilling his plan to investigate the killings and her own mother and have access to a gun to enact murders of her own (including Ruby's family -- Lee's partner and his wife -- as well as her own mother? Does she "become" him? Remember, too, that his final words to her before killing himself are "Well, I'll let you get started now."

- Other possible themes might include truth being hidden by corrupt faith, the nature of faith itself and the lengths to which we go to live it out, outing evil parents or how parents' actions will infect their children through life. There's also an interesting parallel between the film, Lee, and us. Perhaps we're meant to learn a lesson about getting too caught up in symbols and imagery and narrative and meaning while missing the big picture or emotional truth of art. 

A film like this will launch hours upon hours of social media rants and "ending explained" videos and TikToks of people puking their opinions and interpretations, and maybe that's fine and dandy for the studio and for the film's circulation. But shouldn't a film be worth that hype and interest? I'm not convinced this one deserves its buzz. Perkins is always worth watching, as his control over tone and mood and atmosphere is bleak, his violence is brutal, and his rich themes are complex and not at all obvious. This film is fabulously entertaining and hard to shake after viewing, but when any given detail requires footnotes and references and time stamps and mansplaining and obscure tie-ins and niche techniques and arthouse logic and video essays to even understand some possible interpretations, I can't help but feel the artists did a disservice to their own work by not being specific enough. Clearly there was intention in every aspect of bringing this story to the screen; too bad nobody can wholly access it.

The Bikeriders (2024)

Score: 3 / 5

Jeff Nichols's latest feature is exactly what you'd expect from him, for better and for worse. Your mileage with it will depend on your mileage with its subject matter and aesthetics. Nichols is very much an actor's director, and his films always feature nuanced, grounded performances rooted in time and place (the rural American south or South-adjacent). The potential problem with his films is his storytelling: he usually writes his own screenplays, and while the dialogue is workmanlike, his topics are generally not worthy of much story. His flat plots and forced narratives feel like what would happen if Terence Malick had to take a screenwriting class. Nichols is best at making things look and feel nostalgic and gritty, not at generating actual emotions or carrying them through growth to an outcome.

Case in point: it's really odd that he chooses a woman to be our inlet into this hyper-masculine world of '60s Midwest biker culture. Inspired by Danny Lyon's photography book of the same title, The Bikeriders is essentially a montage of images and ideas ripped from the real-life Outlaws motorcycle club, fictionalized here as the Vandals. And the characters closest to the center of its focus are, in fact, men: Tom Hardy as Johnny and Austin Butler as Benny. They're gruff and tough, chainsmoking and leather-clad, mostly quiet even when fists start to fly. They're also quite mysterious, and as with most of Nichols's films, while his fascination is clearly on American masculinities, he never manages to explore those identities beyond how they look and sound. So it's strange that Jodie Comer's Kathy tells their story for us.

Her account of the Vandals and her life with them is framed by interviews she gives Lyon, played by Mike Faist (who is really making a name for himself lately). She recalls getting dragged into a biker bar by her friend, where her white and lavender habiliments stick out like a Precious Moments doll in a Harley Davidson garage. But she's captivated by one of the smelly, dirty men: Benny, playing pool, younger than most of the other men, and giving his best James Dean. When the camera slows down, it's hard for us not to fall in love too. Or, rather, lust. But it's not wholly carnal lust (though she is married already to an equally uptight man): it's a lust for what he represents. Rebellion, individuality, freedom. Daring to be different and himself. Uptight Kathy is curious enough to pursue it, and she's about to go on the ride of her life. Literally.

A large ensemble cast rounds out the gang, and we get just enough of each of them to make them endearing and idiosyncratic, from an angry Latvian who wanted to go to 'Nam (Michael Shannon) to a habitual bug-eater (Emory Cohen), and including Damon Herriman and Boyd Holbrook as Johnny's backup. Johnny himself is mostly enigmatic, though Kathy tells his story like a fairytale, how he was inspired by Marlon Brando in The Wild One to form the club to, initially, race bikes. His wife and children are mostly absent, indicating again the escapism and freedom Johnny craves among a brotherhood of men doing "what men do." Unfortunately, it doesn't take too long for too many men to become interested, leading to other chapters of the club springing up around the Midwest, drawing the attention and interest of younger, hotheaded delinquents who slowly morph the club into a gang. Issues of criminality plague the Vandals, but Johnny maintains strict order as far as his reach will allow.

Presumably, that's why he takes such a shine to Benny. Hardy and Butler make an electrifying pair on screen, and despite Comer's reliably excellent performance (her accent work alone is worthy of awards), it's the two leading men whose chemistry together makes the film worth watching. Benny's heart of gold leads him to jump into fights without regard for himself, and while Johnny doesn't really approve of the fighting, he recognizes loyalty and bravery and honor when it's so rare in their circles. An excellent opening scene returns later in the film, now with context, and it's a really effective one that features Butler getting brutalized by other men who want him to remove his biker jacket. Obviously the context of the Vandals, how they started and what they became, matter, but the key here is that Benny's grumbled "You'd have to kill me" offers the insight we need to see how deeply entrenched he is in the culture. It has its own language, hierarchy, politics, and rituals, and he's willing to die (and kill) for it. There's even a scene, much later, between Hardy and Butler that frankly had me eager for a kiss, not so much because of what they were saying but because of how they were speaking to each other and listening. It's pretty romantic stuff.

The Bikeriders is, sure, a story of coming of age into a new culture, of assimilation into society and rebellion against another, and of men seeking fulfillment and satisfaction in ways conventionally denied them. But it's also a story of loss. Specifically, the loss of their culture due to inevitable aging and induction of newbies, particularly those with PTSD after the Vietnam war, violent counterculture youths, and the spread of accessible recreational drugs. There's also the hint of Kathy's loss: her married life with Benny is almost nonexistent in the film, begging the question of whether she knew what she was signing up for and exactly how she feels about the club and its climate. Sure, she begs Benny to be safe and not to be recklessly violent, but it doesn't seem like she has any idea what he and his buddies really get up to. And their intimacy becomes about as flaccid as you wouldn't expect.

Which is true of the film in general. Excellent production design, an evocative soundtrack, and gorgeous cinematography -- and, of course, the fabulous acting -- make it lovely to behold, but the lack of earned emotional depth makes it all feel a little quaint and wistful. Like a photobook on a coffee table, The Bikeriders holds your attention only if you care to look, and even then there's little to hook your brain or heart. It's an empty daydream, one musing its loss of self, and at every moment that could eke out profound insight or truisms or even relevance to today, it chooses to remain silent and wallow in its own surly mystique.

Inside Out 2 (2024)

Score: 4.5 / 5

A second outing is rarely as evocative, provocative, or enthralling as a first outing, but Inside Out 2 is a worthy sequel in what may well become an ongoing series. While it was an uncharacteristically risky choice to tap a first-time feature director in Kelsey Mann (who had supervised the stories for The Good Dinosaur, Monsters University, and Onward), Mann's energy effortlessly fits the wacky yet emotional world of Inside Out. His product is a sequel through and through: taking what worked best about the original and, almost a decade later, giving more and more of it in faster bursts and more pizzazz.

Since we don't have to waste time getting ingratiated into the inner world of Riley -- literally, as the main characters are, in fact, personified emotions in her head -- this film jumps right into new territory. Joy, Sadness, Fear, Disgust, and Anger now oversee a new part of Riley's mind called her "Sense of Self," a collection of memories in a pool of feelings that shape Riley's core beliefs about herself. It's one of those elements of fantasy or sci-fi that often feels laborious at first, but once it's introduced, actually manages to feel both inspired and clever. Much like the first film's use of "core memories," here the Sense of Self becomes the primary lynchpin for the plot and coming conflict. And conflict is indeed coming: Riley is now a teenager. 

Riley prepares for high school by attending an ice hockey camp that may qualify her for the school's team. Unfortunately, her "Puberty Alarm" goes off at the start of her weekend away, and her emotions are not prepared for the onslaught. After a team of workers all but demolishes Headquarters, Joy and her fellow emotions are invaded by five new emotions who clash tremendously with Riley's status quo. Their leader, Anxiety, is a harried orange time bomb, and her accomplices Envy, Ennui, and Embarrassment do little to slow her roll. Nostalgia appears to be a new emotion as well, but she's mostly pushed out and told to wait for Riley to grow up a bit more. While Joy wants Riley to have fun and be herself at camp, Anxiety wants Riley to win and impress her coach and future teammates. Their clash leads Anxiety to jettison Riley's Sense of Self and attempt to fashion a new one, marooning Joy and the others so they won't interfere; the original emotions embark on an adventure to Riley's subconscious to rescue and reinstate her Sense of Self.

There's a lot -- and I mean a lot -- of content in this film. Breakneck plot points would make attempting a detailed summary extremely difficult, and I'm finding it difficult to even remember all that occurs narratively. Riley's interactions with her best friends are hard to endure as she abandons them, under Anxiety's influence, in order to hang out with Val and the other established high school hockey team. Her desperation to fit in and impress the older girls adds a distinctive queer element to the story that shocked and delighted me, though it's never made explicit by the screenplay (but the visual artists certainly knew what they were doing). There's also some interesting tension with the coach that leads Riley to act in distinctly unethical ways, and though the film avoids too much direct discourse on morality, we get the keen perspective inside her head of the internal damage that dishonesty and selfishness does to us all.

Riley often repeats to herself that she's a good person, and while it becomes pretty annoying, it also rings remarkably true, especially for those of us who deal with debilitating anxiety. When Anxiety takes over, Riley shuts down and begins acting in erratic ways, which make so much sense as we see the chaos within her brain. It's a natural but brilliant evolution of what came before, and all of it feels earned and authentic to what we know of these characters as well as what we know of the developing human brain. Much as the first film blew our minds with its personifications and dramatizations of childhood emotions, this film matures those ideas into a really heady mixture of exploration. In fact, even as I tear up thinking about my wracking sobs during a screening of this film, I'm not entirely sure what kids -- presumably the target audience for this animated film -- will really enjoy this film. Sure, it has bright colors and fast action, but its ideas are quite complex and not thoroughly enjoyable, even for adults. It hurts so good, you might say.

That said, it does include genius ideas like the first, which come in rapid succession as Joy and her friends hurry through Riley's subconscious. There are additional characters rendered as other kinds of animation (like in Ralph Breaks the Internet), such as Riley's childhood video game crush or her favorite character from a Blue's Clues or Dora the Explorer type show, and of course her Deep Dark Secret (which I was certain would remain a mystery until the next installment and reveal itself as a crush, probably queer, until the post-credits scene, which reveals it as something so annoyingly dull I'll never speak of it). There's Riley's Mount Crushmore, which you can surely imagine for yourself, and a bizarrely Orwellian scene in Imagination Land. 

Its cleverness never quite lands in the same way as the first film, and so its impact is also lessened. There's never the emotional trauma inflicted by Bing Bong, but frankly I'm okay with that. Especially since the climax, in which Joy and Anxiety have to work together like Joy and Sadness had to previously, is a much-needed balm for anyone as triggered by Anxiety as I was while watching. But what is disappointing to me is that the new emotions other than Anxiety are not given enough time to become memorable like the original five. Envy and Ennui do almost nothing, and while the latter is hilarious, the French caricature wears thin quickly; Embarrassment has key narrative beats to hit, but he's not given much character to mine. Moreover, the thematic beats of individuality and belonging and remaining true to yourself are always good to remember, but do feel a bit trite and quaint at this point. With so many new ideas, those are the big takeaway morals?

And yet I still find myself misty-eyed at the film's denouement, as Joy and Anxiety work together to help Riley more gracefully enter puberty. There's a freedom that comes when her anxiety is checked and she no longer feels the need to succeed over others or impress them. She simply and joyously embraces the sensation of skating on the ice, and it's a cathartic moment of grace after so much havoc. The understated final message of the film, I think, is to embrace simplicity and integrity to yourself. We should all be so fortunate (scratch that: read healthy) to do the things we love to do for its own reward. To be content with our interests and actions when they align and not feel any need to use it for clout or attention or temporary pleasure, to live in the moment and find spiritual sustenance on one's own terms. Happiness and fulfillment are choices we can consciously make. Those are ideas I would love to see manifest in a future installment, because that had me reeling in my seat as the credits rolled. 

A Quiet Place: Day One (2024)

Score: 3.5 / 5

Our welcome return to the Quiet Place world won't likely usurp the first two films in fan rankings, but it has a lot to offer new fans as well as those of us craving more emotional horror these days. That's what differentiated the first two entries: two of the scariest PG-13 movies I'd ever seen, they work best as family dramas with unbearably high stakes in the face of raw horror. While we've already seen some of the events of "day one" of the apparent apocalypse in this film in the intro to Part II, this film acts as a spin-off to the series, dramatizing the events of that initial alien invasion from the perspective of a totally new character. In fact, apart from the aliens themselves and a cameo appearance of Djimon Hounsou, a secondary character in Part II, Day One could have been completely unrelated to the existing series.

I won't bother with the plot because a) there's not much to this story beyond plot and b) marketing gave away the whole thing already. Day One is very much an actor's horror movie, and director and writer Michael Sarnoski can patently handle that. Sarnoski's previous (debut) feature film was Pig, and if you saw that you might wonder how his penchant for dank, dismal tension will translate to big-budget inner city action horror. Indeed, I'm still wondering that after seeing the film, because it mostly doesn't. What does translate is his ability to evoke and capture stirring performances from actors at the tops of their games, and here Lupita Nyong'o and Joseph Quinn prove more than excellent at their daunting roles, wherein the real heavy lifting is in their physical work and facial acting. They are the beating heart (and most other vital organs) of this film, and they drove me to tears more than once.

Sarnoski's handle on pacing is also pretty firm, allowing the emotional beats of the film to flow with a logic the rest of it seldom demonstrates. While the reason for Nyong'o's character Sam fixating on getting a slice of pizza at a particular restaurant is about as opaque a MacGuffin as you could find, the way she (and we) navigate a crumbling Manhattan crawling with sound-hunting killing machines feels earned and satisfying. Even when it shouldn't. For example, her cat (named Frodo, which is an endearing if obnoxious inclusion) never strays far and doesn't make a sound. Too, Sam's determination to walk boldly through open, dusty avenues shouldn't be as easy or bloodless as it so often is here. And how, exactly, did the officials learn that the alien predators can't swim and so citizens are safest on large barges circumnavigating the city? It's all quite fast and convenient, and the practicalities offer far more loopholes than answers for the discerning viewer.

It's the kind of thing that makes me wish John Krasinski had returned to helm this installment. His palpable ability to write and direct multiple threads as they become hopelessly taut in thrilling, action-heavy climaxes would have made this film incredible. It's War of the Worlds but silent, and in one of the largest cities on Earth. In Sarnoski's hands, the setpieces feel cobbled together and half-baked, with enough plotholes and inconsistencies in the brief bits of action to distract from the horror itself. There is almost no tension between these setpieces either, with cinematography and music emphasizing Sam's lonely journey through a city of ghosts. Any story with the premise this has should lean much farther into action and horror than this one does. Otherwise, it could (and should) have been set in a smaller city, one that is believable as such and not as overdressed soundstages. The sweeping vistas of NYC here are never convincing, and are not helped by cinematography so suffused with amber atmosphere they don't look like part of the real world.

It wouldn't need to be a survival thriller if the film fully embraced the existential crisis of its protagonist. Sam's terminal cancer seems to make her at times despondent, but she exhibits certain fighting instincts that belie a depth of character. Why doesn't Sarnoski explore that further? Instead, each time the screenplay gets close to revealing intriguing perspective on what really matters to her as she slowly dies or to the world as it quickly collapses, the film backpedals and broadens its scope again, avoiding tough ruminations on the toughest of questions. And, whether it's the result of poor initial writing or studio interference with the final product, the film clips along at too quick a pace, pushing its characters and audience through a hurried, harried experience that feels antithetical to the tone and themes established in the first two films.

It's not a technically or dramatically inept film, it's just a bit of a disappointment for the franchise. Day One is still a fun ride, and one that hopefully opens the doors for more installments. It does offer, and I think this is important, notable deviation from the political aspects of the original film; there have been some quiet observations about the rural white family and their survivalist behaviors that are curiously absent from wider discourse about the series that offer really interesting readings and implications. Here, with its casting choices and remarkable acting, those concerns are completely sidestepped, which I applaud as both risky and necessary for the series to continue. And I certainly hope it does continue, and soon. Just not with Sarnoski's involvement.

The Exorcism (2024)

Score: 2 / 5

And it could have been truly great.

An aging actor signs on to make a triumphant return to cinema in what appears to be a remake of The Exorcist, entitled The Georgetown Project. His personal assistant on the film is his own daughter, recently suspended from high school, but she quickly becomes wary of his unhinged, troubling behavior. With the recent death of her mother haunting both of them, could the stress of this job have caused him to fall off the wagon? Or could the legendary demons that haunted the original film set have returned to wreak havoc on this new film?

Directed and co-written by Joshua John Miller (whose father was Jason Miller of original Exorcist fame), I was certain this would be a meta-commentary on legacy remakes, on haunted studio sets, and on the personal demons that plague Hollywood dynasties. I even hoped it might offer some insight or modern dramatizations of the scary stories still in circulation about what happened behind the scenes of the original 1973 film. Add to it the somewhat meta-ness of casting as its lead Russell Crowe, who is still fighting his way back into the public eye's good graces -- and who only last year starred in a big-budget exorcism horror title -- and this was already one of the most interesting cultural products of the summer.

But the fabulous premise and real life names and situations are about where the intrigue ends. The terribly titled film opens with an effective but rote death scene, but then focuses tightly on Russell Crowe as Anthony Miller (again, the naming indicates something more than what we ultimately get), an alcoholic, down-and-out actor trying to decide if taking on this new role will work out. He's surprised by the arrival of his daughter Lee (played by Ryan Simpkins), a teen clearly at war with herself and the world around her. She knows her way around the technical aspects of cinema and theatre, and we get the impression that her father's craft has molded her life in more ways than meet the eye. Her troubles are mostly also his, and the two mourn the death of her mother even as she helps him prepare for his comeback role.

Once on set -- featuring an impressive dollhouse-type house with an open fourth wall a la Hereditary or plays like August: Osage County -- they engage with the director (played by Adam Goldberg), whose eagerness to get things going and determination to help Anthony generate his best possible performance leads him to verbally abuse his star. Much as we've heard about major directors of the last century, from Hitchcock to Friedkin himself, his methods are far from ethical, and I was hopeful this would become the central conflict of the film. Not so, though it does remain its most memorable drama.

Instead of leaning into these aspects, the filmmakers make a sharp turn into formulaic, familiar territory, and by the halfway point, the film loses any vestiges of originality or inspiration. Apart from a few fun -- if nonsensical -- shock scares, things go exactly as you can predict dozens of minutes in advance. Things on set go bump in the dark, Anthony zones out and speaks in gravelly demonic tones, they catch him drinking on the job and failing to connect with other actors or his material, he stalks people and (most baffling to me) we see him attack others. His skin mottles and his veins darken, his eyes bulge and his voice drops, and all in all it's the same visual and aural hooey we've seen time and again in the genre. There is never any doubt he's not possessed (by Pazuzu, perhaps?), and by the film's inevitable climactic titular rite -- in the cold set of the child's bedroom -- every beat would be obvious to you if you were both blind and deaf. A few notable technical proficiencies, mostly facilitated by cinematography, set design, and sound editing, save the film from being unwatchable. And, frankly, I've always said a "bad" horror movie is still more enjoyable to watch than a "bad" entry of any other genre; the same is true here.

Even the presence of Sam Worthington and David Hyde Pierce can't save this movie from its depressing mediocrity and tedium. Their actions don't matter because their characters aren't conceived beyond their function to push along the plot. The climax wallows in tradition rather than leaning into what could have been the most important element of this story: Anthony's history of sexual abuse at the hands of a priest. Apart from a few jittery flashback images and a mumbled side comment or two, his history is almost ignored by the dialogue and editing, making his victory over the demon and apparent reclamation of his faith both muted, almost moot points. His last-minute conversion isn't believable, nor is it articulated well by the film, leaving his use of the rite hollow and meaningless when it should matter the most. Much how Joshua John Miller treated this movie in whole.