Wicked: Part One (2024)

Score: 5 / 5

We've waited twenty years for this. And it's perfect.

Perfectly cast, with special attention to appropriate diversity and character actors knowingly leaning into our expectations of them. Perfectly designed, bridging the gaps between the Technicolor fantasy of the original film and the steampunk postmodernity of the classic Broadway show. Perfectly translated musically, with a depth of sound and patience in letting melodies drift across scenes unusual for movie musicals. Perfectly realized sets and a shocking lack of CGI. Perfectly bypassing the specificities of its source book (one of my most hated novels) in favor of the pop culture phenomena that are The Wizard of Oz (1939) and the titular stage production. Perfectly directed by the up-and-coming premiere musical film director of the 2020s, Jon M. Chu, whose work here feels like the joyous consummation of his talents after Crazy Rich Asians and In the Heights. 

Perfectly paced, perhaps even as an improvement on the stage musical (this point may be controversial, as a subtracted outro for "Something Bad" and a delayed climax for "Defying Gravity" may well disrupt longtime fans' immersion). Perfectly honoring the original, including cameos and even visuals ripped from our collective memory (Elphaba's extended cape as she levitates in the finale is exactly what we need to see at the end of Act 1, and it's gloriously realized here). Perfectly performed roles that could easily have been impressionistic or impersonated (Ariana Grande skews close to Chenoweth's iconic delivery while offering boons of her own, while Cynthia Erivo and Jonathan Bailey internalize their characters more to bring fresh dynamics, and Michelle Yeoh and Jeff Goldblum subtly play against type to suggest insidious design). Perfectly costumed, adding substance and character to already well-rounded people, making the visuals pop with tactile pleasures. Perfectly choreographed, honoring the original while injecting the large numbers with adrenaline, giving even unexpected moments some zazz.

Most important, it's perfectly suited to the present, perhaps even more so than it was twenty years ago in George W. Bush's America, in the days of our "War on Terror," with drones surveilling seditious activity and a con man in power demonizing people of color while attempting to harvest their resources for his own grandiosity and control. Minorities are being ousted, hunted, and caged, making the magical wonder of Oz a parallel thematic pleasure to the increasingly dark oppression embodied in metallic crystalline urbanity. Relevancy can be hard to come by, and often feels forced in situations like this; not so, here, where the material feels long overdue and yet disturbingly timely to an uncomfortable degree.

This is less a review that a laundry list of perfections the film realizes, so I won't belabor it. I hope that they add some music to the second film, as even the show doesn't have quite as much in the second act, and dark and action-heavy as it is, I'd prefer Schwartz to tinker therein. Except for the Wizomania bits of "One Short Day," nothing substantively new is added to the first act, which is totally fine for me, but does make me hopeful for some novelty to be taken with Part Two. Specifically, I'm eager to see more dynamism from Nessarose and the spectacle of magic, twisters, and action that largely occurs offstage in the stage musical. But in all, this film feels like the kind of culture-spanning blockbuster we got all too frequently pre-Covid and rarely get anymore in this age of direct-to-streaming small releases. I hope its success revives the form and our social integrity when it comes to collective cinematic experiences. We'll just have to wait until next November to see if they stick the landing.

Spoiler: they will.

(Side note: I'm learning that, apart from general ignorance about Jon Chu's previous films, many people are also unfamiliar with Cynthia Erivo's previous work in Bad Times at the El Royale, Widows, Harriet, The Outsider, Genius: Aretha, and of course her stage work in The Color Purple among other great credits. Y'all need to make sure you catch up, because she is not slowing down any time soon and is one of the best artists working right now.)

Speak No Evil (2024)

Score: 2.5 / 5

Apologies for the lateness: I had determined to not pay to watch this film, so I had to wait until it was streaming. The original film is one that I watched back in 2022 when it was released to such critical ravings, and I hated it so much that when an American remake was announced so soon, I swore it off. Conceptually, it's not unlike the erotic thrillers of the '80s or '90s, though with less erotics and more didactics; its horror emerges from its characters' consternation about maintaining civility in the face of weaponized politeness. The original Danish/Dutch film isn't aesthetically like those American thrillers but rather like Michael Haneke's Funny Games, almost coldly detached and unemotionally glib when the unspeakable occurs.

Adapted and directed by James Watkins (Eden Lake, The Woman in Black), this remake did a couple of great things, and I think special attention should be drawn to that. Casting choices are stellar, though the Dalton family of protagonists -- including Scoot McNairy and Mackenzie Davis doing admirably dedicated work -- will largely be ignored in favor of James McAvoy's casting as the antagonist. His character, father and physician Paddy, and that of his shockingly young wife (Aisling Franciosi, of The Nightingale, Stopmotion, The Last Voyage of the Demeter, and Irish series The Fall, among others) are pure adrenaline rushes onscreen. McAvoy's talent for physical performance feels naturally evolved here after his turn in Split, and while the actors are all playing reliable "types" they've played before, his is just unhinged enough to feel fresh and dangerous in every scene-stealing beat. He's playing the whole thing with so many nonverbal undercurrents of sexual threat, domineering toxicity, backwoods charm, homebody authenticity, and freak show glee that it's hard to tell when (or if, ever) he's being genuine or calculating, rational or crazy, like a jack-in-the-box always on the verge of bursting open.

It also did something really bad right away, and that should also be addressed, though perhaps separately from the film itself. You can't really judge a film by its marketing, but I do think it's best not to spoil your own film in your own marketing. This advertising campaign all but ruined the film for anyone who saw even a single trailer, because its main twist was revealed every time! And while it's arguably true that, as it's not a mystery film by generic conventions, the twist shouldn't really matter, that that twist is what makes the story compelling and worth telling at all should force it to be kept secret, at least for those not already in the know. I could not believe every trailer and tv spot spoiled it; in case you miraculously haven't seen any at this point, I won't spoil it by detailing the plot now.

That said, Watkins very intelligently -- very graciously, in my opinion -- changes the climax and finale of this film in significant ways. So much so, in fact, that I actually found myself begrudgingly glad to have finally seen it. Again, no spoilers, but the original ending is as bleak and disturbing as its premise promises. The remake, however, offers a much different ending that arguably undermines the thematic point of the original but suggests perhaps a different ethical code by which we might discuss the film's ideas. Nihilistic horror has its place in the world, some of which I truly enjoy, but that this remake doesn't give us the same dosage and rather enacts a more progressive, more redemptive series of events endeared it to me right around the time I was debating whether to turn it off and avoid the denouement.

As a much more fun and engaging -- and bombastically acted -- version of the same story, I have to recommend this over its predecessor. That said, it's the kind of wacky flick best enjoyed in the company of other like-minded friends, particularly those willing to shout at the characters for being stupid and stubborn. Some movies just call for that, and that kind of interactivity would make this a rewarding viewing experience communally. Just as the changed ending matches its kinetic, even antic energy better, begging us for a different viewing experience than the hushed nightmarish malevolence of the original, this film's ending also changes the metaphoric focus of its critique: this film is slightly less about social etiquette and maintaining a veneer of politeness than it is about the nature of seductive gaslighting and the cyclical momentum in abusive relationships that makes it so hard to leave. I suspect many a relationship therapist would recognize that in this film, and it could make for useful teaching methods in helping those stuck in such situations recognize their own trapped behaviors.

Gladiator II (2024)

Score: 3.5 / 5

Gladiator was never one of my favorite historical action epics, though I do harbor a soft spot for the genre. And it's not for any real reason except that I personally don't care much for Russell Crowe's acting and I have always been annoyed by the overwhelming praise for it. But it's a solid film, one that should be watched multiple times if at all, so when an unnecessary sequel is announced over twenty years later, we were all worried.

We needn't have been. Ridley Scott -- all hail -- is as much at the height of his powers as ever. We shouldn't have been worried; even though the master of the historical epic (and of filmmaking in general) is nearly 90 years old, he remains vivacious and visionary. Here he takes what worked best about his original classic and revs up the energy, adding about 10% more complexity and 40% more spectacle for a sequel that will either be half as good as the first or half again better, depending on what you like in your historical epics.

Nominally about Lucius (Paul Mescal), the son of Crowe's Maximus, doing basically the same thing his father did previously, the film retreads the same ground, adding almost nothing by way of ideas or plot. As such, and although there are many callbacks to "the past" and "legacy" yada yada, this feels more like a remake or reimagining of what has come before. I don't think it would work well as a companion piece, because they are just too similar. Even the insanity of the Caesars, the villainized sexuality of Romans, the strange pseudo-heroism of the slave owners, all are hitting the same notes now as before. It's not unlike The Force Awakens and subsequent sequel trilogy in the sense that it took established lore, set up camp in the midst of it, and reworked it for new audiences with a glossier finish. Sure, it's lovely to look at, but isn't it also a bit cheaply underbaked?

Ideas aside -- and trust, it's a hard pill to swallow -- this is a really fun movie. If, like me, you enjoy the politics and "slice of life" bits of the original, you'll get that here too, though it's not quite as compelling. Helped by Fred Hechinger and Joseph Quinn, drama here lies primarily in the realm of palace intrigue, as Connie Nielsen returns as Lucilla, gaining supporters to rise up against the childish and syphilitic co-emperors Geta and Caracalla. In her train are husband General Acacius (Pedro Pascal), a loyal warrior who has become disillusioned with his warmongering empire and Senator Gracchus (Derek Jacobi, thankfully) returns as well, though now in a sadly diminished capacity.

But the film soars -- and I do mean that -- when Denzel Washington graces the scene. It's been many long years since he's delivered a real, raw, and daring performance in any film, and I've started losing respect for the safety in choices he's made professionally. Not so here, as his character Macrinus is one of the most original, engaging, and delightful creations of his career. Insistently chewing the scene every time, his mannerisms and voice are just off what we expect of Washington, consistently surprising us with little tidbits of quirkiness and menace. Macrinus is the gladiator handler this time, and his attention to Lucius's rage fuels his own grandiose schemes for climbing the political ladder. His Shakespearean Iago is miles ahead of the co-emperors, who really should start a morning talkshow called "Incel Incest" for all their characterization manages to convey. The gladiatorial games this time, as before, are a ploy for power, but this time, those in power aren't aware of the game of thrones until it's too late.

Ah, yes, the games: did you think I'd forget to mention? While before the most exotic part of the games were the live tigers brought into the arena, true to form for a big-budget sequel, this time we get a menagerie of threats in the Colosseum. Rhinos, baboons, and sharks -- yes, sharks -- are brought into these games in increasingly laughable ways. Making for a fun viewing experience, it does broadcast a certain desperation to fulfill the promise of entertainment rhetorically asked by the gladiators. And these scenes, even including flooding the Colosseum to reenact a naval battle, serve best to distract from political intrigue and dramatic heft rather than offering thematic insight. Thankfully, for the most part, it looks fantastic (the baboons are a bit too Jumanji-esque for me) and you can barely tear your eyes away from the spectacle. Maybe that's enough for some audiences.

Personally, I'd have liked a bit less CGI and a bit more practical effects in the arena itself. I'd have preferred the screenplay not sideline its own hero: Mescal is just as (if not more) captivating in his performance, but the character just isn't as interesting the second time around. I'd even have liked more a focus on Washington's character, who will stick with me for some time yet. Pascal offers some surprisingly affecting moments of dynamism despite having a smaller role, while returning stars Jacobi and Nielsen are sidelined and not used nearly as much as they should be. If the point of this film was to remake the original, it succeeds. If the point is to complicate and expand the original, with the screenplay only slightly edited, they should have focused on Washington's character, turning the film into a meta-commentary on the nature of power behind the scenes -- behind the games -- and the corporate cost of personal ambition. But, for what it is, I'll just be glad to have another Ridley Scott blockbuster and eagerly await what comes next.

Heretic (2024)

Score: 4 / 5

A surprising and welcome new energy from Scott Beck and Bryan Woods pervades the thick atmosphere of Heretic. The filmmaking duo are still trying to make a name for themselves, perhaps partly due to the niche attraction fans have to their material. After all, conceiving and writing A Quiet Place launched them to the major studios, but then their directorial features Haunt and 65 were perhaps a little too bonkers for all but the cult parts of horror fandom. The Boogeyman was a lot of fun, but like all Stephen King adaptations, it too has a certain appeal (or lack of) in the community. They have great ideas and for the most part realize them in grim, graphic ways.

Heretic is no less grim, to be sure, and its haunted grotesquerie seems determined to burn its way into your memory. But the majority of horrors depicted here are didactic. Spiritual, even. The first half (roughly; I wasn't paying attention to time) is a Hitchcockian Socratic dialogue, pitting two young Mormon missionaries against the older man who invites them into his home. It's clear we're not to trust this man, but the film's internal logic forces us to accept their choice to cross his domicile's threshold. He's kindly, it's storming, and his house is cozy and quaint in that elderly way, with wafts of blueberry pie wafting into the sitting room from the kitchen. The reclusive man assures the young ladies that his wife is just in the other room, so no impropriety shall occur as they discuss the tenets of faith with him.

There have been a flurry of horror films lately that challenge the established format of home invasion thrillers and abduction-and-escape scenarios, especially Barbarian and Don't Breathe, which both seem to be referenced consciously here. But the focus is less on when Mr. Reed (played by a disarming and urgently creepy Hugh Grant in a role that should earn him laurels) will pounce on these young ladies than it is on how he will do so. His conversation is a bit too prepared, a bit too ritualized, for him to be inventing it off the cuff. You all but expect him to draw a screen, turn on a projector, and start explaining his slides. In fact, he brings out several versions of the Monopoly board game to illustrate his slightly belabored point about the structural similarities and mere cosmetic differences between the monotheistic religions. You get the feeling he's done this before.

But the girls are not quite ubiquitous. Sister Barnes (Sophie Thatcher) is a bit brassier, more confident and daring to be more assertive in the face of Mr. Reed's thinly veiled accusations and implications; Sister Paxton (Chloe East) is more innocent and timid, eager to be the nice, sweet face of her church at the cost of her own agency. This film might pair nicely with Barbarian or Speak No Evil if you want to spend a few hours sweating over anxious politeness and the tense observance of social etiquette in violent situations. And for most of its runtime, that's what Heretic does best: remind us of the terrifying power of religion (far more than individual belief) to construct our reality and control our lives. It's not necessarily about a religious zealot who becomes a villainous monster -- though Mr. Reed is not as feeble as he appears, and when blood is spilled, it accompanies a few revelations about his modus operandi and motivations that are deeply troubling if unexpectedly baffling -- but more about a prophet of sorts seeking to challenge the faithful to reason their way through their own beliefs.

As such, the film is as satisfying as it is entertaining, a tense exercise in curt dialogue and admirable acting in a chamber piece of increasingly Gothic aesthetic. Once Mr. Reed's preachiness reaches its climax, and his ruse revealed to be the spider's web it is, the girls are free to leave, but they must do so while playing his bizarre game, leading them through a purgatory of his making. I expected this film, once it pulled this curtain back, to go full-tilt into a certain subgenre exemplified by Beck and Woods's previous features and their roller coaster vibes. It does not, which makes the second half of the film feel more than a bit slapdash. Despite their naivete or foolishness in trusting Mr. Reed that his wife was in the other room -- she wasn't, of course, which underlines his point about believing that God is there simply because kindly old men told you he was -- the girls fight paralysis as they descend into a waking nightmare.

Which is literal, because the path out of the house (according to Mr. Reed) is through his dank, dark cellar. Again the references pile up, and when they discover they're not alone in his cellar, things really go awry. There is a strange focus on religious theatricality here, and on some frankly unnecessarily gross practical effects, and the combo almost took me out of the movie entirely. Not because it's "bad" by any dubious attempt at evaluation, but because it's so different from the cerebral themes and tones already established in the first half. Think of the first Saw film and the shocking brevity of actual onscreen violence. Heck, this movie has tonal shifts like we might see if The Silence of the Lambs and Silence had Mormon progeny.

Whether or not the full movie works for you, it's a daring bit of novelty from its directorial team as much as it is from its leading man. Grant is clearly having fun with the role, and he and his co-stars dance their way through with determined aplomb. The set is deceptively simple and captured with compelling curiosity by cinematographer Chung-hoon Chung (Wonka, Uncharted, Hotel Artemis, Last Night in Soho, The Current War, It, Boulevard, and a host of Park Chan-wook films), who guides us through the labyrinthine weirdness with such kinetic fluidity that despite feeling claustrophobic we also are drawn to severe facial close-ups to make sense of it all.

Perhaps the greatest success of this film is less in its challenging of religion -- or of belief, though this is definitely not a film about not believing something -- and more in its frank advocacy of challenging what you yourself believe as a practice or discipline meant to make your belief better. This is an apologetics masterclass in working your way through history and philosophy, through social mores and dogmatic repression, daring you not just to think about religion (it's a fascinating choice to center on Mormons, just as it is fascinating that Mr. Reed only seems to want to draw women into his den) but to think about how your approach to reality -- to life -- can and should be changed. Plato's cave, the butterfly dream, near-death visions of the afterlife, even the simulation hypothesis are all explicitly brought into the film's logic, offering plenty of fodder for a late-night discussion with your friends after the credits begin to roll.

Conclave (2024)

Score: 4 / 5

Suffice to say, we're in awards season. Perhaps the most surprising title for me was Conclave, which arrived in cinemas without much fanfare, promising a Catholic talkie thriller somewhere between a Robert Langdon religiopolitical caper and a Socratic dialogue in dramatic form a la The Two Popes. In fact, that's about what it delivers! Based on the 2016 novel by Robert Harris, the story concerns a pope's death and the subsequent papal conclave tasked with electing the next Holy Father. A chamber piece of densely layered writing and ferocious performances, Conclave may not win any converts to the faith, but for those with any ounce of religious identity (or religious trauma), it offers insightful, incisive boons designed to provoke serious reflection on the power of institutionalized faith and the dangers of dogmatic adherence.

Cardinal-Dean Lawrence (Ralph Fiennes) leads the College of Cardinals into seclusion shortly after the pope dies of a sudden heart attack. It is to be his duty to shepherd the cardinals during this time of debate and transition, and he seems all to aware of the threat of inevitable skullduggery. Having been one of the first to the dying pope's bedside, Lawrence is meant to be our guide as well through the story, seemingly an intelligent and kind man who truly wants what's best for the global church. He gathers the cardinals into sequestered dormitories in Rome for the duration of the conclave, ushering them to and from the Sistine Chapel for periodic silent votes for one of the four main candidates. But Lawrence quietly reveals early on that he doubts his role and the outcome so much that he planned to step down from this position. He claims to not want to know gossip or slander about the viable candidates, yet his ever-observant gaze catches more than one unseemly slight, and when this happens, he pursues it often farther than he probably should to understand more fully the problems of these pious men. 

A film like this could easily slip into exploitation territory, but the profound humanness on display, especially from Lawrence, keep things grounded. The sensitive screenplay by Peter Straughan allows the candidates their moments of problem without painting any as wholly virtuous or villainous: past sins surface, gross schemes to garner votes are unveiled, and theocratic debates erupt about what kinds of policies and practices should be embraced by the church. Lawrence himself acknowledges the church's historical (and recent) failings several times, and seems intent on safeguarding and cultivating the church's good reputation. His ideological high-wire act, then, is what makes the film such a compelling mystery-thriller, far more than plot points.

Thankfully, director Edward Berger and cinematographer Stephanie Fontaine work together with their editor to keep us focused on the major players in this game of thrones (specifically, the throne of Saint Peter). And they've got some of the best players around, including John Lithgow, Sergio Castellitto, Isabella Rossellini, and an outstanding if underused Stanley Tucci. Each has an agenda, and what they say does not always match what they do, though perhaps that in itself is a writerly choice by the filmmakers to carefully critique identity politics at work in the logic of the film's characterizations. Labels are not helpful here: actions and intended actions are a far better proof of faith than mere words, though words can so often be damaging, especially to a church notorious for weaponizing them.

While performances and dialogue riveted this viewer to his seat, the ambiance and visuals of red-robed men in rows of pews or pacing through the architectural paradise of Vatican City are more than enough to guarantee a pleasant experience in watching Conclave. Breaking apart binaries is the name of the game, here, and while it might be easy to discuss doubt and faith or progress and tradition, by the final twist -- and indeed there is one, though its efficacy might be a tad on-the-nose -- the clearest target of anti-binarism in the film is that of us and them. Who are "we" and what are "we" doing to or for "them," but of course our access to the cardinals reveals that they aren't much more than average men, bickering and squabbling for piety, power, or something in between. Placed in a veritable puzzle box of policy and politics, no one will escape unchanged.

Joker: Folie a Deux (2024)

Score: 3 / 5

Polarizing to some as it may have been, Joker was a breath of fresh air in the stale, stagnant chamber of superhero films. Approaching one of the most iconic villains in comic book history from an intimate psychological perspective, it shifted the lore to suit its character drama, a gamble that paid off magnificently. Paired with its dank, oppressive mise-en-scene, the film unflinchingly faced its realistic horrors and forced us to do the same, effectively making this viewer, at least, feel both complicit and implicated in its depravity. "Dark" and "edgy" don't really come close to what writer/director Todd Philips was doing with the material or with us.

So when a sequel -- from the same creative team -- was announced, I was thrilled. Ushering in Lady Gaga as Joker's paramour was an act of pure genius, if a risky one, as few other actresses working today can carry off the bizarre mix of sensuality, bravado, and unhinged personality that is Gaga's brand. And whenever Gaga and Joaquin Phoenix are on screen, this film delivers on its promises in spades. They play intriguingly off each other, each looking pretty miserable until they suddenly, fabulously, don't; they mine their characters for organic embodiment and uncanny movement work that had me gasping for air. And then, like in Chicago or Cabaret, they break into song.

Some will call this film a musical, but that's not strictly accurate. If anything, it's a jukebox musical, but even that suggests either full musical numbers or music informing/mobilizing the plot. The musical scenes in Joker: Folie a Deux do neither of these things, instead using specific (and usually repeated) musical motifs to showcase not the mental fantasies of its characters but rather their perverse fixations on certain words and ideas that manifest in glamorous, ego-feeding spotlight moments. It's not about them escaping into a nostalgic world (a la La La Land) or working to create their delusional paradise (think Sweeney Todd or even moments of American Horror Story); it's about them dwelling in their own selfish desires and expressing themselves through pirated emotions.

That said -- and truly, I did thoroughly enjoy watching this film -- as a sequel, I was disappointed. I'd have liked less time in Arkham or at least more interesting things for Brendan Gleeson and Catherine Keener to do. I'd have liked a bit more of, well, something: more fully realized musical numbers to indicate the insanity at work in Arthur Fleck and Lee Quinzel or the chance for them to build their criminal résumés together out in Gotham proper. Instead, we're forced into comparatively dull doldrums as Arthur makes a firm distinction between himself and his "Joker" persona and most of his interesting and heartbreaking reality of civilian life is ignored in favor of heavyhanded sequences of his institutional abuse. The closest the film comes to caring about his internal reality is in suggesting -- through classic big band music and some dialogue -- that Arthur is still within a television show of sorts, which surely locked his brain in place at the climactic moment of the first film. And then there's the utterly wasted potential of Harley here, as Gaga is never allowed to go full-blown crazy.

Thankfully, their romance is flipped a bit. Notorious for its questionable abuse and even consent in previous media, here Lee and Arthur develop an earned camaraderie, even though we eventually learn that Lee is the controlling, demanding party in their relationship. Then comes the trial, which is so laughably absurd in its conception and execution, cinematically, that I was actually wishing the film would end soon. Spoiler: it doesn't. Unlike the riveting climax of the first film, here things stretch on through sillier and sillier twists until a false deus ex machina offers hope for transcendence before putting us (and Arthur) literally back where we started.

Performances rarely make a film worth watching, but this is the exception to that rule. Phoenix and Gaga are incredible. I just wish Philips (or, rather, someone else) gave them better material to work with and a more coherent project to bring to life.

Saturday Night (2024)

Score: 4 / 5

And the Oscar for "Best Ensemble" goes to... well, if there was one, it would certainly go to Saturday Night this year. In perfect homage to the industry standard of irreverent pop culture humor for almost fifty years now, this film does more than simply recount the 90 minutes before "Saturday Night Live" aired for the first time: it honors the quirky, hopeful, nervous artists and technicians and producers who made it happen. It's a delightful time, sure to make you nostalgic and wistful, but it's also fraught with anxiety that might leave you twitching on the edge of your seat.

NBC would never be the same. That's the sensation we get from the major players in Rockefeller Center on October 11, 1975, as what will come to be known as SNL prepares to broadcast in less than two hours. Audience seats hadn't sold yet, so Finn Wolfhard hustles customers on the street. Costumes are still being worked on, a row of lights falls on set, at least one star still hasn't signed his contract, and the brick centerpiece of the stage hasn't yet been laid. But Lorne Michaels (Gabriel LaBelle) has a vision, a calling, a purpose, and he'll be damned if this show doesn't air. As writers offer new material, actors take substances and complain about costumes, producers breathe down his neck for information, and his own ego threaten to derail his dream, Michaels remains somewhat enigmatically determined to revolutionize American television.

Did it all happen like this? Almost certainly not, but this isn't a historical treatise; it's art. As such, the film harnesses its own anxieties and pulls us into the mess, not unlike Birdman in its frenetic pacing and multiple deep cuts into the showbiz lingo and themes. Too many cooks in the kitchen, for example, means big heads bump into each other at crunch time. Some of the artists are here for vanity projects while others excitably play with each other, oblivious to the administrative panic setting in just down the hall. Director and co-writer Jason Reitman clearly loves the history and people in this yarn he's spinning, but he also clearly intimately understands the flavor and kinetic motion of these kinds of sets, so he doesn't make it pretty or neat. While his focus is sharply on the characters, he carefully ensures that the immaculate production design isn't lost on us, grounding us in the reality of the moment even as we're swept from room to room in the crowded, bustling studio. Dizzying cinematography and editing keep the action in something very, very close to real time, and for the most part we follow Michaels on his odyssey through the chaos on delicious 16mm that makes the warm amber of dressing room lights, wood paneling, and thickly textured fabrics as tactile as they are visually pleasing. 

To praise the cast is to list the whole bunch, so I'll leave you to peruse IMDb for that or, better yet, the credits of the film after you watch it. Personal favorites were Cory Michael Smith doing a dead ringer for Chevy Chase and Ella Hunt's frothy, sweet Gilda Radner. But, really, there's not a weak link in the whole thing, even when heavy hitters like Willem Dafoe and JK Simmons grace the screen, knowing their place and their task among this enormous ensemble. In fact, mentioning the latter reminds me of one of the thematic concerns raised by the film: the conflict between mainstream, "safe" comedy represented by old, established Big Names and the kind of disruption represented by Michaels and his hippie friends. The film struggles a bit with its big themes when it tries to literalize them rather than letting the screenplay speak for itself; when Michaels, for a memorably blunt example, decides on the iconic brick floor an hour before go time, it smacks of historical inauthenticity as much as thematic desperation for establishing (literally) its own character.

Your mileage in this film may depend on your affection (or lack of) for its characters. While I think all actors perform admirably here, some are clearly swinging big while others are determined to recreate their subjects as truthfully as possible. For example, Jim Belushi (Matt Wood) is painted very much as a laughable monster, while Garrett Morris (Lamorne Morris) is relegated to the role of racial spokesperson. And if you're a stickler for facts in your art, you won't like this. Though, if you are, maybe you should re-evaluate your understanding of what art actually is. As a richly detailed, knowingly clever, furiously thrilling depiction of the night American television changed forever, Saturday Night is one of the more affirming and emotionally honest historical films in years. And it's hilarious, which is maybe more important.

Venom: The Last Dance: (2024)

Score: 1.5 / 5

What happened? Venom and Let There Be Carnage were so delightfully wacky and weird and fun that we had no reason to expect less from what is presumably the final installment in this series. And for the non-discerning viewer, this could just as easily be another entry in a lengthier franchise, one that is hardly notable, frequently forgettable, and generally uninspired, but still a fun time in the brief moments it allows its cutesy buddy/antihero dynamics to breathe and cause mayhem. Unfortunately, director and writer Kelly Marcel -- and, surely, due to no small interference from the studio -- completely misses the mark on this entry, ending the series on a pitifully pathetic note.

Tom Hardy is never less than his best self, and the film works best when it allows him to create weirdness. Hardy's delivery of Eddie Brock this time is a bit melancholic and world-weary, but his playfulness shines through as both the human and the titular symbiote. But Marcel rarely allows him to just do his thing in this film, pushing him relentlessly through plot points so contrived you have to wonder if the storyboard was generated by AI. Essentially, Brock/Venom, on the run in Mexico after the events in the previous film, decide to go to New York City, which just seems about as smart and safe a choice as any. En route, they are attacked by a monstrous symbiote predator, which Venom reveals to be due to his having resurrected Brock in the first film. Their special bond is thus called a Codex, and the symbiote creator Knull wants it. Why? How does he know about it? It's all a bunch of weird sci-fi jargon and fantasy nonsense, but the MacGuffin of it remains exactly that.

So they find their way through Las Vegas to a soon-to-be-decommissioned Area 51, beneath which a secret government operation is studying other symbiotes, under the leadership of Rex Strickland (Chiwetel Ejiofor) and Dr. Teddy Payne (Juno Temple). Don't get excited by these new cast members; they are utterly wasted in this film. Similarly, Rhys Ifans as a hippie who picks up a hitchhiking Brock and takes him there gets a few nice moments but is generally underused in what could have been a really cool character role. The characters aren't helped by a directorial (or producorial) determination to spend as much time as possible on action, a choice that renders most of the film unwatchable due to aggressively banal blobs of CGI alien goo dripping and flinging around like antigrav watery sludge. 

The film seems to be the end of the road for Eddie Brock and Venom, and the film's climax (SPOILER ALERT) suggests that Venom's sacrifice is indeed final. Several other symbiotes are released, including one that bonds with Temple's character, and more of that could be fun to explore in the future. Because, rest assured, there will be more. The film has not one but two post-credits scenes, one which implies Knull (Andy Serkis) coming to Earth as a Big Bad Guy now that Venom is out of the picture, the other implying that Venom may in fact have survived the inferno at Area 51. It's all much ado about... nothing, really.

At least we got a bit more of Cristo Fernandez and much more of hilarious, heartwarming Peggy Lu in this one. It's just too bad Marcel couldn't keep her eyes on the good things she had at her disposal, choosing instead to dispose of them in this trashy mess of a movie that would have done better to not have been made at all.

Smile 2 (2024)

Score: 4 / 5

Not unlike its clear muse, It Follows, this film opens with a survivor from the first film attempting to rid himself of a haunt or curse. Kyle Gallner's Joel, miserable and fearful after what happened to him in the first film, attempts to pass on the curse in a controlled environment to people who he deems deserving of it: murderous criminals who, unfortunately, botch his plan. The curse is passed on to a drug dealer shortly before Joel is killed in a horrific and violent accident. With this leftover element from before smartly dispatched, writer and director Parker Finn is able to move on to a new story.

Part of the power of Smile is that it's never really clear what the entity is or why it hunts who it does; the only real question is how its victims might outsmart its modus operandi. Enter pop star Skye Riley, whose public struggle with substance abuse and the recent death of her boyfriend has primed her for what is sure to be a fabulous comeback tour. Stressed and frayed, she sneaks out from the watchful and controlling supervision of her mother/manager (can we all collectively just say "yikes" about that relationship) to buy drugs from her dealer. Which is to say the same drug dealer who, in the opening sequence, is now haunted. Wham, bam, thank you ma'am, one thing leads to another and Skye ends up witnessing a smiling suicide so violent and shocking that she'd probably be fucked up for life even without any supernatural antagonist marking her as its next target.

One of the coolest and most unexpected things about Finn's first film was how it fit into the burgeoning subgenre of horror films that deal with mental illnesses as supernatural forces. In Finn's case, and a select few others, it's not using mental illness as a horror trope but rather considering its implications in a highly fictional way that seems aimed at making its symptoms understandable and relatable to your average audience member who may not be afflicted as such. That is still present in his sequel, but the focus has shifted. Here, the mental illness aspect takes a slight backseat to the effect of fame, constant supervision, addiction, and grief on the human mind and spirit. Skye, a blossoming pop star, is dealing with stressors we can scarcely relate to, but Finn makes sure that we're aware of our complicity in her suffering: our commodification of celebrity and specifically musical artists is certainly no help to them, despite the money they're raking in. Scott's performance here is -- much like Sosie Bacon's in the first film -- an astonishing experience to behold, brutally physical and determined to inject every ounce of complicated emotion into each scene, each tear, each scream. Since her excellent turn in Aladdin, I've been hoping she'd make a break doing something different than the trash she's used to being part of, and this is surely, finally, it.

One element of the mysterious and deadly Smile Entity made a bit more clear in this film is its parasitic nature. Once it latches on, it feeds off your trauma and insecurities, taking perverse pleasure in your horrified reactions to its predatory hallucinations. You can never quite be sure -- like in Mike Flanagan's Oculus -- if what you're seeing is real or not, but it all feels real, and that's why it's so horrifying. Our tight focus on Skye means that we're experiencing her visions with her, often seeing her react in painful close-up to reality morphing into nightmares before her waking eyes.

Much like the first film, unnervingly effective sound editing and special effects make this material some of the freshest horror available right now. Between pitch-perfect direction, beautiful production design (here much bigger and more exciting than before), brave acting from a leading female star, smart writing, and clear passion from every angle, Smile 2 is one of the best horror sequels out there. And while it ultimately fumbles some of its thematic threads, it never quite fouls them, leading us to a devastating climax that I earnestly hope allows Finn back into this world so he can continue to surprise us with brilliant and terrifying stories in this perverse world he's created. Knowing now that he wasn't a one-hit wonder, I can only eagerly await what fresh hell he delivers next.

Apartment 7A (2024)

Score: 2 / 5

Making a prequel to a beloved -- rightly so -- classic is always a dangerous game. Some meet with great success, such as The First Omen from earlier this very year, in harnessing the power of the original and offering a fresh new dynamic that leads into the material. It's not just horror, as of course Rogue One exemplifies as a personal favorite example, but horror does tend to make things more difficult. After all, a scary premise loses its scariness after repeated viewings, doesn't it?

Or does it? Rosemary's Baby, to be fair, has translated from novel to feature film to television with aplomb; even if nothing has quite matched Polanski's psychologically devastating portrayal of a woman succumbing to demons in her home and demons in her womb, the story is still being re-adapted: notably, the recent contemporization of the story in Danielle Valentine's Delicate Condition found its way concurrently to the most recent season of American Horror Story, a redundant misstep for the show that nevertheless underscored today's anxieties about women's right to self-determining healthcare.

Natalie Erika James's Apartment 7A enters the mess of Rosemary-adjacent media via Paramount+, and while it's a diverting not-quite-two-hours, it leaves too much to be desired. Taking as its premise the experience of Terry Gionoffrio in the brief time before she dies (an inciting incident of Rosemary's Baby), we're introduced to Julia Garner's character as a troubled wannabe Broadway star. During a performance of Kiss Me, Kate, chorus dancer Terry breaks her ankle, causing the show to stop and her name to be blacklisted. After an audition with a producer (Jim Sturgess) who in the later 2010s would have been disgraced by the #MeToo movement, she moves into the Bramford apartment building where he lives, ushered in by the kindly, elderly Castevet couple, Roman and Minnie.

To say more wouldn't be to spoil the plot, as the plot has already been spoiled. Apartment 7A is just a retelling of Rosemary's Baby, suggesting that the cult of demonic worshippers in New York City and particularly the Bramford have been trying repeatedly, using the same tactics, to breed a demon with an unwitting woman to procure an antichrist. One would hope that, like audiences over the past five decades, storytellers also evolve, but that is not the case here. While the production design gorgeously captures the '60s ambiance, the story and screenplay by the director and Skylar James never manages to do anything interesting with the period, characters, or variations on theming. It's just more of the same, and while longtime fans might find that a pleasant diversion, a diversion it nevertheless remains.

Thankfully, it's not all dull in this holding pattern, and a few notable elements are perhaps worth the watch. First, as mentioned, the production design is sumptuous, transporting us from our home screens to an elegantly realized Bramford. One of the most effective scenes in the film is the sequence of Terry auditioning for her diabolical producer on her injured ankle, and the authenticity of this abuse almost made me pause the film to go take some calming drugs and brew some tea. Later, the film bubbles with energy anytime the Castavets grace the scene. Played by Kevin McNally and a truly delightful Dianne Wiest, they could be reincarnations of the original performers of these characters. Some may decry mimicry in acting, but Wiest has proven herself a capable actress in her own right; this is the first time I can recall seeing her doing something like an impression, and it rocks. She is firing on all fronts, and camp as it is, it's chillingly effective. Her parodic impersonation won't land with everyone, but anyone familiar with her work will appreciate it as something wholly different and weird for her to sharing with us. I loved it, grating and icky as it is.

Since we know so well Terry's fate, the whole film casts a sort of pall over itself, sapping the joy out of small moments of potential reprieve from the psychological strain. The cinematography rarely does much of interest, rendering the Bramford much less interesting, visually, than it should given its detailed mise-en-scene. And psychologically, the film fails repeatedly, resorting to a couple jump scares to make it a "horror movie"; the original thematic element of Rosemary being gaslit by her husband and tormented by her neighbors is all but gone here, making the question of Terry's clunky spiral into paranoia and insanity less a question of what's being done to her and more a question of what's wrong with her herself. Is she a Black Swan-type obsessed dancer who would be crazy regardless of cult machinations?

Garner and Wiest are definitely worth a watch, and if you like the '60s or simply the atmosphere of Polanski's film, this is worth a watch. I personally really liked the way they depicted the demon-impregnator figure (whatever it really is, we may never know), but I won't spoil that reveal here. But the story, haphazard direction, and lack of thematic conceit makes the whole thing an irritating disappointment. 

The Wild Robot (2024)

Score: 5 / 5

One of the most beautiful animated movies yet made is also one of the most spiritually satisfying. The Wild Robot, released along with the news that DreamWorks is downsizing and beginning to outsource its artists, feels like the ending of an era on the highest note possible. Partial as this reviewer is to Disney animation, occasionally a film from another studio will capture my attention and my heart: Sony/Marvel's Across the Spider-verse, Toho's Your Name, or Laika's Kubo and the Two Strings come immediately to mind, though there are many more. I haven't cared much about releases from DreamWorks since they released 2D masterpieces like The Prince of Egypt, The Road To El Dorado, and Sinbad: Legend of the Seven Seas.

But The Wild Robot slows things down and allows you to soak in its transcendent spectacle. Every image sparkles with knowing color grading, endlessly detailed minutiae, and ever deeper... well, depth. Watching it on the largest screen possible is akin to staring at a nature documentary about a coral reef, bursting with authentic, earned life even as it dazzles you with its own splendor. Like a living painting, it breathes life in a strange, somewhat indescribable way. In fact, my only gripe about the film is that, after it's over and you've come back down to earth, you quickly remember how flat and silly most other animation is by comparison. You could pause it at any moment and frame the image on your wall. Hell, you could watch it without sound and still be moved to tears.

Not that I recommend that. Its sound design is exquisite, and its voice acting even more so. Lupita Nyong'o voices the title character, Roz, a robot who crash-lands onto an island wilderness, seemingly in the Pacific northwest. Programmed to assist any human in every conceivable way, she hunts for a master with determination and fervor: encountering only woodland animals, she scares and upsets all of them in increasingly hilarious ways until she finally sits down and simply absorbs the world around her. Eventually coming to, she surprises the animals by having learned their language. Now the only thing stopping her from fulfilling her mandate is her generally off-putting insistence on assistance. After all, not everyone wants to be helped.

Apart from her silly and heartwarming encounters with a local opossum (Catherine O'Hara) and her children, a surly grizzly bear (Mark Hamill), beaver (Matt Berry) and fox Fink (Pedro Pascal), who becomes her most unexpected ally, Roz befriends all the critters on the island while also learning that nature isn't always nice to even its hardiest denizens. In fact, one of the things I loved most about this film was how unafraid of facing death it is; death isn't always welcome in children's fiction, but the best works never shy from it. The Wild Robot knows its audience deserves unvarnished truths about life and death, growing up and losing innocence and family and friends, and about our cultural losses of innocence when it comes to the ways humans are negatively impacting the environment. 

Before you get up in arms about politics infecting kids' media, I'll derail your tirade by noting that there is very little explicit ecocriticism here, relegated as it is to much later plot developments involving a deadly winter storm, a difficult migration south, and the reason robots this advanced exist on Earth at all (spoiler alert: it feels like early steps that might lead to the horrific state of affairs in the likes of WALL-E). Thankfully, that's not the only progressive element to this nuanced, endlessly layered story. Apart from the subtle issues of immigration, differently-abled communities, and linguistic social barriers, the film leans heavily -- that is, as a primary thematic element -- on found families and the crucial, universal need for friendships of unusual, surprising dynamics. Demonstrated integrity, consistency, and kindness are the currency of the day, and this movie champions community-building in every scene.

To describe the plot proper is not to spoil this film, but I won't summarize anything else here. Roz's relationship with her surrogate child, a gosling named Brightbill (Kit Connor), is born in the most horrific tragedy, cultivated in the joys and trials of childhood, forged in the treacherous crucible of adolescence, and reaches the kind of spiritual climax that can only be described as epic in the most classical sense. He's a runt, she's a freak, and they know instinctively that they need each other to survive; they learn to want each other to survive. And if you think I'm not tearing up as I write this....

Incandescently perfect as this film is for its entire runtime, nothing prepared me for the emotional wallops of its climax, which also includes apocalyptic disaster, invasion of highly advanced predators, and the threat of annihilation on multiple fronts, or how Roz as one of the most archetypal stock characters -- the protecting, providing mother, and a stoic robot at that -- goes on the most empowering and disturbing developmental arc I've seen from an animated character in my life. 

A film for kids about hot topics like climate change, immigration, disability, and broken families could so easily have been just that, flat and obvious, churned out of a major studio known for (let's be honest) a lot of grotesquely rendered, ideologically insipid movies for a reliable profit and then forgotten by the next year. But this movie, on literally every level of production, was clearly a labor of love. It's evidenced in every sense we as humans possess, and you can even feel it somewhere further inside, so deep it can only be proof we have a soul.

Overdramatic? I don't think so. Watch and see for yourself.