Nosferatu (2024)

Score: 5 / 5

Eggers is back, baby, and his latest feature only cements his place as a leading voice in horror as well as period filmmaking. Working best in making the familiar uncanny, he turns here to new territory: adapting pre-existing material with a long history of other adaptations. But, even in telling an old story everyone knows, he makes each moment feel pulsing, throbbing, and thick with menace. Eggers eschews easy access, as is his wont, turning the simplistic story of an existentially dangerous outsider threatening civilization and life itself into a Gothic puzzle box of creeping dread, erotic taboo, and wintry frisson. A masterclass in designing and maintaining atmosphere, the latest iteration of Nosferatu is also one of the most important and satisfying films of the year.

Given his track record of uncompromisingly accurate period pieces -- be they in colonial America or ancient Iceland -- Eggers here takes us to Wisborg, Germany, just before Christmas 1838. There are no real analogies baked into the film itself, though its powerful story certainly begs for contemporary application of its themes; Eggers prefers to establish his world as urgently and consequentially real on its own terms. It would seem that the more effectively he does so, the more alarmingly relevant his themes become in our own world. Consider the state of male homosocial bonds and mental health in The Lighthouse or the rising power of women and harmful dogma in The Witch. With Nosferatu, as we might expect, themes of foreign plague and the difficulty of free will coalesce into a heady cocktail with erotic overtones.

This is not necessarily Eggers's own doing. F.W. Murnau's iconic 1922 original film has always held a curious place in pop culture: a bastardized adaptation of Bram Stoker's 1897 novel Dracula, the film was destroyed en masse after the Stoker estate successfully sued it for unauthorized piracy, even with character names and setting altered from London to Germany. Some recordings survived, and it has since become known as not only the first vampire film but, in many ways, the first real horror film. That it was made by and subsequently immortalized one of the first openly gay directors in film is a fun tidbit. The film is still so popular, in fact, that its influence extends far beyond cinephiles' ecstasy.

Though Dracula of course combined the many eastern European legends of vampiric creatures of the night to make a single, iconic horror monster with too many thematic elements to list, Nosferatu added a few of its own. Whereas Dracula can pass through nineteenth-century society reasonably well, Orlok (the corresponding vampiric count of Murnau's imagining) looks like a long-dead corpse or even what 1960s American film might loosely see as gray aliens from space, with his bulbous, balding head, exaggerated features, and particularly inspired long fingers and nails. His appearance has long cultivated some speculation that he is designed to demonize Jewish physiological stereotypes, which adds an interesting if unfounded dynamic to his Otherness at the time. Too, whereas Dracula is weakened by sunlight but can still function during the day, Orlok is finally defeated by the sun's rays, which instantly destroy his body. That entered the vampire zeitgeist in a single puff of editing from Murnau's film and has never left.

By 1979 (the same year of the television short film "The Halloween that Almost Wasn't," for those of you wonderful freaks who know the gems of our genre), another version of Nosferatu was necessary to make vampires interesting again -- after so many Dracula-related movies from Universal in the '30s and '40s and Hammer in the '50s, '60s, and '70s that vampires were ubiquitous and familiar, essentially children's play, in American media -- so Werner Herzog crafted Nosferatu the Vampyre as an amalgamation of Murnau's film with character names from Stoker's novel to try and combine the disparate elements of our cultural foundation for vampire fiction into one moment that got back to its own roots. As the titular character, Klaus Kinski's performance and character design brought the iconic look immortalized by Max Schreck in 1922 into the sensibilities of a whole new generation. Herzog updated the end to show the lasting effects of vampiric horror on men of the world and how that threat never really dies, and he specifically imbued his tragic heroine (this time played by a radiant Isabelle Adjani) with erotic and spiritual agency. Then, in 2000, a relatively unknown director and writer pairing created Shadow of the Vampire, an independent horror-comedy (though, really, it confounds such simple categorization) about the making of the original Nosferatu with an ingenious and horrifying twist, starring John Malkovich as Murnau and Willem Dafoe as Max Schreck among a shockingly star-studded cast.

With all this grandiose tradition behind it, and the accompanying expectations, Eggers could easily have bitten off more than he could chew. Nosferatu was reportedly one of his earliest passion projects as a filmmaker, but he deliberately held off on it until his credentials established himself as worthy of tackling it. The time clearly has come, as his loving care and detailed attention is rapturously realized here, infectious through each image. In our screening, I gasped in awe at the pure nightmarish vision even in the earliest scenes, often when no action whatsoever is occurring onscreen. Just the first shot alone demonstrates this, opening in darkness until Ellen, the female protagonist, lurches forward, speaking to us and to a disembodied voice, inviting "us" to come to her before she walks through the void to a large open window, the fluttering curtains of which show a similarly disembodied shadow. Eggers hides other such long takes quietly in his film, not drawing attention to them but effectively dropping them when they have the greatest unnerving impact.

Unlike most films of this story (and I do include the Dracula story in this assessment), this one feels generally as if it is being told by the vampire directly, or at least with his aesthetic literally plaguing every frame. It's unusual, especially in a film that hinges on the vampire's eroticism, for the monster to be a desiccated, decaying corpse with open sores and voice from the grave. Played here by an unrecognizable Bill Skarsgard, Orlok's booming demoniac voice rumbles up like tectonic gravel underfoot, suggesting age and potency despite his carapace which can only be described as syphilitic and rotting. His large bristling mustache brings a spiderlike fascination to his oral cavity, and matches well with his garb, which seems to be inspired from a Cassock's furred cape (side note: someone called him an "evil nutcracker" online and that seems deliciously apt). His castle -- apparently filmed on location -- is the stuff of Gothic nightmares, and Eggers leans into it, sapping it of color and visible style, viewing it mostly with natural light and through opaque silhouettes of various door and window frames. This visual entrapment is maintained throughout the film, continuing as the action moves to the German city where Orlok will strike.

The vampire has always brought with its bloodthirst certain elements to threaten various facets of human existence, including religious heresy, foreign political and economic advancement, unnatural influence over nature (weather and animals), sexual aggression toward men (the females are usually taken for granted or as tools to get to the males, with Nosferatu being a notable exception), rendering science irrelevant or even useless, and of course social collapse due to plague. Whereas this was more invisible in Stoker's story (despite some "dirty animal" interactions, the infectious elements are bloodborne), Murnau's intervention was to literalize the plague, made visible by the arrival and permeation of rats in Wisborg. Eggers capitalizes on this, and the final act of the film features a few increasingly apocalyptic shots of city streets collapsing with corpses and overrun by rodents. 

Feeling inspired by the German expressionism iconized by the original film, Eggers crafts wholly original shots and pairs them with equally fresh sound design, acting choices, and dialogue that enhance our understanding of the familiar story. He leaches color from many scenes, making this film often appear black and white through minimal natural light; he also relies on blue color grading, only dispelled by pale fire light, and I'd be fascinated to hear from him some of his color theory. Whereas the original was of course silent, here Eggers's own screenplay talks a lot, and some may find it a bit overbearing. But (and despite the lack of German accents, for some weird reason; The Northman had plenty of effective Nordic accent work) I think this is for multiple reasons: first, to clear the air about the various elements that have come before and start fresh with as much detail packed in as possible for a new generation of moviegoers; second, to thematically establish the necessity of communication between characters faced with unknown threats; third, to add much-needed character depth and dynamics to what have long since become stock types. This is the first time in a Dracula story since Francis Ford Coppola's Bram Stoker's Dracula that I've cared deeply for any human characters, and that comes from Eggers letting us get to know them beyond their fated role in the plot.

Much will be made of the various performances, particularly of Skarsgard's presence, which many will decry as wasteful, though I'd urge another viewing for his voice work alone. He feels ancient, like a living curse dug out of a grave and filmed sacrilegiously, cursing us by extension. Lily Rose-Depp provides impressive physicality to Ellen, in turns gliding and writhing like a possessed child in exorcism horror; I personally strongly disliked her emotional and verbal performance, which felt forced and overacted along with being almost indecipherable aurally, but a single capable performance won't derail an entire film due to individual preference. Nicholas Hoult, returning to vampiredom after Renfield, plays a wonderfully earnest Thomas Hutter, Ellen's husband, who is Orlok's first conquest in this schema. Enthralled and mesmerized by the count, who eventually discards him due to an unexplained obsession with Ellen (frustratingly so, in this one, which feels more inspired by Coppola's romantic notions than by any other version of either Dracula or Nosferatu), Thomas eventually saves himself from his Transylvanian prison and, with the help of Romani peasants, returns to Wisborg to save them from Orlok's advance. To do so, a group of men convene including the Van Helsing character, Albin Eberhart Von Franz, played by a somewhat poker-faced Willem Dafoe, similarly returning to vampiredom in a welcome and shockingly, beautifully understated performance as a character almost always overcooked. I particularly liked the surprising inclusion of Emma Corrin and Aaron Taylor-Johnson as Ellen's best friend and her husband, as they add more emotional stakes and varying ideological viewpoints to the barebones story. Finally, Simon McBurney pops in for a few memorable scenes as Herr Knock and... well, if you know, you know.

Perhaps Eggers's greatest triumph -- in a singular movie littered with them -- is making vampires terrifying again. We haven't seen this kind of monster headlining its own story in many long years (no, I am not forgetting The Last Voyage of the Demeter), and this time he's not just drinking blood. Eggers helps him get under our skin, where the rot can fester. I haven't felt so cold in a movie since The Revenant, and even thinking about certain visuals has me shivering now. One scene in particular had me moaning in my seat, early in the film, as Hutter walks down a wooded road to the castle during a wintry night: the dark trees morph into a black tunnel around a bright, almost white, circle of snowfall above a path with Hutter's silhouette. Despite the silence, a pulsing pound slowly rises, perhaps a heartbeat, until a shadow of horses pulling a carriage emerges from the void, almost out of tune with the sound until it crashes into visibility. Robert Frost ain't got shit on this snowy evening in the woods.

Babygirl (2024)

Score: 4.5 / 5

Humiliation. Degradation. Liberation. Erotic thrillers -- hell, even standard award-bait dramas -- rarely traffic in such themes. The rarely grand tradition of erotic thriller is a prurient pleasure of mine, and it's certainly what has made Nicole Kidman my favorite actress over the years. They are almost exclusively hetero-oriented, which perhaps allows me to enjoy them without much by way of personal stakes, but Kidman always lets us in to characters using sex appeal for various (often nefarious) desired outcomes. Crucially, and contrary to most actors who get typecast or even choose to make so many films in a single subgenre, Kidman's characters are always vastly different. And few have been more honest and surprisingly accessible than Romy Mathis.

Romy, the wealthy CEO of a tech company in New York City, is on top of the world. And she's no Miranda Priestly about it; one of the early scenes shows her warmly welcoming a group of interns into her private office to personally answer questions about the company on their first day. She's not a workaholic, though she does answer her phone (that is inexplicably never on silent mode) more than a healthy person should, and in fact is apparently a loving, affectionate, and intentionally present family woman, caring deeply for her theatre director husband Jacob (Antonio Banderas, who is really wonderful in a truncated role) and their two teenage daughters. The astute observer will tell you that Romy's company specializes in robots for warehouses, removing human laborers, and Jacob's current production is Ibsen's Hedda Gabler, about a woman in an unhappy marriage, so really we should know that there is going to be trouble even if we haven't seen the film's marketing.

But the film provides ample context. Its opening scene shows us specifically that their sex life is not one of egalitarian pleasure. Romy dutifully and energetically has sex with her husband, but shortly afterward she sneaks away to finish herself off in secret while watching porn. Specifically, it's porn that includes an offscreen man dominantly telling a woman what to do. It really seems to work for Romy, who psychology might tell us is tired or bored of being in charge all the time. If not Ibsen, Chekhov would certainly tell us that her secret carnal desires will be her undoing, as well as her family's, so we'd better strap in for the tragic ride.

And this is why Halina Reijn's direction and writing is so brilliant in this film. She wastes no time getting to the meat of it, sidestepping the dated tropes of visualizing Romy's perfect life, perfect marriage, perfect kids, perfect house, and perfect job; those are given. Instead, we dive directly into the heat of an enseamed bed, as a notable Danish prince might say, wherein lies the real domestic danger to people with power. Reijn is interested in something far more insightful and real than the destruction of a rich white woman's family due to her voracious, taboo sexuality.

Enter Samuel, played by a mindful and demure Harris Dickinson (Beach Rats, Trust, Where the Crawdads Sing, The Iron Claw, See How They Run). His effortless suavity and confidence oozes from his clenched jaw and slumped shoulders, and Dickinson's unlikely performance only begins there. His unkempt visage and drab habiliments belie calm, firm mannerisms of someone who knows exactly who he is. Under his baggy, likely secondhand clothes and miserably cheap haircut hide piercing eyes, sensuous lips, and a thin, capable body wholly sure of itself. On his first day as an intern in the company, Samuel successfully commands a violent, off-leash dog on the street (which Romy sees and can never quite shake). He brazenly challenges Romy in her own office in front of several impressionable newbies. He declares his intentions for her to be his mentor despite her not being an option. He is the kind of man she's almost never around, someone who sees her as a human on the same level as himself, for whom professional attire and wealthy status and fancy titles mean nothing next to the raw intimate dynamic between two human bodies attracted to each other. He is the kind of man she wants. He is the kind of man she fantasizes about. He is absolutely not a man she can have.

And yet she almost unconsciously finds herself magnetically pulled to him. During their initial mentorship meeting, Samuel quite readily observes that she seems to want to be told what to do. It's a horrifying and deeply erotic moment, one that reveals everything we need to know about these two characters. We've all met someone who not only reads us like a book but speaks that which we cannot ourselves admit. It feels like love, and it is decidedly not love. But Romy chooses to lean in, despite her repeated verbal protestations. Kidman's brilliance is on full display here, as she attempts to disguise her arousal and interest as being shocked and insulted, unwilling to say "no" but unable to say "yes." He's an intern, and as such, the least likely person to perceive her in this way; she has no ready defense for it. Meanwhile, Dickinson isn't being manipulative or predatory; he's shooting straight and calling it like he sees it. Later in the film, he'll describe their affair as if they were children, stopping himself before detailing their trial-and-error adventures in sexuality's darker regions. He's no Christian Grey. This isn't Secretary. If anything, it's more like Little Children.

Romy becomes addicted to their sexual affair, tethering herself to him via cell phone while starting to lose touch with her family and her work. We gather that this kind of sex -- not the sneaking around part, but rather the explicitly consensual and also experimental, kinky parts -- is like nothing she's ever experienced with another man. Samuel literally has to explain consent to her, and one of the most shocking parts of the film is that he's completely right. He is not, in any way, a predator.

Well, "not any way" might be a bit far. After all, it takes two to tango, and he's just as communicative via phone as she is. Perhaps more so, as their explicit dynamic is one in which Samuel dominates and Romy submits. While the marketing of this film will surely interest the masses who think Fifty Shades of Grey is hot (and I'm here to tell you: it's not, and it's not healthy), I'm hopeful that people take Babygirl for what it is and not what they crudely hope it might be. Sex in American cinema has been in a bit of a dry spell for a while now, which I actually appreciate, because I hope it means we've worn out the bad sex and started developing an interest in good sex. This might be unlikely, given the boom in popularity of almost exclusively awful smut in written literature, but this film makes the case for good eroticism on screen. Samuel definitely goes after what he wants, and it doesn't stop him from crossing personal boundaries -- one scene, when he materializes at Romy's house and socializes with her family, is one of the film's most disturbing despite its remarkably tame outcome -- but he's no Alex Forrest in Fatal Attraction. 

More importantly, Reijn never lets the film be about sex for the sake of sex. It's never as explicit as I expected it to be, and never crosses any new thresholds of what we've seen before. If anything, its explicit thrills are contained to the close-ups of Kidman and Dickinson as they stare into each other's eyes while playing psychological power games. Dickinson often laughs during their encounters because it's new and weird for him too; Kidman often lurches from angrily indignant to coyly sassy to ecstatically relieved because her character has no mature way to handle the nervous onslaught of her sensations. Samuel treats sex, even with an older married woman, as a fact of life and an opportunity for heightened experience (not for human connection, which is a fascinating character trait). Romy treats sex as an obsessive compulsion to be entertained and controlled before it derails her, which she knows in paradoxical tension it will almost certainly do.

The acting will receive accolades as well as most popular and critical attention. And it is more than worthy. But Reijn's writing and direction deserve just as much, if not more. Romy's residual trauma is implied and never explained, just as Samuel's life is largely left mysterious. There are no frank discussions of what we might call hot topics like sadomasochism, cheating, or even polyamory, and though those elements are clearly present and meant to spur post-screening discussions, they aren't even explicitly depicted in any articulate way. I don't list these observations as the film's failings but as its victories in presenting itself on its own terms without pandering to sound bytes and buzzwords. Reijn trusts us to know what is going on and what to think about it without sharply defining anything for us to easily swallow and regurgitate later. And she even has fun with it, including pointed needle drops with "Never Tear Us Apart" (again, demonstrating that Fifty Shades just got it all wrong) and a laughably sudden but eventually moving moment underscored by George Michael's "Father Figure." If you had told me I'd ever find that song hot, I'd have laughed at you. But Reijn knowingly and playfully engages with us on these metatextual levels while encouraging us to feel all the weird, uncomfortable, and deeply troubling things humans do, can, and should experience in this weird world of bodies and feelings. But mostly bodies.

Moana 2 (2024)

Score: 3 / 5

Away, away -- this franchise ain't going away anytime soon. Moana -- firmly and somewhat angrily declared, in this film, to not be a Disney princess -- is back in a sequel to the 2016 original that, though lots of fun, never quite manages to do anything interesting. It also sets up much more to come, which is neither interesting nor encouraging for those of us who love Disney at its most inventive.

The novelty of the original fades with memory as Moana 2 begins, feeling more like a spiritual sibling to what we've already seen. The plot is mostly a retread of familiar currents, pushing us along at breakneck pace to up the ante despite decreased stakes and much more vague dangers for Moana, now identified as a "wayfinder," which the laborious screenplay takes great pains to emphasize and explain repeatedly. Evidently, Moana's theme song hasn't been fulfilled, and she hasn't gone far enough to the open Pacific; her island nation of Motunui will apparently die out if she doesn't make contact with other seafaring peoples. This seems strange and unlikely, after the events of the previous film, but we're not given any rationale for this isolationist problem. To see how far she'll need to go, she recruits several unlikely acquaintances (including an aging farmer, a beefy fanboy of Maui, and a clever shipwright) to build a larger canoe and travel far beyond the horizon.

It's clear fairly early on that this plot was intended to be strung out over a miniseries at least; its mashed up episodic structure feels at once crowded and without trajectory. Despite the numerous new characters, we aren't given access to any, losing dramatic heft and stakes at nearly every turn of this trippy voyage. For an adventure, they don't actually venture to new or exciting places, merely running into the coconut pirate creatures, getting swallowed by a nightmarish clam, traveling to a strange netherworld limbo, and ultimately raising an inhospitable island from the depths of the ocean to break the curse of isolationism.

What?

Well, that's about it. Moana searches for Motufetu, a spiky island of apparently obsidian slate shaped like a keyhole, to and through which the various ocean currents of the globe converge. It had been sunk by Nalo, a new character who apparently is a vindictive god of storms and wanted to be worshipped more by islanders cut off from each other. There could have been much more thematic import given to this aspect of the story, but once it's mentioned, it's all but forgotten in favor of silly antics between the motley crew of wayfinder wannabes, with annoyingly repeated gags of the pig and rooster as potential food. Instead, we're given a secondary villain -- much like Tamatoa in the first -- in Matangi (Awhimai Fraser), a witch who works as an enforcer/enabler for Nalo. Matangi is currently holding Maui prisoner, but the gang frees him and convinces Matangi to help them find Nalo, who is apparently a terrible boss. The witch, apart from having what might be the only memorable new song in the film, is less a villain than a Mother Gothel stand-in with bat minions, and, having arrived suddenly and strangely, she passes out of the story without ceremony. Just like Tamatoa. There is a mid-credits scene that brings those two characters together, but it's less exciting than it is gear-grinding.

Mercifully, the film is quite short, so by the time the wayfinders discover their destination, the film ramps up its climax and ends soon after. Maui himself, still voiced by Dwayne Johnson, is charming as ever but barely featured, and his witty repartee with Moana (Auli'i Cravalho, who feels more confident and fun this time around) is almost absent from the film. It's a bewildering choice, as their banter from the first film has become a cultural touchpoint, and is sure not to win over many kids, who surely would want more of the demigod's flavor of humor. And then there's Moana, who does so very little worthy of her actions in the first film. By this movie's climax -- spoiler alert -- Moana sacrifices herself to break the curse and a weeping Maui calls on the spirits of her ancestors to revive her. They do so, and she awakens with new tattoos and a glowing oar that seem to mark her as a new demigod, which is pretty damn cool. But the film does nothing with this, and it doesn't really feel earned after such a brief adventure without much by way of worthy heroics.

My other notes are more vague, but perhaps important to include here. Lin-Manuel Miranda, who supplied the songs from the first film, is not part of this installment. While I'm fine with that -- a couple songs from the first are memorable, but I didn't much enjoy any of them -- his replacements here are desperately trying to recreate his style without earning it, making wonky attempts at Broadway-esque tunes aimed for TikTok rather than honoring Oceania and its people. Maui's song is a mess, Matangi's song is lovely but doesn't belong in this world, Moana's new theme song is basic at best, and there isn't much motif work to tie them all together thematically. On the other hand, Disney's animation artistry is its typically state-of-the-art best, and if all you want is some delicious imagery to absorb for 90-ish minutes, this'll do that for you. I'd have just liked a bit more heft from the intriguing, magical, and potentially epic source material.

Kraven the Hunter (2024)

Score: 4 / 5

Everyone has their favorites when it comes to superheroes and their counterparts, and mine were always part of the X-Men or Spider-Man comics. Certainly one of the top contenders was Kraven, a beastly predator of a man whose prowess at hunting and tracking was aided by certain mystical elements that granted him superhuman strength and the convenient ability to commune with and influence animals. The image of Spider-Man clawing his way out of his own premature burial at Kraven's hand will haunt me forever, as will the frank sex appeal of the character himself. And now, joining the ranks of Sony's Spiderverse films, Kraven lives in live-action, and it's easily my favorite of the franchise.

Don't get me wrong: the story is a mess. For whatever reason, and despite clear love of the characters, this series has never quite mastered the art of intelligent storytelling, often choosing to advance via strange plot twists and extended action sequences rather than believable character or thematic developments. They hop around the globe for spectacle, not for purpose, and they increasingly rely on digital animation in order to tell their stories, not as boons for having told a good story on its own and desiring embellishment. This is all true here, perhaps to some extent more so as a result of the many animals necessary to establish Kraven's identity, and the film will not win many new fans. Indeed, this franchise has become so popular to hate that I've already seen more folks than I care to count lambasting it on social media.

Yet you'll notice that precious few say much of substance, preferring instead to level evaluative charges of it being "bad" or "stupid" without attempting to understand or appreciate it. And while I'm admittedly blinded by my ecstasy that a personal favorite character is finally the title character of a film, I'm also aware that any earnest critical engagement with art will increase appreciation if not enjoyment. One must simply deny the base pleasure of sounding off an opinion and approach a challenging or troubling work with curiosity. It's wild, I know, especially in a genre of such grounded, believable stakes and realistic integrity as superheroes.

But seriously, for fun, this movie slaps. We begin with Sergei Kravinoff, called "the Hunter," assassinating an arms trafficker in a Russian prison before escaping to London for his younger brother's birthday. It doesn't take long for star Aaron Taylor-Johnson's shirt to come off, and while it's silly in context, at least someone making the film knows what we paid to see. Taylor-Johnson has never looked better -- which is saying a lot -- and while we see less skin of him that I was expecting, it does make the few select shots much more satisfying. More importantly, his acting is more subdued than in several of his recent roles (The Fall Guy, just this year) while still carrying that larger-than-life charisma. He knows he can handle whatever comes his way, exuding effortless confidence in every shot, specifically in his movement work, which incorporates some lovely animalistic flair I'd have liked him to lean into further.

Unfortunately, the writers wanted to include much more, meaning that many other characters are brought in without much room to develop. Dmitri, Sergei's half-brother, is a welcome addition, brought to life by Fred Hechinger, a casting choice I dislike despite his capable performance as the nascent Chameleon; sadly, he's only brought in when Kraven needs to urgently do something. Similarly, Kraven's two opponents in this story are Alessandro Nivola as the Rhino and Christopher Abbott as the Foreigner, two excellent choices who are undermined by ludicrous effects and a marked lack of interiority. Kraven's father (a miserably uninteresting Russell Crowe) and once and future girlfriend Calypso (Ariana DeBose looking great with nothing to do) pop in and out, but really are mostly there to monologue about what they care about and what they intend to do. You might say it's much ado about, well, not much at all.

But who cares? Probably most folks, so let me rephrase: I certainly didn't care, because I had a blast in the auditorium. Aided by a double shot of Jack Daniels in my frozen Coke, I laughed at half-baked jokes and gasped at contrived action and had the most purely entertained time at the movies in ages. Perhaps I'm a presold nerdy fanboy, but I'll own that. The mindless fun of Morbius or the Venom series or even Madame Web have had me all along, but if this is the true end of the franchise (as it is rumored to be), I'm thrilled that we at least got this action-packed sexy fantasy romp through previously unexplored geekdom. Even if my main takeaway was the final shot, that alone is worth far more than the price of admission. Selah.

Mufasa: The Lion King (2024)

Score: 3 / 5

Remember when Disney made sequels to its major animated features as direct-to-home-video flings? We all had one we liked. With few exceptions, we can all agree most of them were "bad," and while I generally don't use or approve of such evaluative words, I do agree that most were subpar technically and artistically in most aspects of their existence. Some are still fun, though, and a select few include some really brilliant moments. The Lion King was no exception to the Disney sequel tradition, spawning in addition to the Timon & Pumbaa television series, The Lion King II: Simba's Pride in 1998 and The Lion King 1½ in 2004. While The Lion King (1994) is simply not a favorite of mine (the stage musical far surpasses it in my esteem), its sequels are surprisingly among my preferred of the period. They include music and characters and humor that adds to my appreciation of the original rather than detracting or taking the material in a weird new direction.

Mufasa: The Lion King is in a similar vein, marking the first sequel to a Disney live action remake of a classic since (and I could be wrong here) 102 Dalmatians in 2000. The origin story of its title character, it's curious this is the film Disney chose to make after the passing of James Earl Jones, to whom they notably dedicate this picture. Young Mufasa learns about Milele, a mythical paradise which his small pride hopes to find, from his beloved parents (Anika Noni Rose and Keith David), from whom he is violently taken (and effectively orphaned) by a sudden flood. Saved from hungry crocodiles far downriver by another young cub named Taka, Mufasa is adopted into another pride, this one run by King Obasi (Lennie James). Obasi wants nothing to do with the outsider, but his son Taka and Taka's mother Eshe (Thandiwe Newton) care for him and raise him to be a conscientious and helpful leader in the pride. Cared for by the females, he learns to hunt and provide for the males.

While hunting, Mufasa and Eshe are attacked by two white lions, Mufasa killing one. The other escapes to its own pride of albino outcasts, led by Kiros (Mads Mikkelsen), whose son is now dead. Vowing revenge, Kiros leads the white lions to slaughter the royal pride. They do, with Mufasa and Taka barely escaping with their lives. Together, they work to find the lush oasis of Milele and live in peace with their new friends Sarabi (Tiffany Boone) and Rafiki (John Kani). But Kiros still hunts for them, and a final battle looms, fated, to determine the true king of... well, the Serengeti, I guess?

Much like the original classic, this story has the hallmarks of mythic storytelling and functions according to the logic of both fables and tragedies. As an origin story and personal trauma drama, Mufasa is an affecting if archetypal tale told with conviction and resonance. As a franchise entry -- following the "live action"-esque 2019 remake -- it adds some new lore and characterizations that I found fun and thoroughly entertaining. As a standalone film, however, this movie never quite reaches beyond itself and often feels a bit lost in its own visual splendor, a problem that plagued its predecessor. A few new musical numbers -- penned by Lin-Manuel Miranda, who I wish would just stop -- tend toward the forgettable, even if they do add some charm to the film's occasional doldrums. And as fan-service for a company seemingly doubling down on making money over telling worthy stories, Mufasa is pretty great, especially if the kid in you always wanted to know why Pride Rock looks the way it does, how Scar got his name and his wound, and why a possibly insane mandrill would bless a lion's cub.

Various elements will work for different audiences, and your endurance will be tested regardless. Visually, the whole thing is stunning, and frankly the ingenuity and shock of Kiros and his albino pride had me audibly gasping in the auditorium multiple times. Then again, the misadventure our heroes take through a snowy mountain pass felt forced and strange as far as spectacle goes, and made me want to look at a map for snowy mountain ranges in that region. In terms of voice acting, there's not much joy here, especially with the childish and wholly unnecessary framing story of Simba and Nala's daughter Kiara (Blue Ivy Carter) being scared by a thunderstorm and told the story of her grandfather by Rafiki while Timon and Pumbaa (Billy Eichner and Seth Rogen) recite an obnoxious series of low-brow jokes about bodily functions and Disney's legal department. But Mikkelsen is a welcome voice here, bringing suitably sly menace to a character not dissimilar from the villain we know and love, and the two leading stars (Aaron Pierre as Mufasa and Kelvin Harrison Jr. as Taka) carry the film capably.

What does work exceptionally well is director Barry Jenkins (Moonlight, If Beale Street Could Talk, The Underground Railroad), who was by no means in his element here. His work in American life is almost forgotten in this fantasy African realm of pseudo-realism, but the high-tech and enormous budget don't seem to scare or overwhelm the veteran auteur. His regular cinematographer James Laxton shoots things with a patience and interest that can only have been bred in real-time hands-on interaction with real actors physically embodying the lions in physical proximity. What is surely the state of the art will be revealed by others, but mark me: when inside details about how this film was created are clarified, movies will change for the better. Much like Peter Jackson's groundbreaking work on Gollum (and other creatures) in The Lord of the Rings, there is technology here that will pave the path forward to more realistic digital characters rooted firmly in live performances by actors. And Laxton draws us in with gentle and graceful approaches, which is not the norm for this studio, this genre, or this age. He makes you want to breathe deeply to experience this beautiful world through your other senses.

And while I wouldn't even say this is the best example of photorealistic moviemaking from Disney -- that accolade must still bejewel the crown of The Jungle Book -- it does improve upon The Lion King by treating its characters like actors rather than like animals who inexplicably dance and sing, choosing now to let them emote and express in increasingly accessible ways. I don't really like all Miranda's new music, but Jenkins makes them more interesting by staging and dramatizing them the way he does. In fact, I'd be interested to see if a film like this launches Jenkins into more mainstream fare, and I enthusiastically agree with a rumbling I read somewhere that he'd do well to direct a film adaptation of something like the Broadway hits Hamilton or Once on this Island. Jenkins isn't able to control the story here, and does feel a bit railroaded into his lane, but his choices within what is under his control are brilliant and help the movie rise above expectations set by what came before. The film pulses with energy and with artistry, and I couldn't look away from its splendor, even when studio and IP constraints threatened to bore me.

Arcadian (2024)

Score: 3.5 / 5

Post-apocalyptic horror might be tiring out, but that doesn't mean there aren't still new titles worth watching. Arcadian adds almost nothing new to the subgenre, yet it still manages to feel fresh, relevant, and inspired in most of its choices. Released this past spring with almost no fanfare, this ferocious and evocative little gem of a survival horror action movie metafictionally contemplates its own place in our ever-changing world of gods and monsters.

Clearly taking inspiration from A Quiet Place, the film begins with some kind of apocalyptic event as we follow Paul (Nicolas Cage) scavenging for supplies in an abandoned back alley as the sounds of explosions, sirens, and screams echo from a hidden catastrophe offscreen. We immediately jump forward fifteen years, when his two infant sons Joseph and Thomas are now in the throes of puberty, having been raised as brave and necessarily self-sufficient men. Their childhoods stolen, they have never been afforded the luxury of irrational or emotional thinking; survival is their only daily activity. Their ramshackle farmhouse is dilapidated, and they spend each day scavenging and hunting, bringing back wood, and generally eking out an obviously not sustainable life. One wonders how they've managed this long. Hints of a pandemic that wiped out civilization belie the more visceral threat of nightmarish monsters that attack only at night and have, thus far, been unable to break into the farmhouse.

The characters are as bare bones as they come, making this film less a dramatic thriller than something resembling a parable or even fable. Thomas (Maxwell Jenkins) is a risk-taker, traveling farther away from home and returning closer to sunset than Paul dictates is safe. He's endeared himself to their closest neighbors, the Rose family, for whose daughter Charlotte (Sadie Soverall) he harbors a crush, and whose property is much nicer/newer/better maintained. Meanwhile, Joseph is more intellectual and prudent, working independently to solve existential puzzles and seeming eager to live a life beyond minimalist survival. He gets a utility vehicle working to help them, having labored in secret, and that day Paul takes him out to teach him to drive in one of the film's most charming scenes. These men love each other and respect each other, and they will be sorely tested.

That night, after breaking their mandate to fetch wood and return home, Thomas falls into a ravine as he runs home through the woods, knocked unconscious with a concussion as the monsters close in. Paul goes out to save him, prepared to fight off the creatures until dawn, in a Christological act of self-sacrifice that leaves Joseph home alone to batten down the hatches. While you might expect the action of father and injured son in a wooded crevasse at night fending off monsters with light that seems to harm or scare them to be the action highlight of the midpoint of this blissfully quick film, it is in fact not. And this is where director Benjamin Brewer and his team shine.

The filmmakers repeatedly zig when we expect them to zag, which is why this film is such a pleasure to experience. With an almost always handheld camera floating around wait-height, our approach to this world feels like a step or two shy of cinéma vérité or as if Terrence Malick made a Quiet Place installment. It's not always called for -- I felt as nauseated as I do in the Bourne films, for reference, which I can't stand -- and while it does force an atmospheric tension, a story like this needs so little of that packed on through delivery as its entire premise is tense enough. In the sequence above, the dramatic focus is not the fight for survival amidst nocturnal assailants but on Joseph, who falls asleep in his house after failing to secure a single aperture. When a mostly unseen monster enters, we're all but screaming for the boy to waken, though we dare not as sound is sapped from the film. Without spoiling what happens in this extended wide shot that nearly had my eyes melting in horror, suffice to say that directorial bona fides have been earned.

And what monsters! I'm hoping the designers have described how and why and what exactly their process and vision was, but I've not searched for that insight yet. Rather, I'll rely on the raw horror of what we see -- and don't see -- to tell you simply that these are devastatingly effective fear machines. To describe the monsters as perhaps some kind of elongated primate with skullish faces that might be tribal masks is to severely understate the sheer alien horror they instill. In fact, more than once I thought of xenomorphs, both due to things that protrude and project from their bodies and due to their M.O. of tunneling and digging en masse. These things are clearly well-developed, and so our inability to dwell on them visually or even see much of them at all isn't Brewer saying "less is more" due to ineptitude or low budget but rather due to the somewhat realistic problem of being able to see dark creatures that only come out at night and move deadly quickly. Our glimpses of them are also all our heroes have been able to see.

The lack of mediocrity in creating these things, which are also either all unique or develop in alarming and terrifying ways over time, more than makes up for occasional flat moments or extended sequences of mise en scene and ratcheting up of melodrama. Thankfully, we aren't bogged down by those moments, even if ten or fifteen minutes could have been shaved off this flick. We're given enough information that by the time our characters are in trouble, we care about their survival; when we see what they're up against, we doubt they're all going to make it out alive as things keep going wrong. But, and this is where I'll lose some folks, Nic Cage is really the hero of this movie for me. I've never much liked his acting or his real life persona, but in this he knows to really rein in his usual gonzo antics. In fact, he's so rivetingly grounded and withdrawn in this that I respect him a lot more than I ever have. He knows that to best serve this story and his co-stars, he has to be the sane, calculated, safe space in a film of wild frenzy, and he serves exactly that with nothing superfluous to surprise us. An early scene has him describing what he believes their future will be to Joseph and, brief as it is, it's so densely layered behind doubt and untruth and concern and comfort that I had to pause and rewatch it no fewer than three times.

There's not much to chew on in terms of worldbuilding or lore, so anyone who needs information, details, rationale, or backstory will be frustrated by this film. But, as its title suggests, anyone interested in simple idyllic pleasures bring torn asunder by horror and violence will find Arcadian a thoroughly satisfying diversion.

The Lord of the Rings: The War of the Rohirrim (2024)

Score: 4 / 5

In an era of ever-expanding franchises, it can feel annoying to some that titles don't die gracefully. For those of us interested in the world Tolkien created, new additions tend to be more exciting than not, even when they don't fulfill our hopes or expectations. New video games based on Gollum or the Dwarves, for example, have not fared particularly well, and though one (er, two?) based on the ghost of Celebrimbor was arguably a better game, it all but disintegrates ties to the source material. In fact, adherence to extant lore tends to be the one thing most often cited as faults of new installments in the multimedia legendarium, usually by those with stars in their eyes and a certain elitist attitude toward newcomers to the fandom. And yet, many of these same people will claim Peter Jackson's Lord of the Rings trilogy to be nigh untouchable, despite the ways it too plays fast and loose with the revered texts.

I, for one, have thoroughly enjoyed the films, games, and series that have been produced in the world of Middle-earth simply because they exist. And while anime has never been my preferred method of consuming any art, The War of the Rohirrim not only fails to disappoint, it manages to awe and impress even a skeptic like me, who wandered in with notebook and pen ready to poke holes. Perhaps it's because Tolkien's world has already been visualized by so many more artists than Jackson; I grew up with illustrations by artists and the previous animated film adaptations, so my initial understanding of Middle-earth was much more artistically varied than the feature films delivered. That might make it easier, then, for me to shift my entertainment-based expectations to a different aesthetic, and your mileage might vary.

Thank goodness Philippa Boyens returned to work on this film's story, though. This might be the way forward for future filmed adaptations of Tolkien: select one of the many great stories from a previous age or briefly mentioned in various sources of his writings, and dramatize it to the best of an individual storyteller's power. Thus, we're dropped into the story of The War of the Rohirrim without much by way of plotting baggage or exposition. Miranda Otto -- immortalized as Eowyn, Shieldmaiden of Rohan, in the Jackson films -- narrates in voiceover some introductory language meant to ease the audience into a focal point of Tolkienian history prior to the War of the Ring by nearly 200 years. But this exposition isn't meant to lecture as much as to thematically orient us: Eowyn is rhetorically connecting herself (and, by extension, us) to a previous shieldmaiden, one who she says will not be remembered in great songs and tales, but whose story is worth retelling nonetheless.

This is significant for several reasons, including that the protagonist of this story is in fact nameless in Tolkien's notes on this portion of Middle-earth history and also that it is one of the first standalone stories in this franchise primarily focused on a female character (I'm very much enjoying The Rings of Power, but Galadriel is less a protagonist than a focal point among an extensive ensemble). And while some viewers might say, by film's end, that The War of the Rohirrim is an unnecessary extension or failure of a prequel to The Lord of the Rings, I'd counter that it isn't functionally a prequel at all, but simply another story set in the same universe and fully in concert with Tolkien's source material.

The mercifully refreshing self-contained story concerns, of course, the kingdom of Rohan and its horse-riding inhabitants. King Helm (voiced by an excellent Brian Cox) and his family rule a troubled land from its capital city of Edoras. Dunland, a neighboring land to the west of Rohan populated by unenlightened men from the Second Age, lives in tense peace with the kingdom until Helm's daughter, Hera, is announced to be pledged to a prince of Gondor, to the south. Freca, leader of the Dunlendings, enters Edoras to broker a marriage between Hera and his son, Wulf, who were childhood friends. Knowing that Freca seeks to usurp his throne -- and that Hera, though not wanting to be married to anyone at all, definitely only sees Wulf as a brotherly friend -- Helm denies Freca's request. Demanding satisfaction, Freca and helm duel outside the royal hall of Meduseld, ending when Helm accidentally slays Freca with his bare hand, earning the name "Hammerhand." Wulf flees and begins plotting his revenge.

As is the case with much of Tolkien, it's an operatic and deeply mythologically rooted setup to what will become one of the great Third Age tragic sagas. I won't say more about the plot here, as most familiar with Tolkien already know it, and if you don't, there are just enough significant turning points to warrant experiencing the story for yourself. But I will mention some specifics in terms of character, location, and lore, so if you are at all interested in seeing The War of the Rohirrim but want no spoilers, know now that you should absolutely do so and enjoy yourself and stop reading this post!

Hama and Haleth, sons of Helm, die in one of the most emotionally gripping sequences I've ever seen in an animated film. The Dunlendings' sack of Edoras is brutal, even after the high fantasy adventure scenes that came before it, including a noncanonical but deeply interesting surfacing of a monster akin to the Watcher in the Water. The presence of Easterlings in Rohan are canonical, though their wars with Rohan and Gondor take place in other times and places than is suggested by this film; that Haradrim and oliphants would venture north of the White Mountains is also weird and unlikely, much more so that they'd pass all the way through Rohan to Dunland with any kind of secrecy, but that seems to be what happens here. Those are really my only lore-related notes, though, as most of the rest of the film capably fits the bill without significant problem.

Apart from generally solid voice-acting (and some really nuanced work from Cox, who could have played Helm with a one-note sensibility but instead mixes deadly pride into his moments of lament, regret, and even affection), the characterizations shine here, bringing the many characters to life despite them existing in only two dimensions. Gaia Wise, who is unknown to me, delivers a headstrong and endearing voice for Hera that makes her wonderfully rounded and never definable as rugged or stubborn or willful or shrewish, or any other obnoxious descriptor often attributed to women of action, royal or otherwise. She has a curious connection with a giant eagle that could perhaps be unpacked more, but her interactions with her family and her people demonstrate Hera's competency and compassion without sacrificing her pride or wisdom. Even Luke Pasqualino's Wulf, though clearly villainous, is never as flat and rote as he could have been.

Anime style isn't usually for me, but there are some really dynamic visuals in this film that occasionally made me forget it was anime. Best yet: it's not all action. Despite some major set pieces, this film shines just as brightly in its quiet, chamber-based scenes of dialogue and in its nonverbal travel sequences, such as a brief visit to Wulf's encampment at Isengard. Sword fights are engaging and "realistic," zooming us in with kinetic frenzy to be right up amidst clashing blades. Sumptuous sound design brings the visuals to life with consequential and weighty sounds, best showcased any time Helm Hammerhand shatters the bones of his opponents to pieces. The entire battle at the fortress to soon be known as Helm's Deep is brilliantly realized; it could so easily have relied on the fame of Jackson's filmed battle there for itself to be taken seriously, and it absolutely does not. In fact, it feels somehow fresh and inspired, and not just because of the blizzard snows that cover the scene. Helm's ghostly haunting of that wintery vale will remain burned in my memory for a long time indeed.

Red One (2024)

Score: 1 / 5

What the fa la la was that? I was already annoyed to hear that Jake Kasdan was taking on a different project before his long-awaited finale to the Jumanji series, and then the lackluster trailer for Red One was released, which didn't help. Finally watching it made my feelings decidedly worse. Christmas action movies -- fantasy or no -- are nothing new, but even before its halfway mark, I was ready to write that Red One stink, stank, stunk.

Derivative in every sense, the story (briefly) concerns a secret global paramilitary organization that monitors mythological beings on Earth. On Christmas Eve, mysterious soldiers break into the North Pole -- imagined here as a fantasy metropolis behind an invisible barrier -- and abduct Santa Claus. His bodyguard and liaisons to the cryptid agency recruit a mercenary hacker to help them find and rescue Santa in time for Christmas. Along the way, the hacker reconnects with his family and the bodyguard rediscovers the reason for the season.

Where to start? That the North Pole's concept is ripped from previous, better films like The Santa Clause and The Polar Express, surely, or that J.K. Simmons's St. Nick is about as un-jolly as he could possibly be, might crack the ice on this mess. The screenplay by Chris Morgan is littered with so many shitty pseudo-sci-fi acronyms that it's almost impossible not to start gagging when one character literally points out the ridiculousness of it all by changing the meaning of E.L.F.s, in pointed dialogue, to be one of the stupidest "jokes" in the whole movie. Then there's the alarming lack of actual Christmassy elements in a film literally about saving Christmas; instead of the typical trappings, the film is overwhelmed by its own product placing.

Aside from its inane incoherence, the film has worse crimes than bizarre general nonsense up its sleeve. It's almost unwatchable due to its heavy reliance on cheaply rendered CGI doused by lighting so lackluster and dull that you can barely see it. The reindeer are giant prehistoric beasts referred to repeatedly as "girls" as if they were dictation stenographers in the 1960s, answering to a single inexplicable Greek word from Santa when he needs them to... slay? It doesn't help when they take off and immediately fly like they're in the Star Wars vision of hyperspace. Various fantasy creatures live in the North Pole, none of which are interesting or given reasonable time to make any impression, artistic or otherwise. The villain employs several giant thuglike showmen to stop our heroes and their singular fight scene -- on a beach in Aruba, just for pointless fuckery -- is one of the most disjointed and aggressively confusing action scenes I've had the torment of ever seeing. Where is the magic? Where is the light?

The lack of artistic joy walks in tandem with a lack of storytelling joy here. Seemingly attempting to rely on the mythological underpinnings of the Santa narrative, the film hinges on its endless exposition to constantly build itself. Every scene is expository, and downright stupid dialogue pours from every character's mouth for the sole purpose of telling the audience what the hell is happening. The primary villain, Gryla the witch, could have been an inspired choice, as to my knowledge she's never been featured in a Christmas film. But she's so underused that I often forgot she existed (Krampus, looking like a D&D character more than the monstrous demoniac spirit, is featured more) until the climax, when she morphs into a laughably artificially rendered giant in a tattered cloak. Trying to break out of traditional molds is good and all, but only if you really go for it: here, though pulling from pagan myth and historical record, the film reimagines these characters in contemporary terms, making the villains less eldritch forces of nature or morality and more put-upon superhero baddies with no style or substance or significance.

Acting is effective in different ways to different people, but none of the acting in this film worked for me. Dwayne Johnson looks good, as always, but adds no charisma or pizzazz to the proceedings whatsoever; even his emotional state -- as the main character who must learn to see the child in others -- feels disconnected in the denouement, when it should be at its heartwarmingest. Chris Evans completely phones in his performance, blundering through the film (looking terrible, a distinct failing on the part of the costumer) as if he's intoxicated and dissociating. Lucy Liu tries to bring some earnestness to her overseer agent role, but by the time the film's focus shifts to Nick Kroll (who might be doing his best/worst Nic Cage impression) and Kiernan Shipka, nothing matters anymore.

And that's the problem. Talking about the theming is pointless because there is none. Gryla seeks to imprison those designated as naughty to leave only the nice people free, the absurd grandiosity of which belies its distinct problems as a plot device and as ethical commentary. If Johnson's character's crisis of faith can't be cured by literally being Santa's right hand man, then dealing with a Grinchy mortal who learns to reconnect with his obnoxious son shouldn't spur him on to a change of heart, regardless of the wrathful, vengeful ancient witch coming from the ether to usurp Santa's fatherly, grace-based modus operandi. Not that any of these potential themes are entertained by a screenplay so obsessed with entertaining that it can't quite make sense of its own ideas, much less develop them in any capacity.

With confused action, bewildering editing, unwatchable cinematography, inchoate plotting and inane theming, Red One isn't for anyone and does nothing. I don't think even kids would enjoy it. Save your time and save your holiday spirit. Depending on its financial state, it will almost certainly spawn sequels and spin-offs, likely based on other holidays, and that might just usher in the end of the world. This is one of the worst films of the year, setting out to do nothing of value and achieving even less by affronting the sensibilities of anyone unfortunate enough to watch it.

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.