Stopmotion (2024)

Score: 1.5 / 5

It's not an unfamiliar idea that the artist flirts with madness to craft their passion. It's been a long tradition in the horror genre to depict artists -- including athletes, in some instances -- as either having innate madness that alienates them from society or being so compelled to pursue their vision that they transgress and fall into some insane new reality. We've had it with ballet, hair styling, rowing, architecture, music, painting, sculpting, and more; tortured artists unable to cope with society, spiraling into themselves and usually lashing out violently or otherwise feeding on themselves until a breaking point is met.

Stopmotion might be the first time the focus of this kind of narrative is, indeed, stop-motion animation. Ella Blake (Aisling Franciosi of The Nightingale, The Last Voyage of the Demeter, God's Creatures, and Speak No Evil, among other titles) works hard under the demanding, exacting supervision of her mother. Her legendary mother, a master of the craft of stop-motion animation, is unable to do much hands-on labor for what is to be her final film due to crippling arthritis. As such, she enlists Ella and abuses her emotionally and physically, manipulating her as if she were a servant or even one of their waxy figurines. When her mother becomes comatose from a stroke, Ella determines to continue the work and finish her film, allowing her own burgeoning artistry to flex. The problem is that Ella, though gifted in creating, adjusting, and shooting her subjects, is not a storyteller; she needs some outside inspiration to know how to proceed, and even her boyfriend Tom isn't much help, though he does help her move into her own studio apartment to try launching an independent career.

In his feature film directorial debut, Robert Morgan explores his intimate knowledge of the craft as well as the toll artistry takes on the artist. As Ella meets dead ends and artist's block, a mysterious little girl materializes, criticizing Ella's project as boring and offering her own story. The girl's suggestions are dark in tone but mostly innocuous until she begins demanding more unusual materials for the characters, ones intended to make them more lifelike. You know, casual things like raw steak and dead mammals in the forest. Ella's monomania affects her sleep, causing increasingly disturbing nightmares -- or hallucinations, it's not clear if there is a distinction in her creative demimonde -- pouring ever more of herself into her work, doing more depraved things to get the successive pieces of the girl's story wrung from her lips.

Morgan's effects and stop-motion sequences make the film worth a watch. They are really wonderful, and though I didn't know his work in advance, I've since seen some really creepy videos from him elsewhere online. But I rather wish the story around these scenes had something more substantial to make the film enjoyable or meaningful. Chock-full as it is of tired clichés about artists, the film never manages to offer insight or say anything lionizing or damning about, well, anything. The final "twist" of the film is one any viewer paying any attention will see coming an hour in advance, and little satisfaction can be derived from the story or the story within it. It doesn't even offer anything by way of character study, despite Franciosi's committed performance, as Ella is treated like an unknowable and easily manipulatable puppet (a word other characters deliberately use to describe her, as if we can't all see that's what's happening).

Morgan obviously has a gift for creepy visuals and a few clever ideas, but he and his co-writer have botched this effort to bring this style of filmmaking into the horror conversation (there are, indeed, other stop-motion horror films that valorize the craft far beyond this fumbled attempt at metafiction). That said, I literally had to stop watching Mad God because I hated it so much, so maybe this subgenre just isn't for me.

Kinds of Kindness (2024)

Score: 4.5 / 5

Yorgos Lanthimos does tend to zig when we expect him to zag. The recently acclaimed auteur behind the generally accessible postmodern visions of The Favourite and Poor Things has certainly done weirder and more surreal projects, and his latest reminds us of that in gloriously weird fashion. Kinds of Kindness is more in line with his earlier surreal feature films, perhaps partly due to the return of his sometime co-writer Efthimis Filippou. As is the case with Lanthimos, there is far too much going on in this film to coherently discuss in one sitting, and I'm still not entirely sure I "get" his latest project, but it's a fabulously entertaining and challenging example of how the best artists can and should play with form to imagine new ways of being.

Kinds of Kindness, described by the studio's marketing as a "triptych fable," consists of three short films, each just shy of an hour in length. The anthology format sometimes works for me, often doesn't, but here seems just connected enough that I never felt completely ripped from the viewing experience. Each of the major actors of the film appear in each story, though they play different characters in each, some radically and dynamically different, some oddly similar for purposeful intent. There are so many ideas swirling around that, while watching, I was unable to tease out a particular thematic strand and follow it. And I'm not sure you should, because the primary joys of this film lie in its utter unpredictability and brazen swings meant to subdue you with shock and awe.

Generally, I'd hazard that the main points made by the whole work have to be about the nature of control and our agency within that. Why do we let ourselves be controlled by others? What happens to us as humans when we exert control over others? How easy is it to delude ourselves into thinking our interactions aren't ultimately selfish? Where can you go, once freed, but back to some system of control? When do we sacrifice joy and satisfaction in favor of control? Each of the stories involves some kind of unlikely and dangerous power dynamic that forces its central character to do the unthinkable in an attempt at a better life. And the results... well, they vary.

In the first part, Jesse Plemons plays a corporate lackey whose boss Willem Dafoe wholly owns him (note that I'll be using the actors' names; I have enough trouble with character names when actors aren't playing at least three in a single film!). Dafoe controls Plemons's hourly schedule to the finest detail, including his nutritional diet, his exercise routine, and even his sexual activities with his wife. In fact, to this point, Dafoe has ensured that Plemons drugs his wife Hong Chau to miscarry so they will not have children, which Plemons lies about. The inciting incident here, however, is Dafoe's directive that Plemons kills another man. Plemons balks and refuses, and Dafoe casts him out of his life. Plemons is so desperate to reclaim his charmed life under Dafoe that he clings to the unraveling strands as he emotionally spirals out. Then the fire is ignited: he will do whatever it takes to satisfy his boss (and lover, apparently, which adds so much meat to chew in this already rich stew).

The second part opens on Plemons as a police officer wallowing in grief after the disappearance of his wife in a helicopter accident at sea. His cop partner and closest friend Mamoudou Athie tries to keep him calm, but Plemons is messing up at work in a big way and is clearly drowning socially. When his wife Emma Stone suddenly returns, Plemons notices too many inconsistencies and changes, becoming quickly convinced that she's an imposter. He attempts to test her honesty and commitment to him, but the threat becomes too much to bear, leading to his mental break and her becoming inexplicably pregnant. This was by far my favorite section of the film and I don't want to spoil it, but be prepared for some wild shifts and a completely ambiguous ending that only further complicates what we think we know about this film. It's a puzzle box that, I think, cannot be solved.

Finally, the third section provides yet another manifestation of control: a cult that seems primarily about sex but also is deeply concerned with reversing death. Its specifics and goals are never made clear, but Dafoe and Chau lead it while Stone and Plemons work to find a miraculous woman (Margaret Qualley) prophesied to resurrect the dead. Stone finds one she believes could be legit, only to have her life fall apart when she tries to reconnect with the family she left behind to join the cult. Then, with nothing left, she becomes determined to prove her theory no matter the cost. It's a thrilling conclusion, one that perhaps makes the capitalist and heterocentric issues of control from the first two parts coalesce a bit due to the fact that cults are by nature about control.

Lanthimos works best in his unique blend of tone, and each "short" is a masterclass in blending hilarious comedy with macabre terror. He also toys with his audience, making each section title about someone (or something) called R.M.F., but that identifier is never wholly clear; indeed, multiple characters could be referenced by those initials, making us wonder to whom each subtitle is actually referring. Apart from the main characters, some of whom could fit the bill, there is also a courier man, a helicopter pilot, and a corpse, who could be the same man but could also not be.

R.M.F. isn't the only mystery left for our musings by the end of the film. Each part contains hours of provocative material, not least of which is how and where to apply the title to each depraved and disturbing story. There are moments of joy and peace and even kindness in each, but they are muddled and spread, tainted with the darker elements of human nature. Technically, the film is impeccable, and it's nice to see Lanthimos scaling things down considerably from his latest features. Here, his focus is on the ideas, to be sure, but also on his actors, and the ensemble collectively provides some of the best performances of the entire year. But, despite his recent more mainstream fame, I expect Kinds of Kindness to be relatively inaccessible and poorly received by mass audiences, added in a footnote to Lanthimos's filmography and largely forgotten. That would be a shame, because it's a testament to the vivacity and ingenuity of his storytelling oeuvre and a welcome challenge to any cinephile eager for the auteur's most inscrutable puzzle yet.

Presence (2025)

Score: 4 / 5

Thank God that Steven Soderbergh didn't retire when he said he would. Since returning (from not really being gone), he has continued to push the boundaries of what filmmaking is and can do while also pioneering unique approaches to storytelling itself, making such amazing movies as Logan Lucky, Unsane, The Laundromat, Let Them All Talk, No Sudden Move, and... well, Magic Mike's Last Dance, but you can't please everyone every time). I had no idea what he has been working on lately, so when I saw a new title pop up at a nearby cinema with his name attached, I got a ticket. No clue what it was about, who was in it, even the genre. Because with Soderbergh, who is so versatile in genre, in form, and in theming, I trust him to tell any story in a way that is accessible and challenging at the same time. That's just his acumen as an artist. And, true to form, here he serves as director, editor, and cinematographer, so it just feels good to be in his hands.

So when Presence started, I had no idea what was going on. It seems meant to have an uncanny effect at first, floating around a beautiful house in the dark, looking out various windows but particularly drawn to one second-floor pane that overlooks the driveway off a lovely suburban neighborhood street. Are we in the perspective of a killer, a la Michael Meyers? Soon enough, after a brief tour of the house, time jumps to day and a realtor (Julia Fox) enters in a rush; she's there to show it for the first time, and it's to a charming nuclear family, consisting of parents Rebecca (Lucy Liu) and Chris (Chris Sullivan) and children Tyler (Eddy Maday) and Chloe (Callina Liang). The family has issues that will become apparent. Rebecca is a workaholic and almost certainly hiding criminal activity behind her ever-present laptop screen; she dotes on her son to a possibly problematic extent while ignoring or dismissing the emotional needs of her husband and daughter. Chris is a warm and gentle father who clearly needs a way out of this loveless marriage but doesn't want to damage his family. Tyler is arrogant and cruel to his family, lacking in empathy for anyone while pushing his way to the top of the social pyramid as a star athlete. And then there's Chloe, lost in a miasma of mourning her best friend, who recently died due to a drug overdose. 

The camera studies each family member in relatively brief snippets of the first part of the film, indicating a spatial, sentient presence in this house. Only Chloe looks at the camera, in her first scene, suggesting that she alone among the family can sense it. It, in turn, feels drawn to her, as if attempting to prove itself; while she showers, it cleans off her bed and puts her homework away. Rather than worrying for her own sanity, Chloe is immediately convinced it (meaning the camera and titular unidentified presence) is the spirit of her deceased friend, attempting to contact her from beyond. The entire film is shot from the perspective of this presence, allowing us access only to sporadic scenes in various parts of the house, as it curiously follows and occasionally interacts with the family. We might reasonably call the camera -- and us -- a poltergeist.

The screenplay is carefully constructed to provide new bits of information in every scene, helping pull us along in this strange new vision for a haunted house story. After all, David Koepp is one of the great writers still working after a long and accomplished career already. Chloe's family doesn't believe her until Tyler's room gets trashed by the poltergeist during a particularly nasty fight over dinner. Shocked by the blatant supernatural element in their home, they desperately reach out to a psychic, who visits and confirms a foreign presence while affirming Chloe's unique connection to the spirit realm.

The plot indeed becomes clear by film's end. I won't spoil any of that here, because this film is not about the plot so much as it is about how the plot unfolds itself with us as the intervening angel, er, ghost. Suffice it to say that, in addition to the psychic, a few other outsiders enter the house with varying responses from the presence, including a team of painters and Ryan (West Mulholland), Tyler's new best friend at school and the popular kid who takes a liking to Chloe. Despite a mercilessly streamlined plot, there are a few heavyhanded instances of symbolism in the screenplay, including a forced fascination with Chloe's middle name, Blue, the family's surname of Payne, and even the father's Christologically-inclined name. There are also heavyhanded bits of foreshadowing that almost derailed the film for me. (I also want to note, here, that the acting in this film simply did not work for me. I could access the characters, and the actors felt wooden and so naturalistic or realistic that they were usually boring to watch. It's just a style of performing I don't enjoy watching. But I do think they're all capable and skilled artists, especially Liu and Sullivan.)

But, by the alarming climax -- that comes much more quickly than expected, due to the film's shockingly brief runtime -- the mystery has been generally unraveled, and the film ends without lingering questions. Most of the symbolism and overwrought writing is just flavor for the film, not essential to its central conceit, the mystery at the heart of family drama. "Mystery" might be a stretch here, but I mean it in the classical sense of something emotionally sublime and existentially complex, not in the sense of a puzzle box to be solved and then obnoxiously broadcast on a YouTube "ending explained" video or Reddit board comment section.

Knowing the nature of the entity who is our proxy in the world of this film will not spoil anything, but it might affect your emotional approach, so we'll leave it unspoken for now. That element -- the lynchpin between story/plot and cinematic form/vehicle -- is deeply satisfying and reminded me of the genre-bending efforts of The Lovely Bones or even Silent House. And Soderbergh's cinematography really should be credited as a character, as physically active and interactive as he is in every scene. Once you know the identity and purpose of the presence, moreover, I expect an additional viewing will only deepen its impact. In that way, I might even compare it favorably to David Lowery's A Ghost Story, which I thought of more than once while viewing. Other elements are nowhere near as satisfying as I'd have liked, namely any details of Rebecca's job and the full dynamics of her marriage with Chris. But its final scenes will surely spark thoughtful and sentimental conversations (in a good way) after your screening -- about memory, loss, moral responsibility, personal growth, and even self-awareness in family dynamics, all through the eyes of our beloved departed -- so I encourage you to give this weird, clever, and almost-transcendent film the honor of your undivided attention. It deserves it. And so do you.

Flight Risk (2025)

Score: 1.5 / 5

A US Marshal, placed on desk duty after a botched mission, gets a shot at redemption by apprehending and escorting a key government witness to court against a dangerous mob boss in New York. The witness, a weaselly book-cooker hiding in Alaska, may have been hard for her to find, but he's eager to save his own neck, so he shouldn't be hard to handle. Cuffed and chained to excess by the Marshal, he's put on a small private plane to get to Anchorage, and then on to Seattle and into witness protection. But their pilot, a cocksure and obnoxious man with a Southern drawl, keeps setting off minor red flags for both agent and captive. Could the mob boss have more awareness of this mission than they know? How much peril are they in, floating at 3000 feet among the peaks of rural Alaska, at the mercy of a man who hasn't been vetted?

I love a high-concept, single-location thriller, especially one that leans into its limited budget; the only requirement, in my book, is excellent writing. Flight Risk doesn't have that. Don't get me wrong: it's a smashing idea, not far from several Hitchcockian premises, and the screenplay does occasionally offer its requisite thrills for a B-movie that knows exactly what it is meant to be for a mass audience. But the plot is so overwrought and underbaked that it almost gave me food poisoning.

Why, if it took no fewer than three agents to find and apprehend the witness, does only one remain to escort him to civilization? That was my first annoyed question not even ten minutes into this mercifully brief film. Topher Grace plays the witness, the mononymous Winston, and it's an apt role for the somewhat diminutive actor, who chooses such strange films to join and tends to play himself in them, to varying efficacy. I enjoy watching him, and he has much more to do in this film than usual. But his smart-mouth wisecracks do get old pretty fast, and I had the nagging sensation that the character was intentionally queer coded (whether from Grace, the writer, or the director is clearly uncertain) in a distinctly negative way: he's more than a bit flippant in the face of terror, resorts to biting comedy, is closely attached to and protective of his mother, exhibits incontinence when threatened, and is the target of repeated innuendo to which he merely looks away in shame. That kind of depiction is, frankly, offensive and gross, and I thought had been done away with in the '90s.

I wonder if Jared Rosenberg, the writer, had something to do with this, but without knowing his prior work, I can't say. On the other hand, director Mel Gibson's real-life antics and bizarre periods of hating various demographics is highly suspect. And I'm by no means a Gibson hater; indeed, I am a champion when it comes to separating the art from the artist. That said, sometimes artists can't separate themselves from their work, and when it shows, it really shows (looking at you, Clint Eastwood). Gibson's directorial career (Braveheart, The Passion of the Christ, Apocalypto, Hacksaw Ridge) is one I've long admired and lionized in my social circles (though his acting has lost favor with me in the last, say, decade). And while it's been nearly a decade since his last job in the director's chair, he seems almost bored in his approach to this film. Any director worth his salt would find interesting and exciting ways to maneuver in this cramped setting, perhaps employing long takes or a whirling interior camera, utilizing the mounting paranoia along with the inherent claustrophobia in this situation.

Instead, Gibson and his editor can't consistently manage to hold any tension, moving in and out of the plane at random, jumping from the focal points of almost every scene to unnecessary repetitive shots of each character regardless of dramatic purpose. This becomes especially egregious when the veil is lifted and the pilot is revealed to be a criminal sent to stop the Marshal from taking Winston anywhere safe. The early reveal results in a tense and violent outburst that gets derailed almost immediately. And then, instead of doing the smart thing, the Marshal simply cuffs the baddie in back and tries to fly the plane herself. Gibson keeps trying to paint her as an action hero, a moralistic warrior on her way through purgatory to redemption, but she's written to be so stupid that I was grinding my teeth to keep from yelling at the screen. Not everyone in our auditorium was as reticent as me.

The Marshal, Madelyn, is played by Michelle Dockery, who truly does offer a grounded and solid performance here. But I just have to wonder why she chose this production to be part of, when her character doesn't allow Dockery to do much dynamically. Her tough resolve, if anything, does in fact redeem her, though her final lesson in the film seems to be one of self-forgiveness and how letting go of the past will help you see more clearly and purposefully in the present. She's pretty no-nonsense until one crucial moment, which is when her boss connects her via satellite phone with a pilot who can guide her through flying and landing the plane. The pilot is aggressively flirty with her, a choice that at first felt sweet -- he's disarmingly charming, no doubt to get her to breathe and loosen up and not panic -- but as it continues repeatedly, it starts to feel really icky. And Dockery's reaction is so forced and fake in its cutesy little-girl-blushing way that it completely took me out of the movie.

And then there's the part of the film everyone will be talking about. In fact, the marketing for Flight Risk has all but ensured that everyone's here for Mark Wahlberg. His character, left unnamed except for his alias, is disgusting and horrifying. Cartoonishly drawn, his folksy demeanor devolves quickly after his unmasking, when he's revealed as a bloodthirsty psychopath. Wahlberg does fine enough going gonzo for this role, but it feels like he's in a wholly different movie from the straight-laced Dockery and the bleakly comedic Grace. Apart from his bald cap -- which is actually awful and the makeup and hair stylists for this film should be forced to go back to school -- he's disgusting because most of his dialogue consists of explicit sexual threats to rape and dismember both Dockery and Grace. I've already mentioned the borderline problematic suggestion of queer characterization, but this makes the film feel more in line with Deliverance than Flightplan, if you catch my squealing drift.

From a wildly unbalanced cast to a promising premise wholly undone by incompetent direction and editing, Flight Risk simply doesn't work on its own terms. Illogical and blatantly stupid choices abound -- after mercifully keeping the psycho alive despite multiple violent assaults and despite no longer needing him due to the flirty pilot helping her remotely, Dockery still manages to shoot him three times in the climax before he falls out of the plane and gets crushed by rescue vehicles -- and rip any stakes the plot carries right away from its own grasp. A few well-placed jokes aside (and yes, the Spirit Airlines one had me guffaw), the dialogue is almost all gimmick and no substance. If anything, I'd say it's worth a watch for the bizarre turn from Wahlberg, Grace having fun, and Dockery being badass. But she's more exciting in Non-Stop, which is also a better crafted film (Jaume Collet-Serra for the win!) with a similar premise. So, really, do yourself a favor, and miss this flight. 

Wolf Man (2025)

Score: 4 / 5

I love the Wolf Man. He's my favorite monster, related to my favorite animal, and fluid enough as a concept to manifest differently in almost any representation. Vampires and zombies and ghosts can, after all, only take so many forms before their identities have to change. Werewolves can change at full moons, autumnal moons, or any time it suits the story; they can be born, infected, cursed, or chosen; they might me a hairy man, a hairless dog, or any incarnation in between; they can serve as metaphors for burgeoning sexuality, forbidden romance/desire, puberty or coming of age, anger management, infectious diseases, the wild nature of humanity, the consequence of cannibalism, primal predation, and more. The 1941 original film changed my life. The 2010 remake is a masterpiece of Gothic horror. And now, as one of the first releases of 2025, we get a reimagining of the concept in contemporary trappings, and it's a pretty fabulous time.

Major horror creator Leigh Whannell (Saw, Dead Silence, Insidious) jumps back into the Universal Monsters pond with this reimagining of the classic, much as he did in 2020 with The Invisible Man. In that, which is a far cry from its 1933 original, the villain/monster is still a narcissistic sociopath, but the central concern is of his domestic abuse and the efforts of his partner to escape his clutches alive; in leaning into these concerns, Whannell made the story fresh, exciting, and profoundly modern. Too, in Upgrade (2018), Whannell infused body horror into what is essentially a sci-fi action flick, focusing on the disturbing process by which an implanted chip can take over the body and the body's attempts to master its new abilities. It seems that, in Wolf Man, Whannell demonstrates something between these two techniques of visual storytelling to provide an updated spin on the classic.

Blake Lovell is a stay-at-home father with his daughter Ginger and his hardworking wife Charlotte. He has a bit of a temper, lashing out at Ginger for not listening to him and at Charlotte for not being present more. It's a clever and important role reversal, though perhaps a bit late in coming, and sets the table for robust post-screening discussion of gender roles in the nuclear family. When he's notified by mail (which seems odd, these days, but whatever) that his estranged father has gone missing and been declared dead, he decides to take his family to his childhood home as a sort of vacation. Perhaps getting back to his roots will help his family know him better, perhaps time away from busy San Francisco will rekindle their mutual affection.

Indeed it will. Once in the wild forests of mountainous Oregon, Blake swerves to avoid a beastly creature in the road, toppling over a cliff and getting caught in some trees. I do want to be clear here that, as a filmmaker who very much knows what he's doing, Whannell litters references to other genre films in his features; there is a lot of Spielberg in this one, to start with. Aware that they are being hunted by something fast with hair and claws, the family manages to escape their overturned vehicle and run through the forest to Blake's father's nearby compound, though Blake gets scratched by the beast. 

While I don't love that a scratch is what does him in, it's yet another example of the mutability of lycanthropy in fiction.

But the family is far from safe in the dark interior of their paternal abode, and over the course of this one fraught night, Blake is going to dramatically change. Interspersed flashbacks reveal the somewhat tortured dynamic of a young Blake and his father, shadows of which inform Blake's adult temper and desperate attempts to dote on his own daughter. Being back home might not be the healthiest thing for him, though his capable demeanor and resourcefulness are demonstrated immediately, as he uses tools and materials to board up the front door, fires up an old generator, and generally works overtime while injured to try and make his family safe and even a little comfortable. Of course, that's not the only thing about him that's going to change.

Focusing on Blake's changing body is the highlight of the film as well as its primary function. So often, werewolf movies are about character and plot and setting and all these other things, but this is a rare case wherein the transformation itself takes up the bulk of the film's too-brief runtime. Over the course of the night, Blake's scratch becomes a leprous, oozing cavity in his skin. He starts seeing more clearly in the dark while lights bleach into unrecognizable, ethereal colors. He loses the ability to understand human speech and communicates only in moans and grunts. Worst, his impulses become harder to control, like the itching of his wound or his hunger for various unpleasant things. Christopher Abbott (Martha Marcy May Marlene, Possessor, Black Bear, Hulu's Catch-22, and so many more wonderful performances) is firing on all fronts here, delivering a bodily performance as emotionally brutal as it is physically. And the filmmakers are clearly dedicated to practical effects and excellent prosthetics and makeup, making everything more focused on the man than on the spectacle.

As Blake falls apart -- and the body horror here cannot be oversold -- his family is largely left flat by a screenplay unwilling to provide depth or insight for anyone other than dear old dad. Julia Garner's Charlotte often feels like an afterthought as she walks confusedly from room to room; I do think this is indicative of her character, who is absolutely a fish out of water and in a wholly unprecedented situation, unable to cope with the fear and horror she's feeling for likely the first time in her life, so let's not be too hard on her. And Garner manages herself well despite having almost nothing to work with. Matilda Firth as Ginger has more meat to chew on, metaphorically, and her relationship with Blake is truly sweet, despite a somewhat hammy shtick wherein she "reads his mind" to remind them both of his love for her. That kind of stupidly cute thing can feel annoying when it's repeated upwards of four times in ninety minutes, but it also helps the film feel grounded in a believable reality.

As it progresses, this film may not inspire much discussion on its plot or characters, that's true. And thematically it's a bit thin, re-treading a well-worn path of family trauma and skewed gender roles to make points about bad fathers and good parenting and how easily these things slip into each other. Scares might be becoming less frequently effective in films, and though I can imagine many horror fans finding this film quaint in its attempts at frisson, I personally was riveted and thrilled by its simplicity and old-fashioned earnestness. In an IP I so love, this title may not be my favorite, but it's a damn fun time at the movies and a technically proficient offering for anyone who appreciates honoring source material, simplifying storytelling (because the "ending explained" phenomenon of videos and rants online really needs to die out, like, ten years ago), and providing state of the art effects. 

Femme (2024)

Score: 5 / 5

Possibly the most frustrating and challenging movie of the year (technically it was released in Britain in late 2023, but it wasn't available in the US until 2024), Femme has haunted my waking mind since entering my unsuspecting eyeballs. I've watched it three times already and still it plays hard-to-get, like a peripatetic snowflake in a warm updraft. With erotic thrillers, sometimes we get what we expect and want: satisfying sex that turns into a domestic or romantic nightmare. Sometimes we get what we need out of what we expect: taboo sex that doesn't punish its participants beyond what they can handle and they (and we) grow from it (see Babygirl, also out in 2024). And then there are those complex little puzzle boxes that break open several taboo seals while offering insight that refuses to moralize or condemn, forcing us to engage in a wholly different way. This is Femme. 

Opening with what could be a less glamorous spin-off of Pose across the pond, Femme refers to entertainer Jules, a tall, thin, Black man who performs as a beautiful drag queen in East London. One night, after performing, he goes out to the alley for a smoke and notices a rather butch white guy checking him out, who quickly flees. Going down the block for a new pack, Jules encounters this stranger again in the midst of a small gang of ruffians, crudely mocking and threatening Jules in the store. Jules responds to their homophobic slurs by mentioning the one who checked him out, which leads to him violently and brutally assaulting Jules in the alley while one of his friends records it online. It would seem that this fag has been roundly smoked.

The film skips ahead three months, as Jules recovers in ways that are surely not healthy but that are distinctly recognizable in a post-Covid world. He's become reclusive, rarely leaving his apartment, much to the concern and consternation of his beloved friends Toby and Alicia; he wears baggy, more "masc" clothes, uses no makeup, leaves his hair in a messy updo, and acts more stereotypically masculine even in the privacy of his own home while playing video games to no end. But, prompted by his friends to go out and try living, Jules takes a venture to a bathhouse. It's worth noting here that someone outside of the queer community may not understand or appreciate Jules's actions for the early parts of this film, which doesn't waste its time on explanations or exposition; you really just have to take it for what it is and, if something doesn't quite make sense to you, ask a queer person about it later. Bathhouses (or any queer spaces) are not innately threatening or scary places, so let's do away with those judgment calls, okay?

Lo and behold, Jules encounters, quite by chance, the same man who attacked him. In the bathhouse. He's still clearly a live wire, swinging more slurs until he leaves. Jules follows him into the locker room, where they make eyes at each other. Then the man orders Jules to continue following him outside. It's a riveting sequence, a bizarre roulette game of body language and tumultuous emotional charges, especially for Jules, who seems to think that this man doesn't recognize him from three months prior, but still isn't sure if he's going to attack again or on what grounds. But Jules also sees an opportunity here, unclear at first if it's for an adrenaline rush or proof of self-reliance or something more sinister; it doesn't take long before we see Jules plotting his revenge.

Written and directed by Sam H. Freeman and Ng Choon Ping, Femme takes most of its time exploring the fraught dynamics between Jules and his attacker, Preston, because indeed the white boy gets hooked by Jules's savvy demeanor, submissive bent, and of course his beauty. Their dynamic is innately perilous, as Preston's gang of criminal young men are about as toxically masculine imaginable and the closeted Preston is terrified of anyone discovering his proclivities. Unfortunately, that means Preston tends to lash out at anyone questioning his social dominance or implying any fruit in his cake, so to speak. But, in developing a relationship with Jules, Preston begins to change. It scares him. It should scare Jules, too, who moves rather quickly to force certain plot points to happen before Preston is fully aware of himself.

It's all a delicate and dangerous dance, so thankfully these filmmakers have two incredible actors to feature. Nathan Stewart-Jarrett carries the film with remarkably deft technique, naturalizing the mannerisms of his character in endlessly believable ways to the extent that I occasionally forgot this wasn't a documentary and Jules isn't a real person. George MacKay, on the other hand, is more recognizable to me, but his characterization of Preston is brave and insightful to the extent that, while watching, I started getting flashbacks to people who have bullied me because of the ways they bully themselves. The film is a character case study, and these actors deserve accolades for their performances.

But the filmmakers deserve them, too, and rarely are films with such topical and specific content this beautifully crafted or this challenging to experience. Slick and grungy at the same time, stylish and tense, the lighting and cinematography (James Rhodes) push us into realms of a somewhat surreal demimonde, awash in vibrant club colors and the intimacy of a warm candlelit bath, always visually representing Jules's emotional and spiritual state. Femme takes a fresh, hard look at violence against queer folks and boldly imagines a fantasy in which vengeance is not only possible but almost too easy. But this isn't quite Promising Young Woman, and I don't think Jules's characterization in particular allows us to view any character as a stock type, especially not an avenging angel. Can two wrongs make a right? This film sidesteps such moralizing, preferring to pose more questions about how hatred and violence and passion and love and sex combine into a heady cocktail of moral ambivalence and dangerous liaisons. If I had a complaint about the movie, it would be that the film only concerns itself with queer pain rather than queer joy, but that assessment says more about me than the film as it also ignores the elements of the film that are, in some ways, joyful and affirming. And, in case you're confused by my meandering, be aware that the conclusion of this film is so unexpected and raw that it will also upset your ability to glean easy meaning.

The Front Room (2024)

Score: 2 / 5

Expectations can ruin films. Due to marketing or other, we've all experienced major letdowns when a new work of art doesn't quite match what we hope it will be. Personally, I attempt to leave expectations at the door to better access the film on its own terms, but we are all victims of that pitfall nonetheless. Yet when a film itself -- by nature of its premise -- establishes its own promises of what's to come and then fails to deliver that, disappointment and frustration will (and, I think, should) dampen your experience. For a recent example, I fully expected Babygirl to be a smutty but delicious erotic thriller with a nasty denouement; it turned out to be a shockingly restrained, nuanced, and thoughtful navigation through sexual mores in an increasingly fraught landscape of desire and agency.

The Front Room, produced by A24 and written and directed by Robert Eggers's two half-brothers Max and Sam, promised a lot to us, not least of which was the return of Brandy to the silver screen. She plays Belinda, a non-tenured professor who is treated like an adjunct at her troubled local college, who is pregnant with her public defender husband Norman (Andrew Burnap). With maternity leave looming and being barred from promotion at work, she quits, pushing their family into dire financial straits. The story, essentially, takes off from here: when Norman's estranged father dies, his stepmother calls to invite them to the funeral, and though he does not really want to attend, they do together. There, they encounter Solange, the aging and infirm widow, who pressures them into accepting her offer: take her into their home for the rest of her life, and she'll pay their mortgage and will them everything in her estate. Desperate but worried, they accept, and Solange moves into the titular space of honor in their house.

With a tagline like "All hell moves in," we are meant to expect that this arrangement will be torturous for Belinda and Norman, and indeed it is. Belinda, very pregnant and home alone, must care for Solange, who is rude and crude, deliberately mispronouncing her name and aggressively demanding to be catered to, hand and foot. To Belinda's nascent horror, Solange is also incontinent and mostly incapable of moving freely about the house, much less cleaning up after herself. Mothers-in-law may be stereotypically monstrous, but this is on another level, made much worse by Solange's fire-and-brimstone brand of Christianity (it seems to be an offshoot of Pentecostalism) and literally certified racist social philosophy. If Rosemary's Baby was about a pregnant woman trying to free herself from menacing forces closing in around her, The Front Room is about a pregnant woman needing to purge her own home of the evil within. Belinda and Solange are set up as two forces of nature meant to engage in a final battle of wits, belief, and power.

But that never actually happens. Sure, there are lots of encounters and fights and horrific messes (and I do mean lots), but the film never feels as claustrophobic or frightening as it should. Rather, it injects absurdity into most of its scenes, aided by bright, lurid color schemes that make everything feel more surreal than disturbing. The messes, disgusting as they are, are never really leaned into beyond a few nightmarish montages that flick by like a circus fever dream. Worse, Solange is never as menacing as she should be with her white supremacist and evangelical bona fides. This makes Belinda appear all the more incapable or weak, to say nothing of Norman, whose tender words of affirmation for her are proven, over time, to be practically all he has to offer in their marriage, their family, and their life. His ineptitude is almost as infuriating as Belinda's longsuffering, especially being a strong Black woman and soon-to-be mother.

Brandy does give a capable performance, but she can't do much with a character all but sapped of her own empowerment. The other actors are mostly forgettable and do little of import here. Kathryn Hunter, though, plays Solange with a cruel deftness that is intoxicating and certainly worth watching the film to experience. Unfortunately, her demoniac presence is similarly hindered by the screenplay, which seems scared to actually make the film be about anything. Tonally, the film is a mess, which doesn't help, and various scenes feel directed as thrilling, horrifying, silly, gross, and tepid, without any connective tissue or purpose from one sequence to the next. There is almost no tension, no fear, not even brazen attempts to fight back from any character. Is Solange's piety a cover for Satanic rituals? Will Solange bring other racists to Belinda's house and terrorize her? At one point, I even wondered if Solange would die and that Belinda's baby would be some perverse reincarnation. None of these pan out, and literally any of them would have been a worthy climax for this premise.

Instead, we get a familiar and quaint ending that might have worked in the '90s but simply doesn't now. With that to finish off this insipid and generally dull "thriller," I was left wondering what exactly the writers, producers, and distributors were thinking with this tired and shallow final product. A few more rounds of workshopping would have certainly helped, along with a strong dose of inspiration.