Crime 101 (2026)

Score: 4 / 5

When a career thief (Chris Hemsworth) gets a little rattled by a grazing bullet, he calls off his next hit. More than successful, he doesn't think it's an issue nearly as much as his fence (Nick Nolte) does; hired to carry out the next job is an unhinged, dangerous young thug (Barry Keoghan). Meanwhile, an insurance broker (Halle Berry) who works to help pay settlements for the thief's victims, is frustrated with being denied promotion in her company and so decides to help the charming thief in order to get a hefty cut. Oh, and the scheme has been obsessed over by an LAPD detective (Mark Ruffalo) whose theory is ignored by his precinct, sending him on a rogue mission because he refuses to "find a theory that works for the whole building."

Though its title seems to indicate a beginner's foray into cinematic capers, there's nothing elementary about the sleek yet grim presentation of Crime 101. The number instead refers to the 101 Freeway in sunny southern California, the primary setting of Hemsworth's crime spree and his means of reaching his targets and escaping pursuit. But this isn't the Los Angeles of La La Land; dark and warm, the city reads as richly layered in the dusk between its twinkling lights and chrome-plated vehicles. There's more than an air of noir to this material, and cinematographer Erik Wilson (of the Paddington films) seems intent on milking the visual dynamics of the oft-filmed cityscape for every drop of its shadowy beauty. 

I'm not sure I could repeat more of the plot reliably, nor the character names, so we'll stick with general impressions here. That's not to say this film is forgettable, at all, but rather that I was more entertained by seeing recognizable stars playing together in this mysterious world of greed, pride, and crime. Writer and director Bart Layton, adapting this material from a fairly recent novella of the same title, pulls from his inspirational sources with knowing and satisfying results; more than once, I leaned to my friend and muttered things like "Michael Mann," not because Layton felt redundant but because he so clearly was building off visual flair and thematic tensions familiar to fans of Thief and Heat. Take the protagonist as a case study: Hemsworth apparently grew up poor (and we see several shots throughout of homeless camps around LA) and, in one scene of emotional vulnerability, shares that his goal in stealing is to make enough money to stop working and enjoy life. Enjoyment, something he's apparently never really experienced, comes at a price, but one he never explicitly states. It's a cool move in a screenplay with serious messages to proclaim about class, earned wealth, privilege, and the divisions between desperate people.

Film noir and especially organized crime aren't my usual cinematic happy place, so I was surprised by how much I enjoyed Crime 101. Its likable cast does a lot of that heavy lifting, even those with smaller parts, like Corey Hawkins and Jennifer Jason Leigh. My favorite was probably Nick Nolte, whose brief screentime indicates that he's a Fagin-meets-King Saul type, whose paternal energy toward Hemsworth and Keoghan suggest that he's groomed these young men into hardened criminals (specifically, ones willing and able to become his personal soldiers in their urban battlefield). Everybody owns their time in front of the camera, which makes us care for these complex, wicked people expediently. That way, by the time Layton tosses not one but two excellent car chase sequences at us, we actually care about their outcomes (something I've never said before).

Other flourishes abound, and I eagerly anticipate a second screening, if only to pay closer attention to the stylistic choices in crafting this dramatic Gordian Knot. I recall that the opening sequence is a montage -- not wholly unlike the start of The Devil Wears Prada, an admittedly strange reference here, but it's what I thought of -- as Hemsworth, Berry, and Ruffalo all prepare for the day. We're listening to one of Berry's self-help audio recordings, which speaks vaguely about our interconnectedness with other people and how community should be our basic focus, and it made me think of Crash (2004) and the onslaught of huge ensemble dramas in the years surrounding it that didn't boast singular plots so much as slices of life of many plots that were all loosely and contrivedly bound together.

The film also skillfully avoids some of the more obnoxious clichés in movies of this ilk. Perhaps most tellingly, Berry's character is not defined by the male characters around her, and she has a vivid internal life shared freely with her audience. As she tells her jerk of a boss off, people audibly cheered. We don't usually get moments like that in a genre about men for men. Speaking of which, Hemsworth himself proves yet again his underused skills as a bona fide leading man, injecting such nuance into his character that it's easy to forget his superhero status among A-listers. Somewhat shy and awkward, he bears an aura of haunted gravity when he's unable to maintain eye contact, brooding behind the wheel, and it's largely left to us to interpret his silence. It's a risky move from Layton, but one that pays off in dividends thanks to this alchemical blend of acting and directing.

And, as a final note, it ends with something like hope. Or, rather, a surprisingly moving, emotional denouement. I stopped taking notes about twenty minutes into the film because I was so absorbed by the understated and unexpected craft of this fiercely intelligent and artful thriller, so another screening will be forthcoming. In the meantime, I can't recommend this title enough.

Saltburn (2023)

Score: 4.5 / 5

Much like the tonal tightrope she mastered in her debut, Promising Young Woman, Saltburn is an aptly fitting sophomore feature for Emerald Fennell. As in that first film, this one doesn't really tread new ground; rather, it takes a familiar trope and turns it on its head. Previously, Fennell took the "rape revenge" arc and flipped the script, literally, turning the avenging angel into a self-sacrificing shell of a stalker and master manipulator. Now, in Saltburn, she takes the sociopathic class-climber and uses that lens to critique the wealthy elite and skewer their polite mannerisms that disguise cruelty and indifference.

Essentially -- and, surprisingly, without credit -- a reimagining of Patricia Highsmith's The Talented Mr. Ripley, this story takes place in the English countryside in the mid-aughts. This is crucial, both in terms of geographical location (the original heavily utilized a tour of exotic Italy to contrast with the titular character's struggles in New York City) and time period (when, in the 2000s, certain vicious anxieties about acceptance of gay adolescents were reaching a breaking point). These changes make quite a difference to both aesthetics and theming, making latent queerness explicit while also making the entire plot more believable for anyone not accustomed to vacationing in romantic Mediterranean locales. We can all understand the eccentricities of an aristocratic Oxford family in their manor, if only because we know about Downton Abbey and the eventual decline of such estates.

Few actors were a better choice for the lead here than Barry Keoghan, who has made quite a career for himself in the last seven years playing possibly dangerous creeps, weirdos who don't quite fit in and are almost certainly unreliable in the most violent way. Here as Oliver Quick, his chameleonic tendencies showcase Keoghan's range in new ways, as we see him subtly shift his mannerisms and voice in almost every scene, to better ingratiate himself to his scene partner and their version of acceptable or endearing behavior; in this way, his performance reminds me a lot of Michelle Williams in All the Money in the World but with a much nastier tone. But Oliver is not just a scary social climber, oh no: he's a scholarship student at Oxford, shunned for his perceived poverty and relative lack of social graces (although he is completely unreliable about his past, even if we weren't to be introduced to his family eventually). 

While it's never quite clear what exactly motivates Oliver, he soon notices Felix Catton, an impossibly beautiful upperclassman (in every sense) whose cool suavity and seductive popularity sets him worlds apart from Oliver's reality. It's unclear in their early scenes whether Oliver wants Felix as a friend, a lover, or a role model, but his obsession is apparent. It's clear he has a long game in mind when, after their creepy meet-cute (is "meet-creep" a thing yet?), Felix and Oliver develop an unexpected camaraderie that even Felix's friends decry as weird. Part of us wants to root for the hot, popular guy to chum it up with the gutter kid, because that's sweet; part of us wants them to fall in love because if Julia Roberts can do it, these queer kids should! But the bigger part of us knows this isn't healthy or normal, and Oliver's leechlike ambitions will cause many problems to come. Jacob Elordi is making quite a big splash in highbrow cinema lately between Euphoria, Priscilla, Deep Water (also a Highsmith story), and an upcoming Paul Schrader film, and he knowingly weaponizes his good looks and mellifluous voice to devastating effect for both us and Oliver.

When Felix invites Oliver to his home, Saltburn, for the summer holiday, the latent tensions and suspected manipulations come to fruition, making up the body of the film. As Felix introduces Oliver to the sprawling property and mansion, we also meet his various family members in increasingly hilarious ways. These people are the proverbially "stupid rich," from Richard E. Grant's sweetly infantile father ("Sir James," as if he could be a knight) and Rosamund Pike's deliciously glamorous and dubiously "woke" mother ("Elspeth," if you please) to Alison Oliver's stylishly dispossessed sister ("Venetia," the sole possible reference to Italy and also a literally depressed sinking city) and Archie Madekwe's refreshingly clear-eyed but desperate-to-be-included queer cousin Farleigh ("far" as the only non-nuclear family member and effectively masking his bitchy faux-superiority from the family on "lee"ward side of politeness). Oh, and then Carey Mulligan rejoins Fennell in the most outrageous supporting role here as "Poor Dear Pamela," a houseguest for no discernible reason or rhyme, who is blissfully unaware that she has overstayed her welcome, although it's also notably possible that Elspeth's professed lesbian fling of the past is in fact not so past and might very well be Pamela.

In case it all sounds like too much at this point, don't fret. It's not. It's a perfect blend of substance and style, a wickedly blasé take on roasting the upper class while also raising questions about those of us who idolize them. The wickedly mean-spiritedness of the film is always a little murky, and we're never quite sure if we should be laughing aloud or cringing in shame. Saltburn is always beautiful to behold, though, both due to its lavish production value and especially Linus Sandgren's suggestive cinematography. The filmmakers' presentation of their world starts fairly accessibly and formally, but by our actual introduction to Saltburn itself, even the camera and edits start to lean into the characters' own perceptions of reality, addled as they are with alcohol, drugs, lust, and confused emotional states. The film is lush until it becomes garish, the summer night's dream tipping ever more into nightmare. Evening gowns and suits notwithstanding, the most shocking moments of the film involve multiple bodily fluids and nakedness of a sort that reveal the gleeful evil at the heart of these characters and the film itself.

The ending, however, frustrates me to distraction. Fennell's slyly funny project, both sumptuous and insidious, is best when it is also provocative. The same was true of her debut feature. Little is more provocative than some ambiguity, some suspense, as any filmmaker of dark dramas and thrillers would tell you since at least Hitchcock's reign. But in the final, I don't know, fifteen minutes of the film, Fennell makes a disastrous blunder in depicting -- almost like dramatized flashbacks in a Dateline episode -- exact moments of Oliver's criminality. We see him calculate and orchestrate his initial meeting with Felix, supply Venetia with razors, ruin Farleigh's prospects, poison Felix after his rejection, and ultimately murder Elspeth. For all the empowering moments of deduction and suspicion Fennell has provided her audience, in the final moments she acts as though she didn't trust us at all, holding our hand and explaining every gruesome beat that made her film so grimly compelling. Leaving all those moments vague would have been infinitely more powerful -- haunting our minds during and after the viewing -- especially given the film's final sequence of Oliver dancing nude through the halls of Saltburn.

The Banshees of Inisherin (2022)

Score: 4.5 / 5

I don't think anyone expected Martin McDonagh, amidst his successful films, to craft a new work that is essentially a filmed play. The Banshees of Inisherin would fit perfectly on stage, preferably in cycle with his earlier plays; even its title reminds us of most of those (The Beauty Queen of Leenane, A Skull in Connemara, The Cripple of Inishmaan, and The Lieutenant of Inishmore). In various ways and to differing degrees, each highlights the lives of rural, eccentric Irish characters around the Galway region; each also thematically deals with desperation, concerns over personal authenticity and coping with a bleak life, and the universality and inevitability of horrific violence. They are, as in all of McDonagh's work, formally challenging to theatre norms, vicious in their attempts to upset their audience, and wickedly hilarious if you're willing to tap into his particular brand of absurd black comedy. In these ways, The Banshees of Inisherin feels like the most purely McDonagh of McDonagh's films, and that's pretty surprising to see these days from an auteur so far into his career.

We knew Colin Farrell and Brendan Gleeson were among the best performers of McDonagh's delicious writing style -- and have terrific chemistry to boot -- from their roles in In Bruges in 2008. This time, however, they play lifetime best friends well at ease in their idyllic home, the titular (and fictional) island where it's sunny by day and only rainy by night. Pádraic (Farrell) is a milk farmer who lives with his sister Siobhán (Kerry Condon) in a comfortable life, in which his only real entertainment is going out drinking at the local pub with his longtime friend Colm (Gleeson). Apparently they've done the same routine for many years. One wonders exactly what is going on internally here, as neither show much interest in anything else. At least, until the inciting incident of this particular story.

Suddenly -- without warning or clear reason -- Colm starts to ignore Pádraic. He declares he no longer wants to be friends, which is tough enough, but he actively begins to ignore Pádraic's presence socially. Pádraic can't quite deal with it, and so he aggressively tries to clarify what's going on. Over the course of a couple stilted, deeply uncomfortable confrontations, we learn that Colm simply finds Pádraic dull and distracting; to be fair, Pádraic isn't a particularly insightful or engaging conversationalist, but he is mostly contented and genuinely sweet. Colm has decided he has better things to do with his time than sit and drink and talk about the same old things. He wants to compose folk songs on his fiddle, something he can be remembered for. We learn eventually why he wants to be remembered, as he tells his parish priest about his despair; he's also suffering medically, as it turns out.

Interestingly, and despite Farrell's bankable and reliable likeability, the first part of the film seems intent to make us sympathize with Colm. Though Pádraic is arguably the protagonist, he's a bit obnoxious in his understandable desperation to reclaim his best friend. Colm's peaceful stoicism and increased age prompts us to question more than once, "Why can't Pádraic just leave him alone?" It doesn't help that, during his grieving process, Pádraic befriends Dominic (Barry Keoghan), a shockingly rude and deeply troubled local boy who is the son of an abusive policeman. Dominic only really seems into the situation for personal gain, whether it's for entertainment value regarding the conflict or to get closer to Pádraic's sister, who rejects his advances. We can tell Dominic isn't good for Pádraic, but what else is the bereaved man to do?

Especially when, and this is the crux of the matter, Colm declares that if Pádraic continues to accost him and disrespect his wishes for isolation, Colm will begin to remove his own fingers with sheep shears. Remember that he's a fiddle player, and so this is a bizarre and indeed absurd reaction, gruesome and self-sabotaging in the worst way. I don't want to spoil too much about this development, because it becomes the primary source of tension and, oddly, humor, as the tragicomedy progresses. It's McDonagh's signature style, and it forces us into an absorbing horrific fascination as we ask just how far this story will go, and to what end.

In true McDonagh fashion, the film's eccentricities and absurdism belie deep and dark thematic truths. Namely, it's important here that the film takes place in 1923 as the Irish Civil War comes to a close; more than once characters mention hearing guns on the mainland. I suppose the relationship between Colm and Pádraic is meant to allegorize or symbolize the broken brotherhood of Ireland at the time, though I confess not knowing enough about the conflict to theorize much beyond that. But it's clear it means specific things to the writer-director, who is much more comfortable in this territory than he was in trying to dramatize police corruption and sexual crimes in rural America in his previous film. And, for anyone unfamiliar with his work, McDonagh is an extraordinarily talented master of difficult tone while allowing for surprisingly sensitive, tender moments. He empowers the actors to embrace silences, and then gives them some of the juiciest dialogue from any working screenwriter today.

The Batman (2022)

Score: 5 / 5

Matt Reeves is a genius. We already knew that after what he did with Dawn of the Planet of the Apes and War for the Planet of the Apes, and frankly I hope that inspires people to revisit his brilliant earlier films Cloverfield and Let Me In. But nothing could have prepared me for the polished beauty and audacious style of yet another Batman movie from this burgeoning master of the craft. Most scenes could be frozen and framed, so rivetingly and beautifully composed as they are, and from the long, slow shots to the endless textured detail of every costume piece and prop, you can tell Reeves and team meant this film to be a labor of love. In a lot of ways, this movie reminded me of Christopher Nolan's Batman Begins in its shocking scope, emotional and intellectual depth, and world-building mastery.

But this film (and the franchise sure to bloom from its stem) differs from Nolan's stories in a critical way, and it is this I intend to explore in this post: Reeves is not interested in mythmaking. While Nolan's Dark Knight trilogy was rooted in realism and had a muscular, gritty aesthetic, it was primarily an epic. A means of turning Batman -- who isn't really a "super" hero after all -- from a man into an idea, as Bruce himself says in the first film. We get a mythic origin story that culminates in a physical and mental test; a damsel in distress; a terrifying enemy determined to destroy the city; an impossible race against the odds through a freshly realized hell to stop destruction and death. And there's the level of advanced technology, which often feels a bit too sci-fi for the world as it is. Reeves, on the other hand, intentionally makes Bruce a real person and doesn't outfit him with sonar technology or special goggles that turn cell phones into echolocation tools.

Reeves's Batman is, first and foremost, a detective. We meet him approximately two years into his tenure as the caped crusader, although he doesn't really seem to have donned the title of "Batman." He calls himself Vengeance in a delightfully sinister tone I didn't expect from actor Robert Pattinson, who has been doing unbelievably great work in the last several years, certainly since Cronenberg's Cosmopolis in 2012. The film opens with the murder of the Gotham City mayor, and as Lieutenant Gordon (Jeffrey Wright) investigates the crime scene, he escorts "Vengeance" past the police and forensics experts. The police don't like him; he's just a vigilante with a scary name to them. Pattinson imbues the character with the kind of tortured menace Christian Bale had, but his is more intellectual than passionate; nonverbal for, shockingly, most of the film, Pattinson's face is a masterclass of nuance as he slowly and deliberately takes in the crime scene. His eyes flicker to a blood spot apparently no one has noticed, and as he moves away from it, a photographer hurries over to snap it for evidence.

Most of the film is as slow and deliberate, but Reeves packs each photogenic image with details and weight that are astounding. It feels, in many ways, like a David Fincher movie in its calculated aesthetic and intentional turning of the screw. Add to it the unexpected, violent action, Like Zodiac or Se7en in plot, The Batman is very much a gritty drama about someone trying to solve and then stop serial murders from happening, and a significant part of that is due to the psychopathic killer. Here we have the Riddler, played by Paul Dano in what might be the most unhinged and genuinely scary performance of his career, who is determined to kill the leaders of Gotham and reveal the depths of their corruption and fraud. But there's always something else going on with him, and one of my favorite moments is also his first moment on screen: as the mayor watches the news alone in his apartment, he steps away to refresh his drink. In the negative space behind him, we see the vague silhouette of a figure whose only discernible features are of his eyes. The goggles or glasses he wears reflect the harsh white light of the TV, making him instantly a ghostly or demonic presence who seems uncannily linked with his own desire to force people in power to reflect on themselves, albeit in a public way. And that's only the third or fourth shot of the film!

Much will be made of Pattinson and his iteration of the character; I loved him as Bruce Wayne in all his hungover, battered, sallow glory. Similarly, much will be made of Andy Serkis as Alfred Pennyworth and Zoe Kravtiz as Selina Kyle (a particularly sexy Catwoman who pairs extremely well with Pattinson's Batman). Not to take away from them (although Serkis has precious little to do in this film), but I would rather fixate momentarily on John Turturro's deliciously creepy turn as Carmine Falcone and a completely unrecognizable Colin Farrell as Oswald Cobblepot, the Penguin. Especially the latter, who is apparently about to get an HBO spinoff series, because these characters are so often caricatured or made into comedic butts, but here they are treated with dignity and substance by the screenplay, director, and actors. It helps, too, that Reeves lets them own their moments, not rushing anything or highlighting spectacle over character.

The Batmobile arrives, looking like it just escaped a Mad Max sequel. Arkham shows up late, along with someone who appears to be the Joker, and I'm itching for Reeves's proposed Arkham horror series. The fighting is all very muscular, and Reeves doesn't cut away from the brutal punches and kicks, choosing intentionally for us to witness Bruce getting injured (and also kicking butt most of the time). He's just another man, Reeves seems desperate to tell us, capable of getting injured and risking his life and struggling to figure out how best to help others. By the end, it seems Bruce might be ready to embrace his identity as the Batman, but it's the path to that realization that makes up the film; he can't just be a vigilante, he needs to be the symbol of hope and justice Gotham so craves. He has to confront his history, his legacy, and even his daily purpose, and it reaches a head when he chooses, in the film's climax, to use a flare and guide a mass of people out of watery wreckage to safety. That kind of salvific moment is captured beautifully as a sort of harrowing of hell, and it's here that Bruce actively chooses mercy and aid over anger and his self-proclaimed goal of vengeance.

Come for the riveting Batman story and its neo-noir detective aesthetic. Stay for the unbelievably beautiful production, including eye-popping cinematography from Greig Fraser (Dune, Bright Star, Let Me In, Snow White and the Huntsman, Zero Dark Thirty, Foxcatcher, Lion, Rogue One, Mary Magdalene, Vice, The Mandalorian) and gorgeous music from Michael Giacchino (Jurassic World, Marvel and Pixar movies, Super 8, Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol, Star Trek). And leave haunted by the memory of one of the best Batman movies you've ever seen, and what may very well prove to be one of my own top 10 films of 2022. It's early to make a claim like that, but once you've seen this film, you'll know what I'm talking about.

Eternals (2021)

Score: 4.5 / 5    ***updated

It can't be easy to step into the most fanbase-established, well-financed, studio-overseen cinematic franchise of all time and make something that feels fresh. The standard of superhero movies has been long set, and while every year threatens to end the hype, somehow the MCU (and, in my unpopular opinion, Warner Brothers' DCEU) manages to keep things interesting and moving forward. But as some of the more popular parts in Marvel's roster age out -- or die out -- I've been wondering how newer and more obscure characters will be popularly appreciated and welcomed. I certainly didn't know anything about Shang-Chi going into his first feature, and I was blown away by it. Something similar happened recently to me in a screening of Eternals, about whom I knew only the barest of details.

Basically -- and I mean very -- the Eternals are the ten children of a Celestial named Arishem sent to Earth in 5000 BC to destroy the Deviants, invasive monsters who kill apex predators. They succeeded and lived as gods (literally) in ancient cultures before spreading out and trying to lead normal lives, helping in small ways as they are able. In the present, the Deviants reawakened after the Blip, and so the Eternals band together to learn why; unfortunately, the truth is much darker and more frightening than they could have imagined. It doesn't help that the Eternals, much like any family, harbor feelings of resentment, joy, love, and loss between them, which makes their reunion rife with drama. It all leads to a fun but underwhelming climax that feels about as fresh as last week's cake. Its visuals feel ripped from any number of apocalyptic movies, and the action is almost laughable. But by this point, you do care quite a bit about the characters, which carries you through to the end. That's not nothing, but it showcases what Zhao could have used more help doing.

I confess myself a little underwhelmed too by the mythology of this movie. While you can certainly watch it with enough basic information to go on, I could not help wishing for more. Which is a bit absurd, when you account for its two-and-a-half-hour runtime. For its huge cast of brand-new characters, its extensive world-building, and more veiled references to less-popular Marvel titles, it almost feels not long enough; I couldn't tell you a whole lot more about the "significance" of any of these characters within the franchise even after seeing the movie. It's more of a standalone flick than any other in the MCU, which I guess is a good thing until the ending and post-credits scenes had me scratching my head. In fact, apart from a couple references to Thanos and everyone returning after the Blip, this movie was uniquely self-sufficient until the last few scenes (and, I have to note, the end of this movie teases Blade, which provoked me to let out a loud, excited squeal in a packed, silent auditorium).

Director Chloé Zhao (Songs My Brothers Taught Me, The Rider, Nomadland) is a surprising and odd choice for this movie, based on her previous work. You can certainly see how she humanizes these characters and connects them to far-flung but very specific global and cultural locations; that's just something she's uncannily good at doing. That, along with finding perfect magic hour lighting in her landscape shots. Thankfully -- and I say this as someone who respects her eye and tone but generally dislikes her movies so far -- here her vision soars due to its intense, plot-driven structure. The credits indicate she helped with the screenplay, but I suspect it was others, largely, who brought franchise knowledge of the characters and plots as well as a sense of urgency and motivation. Many scenes are clear-cut with Zhao's easily recognizable eye for cool palettes, natural lighting, and relative stillness centered on a horizon; these are hugely important in introducing and establishing the enormous cast of characters in ways any screenplay would struggle to accommodate. On the other hand, when things do get expository, and messy plotwise, you can feel the pull of other artistic voices to "do the genre thing" and have more action, more cuts, brighter colors, louder sounds. That's not necessarily a bad thing, and the film is pretty darn coherent for all it's trying to do.

But it does make me wonder what would have happened if directors had swapped so that Eternals had the spectacle-oriented director Cate Shortland, and if Zhao had in turn directed Black Widow. I imagine a more character-driven focus with the latter, one rooted in time and place in a way that film, frankly, squandered in favor of admittedly brilliant action sequences. The former, however, would have embraced a bit more of the "wow" factor, turning the Eternals into full-on gods with all their magic on spectacular display, while sacrificing the existing film's determination to make the characters real people with a sense of age and belonging. Fruitless considerations, perhaps, but an interesting way to rethink how these iconic characters materialize in the public consciousness and how easily things might have been different.

I guess, in the broadest terms, I most liked the cast of this movie and the casting. Easily the most diverse group of performers yet in the MCU, they also play diversity in a way that does not feel forced or contrived. Salma Hayek plays the leader Ajak, Gemma Chan's Sersi is the protagonist of sorts, Lauren Ridloff plays the Deaf superhero Makkari, and Brian Tyree Henry's gay hero Phastos has a husband and son. Who else? Well, there's the hunky Richard Madden's Ikaris and equally hunky Kumail Nanjiani's Kingo, there's Lia McHugh as the androgynous and youthful Sprite, Don Lee as the strongest of them named Gilgamesh, and Barry Keoghan as the funny but creepy Druig (which totally checks out for him). Perhaps most interesting for me was Angelina Jolie as the warrior Thena; the way the film sensitively handles her mental illness is wonderfully refreshing. More surprising still, this marks what I think might be the first sex scene in a franchise literally built upon muscular models in tight outfits (I don't count Tony Stark falling off the bed with a reporter in Iron Man). It's nice to finally see some superheroes acting like real adults for a change, rather than just flirting or posing suggestively, and it adds a nice level of complexity to these characters in particular, due to their immortality and experience.

*** Upon a second viewing, I'm inclined to increase my rating for this movie. My concerns about the adaptation process and undercooked contextualization still hold, but this time I just wanted the movie to take me on an adventure. And I left the cinema this time with a profound sense of awe and warmth. This is, by far, the most theologically complex film in the MCU and possibly of 2021. Its entire premise questions humanity's relationship with the divine on a global scale rather than in culturally or religiously specific terms. The Eternals poke reverent fun at each other for being gods, historically, in the eyes of humans, and it's fascinating to see the way they (mostly) humbly shrug those titles off as cultures evolve. But then, right around the halfway point of the film, when the true stakes are revealed and apocalypse draws near, they band together to (SPOILER ALERT) stop a newborn Celestial. Essentially, they aim to kill a god, and it's viewed by the film as not only a good thing but as an imperative. It's fascinating and shocking -- less so due to a screenplay determined to not use the phrase "kill god" and by Zhao's wonderfully calm tone and pace -- and will surely lead to quality post-screening discussions.

The Green Knight (2021)

 Score: 5 / 5

As dense and ambiguous as its source material, The Green Knight is a cinematic masterpiece. Writer/editor/producer/director David Lowery, whose work has never been less than visionary, this time turns his unique aesthetic on medieval legend to stunning effect. Lowery tends toward the folksy, shifting ghost stories (A Ghost Story) and fantasies about dragons (Pete's Dragon) into gritty, tangible dramas tinged with mythic tropes, set in vibrant, rural landscapes. His abilities are only heighted in this new film, as his focus on the Arthurian story smartly disregards the romanticism so often bound to the genre in art. Rather, he leans into the Romantic (specifically Dark Romantic) inclinations of the story, which feels much more historically accurate and believable than your typical Camelot fare.

An intimate epic -- the rarest kind -- of life, death, and the mess of what comes in-between, The Green Knight focuses tightly on its main character, whose name was interestingly excised from the title. Of course, the story is based on Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, the famously indecipherable 14th-century poem that bridged the gap between British storytelling and French chivalry. Perhaps reproduced most famously (and lastingly) by J.R.R. Tolkien, the tale notoriously eschews simple interpretation. Its characters, specific enough to be grounded and relatable, are surely meant to mean something, but the poem denies any easy allusion or allegory; it gives almost no hints to thematic insight or symbolic analogy. Taking his lead from this enigma that has been frustratingly studied for most of a millennium, Lowery seems to take lots of ideas from scholarly and artistic sources and simply says a resounding "YES" to all.

As such, the movie could have been a sort of "yes, and" improvisatorial mess. Instead, it's a "yes, and" of equally well-baked if somewhat inaccessible ideas, handled by a master storyteller at the top of his game.

And what a story it is. Sir Gawain, a young knight (played to devastating perfection by Dev Patel, who buffed up quite a bit, thank you very much), awakens in a brothel with his lover Essel (voluptuous and brilliant Alicia Vikander) before hurrying to court. It is Christmas Day, and King Arthur (Sean Harris) is celebrating in his darkened throne room with Queen Guinevere (Kate Dickie). He invites Gawain, his nephew to sit at his side; we get the impression Gawain is a relatively new knight and eager to please his uncle-king. Arthur seeks to know more about his nephew, and asks him for a story of the brave Sir Gawain; Gawain has none to give, for he has not yet proved his mettle at the Round Table. Thus begins a classic bildungsroman, the coming-of-age adventure that will make Gawain a man and, more important, a proper knight. Right?

With much of the movie, the answer is debatable. For indeed Gawain embarks on his trial shortly thereafter. Into the festive atmosphere walks the titular green knight, a terrifying figure with Ralph Ineson's demoniac voice, seeking a knight to play a game. Whatever harm a man causes the knight, he will repay "one year hence." Jumping up at the challenge, Gawain takes the knight's axe in hand and lops the knight's head clean off. Sure that this will earn him his manhood and honor, he nearly shits himself when the knight calmly picks up his head, which reminds the room of the deal, before riding off into the wilds. Is he a man yet, or will he be in a year? Is he a dead man walking, for surely he cannot survive a similar attack? What will his code of honor allow him to do in the next year? If superhero movies have taught us anything in the last two decades, it is that the choices we make in the interim make us noble, rather than any acts of valor in battle. What will Gawain do?

And without a breath of ado, Lowery skips the full year and we're back with Gawain as he prepares to go find the "Green Chapel" and face the Green Knight's doom. We aren't given any reason to think he has changed at all during the year, and so in his final days alive, we're treated to his journey. He won't learn many lessons -- at least not in the traditional, moral sense -- and he won't really meet many people. His slice of life, we might say, is far darker than your typical pilgrim's progress or odyssey. As he wanders through the British countryside, the world is shown to be far stranger and more complex than he (or we) are prepared to handle. Weird things, violent things happen and there is often no rhyme nor reason; at each step Gawain is tested, but are the tests of his knighthood, manhood, humanity, or simple existence? In one scene he might be assisting a ghost reclaim her head, and in another he's casually watching giants walk off into the fog. Each feels profound and significant, but they operate on entirely different thematic levels.

I could talk (and have, elsewhere) for hours about each scene, character, and special effect (of which there are remarkably few). We could discuss the thematic conceit of three, and how Lowery has added two original new mini-stories to lead up to the central story of the source material, the exchange of winnings in the Lord's house (featuring Joel Edgerton). We could talk about the talking fox, the cruel and unhinged scavenger (Barry Keoghan), deforestation and climate change, politics and the exchange between have and have-nots, ghosts and giants and women. We could talk about the gorgeous cinematography by Andrew Droz Palermo, the stunning costumes (I want that yellowish cloak!) by Malgosia Turzanska, and especially the haunting, screeching, churning music by Lowery's longtime composer Daniel Hart. We could talk about Sarita Choudhury's mesmerizing and much too-brief performance as Gawain's mother, Morgan le Fay, and the deconstructed vision of women in power a la Shakespearean tragedy. We could talk about the Lady's speech (also Alicia Vikander, in a genius choice of cast doubling) of what exactly the color green represents, which takes place during what could be the sexiest scene but which ends up being the most didactically illuminating and spiritually grounding interaction in the film. And we could gush for ages about the amazing, wordless 15-ish-minute climax, as Gawain's life-to-be flashes before his eyes.

But it would take books to fill it all. This is the kind of movie that will, certainly, engender some of the best scholarly film writing this year. But it's also the kind that will, by design, resist that very impetus. It's made to be talked about afterward, in our own private Round Tables, where everyone's insight, interpretation, and impressions matter. Lowery knows exactly what he's doing here, which is to say that he's comfortable making a consummate work of art through storytelling; it grows faster and -- dare I say -- greener as it takes root in the mind, grows into outside ideas informed by the experience, and eventually rots into a potent memory of colors, sounds, and images. Equally important, I think, are the ideas the film's structure and formal elements suggest but will likely never be articulated in most discussion circles, such as the passage of time revealing an innate judgment by nature on the failing human condition. (I note this based on one of the many shots in the film I simply cannot shake nor understand, when a bound and gagged Gawain lies on the forest floor as a spinning camera shows him decayed and dead before reversing and returning him to living flesh.)

So no, this isn't the most purely entertaining movie of the year, if you're entertained by simplicity or action. But it might be the smartest movie yet this year, in that it only makes any sense if you dedicate yourself to a subjective reflection on it. Does it turn its female characters into sex- or power-crazed witches, or are they proto-feminists exerting their will in a male-dominated world? Is Gawain so determined to be honorable that he's willing to die for it, or is it a performance of policed masculinity he pursues for his own satisfaction? Does the film's setting on Christmas suggest the adventure is a salvific allegory about hope and integrity, or is this a darkly pagan story about man's doomed place in nature? Can we see chivalry as a righteous code for civilization, or are we pushed to question its efficacy against the evils inherent in man? Again, we can really only say "yes, and" to these ideas as presented by Lowery and team. Because as Gawain learns, and we by proxy, the only value or meaning in the world is that which we ascribe to it.

The Killing of a Sacred Deer (2017)

Score: 5 / 5

It's just one of the weirdest, coolest movies around. The Killing of a Sacred Deer is a loose adaptation of a Greek tragedy, but you'd probably know that even if it wasn't mentioned in the movie. There's something profoundly sad and absurd about it that's deeply theatrical and feels Just, in an archaic sort of way.

The film concerns a heart surgeon (Colin Farrell) who befriends a young man (Barry Keoghan), though their relationship is left mysterious for about a third of the movie. It turns out that the doctor had operated on the boy's father after a car accident and he had died. The boy blames the surgeon for destroying his family, and now says the surgeon will have to kill a member of his own family to balance his crime. Until he does so, each member of his family will suffer and die, one by one. When the surgeon's youngest child is suddenly paralyzed, the horrors begin.

While at first we hate the young man, whose creepy and awkward interactions do little to endear him to anyone, we eventually learn too that the surgeon is a former alcoholic, which may have played a part in the death. All that began with violence will end in violence, and moral disarray is cast out of thought by the presence of a primal, blood-for-blood sense of justice. It's a gripping story, and in the hands of writer-director Yorgos Lanthimos (The Lobster), it's a weird, wacky, totally fascinating work of psychological horror.

The performances, especially those of Farrell and Nicole Kidman, are masterful works of deadpan humor. Much like them, the director seems to handle everything with a morbid sense of comedy that grows more perverse as things get dark and dangerous. That doesn't make it any less brutal or brooding, but it does make you feel worse for enjoying it. Lanthimos, for all his curious and flamboyant style, doesn't undermine the story with his antics; rather, he pours in his creative energies into the slower parts of the film to make them spectacular, and when the drama kicks into high gear, he simply lets it go for the guns. It's a cool, calculated, and totally awesome method of moviemaking in a film all about cruelty and desperation.

IMDb: The Killing of a Sacred Deer