Black Bag (2025)

Score: 4.5 / 5

With each new project, I'm increasingly grateful that Soderbergh didn't retire after all. His latest release, a spy thriller like few others, reminds us of his highly entertaining ability to cover familiar ground in a wildly unfamiliar way. Black Bag manages to turn a high-stakes story about international security, satellite surveillance, and eavesdropping with AI, and turn it into a tense dinner table drama about camaraderie and companionship. David Koepp's riveting screenplay takes special focus on a conspiracy to leak a top-secret software called Severus, which could apparently cause a nuclear meltdown and claim thousands of lives.

MI6 officer George Woodhouse (Michael Fassbender) is given one week to locate and stop the leak; he narrows his list to five suspects and invites them over for dinner. Perhaps I should say, rather, that he invites four over for dinner; the fifth suspect is his wife, Kathryn (Cate Blanchett), his personal and professional match in every way. The others include two couples, all British Intelligence agents of various temperaments and dispositions, and their dinner is a bit awkward; at least, it's a bit stilted and guarded between these folks with their stiff upper lips. But George has lightly drugged their meal to lower their inhibitions with the intention of getting someone loose enough to reveal their secret. One couple is fiery Freddie (Tom Burke), angry about not getting promoted, and satellite image specialist Clarissa (Marisa Abela), who is his subordinate. The other is Colonel James Stokes (Regé-Jean Page) and the agency psychiatrist Dr. Zoe Vaughan (Naomie Harris). Despite the revelation that Freddie has been cheating on Clarissa, causing her to stab his hand with her cutlery, and some fractures in their relationships generally, George learns nothing of value.

With less than a week to go, and with his own supervisor found mysteriously dead, George refocuses attention on his wife, resorting to secretive surveillance of Kathryn on one of her missions. Kathryn suspects their boss (Pierce Brosnan) of attempting to destabilize Russia at any cost, and leaks the Russian operatives' location to a CIA contact, resulting in their annihilation from a drone strike. Meanwhile, George issues polygraph tests to his suspects; based on their respective intel, George and Kathryn conclude that they are being set up and decide to host another little dinner party.

If you know me, you know I love a dramatized dinner party gone wrong. You don't often see these in espionage thrillers, but in this Koepp/Soderbergh project, we get two! As bookends of what is otherwise an engaging but somewhat rote spy story, these sequences frame the whole affair as one of intimate, psychological proportions. We get to know these characters as perfection-oriented, ambitious professionals and as socially icy Brits in what could be an awkward domestic setting. That drastically changes our opinions of them once the game is afoot. As we follow George, primarily, we see his calculated method of putting pressure on each suspect to try and elicit their secrets; Fassbender's typically masterful, subtle performance is key here in ensuring that we trust him without his having to say much.

As his second release this year already, Soderbergh is showing no sign of slowing down or of being predictable in his choices of cinematic topics. This film, understated as it can feel, nevertheless features speedy edits and cool camera tricks such as shifting focus mid-shot and dousing everything in soft lighting to create a unique visual appeal to the proceedings. This helps the dinner scenes best, making things feel natural and nice even as we wait for the traitor to erupt. It also helps us trust -- and then not trust, and then trust again -- George's relationship with Kathryn, as their sexual chemistry and cerebral gameplay are showcased only briefly but highly effectively. And despite her role as a sort of secondary character, Blanchett matches Fassbender point for point, performing Kathryn with a glamorous, ballsy delivery that makes the character have an edge you don't usually see in films like these. He lays a careful trap and waits for his prey; she will unapologetically push people to see which one takes the bait. The middle act of the film works because of Blanchett's choices: she is clearly the only character in the film who could actually be outsmarting George.

Koepp's fraught dialogue and Soderbergh's uncanny knack for unique genre twists combine here in a heady test of smarts that is over almost too quickly. I could have lived in this world a little longer. Brosnan is having fun as a former James Bond who is a bit insecure professionally, and Harris is particularly delicious to watch in her equally cerebral and emotionally complex position as the group's therapist. While the final reveal could delight or upset genre fans, it strikes a memorable balance of tonal uplift and satisfying closure that we don't often see in such films.

Pinocchio (2022)

Score: 4.5 / 5

Easily the most beautiful adaptation of the classic story, this may also be the most original, which is saying something of a work adapted countless times in many languages and times and places. Pinocchio, originally published in 1883 in Italy, is currently conceived as a timeless tale in which a lonely man makes a wooden boy puppet or doll who comes to life and must learn what it means not only to be human but to grow up as one. Most widely popularized in the 1940 animated Disney musical, which was also remade in 2022 (I usually love the Disney live action remakes, but this one was middling at best), the story tends to embrace heavily moralized themes of honesty and integrity and sacrifice. The "point" of the story, apart from his nose, is Pinocchio's quest to become a "real boy."

Finally, an adaptation with less moralizing and more speculating comes to us, courtesy of Netflix, from the dark master of the fey and fantastic Guillermo del Toro. The film, which bears his name in the title due to his visionary approach, is remarkably -- and directly oppositional to Disney's two approaches -- entirely done practically. Del Toro's first stop-motion film is the kind of brilliant project that almost makes you wonder how it wasn't the first stop-motion animated film ever made, or at least something like it. For a story that not only questions reality and constantly crosses the boundaries between life and death, but that is indeed about all the animates and inanimates in between, stop-motion is probably the singularly perfect medium for storytelling. It's the ideal combination of material and form, one that emphasizes del Toro's own involvement like Geppetto's (the lonely old man and creator of the titular character) in that the human touch and eye literally creates every painstakingly realized frame of this film.

Interestingly, this Pinocchio also has its updates, and so while it adapts a lot of themes from the original fable, it also updates it slightly, heightening the stakes and increasing our curiosity as del Toro and his team move us forward a bit to the era of World War II. In this atmosphere, under the fraught shadow of Mussolini in power, Geppetto (voiced by David Bradley from Harry Potter and Game of Thrones) is driven to drunken depression after his son Carlo is killed in their idyllic town by a wayward bomb. A grieving Geppetto eventually carves his puppet replacement in a scene eerily reminiscent of Frankenstein, all narrated by a delightful Sebastian J. Cricket (an excellent Ewan McGregor). It's the kind of scene that we'd expect to see in a traditional Grimm-style fairytale, where wishes and death are much closer than they are in subsequent fantasies.

When a Wood Sprite (Tilda Swinton, of course) gifts the puppet with consciousness, we begin to see a familiar del Toro at work. He's not interested in Disney-fied versions of fairies, but rather of older, darker understandings of "monsters" and the otherworldly. The Wood Sprite seems more like a biblical angel than a cultural one; much later in the story, a Sphinx-like beast seems to lord over the realm of Death (also voiced by Swinton), and we're reminded that del Toro is very much interested in these things artistically and philosophically, making these moments stand out in a movie already chock-full of spectacular and memorable material. His story is decidedly not taking any inspiration from Christian or even Western ideas.

Del Toro and co-writer Patrick McHale sprinkle some excellent pithy morals and aphorisms in their dialogue, most of which skirt the familiar morals of the last few decades of children's fare, seemingly advocating for more mature themes. Sebastian at one critical point declares, "I try my best, and that's the best anyone can do," and that's the kind of wise perspective that sets him (and this film) apart. Pinocchio's tale here isn't always between lying and honesty, but in fact between life and death itself, and as he "grows up," he learns that life doesn't exist in those ideal forms -- or any idealization -- but rather in the space between them as we learn through failures and successes. It helps that this Pinocchio (voiced by Gregory Mann) looks more puppet-like than many iterations, and his abrasive naivete is on full display rather than sidelined. Children aren't usually perfectly behaved curious little cherubs, and it's refreshing to see that in a film that would otherwise be deemed "for children."

It helps, too, that del Toro himself has long championed, in his film, the monstrous and misunderstood who have been hurt by the "civilized" world. He seems to be quite in love with his odd little puppet, and perhaps that's why he clearly wanted his Pinocchio to look more naturalistic and even tree-like. Anything, he seems to say, but a depiction of a typical little boy or even anything too structured, perhaps to continue his ongoing commentary on the dangers of fascist ideologies. It's telling, I think, that apart from Mussolini himself -- who the film directly mocks -- the other major male characters are wicked, including the villainous Count Volpe (Christoph Waltz) who abuses his monkey Spazzatura (Cate Blanchett) and Pinocchio while on tour as well as a government official named Podesta (Ron Perlman) who strictly disciplines his son Candlewick (Finn Wolfhard). One wonders, too, if the often-repeated setting of the town church and visuals of the crucifix indicate del Toro's critical commentary extends to the Catholic church. I suspect it does.

Ultimately, the film leaves us with a surprisingly soft reminder that death isn't always something to be feared, but rather to be respected. Mortality is a gift, even as it curses us with sorrow and pain during life. Even the dual-cast roles of Geppetto's biological son and created son as well as the Wood Sprite and Death indicate a duality of life across the bridge of death. It's at once sobering and refreshing for this kind of thematic content in an animated straight-to-streaming feature, reminding us all that the most beautiful and lovely things in life are what we make, faults and all, out of hardship and tragedy and horror. And maybe some of the lovely things we make will continue on after we're gone, enriching the lives of those who come after. Who knew Pinocchio could be such a philosophical journey?

TÁR (2022)

Score: 5 / 5

Easily claiming a spot in my top 10 favorites of the year, TÁR is the latest masterpiece by Todd Field. Field hasn't made a movie in, as far as I know, 16 years, but you'd never know it. His style, not unlike Tom Ford's (who similarly doesn't make nearly enough movies), is graceful and enigmatic, seductive and vicious. He seeks what amounts to the sublime, and he succeeds yet again in this haunting character-driven chamber piece. It's an arthouse film through and through, but of the Gothic variety that also encompasses films like Black Swan or Steve Jobs, centering on a great artist dealing with the cost of that greatness. There's a madness swirled into the proceedings, and an eroticism, that makes it all fiendishly satisfying.

When we meet Lydia Tár, played by arguably a career-best Cate Blanchett, she's entering an interview with Adam Gopnik from the New Yorker in a concert hall. The audience offers her generous applause; she is a world-renowned composer and conductor (and pianist and Juilliard professor and ethnomusicologist) who specializes in classical music, so her distinction of being an EGOT winner is all the more unique. She's been recording Mahler's symphonies to re-popularize them, and she only has one recording left in the cycle. Her answers to his questions are profound (Field also wrote the breathtakingly brilliant screenplay), not least because she attributes to herself the godly power of controlling time while conducting. Her narcissism notwithstanding, it's also clear in this scene that she is not universally worshipped: some people appear to be either judging or envying her, and we see at least one phone screen with unkind messages being shared.

Lydia isn't a particularly lovable person. Her sensitive hearing, which helps her professionally and artistically, means that she's constantly on edge because of noise. The film's sound mixing and editing is phenomenal in actively moving around the surrounding space; you absolutely have to see this movie in a cinema or with excellent surround sound. The sound design puts us effectively in her headspace, where these almost violent intrusions come as both a shock and an annoyance. Lydia is also a pretty intense type-A person, immediately chastising her wife Sharon (Nina Hoss) at home for leaving too many lights on. Notably, her apartment (this one in Berlin) feels cold and modern, like a bunker, sparsely but impeccably decorated. During this interaction, we're also keyed into the secret that Lydia has been stealing and using Sharon's pills, to whatever end, and the well-known fact that Sharon is in fact Lydia's orchestra's concertmaster. Perhaps Lydia's greatest redeeming character element is her selfless love for her daughter Petra.

But despite their privately troubled marriage, the couple seems to work quite well in tandem. They are helped immensely by Lydia's quiet but efficient assistant Francesca (Noémie Merlant), whom Lydia clearly relies upon but treats coldly. It's a sort of Devil Wears Prada situation, but without the inherent comedy. Oddly enough, to continue that reference, Lydia lunches in one scene with another conductor (Mark Strong) who clearly admires and lusts after her prestige but tries to veil it with flattery and gossip. She can see right through him, but her own hunger for influence allows her to share some insight into her callousness toward people who she deems no longer useful: she plans to "rotate" an elderly player before the upcoming concert and recording, which will rightfully be seen as a betrayal and insult.

By this point in the film, we've seen her callous, borderline cruel, demeanor firsthand already. During a masterclass at Juilliard, Lydia's passionate lecture on Bach becomes an ad hominem assault on identity politics, directed at a student who proclaims (banal and dispossessed, as Gen Z-ers do) that, as a queer person of color, they aren't down to study Bach due to his patriarchal tendencies in life. Personally, I veer closely toward Lydia's ideology in this scene, but seeing it on the warpath like this was enough to really make me anxious. It's a fascinating and surprisingly early scene, one that demonstrates as much about Lydia's character and the tone of the film as it does about Field, whose writing is so meticulously detailed and well-researched that I forgot more than once this is a work of fiction.

I don't really want to spoil the plot, of which there isn't a ton that's concrete. It's primarily a character study, though certain key things do happen to spur new facets of Lydia's personality into the proverbial spotlight. She's hungry for influence and power, but she's also utterly dedicated to her craft and to excellence for herself. She considers an artist's vague intentions to be the greatest affront to artists everywhere, and so she's always ready with reasons and justifications for everything she does, veiling her desires in couched and assured logical explanations. Even Field acts this way as director at times, marrying himself with his character. In the lecture, we see both sides clearly, but as the professor Lydia carries more weight. As she decides how to dismiss her elderly musician, we're only really given her perspective in full. When a former protégé commits suicide, when Lydia hires and flirts with a young cellist, when she presses Francesca to help her cover an affair, she's never really unreasonable. She's just kind of awful, but the film itself shows us how difficult it would be to win against her in any argument. Case in point: the young cellist auditions for us, just as for her, and she's really very talented; it isn't until after that Lydia's suspicions are confirmed that she's also a pretty young thing who is probably queer.

Todd Field's latest is a stunning, revelatory achievement in a year mostly void of this kind of arthouse film. And it crosses genres, which would make it just as accomplished and great in any year. While it fits squarely into the tortured artists subgenre, it also fits into the recently growing subgenre of abusive behavior by supposedly great artists or artistic institutions (think The Wife, A Star is Born, Blonde, and the upcoming She Said, to name just a few). I love that this particular film stands apart due to Field's lack of moralizing; he doesn't depict Lydia as a hero or villain, just as he both lambasts and praises the musical-business culture that created her, houses her, employs her, and kind of resents her. Just as with Little Children, his last feature film, he just wants to ask the questions and take a moment to live in the gray area of their consequences and implications. It's powerful, cerebrally and spiritually, and it helps that it's also one of the most technically accomplished and daring works this year.

Nightmare Alley (2021)

Score: 5 / 5

I'm embarrassed to admit I knew nothing of the William Lindsay Gresham novel on which this movie is based, nor on the 1947 film adaptation. But that perhaps made watching this Nightmare Alley the most darkly pleasurable cinematic experience this year. Despite gauging early on that this was no typical fare from writer/director Guillermo del Toro, whose work always seems to include elements of the supernatural to buttress his real aims of skewering wealth, the pious, nuclear families, and genre conventions, it became clear quickly that this is one of his best. There are no fairies or ghosts in this film, at least not literal ones; Nightmare Alley is his astonishing foray into film noir, a crime thriller dripping with style, hinging on plot, and toying with no small amount of irony.

While the ending initially surprised me, it shouldn't have. Without spoiling things, del Toro here crafts a parable about the cyclical nature of self-destructive behavior. Primarily interested in his antihero protagonist, Stan Carlisle (Bradley Cooper at his best), del Toro frames the film as a character study. Generally nonverbal, Stan leers his way through each scene with Macbeth's ambition glinting from his hungry eyes. Before he says any words at all, we've already seen him drag a corpse into view before setting a house on fire; fleeing the scene, he materializes in a circus circa 1930. Think AHS: Freak Show with a distinctly Gothic palette. Upon seeing the carnival "geek," a feral man who has been abused and dehumanized by the owner (Willem Dafoe) to sell more tickets, Stan gets the itch to make money with this traveling group.

Del Toro, by this point, has shown us a world rich only in desperation, selfishness, and violence. We're keenly aware that Stan's decisions -- mysterious as his criminal past is -- are entrapping him, and we suspect that he is a little masochistic. It's telling that, in walking through the circus before encountering the geek, the only attraction he enters is a giant devilish facade for a "fun house" themed after the circles of hell. It seems Stan knows he is destined for damnation. What he doesn't know, and what del Toro brilliantly highlights through production design, lighting and colors, and cinematography (the excellent Dan Laustsen), is that he is seeing his own future unfold before his eyes. The circus, much like the as-yet-unknown interiors of Stan's mind, is a downward spiral, one that will repeat and deteriorate until he is hopelessly enmeshed in a web of his own making.

Speaking of spidery predators, let's move on to a few other delightful characters. After learning the arts (and tricks) of mentalism from the circus fortune-tellers, Zeena (Toni Collette) and her partner Pete (David Straithairn) who use a clever code to read and cheat people, Stan desires power over the simple-minded masses. Courting another carny named Molly (Rooney Mara) as his lover and assistant, Stan leaves to make a name for himself as a traveling psychic. When things get a little boring or he's not raking in enough money, he starts offering "spook shows," meaning preying on the bereaved and suggesting ghosts of their loved ones mean to communicate. He was forbidden to do this by Zeena, who knew the emotional pain this can cause, and Molly is deeply uncomfortable with the practice too. But Stan, in Cooper's hands, uses his charm and panache just enough to make us doubt that he's a heartless, avaricious wolf in handsome skin. Could his daddy issues -- flashbacks reveal his boyish need for approval and his earnest hope to succeed at any cost -- be sincere, or did they create a black hole of sociopathy?

Enter Dr. Ritter (Cate Blanchett), a psychologist with no small amount of hatred for those who prey on the weak-minded, just as Stan reaches the height of "making it big" in Buffalo, New York. His high society aspirations -- and his disgusting new moustache -- are challenged publicly by the deep alto and satin-sleek woman of his dreams. From her introductory shot, we are keenly aware that she is a standard femme fatale. As written, she's a panther stalking the man she will destroy; in Blanchett's uncommonly intelligent and elegant style, she's a demon in curls and heels, knowingly disarming in her every movement and turn of phrase. As she lures Stan into her sanctum, she vampirically sucks him dry, romantically, sexually, cognitively; his masochistic tendencies make him feel drunk with power in these moments, but we know it's only a matter of time before the good doctor's fangs are bared. It's a masterful performance and one of the most exciting characters on screen this year.

Laustsen's lighting has the uncanny glow of timelessness, a youthful aura that is deeply unsettling as it de-ages its subjects. I'd kill to see this movie in black and white, if only to better appreciate the noir aspects: deep, opaque shadows, sets that feel more like prisons than offices or houses, shades that frame characters like bars on a cell or cages in a zoo. Then again, the gorgeous colors -- strong especially in gold and green hues, the colors of money -- add immensely to the toxic atmosphere and beguiling nightmarish aesthetic. The circular imagery is inherent too repeatedly, from the giant Ferris wheel over the circus to the funhouse tunnel Stan traverses to reach the geek, from the dark and narrow streets of Buffalo to Dr. Ritter's recording cylinders and even the deep hallways of her office building. Even some transitional editing uses old-fashioned iris out before a scene ends. And then, by its final tragic shot, the film suggests to us that we are not so removed from this waking nightmare as we might have hoped. Del Toro's craftsmanship here is one that will keep you thinking long after the credits have rolled; a nightmare indeed.

Don't Look Up (2021)

Score: 4.5 / 5

Adam McKay does it again with a surprise big-name, big-budget comedy right in the middle of awards season. I didn't like him before The Big Short, but that movie and Vice are two of my favorite topical comedies; perhaps they endear me to him because they both have cruel dark sides (actually, I'm not sure I personally consider Vice a comedy, but here we are). His biting satire in these feature films is finely tuned to be at once riveting, informative, absurd, and often bleak. So naturally, after tackling the housing crisis of 2007 and Dick Cheney's rise to power, he decided to tackle climate change. Seems doable, right?

Actually, in his hands, yes. Not because it's like the uncannily realistic analysis of history in his previous two films; some may argue this movie has more in common with Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt or even It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World than anything else. An enormous ensemble cast of A-listers assemble here to deliver a rollicking mess of comedy, a collage of vignettes meant to overwhelm our senses, assisted by breakneck editing that tosses in heavy amounts of seemingly random stock footage. McKay's screenplay, too, sometimes feels like an amalgamation of memes, sound bytes, and conspiracy headlines awash in wry clickbait humor. The film may be, generically, a political commentary on the climate change crisis, but in terms of scope, it is equally interested in social media, celebrity worship, technology and big business, political corruption, scientific sellout, and, yes, global warming. By its triumphant finale, it even reaches a level of existential contemplation on par with Samuel Beckett's work.

Leonardo DiCaprio leads as an unpretentious astronomy professor in Michigan whose PhD student (played by Jennifer Lawrence) discovers that a huge comet is flying directly toward Earth. Its size and movement indicate it will strike in approximately six months and cause an extinction event that could destroy all life on the planet. With their colleague (Rob Morgan), they quickly attempt to warn the White House of impending doom. But the president (Meryl Streep), a Trumpian woman who cares more about her appearance, re-election, and private life more than anything else, won't have it, and her son and Chief of Staff (Jonah Hill) tries to limit their access. To get the message out, they take to televised news, but the newscasters (Cate Blanchett and Tyler Perry) are more interested in lighthearted banter and viewing numbers than in news of disaster. 

In many ways a comedy of errors, the film's bleak attitude toward our cultural institutions of media, government, and celebrity would be tragically infuriating if not for the absurdist humor lacing each scene. Each new scandal or distraction is more enticing to the American public than bad news, specifically that of the death of our planet. It's telling that DiCaprio feels the need to go on shows like Sesame Street to scream "We're all going to die" when the news only makes fun of the crazy scientists. It doesn't take long for the scientists themselves, in moments like this, to become memes and sound bytes themselves, adding to the chaotic distraction that is social media. It's also telling that the frenetic editing of Don't Look Up increasingly leans into the annoyingly short attention spans cultivated by social media -- even cutting between scenes in the middle of characters' sentences -- implying that we (the audience) are as much a part of the problem as the ridiculous people we're watching. 

It has its odd moments, to be sure, and a couple really wacky inclusions. Mark Rylance pops in as a sort of senile cross between Elon Musk and Steve Jobs to try and save the world while making even more money. Timothée Chalamet shows up for a few scenes near the end, doing his usual grungy thing as a superficially precocious young adult, but he does help facilitate the surprisingly emotional climax of the film. And then there's the chillingly realistic shift in the final act, when the scientists finally attempt to harness all the tools of social media to their advantage by starting a new trend of #JustLookUp, before the president and other non-believers challenge it with the titular catchphrase, chanting "Don't Look Up" at rallies and branding their red hats with their new mantra. These only help make the texture of the film more fascinating politically even as we see the parallels with deniers of climate change. And while few moments have real depth to them -- often the film literally cuts away just as characters experience epiphanies or prepare to make meaningful declarations -- the scope here makes it all work. It might be a message movie, but it's got a lot of messages, like any quality SNL skit worth its time. And this one is far more than worth it.

Where'd You Go, Bernadette (2019)

Score: 2.5 / 5

It's a dangerous business, dear reader, to expect something too specific from a movie. With a title like Where'd You Go, Bernadette, I was so sure this would be a delightful romp of a global mystery. A sort of spectacular fantasy mix of Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close and Eat, Pray, Love that features a disappearing mother and her trail of clues for her daughter to follow, leading to a place of fulfillment and healing for both. And, in a way, that's what this movie is, except that it's completely tonally different, stretching out the melodrama while cutting the mystery woefully short.

Bernadette (Cate Blanchett) is a loner. Reclusive physically and emotionally, she hides in her large, somewhat unkempt house, only comfortable when she's working on some kind of project. We learn, after some time and an unwieldy (but quite funny) expository device, that Bernadette is a world-renowned architect. After a professional setback -- her environmentally-friendly magnus opus gets bulldozed by a competitor, provoked by Bernadette's pride -- she cuts herself off. She doesn't seem to be agoraphobic so much as misanthropic, deliberately making herself unlikable in her limited interactions with real people. Her disdain and eccentricities play off each other as she recedes into her own mind, going so far as to trusting even menial household chores to an Indian personal assistant named Manjula who actually lives in India.

It would all make for a fascinating character study and star vehicle for Blanchett if there wasn't a half-baked plot to go along with it all. Her daughter Bee, having received excellent grades, asks her parents to take her to Antarctica on a vacation. And this is where the film really threatened to derail for me (unfortunate, as this is the first scene) because it frames the whole thing immediately as rich people problems. How many kids are allowed "anything they want" as a result of getting good grades? And how many of them choose to go to Antarctica -- nearly impossible logistically, not to mention legally -- only to have their parents casually discuss it before acquiescing? It's a pretty tone-deaf approach to a story arguably about empowerment and fulfillment.

Bernadette's gauche social hostility gets her in trouble with her neighbors and her husband, but it also gets her into trouble with her audience. I think the blame here must go to director Richard Linklater, who doesn't seem able to bridge the gap between his protagonist's strangeness and her charm. He's out of his element here, playing off Bernadette's hilarious inability to function while showcasing her as a sassy elitist whose casual racism and brilliant neighborly antagonism are forgivable because of her supposed story arc. See, being a mother changes you, the movie seems to say. Bernadette gave up her artistic and professional passions for her family, which apparently has resulted in festering resentment and debilitating anxieties. So in order to reconnect with herself, she has to leave her family and go to the ends of the earth.

It's a weird piece, and one that could open up fascinating conversations about gender, wealth, and artistic integrity. But will it? I'd say not, as the generic film hardly brings enough attention to itself to warrant much discussion. It doesn't even feel like a Linklater film and has very little visual style except in the climactic "intervention" scene. That and the overused "Time After Time" song suggest to me that Linklater didn't really know what he himself wanted out of this movie. We're left with a mostly inaccessible story about privileged people behaving badly in a lackluster film that can't quite muster the courage to do what Bernadette did: something.

Mowgli: Legend of the Jungle (2018)

Score: 1.5 / 5

If anything could make another version of The Jungle Book special, memorable, or meaningful, motion capture wasn't it.

It seems an appropriate directorial debut for the undisputed master of motion capture Andy Serkis, whose technical and dramatic work on the Planet of the Apes franchise really deserved more award recognition. There's not really a way to get the story wrong, and much of it relies on special effects to stupefy the audience into a state of wonder. Leave it to Serkis to make the animals look uncannily like their all-star voice actor counterparts. You really haven't lived until you've seen Christian Bale's face covered in Bagheera's black fur, or Benedict Cumberbatch's crazy eyes popping out of Shere Khan's tigery visage.

But Mowgli: Legend of the Jungle is so much less than it could -- and should -- have been. Though its technical skill in realizing the animals is unquestionable, its delivery feels preoccupied with its own technicality. Faces and movement might be exactly right, but many of the other effects look cheap by comparison (notice scenes of intense action and of large numbers of animals; they are remarkably unfinished renderings). Moreover, Serkis demonstrates a surprising inability to direct the film, apart from his own area of expertise. The screenplay and editing seem aggressively at odds with each other while the movie never really shows us anything new or interesting to make it worthwhile. And, perhaps most importantly, the film tonally lurches in such intense swings that it never really coalesces into a finished product.

This film fatally suffers from its inability to make a case for existing. Partly due, no doubt, to Disney's The Jungle Book being filmed near the same time, and due to Mowgli being released on Netflix and not theatrically, this film was doomed to have a lesser impact. And yet its faults extend beyond those of circumstance. Serkis seems bent on telling a fresh, darker story without music and whimsy. His characters bleed -- more than you might expect -- and die in gruesome ways. This is not the movie to watch with impressionable young children on a Friday night. But Serkis fails to bring the film to a truly violent, visceral level; while it remains in appropriate for children, it's also not very appealing to adults seeking more brutal fare.

Finally -- and comparisons are often so unproductive -- The Jungle Book is just so much more effective and accomplished as a film. Its effects are impeccable, its sense of joy pure and infectious, its nostalgia combines perfectly with its innovations. Mowgli isn't forced to return to the man-village, doomed by some sickly essentialist ideas about what he was born as opposed to who he chooses to be. Rather, he remains with his friends and family in the jungle, a perfect ending to his character and his story that has never been told before. That's a reason to retell this story. Tell it differently, with a purpose that is relevant for the time and place.

The closest Mowgli gets to being relevant -- apart from casting Naomie Harris and Cate Blanchett -- is in its vague attempts at teasing out the complex political machinations of the jungle. By the time Mowgli is all but forced back to the man-village, the jungle has become a dark and anarchic place, ruled over by a vicious tyrant with bad hair, dramatic gesture, and a crazed gleam in his eye. He may not be Trump, but in case you didn't make the connection, Serkis puts a malnourished, dirty Mowgli in a cage for the villagers (and audience) to mock.

Save your time, and save your energy. Jon Favreau is making a Jungle Book sequel, and I cannot wait.

The House with a Clock in Its Walls (2018)

Score: 3.5 / 5

Who the heck knew Eli Roth directed this? Because I sure didn't!

In a setup not unlike other coming-of-age fantasies, young Lewis Barnavelt is orphaned and sent to live with his eccentric and mysterious uncle Jonathan. He discovers that his uncle is a warlock and that their old, creaking house is riddled with magic secrets. Their neighbor, Florence, is a much more powerful witch, but tragedy has hampered her abilities. When Lewis unwittingly revives the dead on Halloween, the trio must work to stop an undead sorcerer from awakening his Doomsday clock -- built in uncle Jonathan's house!

The House with a Clock in Its Walls is easily my favorite Roth-directed film yet. And I don't mean that pejoratively. His Cabin Fever and Hostel are really interesting and valuable parts of horror cinema history. But nothing he's helmed has so captured my enthusiasm and good humor as this picture. Its infectious sense of fun bleeds into the details of script, performances, and even design. Think Disney's The Haunted Mansion having a baby with Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. It's a consummate work of childhood's dark fantasy in the suburban Midwest.

Of course, the "childhood" part contains its pitfalls, some of which damage the full impact of this picture. The '80s movie nostalgia is as full in force as the breakneck seasonal phantasmagoria (as some have called it) Roth is puking out onto the screen. Speaking of which -- the film also pukes. Pumpkin puke and griffon-hedge leaf-mulch-shit litter the film in excess, reminding you at each turn that, no matter the level of magic and fantasy and fun, some people will always enjoy the baser matter. While we might be thankful that Roth doesn't give us the same kinds of bodily fluids we might expect from his gore porn features, he proves himself able to translate the same ideas into a kid's movie.

Well, a "kid movie" that hints at some surprisingly dark moments. I was totally shocked, I admit, by the story's subplot involving the Big Bad Isaac Izard (Kyle MacLachlan). To undo the horrors of WWII, the villain makes a deal with the demon Azazel to create the eponymous clock that will turn back time and eliminate the history of the world. The plan may be silly, but the sudden appearance of the impish demon is a terrifying moment in the film, one that pairs nastily with the abrasive and dark nature of the evil magic we see. Bloodletting and pentagrams and all kinds of crazy stuff in this movie make the religious conservative arguments against the first Harry Potter sound even more laughable than they were.

Rote as it sometimes feels in its coming-of-age and fantasy elements, this movie holds its share of pleasant surprises. Most belong squarely to Cate Blanchett as Florence Zimmerman, the witch from next door, always decked out in fabulous purple stitches and wielding some powerful magic up her sleeves. Her tragic story, slyly referencing the horrors of the Holocaust, combines nicely with her character's foil in Jack Black's uncle Jonathan. The two bicker and insult each other in endlessly delightful banter, and then team up for some star-power badassery I never knew I wanted. Plus, Florence's story is an inspiring look at turning from shame and victimhood to glory and avengership.

And, of course, Roth's able direction makes this spooky and silly mess of a movie a thoroughly entertaining addition to any family-friendly Halloween movie list.

IMDb: The House with a Clock in Its Walls

Ocean's 8 (2018)

Score: 4 / 5

Debbie Ocean (Sandra Bullock), younger sister of the late Danny Ocean, is released from prison and immediately sets out to score a heist. Her target? A gorgeous necklace valued at $150 million. Due to her scheming -- and assembling a team of, you guessed it, seven remarkable women -- this necklace will be out in the open at the Met Gala on the neck of the clueless celebrity actress Daphne Kluger (Anne Hathaway).

I found Ocean's 8 to be my favorite of the Ocean family films. You can definitely feel that Steven Soderbergh isn't helming this outing, which is difficult to swallow. But you can also feel a pulsing energy and dazzling style that, for me, felt absent in the male-dominated entries. Those were fun and suave, to be sure, but here we have eye-popping flair. My immediate response to this film is that it is more accessible to a casual summer-going audience (or at least audiences with beautiful, badass women on our minds).

For all the glamour of the film -- which is considerable -- it remains a fairly basic caper. Every other move in the plot is predictable, and the major twists are almost annoyingly simple. But I found these rough edges to be more endearing than obnoxious, largely a result of the winning cast. Though the screenplay does them few favors, the ensemble works brilliantly as individuals and off each other as a team. Helena Bonham Carter steals her scenes as an eccentric fashion designer while Rihanna and Awkwafina dazzle as a hacker and thief, respectively. Cate Blanchett (as a fabulous possibly-queer partner-in-crime), Sarah Paulson (a profiteering suburban mother), and Mindy Kaling (a jewelry maker under the thumb of her overbearing mother) round out the rest of the team under Bullock, who is totally winning and convincing as an Ocean sibling.

Oh, and Anne Hathaway is unbelievably (perhaps too much so) nuanced in her character. She's silly and stupid in one scene, terrifyingly unbalanced in another, and arrestingly manipulative in yet another. Just watching her is a masterclass in farcical acting and grotesque affectation. She's magnificent.

I took my mother to see this movie, and we had a grand time. We laughed out loud, gasped appropriately, and walked out feeling thoroughly entertained. I about lost my marbles in one montage of the women walking out of the gala in fully bedazzled formal wear and my mom had to shush me. Really, what else is there?

IMDb: Ocean's 8

Thor: Ragnarok (2017)

Score: 5 / 5

Easily the best of the Thor movies and perhaps the funniest installment in the MCU yet, Thor: Ragnarok is the opposite of the end of the world. Its visual attention to comic book style, bright and lurid colors, and absurd imagery provide a feast to view. More importantly, the film boasts fresh humor -- thanks be, no doubt, to director Taika Waititi -- that reveals character and propels the story while making for a bizarre, buddy-comedy that also happens to be about superheroes.

While searching for Infinity Stones to no avail (a quest he embarked upon after Age of Ultron), Thor has run afoul of a fire demon who prophesies the apocalypse, Ragnarok, and reveals that Odin (Anthony Hopkins) is missing. Upon vanquishing his foe and returning to Asgard, Thor confronts Loki (who had been posing as Odin since The Dark World while the Nine Realms fell into disarray) and the two search for Odin on earth. In a hilarious little scene, Doctor Strange sends them to Norway, where Odin reveals his imminent death. His firstborn, Hela (a deliciously campy Cate Blanchett), is freed from her prison by his passing, and she appears in gothic glory as the goddess of death before destroying Thor's hammer and casting both Thor and Loki into the void of space as she travels to Asgard.

The rest of the plot is largely inconsequential. Heroes do heroic things, villains do villainous things, and just about everyone delivers killer punchlines. Thor ends up on the waste planet Sakaar, lorded over by the Grandmaster (Jeff Goldblum doing the Jeff Goldblum thing, in a bluish getup like that of Benicio del Toro in Guardians of the Galaxy; the two are related somehow, if I remember my lore) who forces him to become a gladiator. After fighting the Hulk ("I know him! He's a friend from work!") and getting roundly smashed (Loki takes particular joy when Hulk tosses Thor as a rag doll, à la Loki's abuse in The Avengers), the two plan to escape back to Asgard and stop Hela. Why stop her? Well -- and here's where the film is strangely serious -- Hela's mission is to expand the colonial Asgard empire. She seeks cosmic domination, as though nine realms were nothing, and her giddy lust for power manifests as ruthless, wanton violence against her inferiors. The film does not shy away from implicating Odin in this imperial horror, and Hela's subtext is clearly to spread her master race across the universe. It's a subtle shift from mindless destruction to designed genocide; an incredibly timely portrait of the evils of supremacy and the privileged few who not only allow it to happen but are complicit in its ravages. In these moments, the film hits surprisingly close to home, especially given the ties to Nordic culture and religion often claimed by white supremacists.

But that social commentary is only a small part of the film, though I'd argue the most important. Some more fun if messy plot happens. Badass Valkyrie 142 (Tessa Thompson, who we will need more of, please-and-thank-you) joins the team, along with two other gladiators Korg and Miek (Korg is voiced by Waititi, Miek is silent and just as funny). They start a rebellion and commandeer a ship or two and do a lot of fighting along the way. Eventually they return to Asgard and stop Hela and Skurge (Karl Urban, in a sadly small role) from annihilating the citizens and Heimdall (Idris Elba). Then the Big Battle commences, and I'll let you watch the rest. Just know there's a giant wolf, a fire demon, a sacrifice, an eyeball, and a lot of smashing.

As a comedy, Ragnarok is stunning. Who knew Chris Hemsworth's secret skill was pitch-perfect comic delivery? As a superhero movie, it is no less impressive. Considering the amazing Civil War, I wasn't sure MCU could out-do itself, but lo, and behold the spectacle here! Of course it's all pretty absurd, but then this is a movie about gods and aliens, not billionaires and science projects. The tone aptly fits the material, and this movie's self-referential jabs reveal its refusal to take itself too seriously. Consider Thor's repeated efforts to calm Hulk by using Black Widow's "sun's getting real low" line, which obviously don't work coming from the earnest god of thunder.

Then again, this movie sets up some really interesting ideas moving forward. After two years of Hulk taking over Bruce Banner's (Mark Ruffalo) body, Banner fears that if Hulk emerges again, Banner will never come back. The climax features Banner letting Hulk rage, and we are left wondering if that was Mark Ruffalo's exit from the franchise. Also, (SPOILER ALERT) the destruction of Asgard and exodus of its people suggests that Thor will reign as king and set up a new home in Norway. Just as I was wondering if that is something we're going to see in a future film, the mid-credits scene happens, in which a larger spaceship intercepts their earthbound ship. What is happening? We just don't know yet.

IMDb: Thor: Ragnarok

Carol (2015)

Score: 5 / 5

Carol left even my highest expectations behind in the dust. A dazzling adaptation of Patricia Highsmith's The Price of Salt (1952), the film is a thoroughly grounded romance, lacking any unnecessary subplots, sentiment, or melodrama. More important, and unlike the other big queer film this season, The Danish Girl, it ends with affirmation, joy, and a rapturous sense of hope.

Rooney Mara and Cate Blanchett are pitch-perfect as the lovers, fiercely aware of social norms but flagrantly challenging their constraints. Digging deep into every nuance and subtlety, Blanchett is the more entrancing of the two, performing as a goddess in a role only she could fully realize. Her striking beauty aside, she has a rich presence and rare command of the screen as we watch her character confront adversity with not an ounce of vulnerability. Pairing her with less fervent energy, Mara plays the less entrancing character, which makes it more difficult to compare the performances. Less of a socialite and more obviously introverted, Mara blends in with the scenery, immediately recognizable as a wallflower in a culture that doesn't approve of her desires. Caught up in her sudden romance, she ekes out strength from her quiet character and, as the film follows what we might call her "coming of age" plot, takes the reins of the movie. The magical chemistry between the two women is hypnotizing.

No less hypnotic, the film's craftsmanship rivals even some of the most breathtaking films this year. Todd Haynes (Far From Heaven) has done it again with his signature attention to detail, creating a period world that is at once stark reality and timeless fantasy. He mirrors the complex performances in lighting subtleties and richly layered set pieces. Cinematographer Edward Lachman (The Virgin Suicides, Erin Brockovich) follows the romance with a fluid camera and, in turns, passionate and compassionate attention to its players, lingering over their faces as the world turns around them to catch every tiny reaction. The editing is no less masterful, perfectly blending the characters into their world and drawing our attention to the most stirring of juxtapositions. Frequent Coen brothers and Spike Jonze collaborator Carter Burwell's score is also worth its salt (I was trying to make that match the book's title, but it's just not working), so pay attention to that as you go along, too.

There's not much more to say. It's beautiful. An absolutely beautiful movie. It's one of those that is, from beginning to end, a transcendent pleasure to watch again and again. And I don't usually say that about romances.

IMDb: Carol

Cinderella (2015)

Score: 1.5 / 5

It's hard to walk out of this movie without feeling "good" about yourself, but it's also just as hard to pinpoint anything that makes the damn thing worthwhile. Sure, it's entertaining. Sure, it's pretty and cute and funny and sweet. Sure, we all wish we had a guardian fairy to dress us up in beautiful clothes so we can escape our miserable lives and have an impossible romance come true. But we've had this narrative for centuries, and frankly I don't understand why any self-aggrandizing artist (Kenneth Branagh, I'm looking at you) would want to touch this moldy material without putting some kind of new twist or flair on it.

The Cinderella story has been adapted into countless media, with different audiences in mind, and with many different contexts. Context is crucial to any successful iteration of the tale, because as most of us know, the story has some serious problems. I'm not saying it's not an effective fantasy, but too often the story caters to a very mainstream, hegemonic culture, which is probably why it remains one of the staples of our culture now. We can probably count on one hand the number of direct Cinderella adaptations that feature people of color. We haven't seen one yet in the mainstream that features anything but a cis, hetero romance. And I've maybe only seen one production that doesn't glorify materialism and the absurdly wealthy.

So I don't think it's too much to ask that this adaptation might have had some kind of useful spin on feminist rhetoric (Ever After), the politics of monarchy (Ella Enchanted), or varied ethnicities (Disney's 1997 television film of Rodgers & Hammerstein's Cinderella). Even last season's Into the Woods featured a Cinderella who actively chooses to escape her surroundings and venture into the woods, uses her kindness and resourcefulness to better herself and those around her, and to make a conscious decision to reject her womanizing husband and thereby forsake a life of wealth and comfort. With these in mind, it's really hard to like much of anything about Branagh's new picture, which is simply a lavish-but-empty direct translation of Disney's 1950 animated film.

There are exactly two and a half valuable things about this film. First, the costumes are killer. Second, what's not to like about such a fabulous cast flouncing around like a dream? And third(ish), some of the music is rather lovely. That's it. The special effects are beyond overblown (remember Maleficent, anybody?) and take away even the slightest traces of real drama. The sets are lovely, but don't make much sense; Ella's family lives in a veritable castle in its own right, so it's hard to believe their cries of destitution and ruin when every scene shows them in a house many real people would kill to spend even a night in, all while wearing obviously expensive, gaudy clothes. Worst, though, is the script: I have not heard such vague, uninspired blather since I was riding mass transit in Chicago.

Don't believe me? Take the climax for example. Ella climbs to her attic-bedroom and opens the door. Dappled sunlight sparkles on the contours of her glass shoe, as her malevolent stepmother leers out of the shadows beyond. It's a beautiful image, and one in which the drama of the film seems finally to shine. Ella asks her stepmother, point blank, why she hates Ella so much, and my throat tightened in anticipation of a profound revelation or shocking delivery from Cate Blanchett. And all we get is a clenched cliché about Ella being too good, too pure, too innocent (the exact line escapes me because I was grinding my teeth in frustration) before she breaks off in mid-sentence and stalks away. What an absolute waste of talented actors and a beautiful scene.

I'm not going to pretend I don't find parts funny, sweet, or sentimental. In fact, one of the best scenes involves Ella's dying mother (played by our beloved Agent Carter, Hayley Atwell) giving some of the world's best advice to her young daughter. Another involves our Prince (handsome and talented Richard Madden) making his peace with his father (handsome and talented Derek Jacobi) on the latter's deathbed, before curling up next to him. And yes, okay, I fell victim to the rush of happiness when the damn shoe fits and everyone claps and smiles and kisses and sings and does whatever people do when their monarch falls in love with the little blonde help. But besides those few moments, and of course watching my goddess Cate swishing around in elegant (if bizarre) getup, most of this dull retelling have already passed effortlessly out of my head. And for that I can be truly thankful.

IMDb: Cinderella

P.S. Just a few parting thoughts. Courtesy Google Images, under "Feminist Cinderella".

The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies (2014)

Score: 5 / 5

Well, there it is. It's all over. Now, if I can get some of these feels out of my system, we've got a film to analyze. If you haven't seen it yet, I don't recommend that you read any further, because I don't filter myself. Unless you're like me and don't mind spoilers. In that case, let's push on!

My primary problem with The Desolation of Smaug, you may recall, dealt with its dizzying cinematography, its reliance upon computer-generated effects, and its occasionally sloppy editing. I have many of the same issues with this film, but I think because this one is shorter and concerns an outlandish battle as its premise, these elements were more palatable. Indeed, the more I watch Desolation (the Extended Edition, naturally) the more I like it because its added scenes round out the kinetic and sometimes disjointed editing. I expect the same from the Battle of the Five Armies Extended Edition: The theatrical release features distinct moments that feel chopped and poorly strung together, most of which take place in the first hour or so. The incredible effects here are not quite so overwhelming as they were in either of the previous films for me, and I think that's largely due to two factors. First, the drama in this film is much darker than before, and Jackson wisely keeps the drama in all the action shots; rather than silly animation or spectacle for the sake of spectacle, he finally nails a balanced combination of drama and spectacle for the first time in this trilogy. And second, the colors of this film match its tone: Darker and austere, this picture (though still dazzling) rivals some of the more monochromatic visuals of The Two Towers or The Return of the King, and thus the effects feel more comfortable in their environment.

I don't want to spend much time repeating my earlier claims, because most apply to this film as well as the previous two (so go read those posts!). The only new notable member of the cast is Billy Connolly as Dain Ironfoot, and his performance is what it is (more comic relief than heroic entrance). Richard Armitage does some nice work on Thorin, Lee Pace rocks as Thranduil, and Orlando Bloom steals the whole movie as a swashbuckling Legolas. Martin Freeman takes a graceful step back to let the Big Events of this wide world take command of his trilogy, and in doing so he subtly nuances his performance with some of his best moments in the series. A few of the dwarves shine in this, notably Ken Stott (Balin) and Aidan Turner (Kili), and of course Luke Evans (Bard) nails it yet again.

Okay, on to the meaty parts. The film starts with a bit of a messy bang, with no introduction other than a long shot of Lake Town under Erebor's silhouette. Suddenly an inferno breaks out and Peter Jackson starts flexing his muscles for the upcoming climax: Jackson shows twice in this movie his tried-and-true skill for directing utter chaos. Just as I was getting worried that we weren't going to hear Benedict Cumberbatch's bone-chillingly erotic Smaug voice, Bard and the dragon face off in a brief and effective climax that might have belonged in the previous film. A year ago I liked the cliffhanger ending. Having seen the surprisingly short beginning of this film, I wonder if Jackson made the right choice.

That said, the buildup to the Big Battle is comparatively slow and talky, so maybe a fiery start was in fact the right decision. Of course, "slow and talky" for The Hobbit isn't really what it means for your average movie. Jackson moves quite efficiently between elf, dwarf, human, and orc camps to explain the various dynamics of the forthcoming conflict. Legolas and Tauriel go on a little excursion to scout the enemy's army while Thranduil and Bard attempt to negotiate with the increasingly crazed Thorin. Bilbo's brave decision to surrender the Arkenstone to the elves and humans, along with Gandalf's timely arrival, amp up the stakes just in time for the wild climax, which lasts for almost half the movie.

Jackson pulls some really fresh tricks in this installment (which says a lot after the recycled bits of Desolation), besides his typically astounding and excessive special effects. The dramatic lull of the post-inferno pre-battle narrative is juxtaposed with some funky scenes featuring the White Council in Dol Guldur. Happily, we get to see Hugo Weaving and Christopher Lee kicking some major butt, and Cate Blanchett looking possessed and kicking even bigger butt. But the sequence is a little rushed, a problem I suspect will be addressed in the Extended Edition; the editing is just too strange for me to accept as is. The sequence has some really trippy visuals, and I'm not sure I know what's happening half the time, but I guess it looks cool? That said, the scene did get me to back off my soapbox about the whole dead-Ringwraith thing, so I suppose Good call there, Jackson.

But his tricks don't stop there. We see some other creepy, almost psychedelic moments scattered in the picture that I bought simply because they weren't as bizarre as the Dol Guldur stuff. Thorin's "dragon sickness" causes him to have a freaky hallucination of being swallowed in his own gold, and as he rants and raves Bilbo hears the voice of Smaug coming from Thorin's mouth. And of course there's some amazing moments in the battle itself, besides the sheer scope of its visuals. Jackson takes liberties in buttressing the orc armies with trolls, bats, and were-worms (a creature Tolkien vaguely mentioned in canon), but they all make for a battle in which we feel truly anything could happen; and it does, as we even see a man turning into a bear as he falls from the sky. The turning point of the battle occurs as Thorin, Fili, Kili, and Bilbo engage Azog, Bolg, and their captains atop a high overlook. Legolas and Tauriel soon join the fray, and the battle amidst the snow is a spectacle beyond my wildest imaginings. After Thorin has defeated Azog (come on, that's not a spoiler, did you think this was going to end any other way?), we see the pale orc floating beneath the ice and his blood spilling out under a frozen waterfall. It's really breathtaking stuff.

A few elements of the film don't work so well. Alfrid lingers on after the Master's abrupt demise, and his supposed-to-be-funny bits just get annoying after a while. A few minor plot holes kept me from giving my whole heart to the film, and though Howard Shore's score is still lovely, the constantly repeated themes of music became contrived and predictable. But all these weird pieces of the puzzle melted away, for me, when I began to sense Jackson's heart in this movie. A lot of tender moments felt like throwbacks to The Lord of the Rings, complete with greater emotional resonance than anything in Journey or Desolation. In fact, I suspect that if this series were watched in order -- from An Unexpected Journey up through The Return of the King -- then this movie would bridge the gap perfectly in terms of aesthetic and tone, as it darkens the fantasy of Hobbit and leads right in to the emotional powerhouse of Rings.

Well played, Peter Jackson. And thank you.

The Road goes ever on and on

Down from the door where it began.

Now far ahead the Road has gone,

And I must follow, if I can,

Pursuing it with eager feet,

Until it joins some larger way

Where many paths and errands meet.

And whither then? I cannot say.

IMDb: The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies

The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey (2012)

Score: 5 / 5

In preparation for the upcoming final installment of the franchise, I thought we'd take a step back and review the previous two Hobbit films. I am an avid fan of Tolkien, and of Peter Jackson's films, but I won't be comparing the two because comparing film to literature is silly. This review will focus on the first film, and consider it in context of Jackson's other Tolkien adaptations.

Peter Jackson's return to Middle-earth in 2012, almost a decade after The Lord of the Rings, is a surprisingly graceful and beautiful transition. I say transition because this new series is an adaptation of a children's fantasy adventure, and so carries a much different tone than the previous trilogy. Jackson manages the somewhat simple story with elegance and intelligence, encouraging a new audience to look closely at his 48 fps (frames per second; this is twice as fast as the usual film speed) to see the fantastic computer-generated effects in stunning high definition. The action is crisp and clear, almost as if it was really happening inside the screen at that moment. Howard Shore's score is perhaps the one element that most connects Hobbit to LotR, and it is especially noteworthy here.

The screenplay, however, is not dumbed-down into simple or childish fantasy. Jackson, Fran Walsh, and Philippa Boyens have again expertly organized the story into brilliant beats of emotion and excitement, and the dialogue is comical and charming. And yet, for its lighthearted joy, it provides a great framework for emotional weight that will surely be added in the later installments. We sense again profoundly human pathos -- in a world where humans only make up a fraction of the population -- in hauntingly intimate moments like Bilbo's final encounter with Gollum.

The acting is, of course, stellar. The cast creates a flawless ensemble that plays off each other surprisingly well. The thirteen dwarves, perhaps the trickiest roles to play due to their inconsequential ambiguity, are all so specifically detailed and provide such intensely unique performances that by the end of the film, I could identify each by name. Perhaps a little bit more of an introduction to each would have helped the process, but it honestly matters very little in this film. The main one to remember, though, makes sure that you do: Richard Armitage performs the dwarf leader Thorin with power and genius, turning a completely unlikeable character into, arguably, the most important in the story. Martin Freeman (a choice I was originally not thrilled with) proves a solid Bilbo and an unlikely focal point of the film; his choices are inspired. Ian McKellen returns to his Oscar-nominated role as Gandalf and injects it with such strength and energy that he steals the film right away from the ensemble.

The rest of the ensemble are no less impressive than its triumvirate of leads. Sylvester McCoy is McKellen's only rival for thievery, however, in his turn as Radagast, the eccentric wizard of wilderness. His crazed demeanor and frenzied presence on screen is delightful, and proves (beyond the character work of the dwarves) that the filmmakers' creativity has only grown in the years since LotR. Lee Pace pops in at the beginning as the ethereal Elf-King Thranduil, and Barry Humphries' outrageously musical Great Goblin has now become my favorite character in the film.

The scene with the White Council is one of the film's two best. Featuring McKellen, Cate Blanchett, Hugo Weaving, and Christopher Lee (all of whom reprise their roles from LotR) sharing salty banter and Important Thoughts, the scene's actors play perfectly off each other's timing and strengths. This is a brief but memorable actors' workshop, and it provides the film's most dense, heightened dialogue, so pay attention. The best scene of the film, however, goes to the Riddle Game between Bilbo and Gollum (Andy Serkis). Their timing, energy, and ingenuity in performing hilarious and beautiful dialogue is impeccable, and increased by the fact that they are forced to react to each other in a rather small physical area. The scene is a masterclass in filmmaking. Bravo.

Now for the criticisms. The sequence with the stone giants is just annoying. We know you have cool special effects, Jackson, and we know you like to exaggerate brief comments in the source material (remember the staircase in Moria in Fellowship of the Ring? Yeah, Tolkien just said the Fellowship ran down some stairs, and Jackson turned it into a crazy theme park ride), but this is overkill. The effects aren't even as good as others in the film, and the sudden, brief danger only muddies the plot and pacing. Another element that bothers me a bit in the film is that Nori, one of the dwarves, is characterized as a pickpocket. So why do they need a burglar so desperately? It's problematic, and a bit superfluous.

Also, the Ringwraiths. I won't delve too deeply into the problems with this element in Tolkien's text, but the Ringwraiths aren't dead, so how can they be buried and return as spirits? Answer: they can't. Jackson himself portrayed them as very much Un-dead in LotR. "No living man can kill me," the Witch-king says; besides, Jackson showed us what truly dead people look like in Return of the King. They're green, ugly, and #bitter. Jackson either misinterpreted or purposefully wants to go a different direction (presumably to give credence to the Necromancer's title), but he's still inconsistent with his earlier characterization. But if those are my only complaints, I can't deny that this is one damn good movie.

Jackson's ending is the franchise's best yet, followed closely by the ending of The Two Towers. Devastating, inspiring, touching, and spectacular. Moving from a photogenic sunset into a fiery cliffside dusk, and a dawn of breathtaking splendor, the sequence is perfectly paced and promises great things for the next two films. Beautiful.

IMDb: The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey

Post-script: The Extended Edition adds a few lovely touches here and there, but by no means alters the film as much as the LotR extended versions. The dwarves sing a fun, familiar (to Tolkien readers) song in Rivendell, and the Great Goblin sings some more, but mostly the additions are little extended shots here and there in Hobbiton and Rivendell. The White Council's scene is extended a fair amount, though, and the dialogue waxes informative on Thorin's mad family and the state of the Rings of Power. Again, not too "important" for this film, but important for what will come.