Roofman (2025)

Score: 3 / 5

A criminal with a heart of gold takes center stage in Roofman, biopic of sorts masquerading as a crowd-pleasing comedy. Drastically changing tone for writer/director Derek Cianfrance (The Place Between the Pines, Blue Valentine, The Light Between Oceans), this movie capitalizes on the winning charms of its leading actor, Channing Tatum, doing what he does best. Yet, as fascinating as the real story is, the film consistently skews toward fantasy over reality, choosing to paint the struggles of its titular robber as a desperate lifelong adventure for family and belonging. Rather than diving into what could have been a strange and enlightening character study, Cianfrance pushes us into conventional rom-com beats that, while sweet and often slightly off-key, whitewash the story and ignore its more chilling implications.

Nominally about Jeffrey Manchester, a former Army officer who becomes a gentle and kind robber in order to make a living, the film oddly distances us from knowing his inner life. Tatum's capable performance -- though a far cry from his recent devastating presence in Blink Twice -- cannot rescue the film from a series of unanswered questions posed by itself about him. He's shown to be head over heels in love with his young family, yet he chooses not to provide for them using legal means. On the suggestion of an old military friend (LaKeith Stanfield), Jeff instead uses his training in observation and action to cut holes in the roof of fast food joints, kindly restrain the limited employees opening the store (usually by asking them to get their coats and wait in the freezer until the cops come), and take whatever is in their safe. Even when interviewed by the media, who provide the film's title for their mysteriously gentlemanly criminal, the employees praise Jeff's thoughtful and gentle manner.

Yet it's never clear why he can't hold a job on his own, despite some brief early remarks about American society using and discarding discharged service members. And it's wholly unclear why, despite his obsessive desire to connect with his daughter (almost never his wife or infant twins, mind), he doesn't actually try to be a self-sufficient civilized individual. His most recent crime ends with the police arresting him at his daughter's birthday party, surely traumatizing her, and then he's whisked away to prison with only an occasional afterthought about what he has done to the girl he loves most in the world.

Jeff is described as resourceful and brilliant by other characters, but we see almost none of it. His chameleonic wit and charm disguise him from suspicion, even when he shows up to a church looking (and surely smelling) like the dregs of society. Thankfully, the film depicts the church he finds as truly good Samaritans, lovely people led by Ben Mendelsohn and Uzo Aduba (it's an aggressively weird pairing, but they uplift the middle of this film in a necessary way). They warmly accept him as he is and help provide for him.

The problem is that he's also lying to them. He's living in a hidden space in a Toys R Us store, bathing in the employee bathroom sink, eating candy, and acting a fool in the aisles by night. He fixates on the cruel and stupid manager, Peter Dinklage, and a beautiful young woman and mother who recently went through a divorce. Kirsten Dunst's presence as Leigh is an unexpected but heartfelt delivery of a salient millennial crisis right now, when what we were promised by those we love -- and society in general -- has been broken and we're left to pick up the pieces. Her pathos is emphasized when Jeff, who followed her to the church, meets her and she clearly wants to try dating again. But money is an issue, as are her teenage daughters; would a single man be interested in a quiet pizza night at home with mother and daughters? Maybe not every man, but one who's functionally starving, desperate for family time, and eager to escape the prison he's built for himself will absolutely be there.

And he goes overboard. I don't want to spoil any more, but Jeff's personality quirks don't stop when he finds love. He's a great influence on the girls, who he shockingly quickly befriends, yet his behavior is peripatetic, somewhat unpredictable, and almost always materialistic. At one point, Leigh literally tells him point blank that they just want him to be with them, yet he continues to throw money and toys and flowers and candy and balloons and even a damn car at them. Meanwhile, he gets paranoid about the unsustainable life he's eked out and sure that someone will identify him, so he reaches out again to his army friend, wanting to pay an exorbitant amount for a new identity and a one-way ticket to a country without extradition. These things don't add up coherently, and while that might be the point, it makes Jeff as presented in the film to be something like a sociopath, whose integrity is nonexistent despite his nonviolent crimes. He's going to devastate the people he claims to love, and he does it both willingly and seemingly intentionally. I don't get it. And that's not even approaching the topic of his criminal compulsions, which to be rationalized in our minds does not match with the character we see here.

It's a fun enough film, and really sickly sweet, until it isn't. And I was most struck with its hypocrisy late in the film, when I wondered how this charming man might have fared, especially in the deep South of the film's setting, had he been non-white. Or unattractive. Why is it that this guy, who has been convicted of many crimes and sentenced to several decades in prison, is afforded the benefit of our romantic and humorous affections whereas so many other incarcerated men are not? Is it by nature of his wacky escapades and bizarre life's work? Then why the overwhelming focus on his romantic life and not on his psychological state, the institutional realities that compel him to commit crimes, or the material impacts of his frankly idiotic financial and relational decisions? I want to know why he thought endless consumerism would make him a good father, a good husband, a good man. I want to know why he seeks to give women around him a life he thinks they deserve rather than honoring what they say they need from him. I want to know what he thinks of the ways veterans are treated and how and why he so terribly chose anarchy in an effort to make a better life, especially in the context of a distinctly charitable church network. There's a lot of charm in Roofman, to be sure, but there's a dispiriting lack of curiosity, turning what should be a humanist saga into a simplistic and generic tangent.

Blink Twice (2024)

Score: 4 / 5

A surprise from start to finish, Zoë Kravitz's directorial debut appeared on the scene with almost no warning for me (though my life has been a bit chaotic of late, so I may have missed the fanfare). I had no idea what I was in for, and that might have been the best way to enter this sleek, smart film. As such, the rest of this will be spoiler-heavy, so suffice it to say for anyone interested: it's a magnificent puzzle-box of a film, deceptively simple and dangerously devious. As funny as it is troubling, this should appeal to anyone who likes shows like White Lotus and Nine Perfect Strangers, and it features some top-notch performances from Naomi Ackie and Channing Tatum.

Okay, into the meat of it. Slater King (Tatum), a tech billionaire and hunky playboy, apologizes virtually for some manner of offense or indiscretion. No context is given, and it's about as vague as... well, one in real life might be. All that's clear is that it's unmentionable on television, and surely involves his power having been abused and leaked to the public. Soon after, he hosts a gala, and we're brought in by two best friends, Frida (Ackie) and Jess (Alia Shawkat), working as cocktail waiters. Frida has the hots for King -- who wouldn't -- and halfway through the event, they slip into formal wear and ditch their posts, determined to have fun at the swanky soiree. They don't exactly blend in at the exclusive event, and King all but sniffs them out; rather than outing them, he appears to court Frida. By evening's end -- actually, I think it's dawn -- he invites them and a few other friends to his private island for a vacation away from observation and duties. It could be the setup of a romantic comedy, one about class and race and prejudice and being a fish out of water.

It's not.

His entourage of hedonistic and chauvinistic friends (including Simon Rex, Christian Slater, and Haley Joel Osment) have all brought young women as well (including Adria Arjona, Trew Mullen, and Liz Caribel), and their phones are all collected by Slater's neurotic and longsuffering personal assistant and sister (Geena Davis). They are to have the time of their lives, completely disconnected from the outside world as they indulge in all manner of vices on the picturesque, Edenic island. Dressed in oddly similar white gowns, the girls are put up in fancy shacks in a row and encouraged to bond like flower power daughters of the earth. They are fed a constant stream of gourmet food in elaborate meals, bottomless champagne with ripe raspberries to spare, and weed and drugs for all day, every day. The days quickly blend together in masterfully constructed montages that slowly suggest something is terribly, horribly wrong here.

It's a refreshingly straightforward film thematically, and it has a significant bone to pick with rich white men who play nice. What's even more refreshing is Kravitz's mastery of tone, deftly harnessing the lilting romantic fantasy with comedic absurdity even as she sprinkles in dark foreshadowing. There came a point when you are well aware that bad things are happening, but even I wasn't prepared for the depravity this film would showcase. And showcase it does: when the curtain is pulled back, finally -- after many brief shocks and jolts of images as memories come flashing back to our female protagonists -- we're forced to witness one of the most monstrous sequences of violence and cruelty I can remember seeing in a film that isn't at all marketed as a horror film. If The Stepford Wives had a feminist baby still angry about #MeToo with Lord of the Flies, it might look something like this. Nothing prepares you for the brutality in store, but it's not all about the visuals or the plot; thematically, the film's seeming red herrings coalesce into a heady tapestry of symbols -- not unlike what we still discuss about, for example, in Jordan Peele's three (so far) horror films -- that should spark lots of varied conversation afterward. Snakes, flowers, the color red, dirt. Pick your poison.

Exploitation films don't happen much anymore, but this one arguably resurrects the genre, and that, too, would be an interesting conversation. I was reminded more than once of Buoyancy, especially in the film's fiery, violent climax, and the empowerment in this kind of conflict is finally becoming more mainstream both in and out of horror. It's a welcome change from the tired tropes of our heroes not being able or willing to "double tap" or enact their own violence. And then, in case we were getting too down in the dumps -- which is fair, because I'd categorize this as one of the most disturbing films I've seen in some time -- Kravitz leaps forward, in an oddly tacked-on epilogue, to remind us that it is indeed a fantasy comedy. Just in case anyone was worried about their own complicity or culpability. It's all just a movie. Right?

*An additional note: This might be the first movie I've seen theatrically that features a content warning in advance. While ordinarily I personally dislike this (because audiences should do their own homework about triggers before going to see art, which should also not censor itself), here I found it important because the film's marketing in no way prepared me for the horrors in store. It does kind of spoil the revelatory twist, but it should at least warn anyone who, like me, went in expecting a Fantasy Island rom-com with maybe some troubling drama. This is so much more intense than anyone could have anticipated.

Fly Me to the Moon (2024)

Score: 2.5 / 5

In his first directorial outing since Love, Simon, Greg Berlanti brings his considerable efforts to a period rom-com set in the '60s space race. Notably not queer, this material is an odd fit for Berlanti for other reasons: the Arrowverse and Broken Hearts Club mastermind hasn't handled anything this specific or detached from the millennium in many long years. The unwieldy material here vacillates from frothy, silly romance to surprisingly satirical political and historical commentary, and Berlanti is in way over his head. Perhaps it's primarily due to an unfocused screenplay, but evidence lies elsewhere: namely, the lack of chemistry between the two leads undermines the entire point of the film (as marketed). That's on Berlanti.

 An accomplished pilot who wanted to be an astronaut himself, NASA launch director Cole Davis (Channing Tatum) can't pull himself out of his own past. The tragedy of Apollo 1 haunts him daily, even as he prepares for what is now Apollo 11. Putting American men on the moon is his goal, and he suffers no fools to distract him. Enter Kelly Jones (Scarlett Johansson), the immaculately festooned advertising exec selected by a mysterious government agent (a delightfully rakish Woody Harrelson) to sell the moon landing to the American populace. Despite repeated comments on her beauty, Johansson knows her character is a shark among the scientists and engineers: Jones is really good at her job, probably due to her chameleonic ability to lie and manipulate others, constantly using verbal smoke and mirrors to disguise her machinations. 

Naturally, the two aren't going to work well, and the film's plot hinges on that. After a meet cute, she sets her sights on charming him while he actively erects walls to hinder her advances. Their banter feels straight out of old Hollywood, to the point that I half expected Doris Day or Cary Grant to pop onscreen. the difference is that Johansson at least appears to be having fun; Tatum is perhaps needfully stoic and dour, but he sticks out like a sore thumb, unable to muster his usual inner charm. It doesn't help that he's made up to look somewhat plastic, and his costumes do nothing to highlight his physique or confidence. One wonders what another casting choice might have done to boost this aspect of the story, which was maybe unfairly marketed as its primary conceit.

The film does, however, work remarkably well when Jones's last-ditch Plan B kicks into gear. Her assignment is to hire a film crew to fake the moon landing footage. It's couched in a believable, high-stakes concern that something could go terribly wrong, and we certainly don't want the general public to see that live on television. It's a familiar idea to anyone who's heard the conspiracy theories about Kubrick's similar involvement in real life, and the film has a lot of fun dramatizing this effort in thickly fictionalized manner. Jim Rash graces the film with intoxicating panache as the ostentatiously flamboyant director working with Jones to realize this scheme. He's in it for a chance to test his artistry; she's in it on government mandate, and has to keep the operation secret from Davis.

Rash might be the only person in this film who really understood and leaned into what the movie could have been, aggressively chewing the scenery and prancing around in bespoke suits with outrageous patterns and color. Johansson is solid, and Harrelson's final scene makes up for his wonky, scattered appearances, but the rest of the cast and crew don't seem to know what this material should be or how best to execute it. The longer the film continues, the more heavy-handed its dialogue, devolving into groan-inducing exposition dumps between main characters as the comedy flips to forced romance and contrived stakes. Logical steps aren't taken for granted, and instead of letting the audience catch up organically, the film constantly reminds us of motives and rationales that should be obvious and frankly aren't necessary anyway. Let the astronauts fly, let the filmmakers create, and let the lovers work (or not), but don't concurrently commentate. 

Gorgeous production design and occasionally inspired cinematography make the film eminently watchable, and anyone interested in the period or the space race itself will find plenty here to enjoy. But a historical treatise -- even a farce -- about the faked moon footage this most certainly is not, nor is it a satisfying comedy, romance, or combination of the two. Specificity would have won the day here, methinks, to make this material rise above mediocrity and mean something to audiences in 2024.

Magic Mike's Last Dance (2023)

Score: 2.5 / 5

And just like that, the promise and joys of the first two films fizzle into the void. Magic Mike was a brilliant and endlessly entertaining journey into a unique character's soul against a fabulous backdrop. Magic Mike XXL continued the story by expanding and diversifying its cast, soundtrack, and themes in mature but still fun ways. Now, Channing Tatum and Steven Soderbergh (who only directed the first installment) are back for Magic Mike's Last Dance, and it's all a soapy, sappy washout that will add little to their respective credits.

Its title could have been the point of the whole film, but thankfully its message hits home right away and then we move forward. The film's opening quickly catches us up to speed on how Tatum's character Mike lost his handmade furniture business during the Covid-19 pandemic and now works as a bartender for catering services in Florida. A cute cameo reminds us immediately of his history as a stripper for hire and his somewhat stigmatized socialization as a result. It also reminds us that Mike may not be truly happy in his current work, and we know from experience that dancing is indeed what brings him the most joy. He soon meets Max (Salma Hayek, an inspired casting choice that recalls Jada Pinkett Smith's casting in the previous film), immensely wealthy as the soon-to-be-divorced socialite wife, whose friend recognized him. She pays him handsomely to dance for her privately.

The dance is extraordinary to behold, as Tatum's skills haven't aged a day, thanks in part to the choreographer and the cinematographer. Hayek instantly reminds us why she's a star, acting her ass off in beautiful clothes and looking utterly stunning while clearly enjoying the situation. They both give in, and their happy ending proves to be instead a beginning; her passions reignited, Max sweeps Mike off to London as her boyfriend and business partner, determined to create a new stage production of male strippers dancing. Essentially recreating a Magic Mike experience much as what happened in real life after the first film was released.

As the two navigate their relationship -- fraught, as Soderbergh skillfully reminds us, with class differences -- they hit a series of predictable and familiar roadblocks both romantically and professionally. Their artistic visions for the show sometimes clash, to say nothing about the danger of the show getting closed by Max's husband. While it's never obvious what the endgame will be, screenwriter Reid Carolin unfortunately indeed gives his two stars a happy ending that feels inevitable in retrospect. I would have liked more tie-ins with the previous films, especially with the camaraderie of Mike's former co-stars, who only show up briefly in a Zoom call cameo. The story feels more fairytale or fable-like this time around, such as the annoying voiceover narration by Max's teenage daughter Zadie, whose lines sound like something from a wannabe Jane Austen or Edith Wharton adapter.

I understand that the filmmakers -- specifically Soderbergh, Carolin, and Tatum himself -- don't want to repeat material, and I can respect that. This time they really delve into the romantic side of Mike's character literally and thematically, as most of the best dialogue explores ideas of desire, creativity, and the freedom to pursue both. Tatum, himself still a bit of a surprise talent despite catapulting to stardom many years ago as an outsider in Hollywood, reminds us why his Mike is such a fabulous character: his demeanor feels grounded and guarded at all times, as though he's afraid he'll lose his career yet again, thinly veiled by his endearing humility and streetwise grins. These movies aren't just for the spectacle of hunks, but rather about navigating cultural commodification of working men both from the outside and the inside. At one point during their rehearsals, Max tells the team, "This show is not about getting dick. Only."

Whereas the first film, I'd say, was the most technically proficient in terms of storytelling and editing -- to say nothing of its surprisingly bleak themes -- and the second had almost too many ideas (thematic and visual) to keep under control, this one is disarmingly laissez faire. It almost lazily winds its way through the production up to opening night, when the curtain reveals a cabaret-style show not unlike the real life one Tatum helped craft. Last Dance is a feel-good embrace, the kind of film I almost dozed off during not only because it's rote but because it's warm and comforting. It's also pretty hot, which makes it eminently watchable. I suspect that, in a marathon viewing with the wine flowing, by the time this movie kicks off you'll be too happy (and horny) to much care about plot or dialogue or editing.

The Lost City (2022)

Score: 4 / 5

I don't usually go for comedies, especially ones that combine adventure and romance, but The Lost City was the unexpected delight of the season for me. In no ways does it try to reinvent anything, yet its familiarity breeds ingenuity and joy. Essentially taking what we all love about middle-aged rom-coms and silly adventure flicks and mashing them together, it works as fairly mindless and fun entertainment. In the hands of the directors and this stellar cast, and a screenplay laced with gold, it's a lot smarter and a lot more heartfelt than I expected. I'd compare it tonally to Isn't It Romantic in that way, even though it looks and feels more like Romancing the Stone or countless other adventures with varying degrees of romance and comedy (Jumanji, The Mummy, The African Queen, Jungle Cruise). It's a movie that knows exactly what it is and who its audience is, and gives what we want and expect while still delighting us each step of the journey.

Loretta Sage (Sandra Bullock) is trying desperately to stay afloat. The famed writer of smutty romance-adventures, she has grown disdainful for her own work since the untimely death of her husband. Her grief has made her reclusive and misanthropic, and she's hit a writer's block with her new book. When her agent Beth (Da'Vine Joy Randolph) pushes her into promoting her latest book on tour with the wildly popular cover model Alan (Channing Tatum), Loretta suggests that she's done writing stories in this series. The agent, the model, and the fans won't have it; they love the hunky Dash McMahon too much. We get many hints, too, that Loretta's stories contain nuggets of gold in them; she actually did archeological research with her deceased husband to inform her fiction.

After successfully derailing a public appearance with "Dash," Loretta is abducted by a fan. Well, a fan who is also a criminal in the form of Abigail Fairfax (Daniel Radcliffe), an eccentric and vengeful billionaire who wants his own fame, fortune, and glory. Fairfax has located the titular lost city from one of Loretta's books and needs her to translate clues that might lead them to a hidden treasure. Time is ticking because, of course, the treasure is located near an active volcano. Why not? This is a highly contrived plot, but by the point the plot is properly laid out in the first, let's say, twenty or thirty minutes, we pretty much know every beat the movie will hit. And it does, in spades. What a pleasure.

The doubtful and resistant Loretta has no intention of helping Fairfax, but he takes her anyway (while destroying the world's largest charcuterie display, tragically). Alan, who seems to be somewhat smitten with Loretta -- or at least desperate to keep his famed character alive and popular -- gives chase with the help of a former mentor and meditation guru/fitness trainer Jack Trainer (Brad Pitt). And so ensues the rollicking, somewhat swashbuckling adventure that takes our cast to a remote Caribbean island in search of love, treasure, and themselves. Once they all reconvene, in one of the film's best action sequences to the sound of "Red Right Hand", things really kick into high gear. A principal joy here is the acting from stars who are simply doing what they do best. Tatum keenly understands his own appeal as a caring and slightly stupid hot guy; Bullock has made a career out of understanding her own appeal as a sexy, disillusioned, and somewhat awkward intellectual with walls to tear down. Together, they share some of the best chemistry I've seen in a comedy in years.

Everything about this movie is charming. Its supporting cast works well, though Radcliffe's character feels underdeveloped and sometimes forced into a narrative that clearly just needed a caricatured villain (though Radcliffe himself delivers admirably). It's bright and cute and often laugh-out-loud hilarious. It's also exciting and rousing and sexy and surprisingly emotional. It's everything you want from this kind of movie, and it's smart about playing itself accordingly; the Nee brothers are simply taking an old recipe, using A-list ingredients, and injecting it with fresh and jubilant energy. This is one of those movies I enjoyed so much I could have happily watched it again shortly after the first screening, and will probably stay on my repertoire of date night/sick day/rainy day flicks, and it would pair beautifully with tequila cocktails or any shade of wine.

Kingsman: The Golden Circle (2017)

Score: 3 / 5

The primary sin of the Kingsman sequel is this: It begins to take itself too seriously.

Like its predecessor, this film knows how to have fun. It's all light and silly and happy, and you could do a lot worse for a late-summer escapade. I won't waste your time with a synopsis, because who really cares what happens in these movies? But there are a few highlights that demonstrate the fabulous meta quality that made the first one a successful parody of spy-action flicks. There's a smash-bang car chase that opens the movie. There's another crazed villain -- this one without a lisp or monochromatic wardrobe -- in Julianne Moore, whose global drug cartel has enshrined her atop a Cambodian mountain in a terrifyingly polished '50s kitsch theme park. There's a bizarre scene where hunky star Taron Egerton has to plant a tracking device inside a woman at a music festival. There's a smart parallel of Kingsman culture in cowboy Americana "Statesman," led with panache and boots by Jeff Bridges, Pedro Pascal, and Channing Tatum.

Like the first one, this one is pretty much what it was marketed as. A smutty excuse for ultra-violent action and ultra-silly parody, filmed as if it were the product of a tryst between a video game and graphic novel. It's sexy and stupid, violent and strange. It throws blood at you while grinning from behind bared fangs and joking about anal sex. (Actually, there is a particularly gut-laugh-worthy moment when Elton John, playing himself, dressed in lurid artificial feathers, offers Colin Firth a backstage pass to his concerts.)

As I said, all is fun and light and silly until it starts weighing itself down with sentiment and Big Ideas that just don't mesh with the nonsense spewing at you from the screen. Mark Strong's role gets weird when he starts singing John Denver songs in his Scottish accent in the middle of a jungle. The climax gets weird when huge mechanical dogs enter the fray. Colin Firth's presence is just generally weird, as he gets awkwardly resurrected and cured of amnesia. Halle Berry and Emily Watson show up a couple of times for little real reason.

If you have a mind for mindless action and humor, or if you enjoy self-reflexive awareness in movies, this sequel might be for you. It's certainly dazzling to look at, even if you can't quite swallow its half-baked preposterous bilge.

IMDb: Kingsman: The Golden Circle

Logan Lucky (2017)

Score: 4 / 5

Thank heaven Steven Soderbergh is back.

And what a way to reappear! After his fabulous (and supposedly final) film, Behind the Candelabra, in 2013, I mourned his self-imposed retirement. But it seems we've gotten lucky, as the title of his new film suggests, because Soderbergh's killer style has returned as well. Logan Lucky is his exercise in re-announcing himself, and while it isn't the most original piece of film this summer, it might be the most grounded, accessible, and downright classy comedy of the year.

Jimmy Logan (Channing Tatum in yet another excellent starring role), a hardworking man living long after his high school glory days are over, just got fired from his job. Apparently he hadn't disclosed his limp, a "pre-existing condition" that is discovered to be a liability for his construction company employers. When he learns that his ex-wife, now married to a wealthy car salesman with less smarts than dollars, plans to move farther away with his beloved daughter in tow, Jimmy desperately searches for a solution. Using his construction-job-related knowledge of an underground vault beneath a Charlotte racetrack, he enlists his family and acquaintances to help him with a great big heist.

After assembling his team -- including one-handed brother (Adam Driver), sister (Mellie), incarcerated explosives expert aptly named Joe Bang (Daniel Craig), and his two idiot brothers -- Logan embarks on his plan. Soderbergh deftly takes us through the action without wasting a single instant on exposition. No plans are dissembled on screen; we just see the expert skills and brilliant schematics in motion as they are executed. That's about as streamlined as you can get, and it is so effective we hardly waste a moment wondering if they can pull it off. They just do it.

There are a few sidelined plots that add time onto the movie, including romantic intrigue in the form of Katherine Waterston and a bizarre racing team made of Seth MacFarlane and Sebastian Stan. Most affecting is Logan's daughter, preparing for her debut in a West Virginia pageant, and when Jimmy makes it back to see her perform, her sweet little singing voice stirs the spirit. The movie's ending takes a bit longer than I would have liked, stretching beyond the climax by introducing new characters and developing new mini-arcs. That is, an FBI team investigates the heist, and even when its agent (Hilary Swank, doing some really weird vocal thing and keeping her Mephistophelean eyebrows arched) is told the case is closed, continues her hunt. But never fear: The film ends before anything bad happens to our antiheroes. Of course, as with Magic Mike, it seems Soderbergh leaves the door wide open for someone to come in and make a sequel.

So, in case you didn't gather, it's essentially a de-glitzed reimagining of Ocean's Eleven. These aren't high-stakes Las Vegas games, and the interplay of sex and fashion isn't even a concern. Lucky features disabled, low- to no-income people with difficult lives and complex relationships. The Logan family, though remarkably resourceful and intelligent, don't put on airs and don't worry about appearances. It's all real to them, so it's real to us. That's what Soderbergh does with the film, too: Lucky never pretends to be something it's not, preferring to take pleasure in its own idiosyncratic rhythms. It's not a far cry from some Coen brothers films, actually, with its particular attention to a specific culture, oddball characters, and good-natured humor. Of course, its wisecracking sharp comedy is no less fabulous, and Adam Driver steals more than his share of scenes with pitch-perfect timing and hilariously awkward delivery. I don't know who writer Rebecca Blunt is, but she's welcome to come back into my ears anytime.

IMDb: Logan Lucky

Hail, Caesar! (2016)

Score: 4 / 5

Hail, Caesar! takes us back to a golden era of moviemaking, when Hollywood was an empire in its own right, and the people who ran it, eccentric as they were, grappled with scandal, fame, and fortune on a daily basis. We follow Ed Mannix (Josh Brolin), head producer at Capitol Pictures, in his exhaustive efforts to save his stars from their own scandalous behaviors, knowing full well that as the 1951 studios begin to break up, the future of moviemaking, his company, and his livelihood hang in the balance. As he maneuvers between oddballs and screwballs and criminals, he is forced to examine his own economics, values, relationships, and ultimately theology. It's a moving movie about making movies, and one that stole its way into my heart.

What's that you say? That doesn't sound like the movie Hail, Caesar! to you? Why do you say that?

What we have here is a problem with marketing. I thought -- along with several other people I've heard from -- that this movie was going to be a raucous, irreverent, madcap comedy bubbling over with slapstick and irony and all the things listed so perfectly in its trailers. Guess what? It's not.

Sure, it has a few of these elements. The casting is brilliant, the script is fierce, and the production design is simply perfect. The film makes reference after reference so quickly that it took me hours afterward to remember some; each reference is so cheeky that I often laughed aloud and missed the rapid-fire dialogue. We see everything from Ben-Hur to Gene Kelly, and from Esther Williams to Carmen Miranda. It's a glorious celebration of the industry.

But it's not a madcap caper film about a bunch of zany moviemakers banding together to save their iconic leading man (obviously played by George Clooney, because who else?) from his untimely abduction. I was expecting the enormous cast of stars to share a lot of screen time and a lot of laughs as they fashioned a comedic heist, like a silly, campy version of Argo. And it just doesn't happen. Ever.

Sure, the performances are great, but they are relegated to brief scenes. Each character, besides Brolin and Clooney, gets only two or three scenes each, and these are usually one-on-one with either Brolin or Clooney. Those scenes are jam-packed with a showcase of the actor's talents, but we never really get much else, let alone interaction between them. And as for all of them banding together to save the star, it's almost laughable: I think only about three characters besides Brolin even know that Clooney has been abducted, much less offer aid.

I may feel a little bitter about the more or less "epic" comedy that doesn't exist here, but there are a lot of great things to be said for the movie that we got instead. It's a glorious testament, riddled with nostalgia and wit and charm, and showcasing some of our brightest modern stars in period performances. Channing Tatum steals the movie away with his song and dance as Burt Gurney, a Gene Kelly homage. Tilda Swinton would have stolen the movie had the film given her more screen time as twin sister, rival gossip columnists Thora and Thessaly Thacker. The effects are all old-school, with long takes to show off dancing and comedic skills and the use of miniatures and backlot sets where we might otherwise have wasteful CGI (I'm thinking of the anti-climactic scene with the submarine). And, finally, there's the script that, typical of the Coens, is about far more than it initially suggests. It's about religion and economics and history and politics and all sorts of complicated things that it never really resolves but Brolin's character manages to work out for himself. I think his priest would be proud of him.

IMDb: Hail, Caesar!

The Hateful Eight (2015)

Score: 1.5 / 5

Quentin Tarantino's hyped-up newest (and, yes, eighth) film, The Hateful Eight, is conceptually and visually impressive, and it is also uncompromisingly ugly. Essentially Reservoir Dogs done in a fake-Western style, the film collects nine (yes, nine) horrible characters together in a cauldron that boils over into cruelty and violence during a beastly three-hour detention span. The unlikely and unlikeable characters spin webs of lies and slurs at each other from the get-go, and by the final act bloodbath, the only catharsis I felt came with the lights rising in the auditorium.

We begin with a stagecoach journey through Wyoming snow, shown in delicious 70mm film that only really works for shots like this. The remainder of the film takes place inside a cabin that, while improbably spacious like Hermione's handbag, does not need a 70mm presentation. It seems that Tarantino is trying to do a Hitchcockian Lifeboat, and he is ruining his own claustrophobic concept by expanding his vision. Even the wideshots of the coach outside are empty, full of sound and fury but signifying nothing, which makes me wonder why so many critics are applauding that camera choice. I might also add that the pretentious scope comes across as though the movie presents itself as a masterpiece. Which it most certainly is not.

One by one, the characters pile up. We have a full cast, from Kurt Russell (performing with a strange John Wayne swagger) to Samuel L. Jackson (being Samuel L. Jackson), and from Michael Madsen (doing his thing) to Tim Roth (playing an effete Brit, "the Hangman", a part probably intended for Christoph Waltz). Most curiously, we have Jennifer Jason Leigh as a treacherous outlaw, spending the entire film chained to her captor, face perpetually smeared in blood, and the constant recipient of brutal attack. I "understand" the violence against her in terms of the plot. I do. I do not, however, understand the repeated face-punches that Russell's character delivers to her. I also do not understand the laughter such violence elicited from the men in the audience around me. Sure, its shock value is undeniable, but laughter?

Now before you attempt to reenact "The Hangman" and (spoiler alert) lynch me like Jennifer Jason Leigh, let's get a few things straight. I am generally fine with Tarantino's penchant for movies featuring an underdog getting ultra-violent revenge; I may not clamor for more, but I can appreciate his style and his sentiments for what they are. But this film is not a revenge narrative. Not really. Rather, it's an excuse for a bunch of men to get together and toss around vicious slurs with no merit, little purpose, and bad payoffs. It's an excuse to paint the main woman in the film as a villain, chain her up, torment and torture her, and ultimately hang her, all while calling her a "bitch." In fact, I challenge you to time all the deaths in the film. Hers is the only one that takes longer to see, as the camera lingers pornographically on first her bloodied, prostrate frame and then on her wide eyes as she is slowly strangled from the rafters. Hers is the only death in the film that is not only witnessed by the camera, but celebrated. And if you think I'm being oversensitive, check out the only other two women in the film: Both are black, kind and hospitable and endearing, and both are coldly murdered after just a few minutes of screen time.

Still not convinced that this movie is ugly? Let's try the racial slurs that fly around like the snow outside. At least Django Unchained had historical and dramatic reasons for its incessant use of "nigger", and at least the leading black character in that story enacted revenge on the evil white slaveowners. I already knew Tarantino loved that word almost as much as blood, but I wasn't prepared for its tedious and provocative use here. I was also unprepared for Tarantino's lazy and crude flourish before intermission, when Jackson's character recalls, with perverted relish, capturing, raping, and murdering a white man who is revealed to be the son of another one of the so-called hateful eight/nine (being Bruce Dern's character, a former Confederate general). The story, whether true or untrue, serves its purpose in leading to the general's death.

But it's an oddly childish scene, with two stellar actors tossing insults at each other like snowballs. Jackson's lengthy monologue describing his prodigious penis is both stupid and unnerving to hear and to contemplate. Jackson's manic and watery eyes bulge and shimmer while Bruce Dern looks on in horror, and meanwhile I was yawning. It was, like the rape scene in Pulp Fiction, an obvious and lackluster attempt by Tarantino to make us wonder, "Wow, I can't believe we're going there," and applaud the director's use of taboo. But what it also does is perpetuate that very taboo. It creates a spectacle out of a tragedy, simply for audience reaction. It strips away any guise of historical accuracy or political commentary from that moment, and reveals the man behind the curtain: Tarantino, self-appointed knight in white, who sweeps in from a place of privilege to rescue the bitch and nigger and faggot from their weaknesses and then display them as trophies, whereby he may further declare himself a friend of the "underdog".

In fact, this film was so insensitive and ironic, that I'm questioning almost all of Tarantino's declared solidarity with oppressed people. Sure, some of his movies are revenge flicks of women, Jews, and American slaves; but I'm wondering what's really at work in them, if this new vision is a culmination of their disparate messages. For the first time in a Tarantino film, I don't see any moral framework whatsoever. I don't see any justification, causation, or even merit to the evils at work. Instead, I see a gleeful pit of vipers, slithering over each other as they bite, wallowing in the venom and the gore, and ultimately crying out not for compassion but for still more violence.

Ultimately, this film is little more than a dare. A cruel dare made by a man who feels impervious to criticism. He is daring us to hate this film. He is daring us to declare our hate, and then wallow in it while his hardcore fans will no doubt object to criticisms like mine with a simple, "Of course it's an ugly movie, just look at the title! Hateful!" As if, as long as the production team admits its ideological faults, it's okay to put trash onscreen. As if being offended by that trash makes us prudish. As if we should either get off on these images of gore and filth or challenge him and all he declares to be righteous. In fact, as I begin to glimpse that man behind the curtain, I suspect that his much-lauded style of lavish sensation is little more than just that. That his only goal in filmmaking is sensation. I suspect that his years of identifying with underdogs and minorities and outsiders is little more than a ploy to get acclaim and praise for the same trash he'd be making anyway.

I don't see Leigh, in this movie, as a strong female role in a man's movie, holding her own and fighting back; I see Tarantino holding a misogynist leash and pretending that the woman on the end is a trophy. I don't see Jackson here as an ironic counterpoint to our cultural discussion on racism; I see Tarantino in blackface using language that he has no business using. Tarantino is daring me to hate The Hateful Eight. I don't. But I don't have to like it.

P.S. There are elements of the film I do like. Channing Tatum in the wild west is one. Ennio Morricone's fabulous score is another. And frankly, some of Tarantino's dialogue is one. My issue with that last one comes in when we don't have, for example, Christoph Waltz and his icy, ironic eloquence to deliver it. It also comes in when Tarantino himself thinks his dialogue is the best ever when, actually, it's not. He should read some O'Neill if he wants to do another long day's journey like this.

IMDb: The Hateful Eight

Magic Mike XXL (2015)

Score: 4 / 5

They're back! In an era of high-flying superhero movies, it's nice to see one as down-to-earth and unpretentious as our friendly neighborhood stripper. I confess to being more than a little worried that a sequel was going to crash and burn, especially since this round isn't helmed by Steven Soderbergh or aided by Matthew McConaughey. But Magic Mike XXL is so well-crafted that it barely feels like a sequel at all. I mean, structurally, it's obviously a sequel; tonally, though, it feels more like a companion piece. And in many ways, this film works overtime to complete the circle its predecessor started.

The first thing you need to know is that this film is much funnier than the first. We don't need to slog through a trivial love-interest plotline, and we don't need to establish introductions for everyone. Instead, we get some one-on-one time with our guys, and the actors finally get a chance to develop actual characters, beyond their chiseled bodies. Whereas in the first film they simply danced on stage and relaxed backstage, here we see them as real people, interacting with each other and navigating their sordid lives. Their performances, especially Joe Manganiello and Matt Bomer, are fully realized, and exhibit some detailed work I would never have expected. We also, yes, see them dancing a lot -- perhaps even more than before -- and frankly the dancing here is also better than before. It's probably nothing to fans of the Step Up series and its ilk, but I wouldn't know about that.

We have some new additions this time around, and all are more than welcome. Jada Pinkett Smith slides into her role with a sultry comfort that fits perfectly. Her strength and assertion is exactly what we need in a film of dancing men, and her presence also marks a welcome image of an independent, savvy woman as well as a black woman in this world of mostly white men. There is an extended sequence in her private stripper/sex club where we see mostly black entertainers and a mostly black audience performing in ways we could hardly have imagined from the first film. Along with Smith, we have Donald Glover as a singer/rapper/pseudo-stripper (?) who pops in mostly for spectacle. But his joining the team signifies the main turning point, wherein the guys decide to let their dreams shine through their twerk. I mean work. Cheesy, maybe, but hardly ineffective in continuing to cultivate our affections for them.

This movie goes a bit overboard with spectacle. We have stripping, dancing, singing, rapping, fabulous lighting effects, and camerawork that looks like Soderbergh's brainchild (indeed, director Gregory Jacobs has worked extensively with Soderbergh, and was his first assistant on Magic Mike). As a companion piece, this film succeeds admirably, going overboard with "money shots" (beg pardon) in every scene, whereas the first kept us guessing and hungry for more. This film may lack Soderbergh's seasoned grace, intricate pacing, and calculated plans, but it elaborates a lot of ideas Soderbergh conspicuously left out of his film and gives us the raucous entertainment we all expected last time. In short, it is indeed an "XXL" Magic Mike, and these guys command all our attention and dollar bills.

IMDb: Magic Mike XXL

Magic Mike (2012)

Score: 4 / 5

I just love this movie. And I'd be lying if I said it wasn't for prurient reasons. But those aren't the film's only virtues. I may be unpopular for saying this (because for reasons I've never actually heard elaborated, lots of my friends absolutely hate this film, though they seem ignorant of its critical praise), but I think the film is just damn good. Why? Let's get into the meat of things (*squee!*).

First things first: Yes, this is a movie about strippers. So it does carry along the things we'd expect: lots of nudity, sex, naked people, skimpy costumes, and bare skin. I think that about covers it... (or not?). Obviously the film is about sexualized men. And that is the foremost reason that I love it. In our hypersexualized culture -- whose similarly hypersexual male gaze turns us all to the female body -- it's a rare thing to see a mainstream film take this direct look at an objectified male body. Yeah, sure, it's been done before, but not usually to this extent or with such an A-list cast and crew. Is sexual objectification ever a good thing? Is it ever a good thing in the media? My answer: I dunno, but at least some artists (including men; straight men) are trying to level the playing field.

The camera here does unfortunately gaze at women, too. But I think it does so to provide an entry point for a hegemonic audience so accustomed to viewing films through the male gaze. Take the very first two scenes for example. We see the male host/emcee in erotic costume, literally in the spotlight of his stage, addressing the audience of lusting women (and, by proxy, us), talking about what parts of his body they (we!) want to touch. It's a very sly way for the filmmakers to orient their audience. And in scene two, we see our title man waking up very naked next to two very naked women. It's a relatively even distribution of power here, and it is presented in a way to both shock us into nervous laughter and to prepare us for a parade of mostly-naked men (which, again, isn't exactly something we see in most mainstream films). In fact, I bet if Olivia Munn wasn't naked in the first scene, many men would totally check out of the movie after the first eight minutes, having already been exposed to McConaughey's leather-clad self-groping and Channing Tatum's very naked rear end. I remember sitting in the theater and hearing at least two guys groan, as if thinking, "What the hell are we doing here?"

Director Steven Soderbergh masterfully helms this film as a sort of documentary, taking in many shots with a wide, distant eye, allowing for greater performances and timing. He juxtaposes these sequences with striking closeups on faces -- or, more usually, sides of faces -- to remind us of the reality of these people and the intimacy with which we are seeing their candid lives offstage. Soderbergh uses his typical style to elevate what could be salacious, soapy, or even campy material to a level of tension, realism, and even sometimes raw art. That may sound like a stretch, but when you consider other movies about strippers or sex workers (I'm thinking of Burlesque and The Full Monty, and even as popular as Pretty Woman), we see a lot of camp (i.e., a lot of style and charade without much dramatic substance), and not much else. But here, we see a form of reality.

That's not to say it's not entrancing. One of Soderbergh's more recognizable techniques (remember Traffic??) is his use of colored lenses to set certain scenes or characters apart. He uses this here, but more in contrast to the stark realism of some of the more mundane scenes. Obviously, the club and party scenes have a particular type of lighting by design, but Soderbergh alters lighting other times (most noticeably, bright reds and heavy blues) to create a hypnotic sensation to accompany the tumultuous drama onscreen.

By seeing a "form of reality", I mean a lot of things. The dialogue is awkward and stilted, which feels more honest in this film than it does in a lot of poetic dramatic pictures (yes, even Oscar winners). I'm not saying it's better or worse, but it does feel unusually true here, whatever that may mean. I also mean that the awkward dialogue, the awkward sexual encounters, and the awkward relationships depicted here provide a ton of room for laughs. Yes, it's sometimes forced, sometimes nervous, but it all works together to keep the otherwise weighty story light and kinetic (don't believe me? Just read the movie's tagline: "Work all day. Work it all night." Genius.). I also mean that we don't see a sensational, stylish, and fabulous sexed-up lifestyle as pure, fulfilling, or even always easy or enjoyable. For better or worse, this movie isn't a celebration of liberated young people and their sexual proclivities. It's about newfound celebrity, the dangers and pressures that come with riches and fame, balancing the demands of home and love and work, and the pursuit of our dreams. Yes, by the third act this movie becomes a cautionary tale about drugs and money (ugh!), but is that a bad thing, exactly? I would hazard not.

The other really great things about this film are Channing Tatum and Matthew McConaughey. I mean, the other stripper men are pretty great, they're just not on screen much (except for Alex Pettyfer, who is charming but not quite able to match the energy of his counterparts). The other players in the film aren't so great, especially not the "love interest", if that's what she is, played by Cody Horn; she looks completely inept before the camera and recites her lines like a child reading them from a cue card. But McConaughey is wonderful in a bizarre mix of raucous comedy and nuanced drama. He plays Dallas, the mad owner/host/emcee/playboy of his club, and it fits both his celebrity persona and age in a way I've never seen before. If you recall his career before 2012, you may remember that this was one of the first times (if not the first time) we saw him actually perform as a honest-to-god artist. And he got some well-deserved Oscar buzz for this role.

Tatum, on the other hand, deserved a hell of a lot more praise than he got. I remember this film as the first time I ever thought anything of Tatum beyond his musculature. He carries the film, and rocks it while he goes. He is mystifying as the man of our dreams, though that is helped along by the script. I mean, Mike is the only dynamic character here. Well, I guess the Kid sort of has a plot arc, but Pettyfer squanders his chance. Poor Tatum has to do most of his scenes opposite Pettyfer or Horn, and the fact that he still shines shows his abilities. My favorite moment of his is in his climax (??) of confronting his (stoic, childish, obnoxious) love interest: I can't tell if it's scripted or not, that's how good he is. And either way, he flies with the moment in all its awkwardness. He shows us that yes, sex workers do have real lives and hopes and dreams and fears. He shows us that showmanship and dancing is about more than good looks and skimpy clothes. And his performance shows us a real modern man, chasing an American dream, and meeting a distinctly bittersweet crossroads by the end.

IMDb: Magic Mike

Jupiter Ascending (2015)

Score: 3 / 5

Science fiction has hit a bit of a roadblock in the last two decades. Nobody really seems to know what it is anymore, in our culture of radically evolving technology, and so most of the mainstream sci-fi flicks have done little more than adapt and expand older franchises. Think of Alien, War of the Worlds, even Star Wars. These may be the staples of the genre, but they have also become the go-to narratives for sci-fi, and so the genre has become conflated with horror, adventure, and even fantasy to such an extent that "sci-fi" as a category can really only be found now in independent films. Sometimes.

Jupiter Ascending is no different. The Wachowskis' newest enterprise feels like a bizarre mash-up of Star Wars concepts and Matrix style, and it flies along at a breathless clip from fight to fight to climactic fight. Its premise is a tad too familiar: sad, hardworking girl is targeted by assassins, hunky hero comes to save her and reveals her true royal identity, and together they fight a vague evil ruler to reclaim the throne and fall in love along the way. Now please excuse me while I gag.

AND YET -- I really liked this movie. Why? Despite its shortcomings in plot and dialogue, its visuals are some of the most striking and beautiful I've seen from a mainstream adventure in years. The costumes are incredible. And (!) the cast: Mila Kunis, Channing Tatum, Eddie Redmayne, Sean Bean. Why wouldn't you want to see a bunch of sexies camping up the galaxy and generally being badass? Oh, and I guess it would be worthwhile to mention that, for how much she is objectified through the film (and by the camera), our heroine also asserts herself as a strong, articulate, and intelligent woman without losing her femininity or sex appeal. That's a tough balance to strike, if we look at the history of female leads in this type of film.

That's really about all I can say about the movie. It's not the smartest adventure we'll see this year, and it doesn't have the bright colors of a Marvel Studios picture. But it has a specific brand of comedy -- a sort of pure entertainment -- that stops it from ever getting dark and morbid. And if you allow the pulsing energy to guide you over the faulty logic and vagaries of the script, I promise you'll walk out smiling. Which, if we're being honest, is also a rarity among our millennial sci-fi adventures.

IMDb: Jupiter Ascending

Foxcatcher (2014)

Score: 5 / 5

Foxcatcher was, for me, the most emotionally brutal film of this year. Director Bennett Miller turns his uniquely intense gaze to the already horrific story of the Schultz brothers' interaction with John du Pont. Besides the actual events of their relationship -- culminating in the brutal murder in 1996 -- Miller's film concerns the dynamics of modern American athletes and coaches, sports and their patrons, men and their rivals, men and their friends, determination and pride, perseverance and mental instability, history and fate, and even wealth and status. For a film with a presumably straightforward premise, Miller complicates his presentation with fifty shades of everything. Typical, if you all remember Capote (2005).

Our three leads soar in this, and though their Oscar recognition might come in second to the more accessible, more emotionally rote films this year, their performances rocked my world. Channing Tatum -- whose acting has always worked for me, so I don't know why lots of high-brow-ers refuse to give him much credit -- delivers a knockout work that must be the dramatic peak of his career so far. Deeply introverted, surly and childlike, his movement work for Mark Schultz is so transformative that I forgot I was watching "Magic Mike" and not a real, cauliflower-eared wrestler. Likewise, Steve Carell disappears into his haunting portrayal of John du Pont (only partly due to his incredible makeup) and proves yet again that comedians can indeed excel in weighty drama. Mark Ruffalo, forever the perfect supporting actor in his chameleonlike ability to embody his character and counter the emotional strength of his scene partners, is a wonderful big brother to Tatum and a suitable unwitting antagonist of sorts between Tatum and Carell.

The du Pont estate, palatial and extravagant, provides ample atmosphere for excess and moral decadence as lines become blurred between pride and power. Du Pont seeks glory from his star Mark Schultz (Tatum), and desires his brother Dave (Ruffalo) to join them. Mark is precariously placed between great favor and great disappointment as he pushes himself to excel on his own terms, until his brother caves to du Pont's pressure and joins the team. As much as Mark needs money and craves success, his financially comfortable brother Dave tries to be a family man. But both end up biting du Pont's greenbacked lure and moving in to the vast Foxcatcher estate, where life turns into a continuous training regimen. The lines between coach and father, brother and rival, professional and personal quickly get erased.

We are presented with a uniquely homosocial environment, and Miller does not shy away from a moment of its implications. Wrestling, an especially intimate sport with no shortage of erotic suggestion, is shown in all its complexity without beating us over the head with its technical intricacies (in other words, this isn't your typical sports film that wastes so much time telling you how the sport works in real life). Instead, wrestling in the film becomes more about what it looks and feels like: an uncomfortable, erotic, and violent power play between two men. Outside the gym walls, the relationships between Mark, Dave, and du Pont is almost no different, as du Pont actively points out when he says multiple times that he wants to be more than a coach to his boys. Du Pont, for all his villainous psychopathy, is due some sympathy as we see him wrestle (ha) with a perceived inconsistency between wealth and success and between family heritage and independent pride. Vanessa Redgrave graces a few scenes as the primary vehicle for du Pont's problems, his disappointed mother, who expresses her disdain for the "low sport" and her fierce pride in family heritage over her own son.

I could wax effusive for hours, but don't just take my word for it. Go see it, and don't spend your strength right away -- you'll need it for round three.

IMDb: Foxcatcher

The Book of Life (2014)

Score: 2.5 / 5

In case you couldn't tell from the posters or trailers, The Book of Life looks incredible. Its visual design is some of the most intricate I've ever seen in animation, and it dazzles for most of its ninety-something-minute run. The characters, costumes, and decorations are so beautifully crafted that I constantly wanted to reach out and touch them -- and I didn't even see it in 3D!

Unfortunately, not much else in the film compares to its visuals. It's just a predictable, rehashed Orpheus tale of hetero romantic competition, lost love (in an idealized female figure), and brave heroism (in two idealized male figures). While I liked the film's bias in favor of the more artistic man in the love triangle (voiced by Diego Luna), each of the three leads is so heavily clichéd that they don't win over my sympathies. Channing Tatum voices the more athletic man with exceptional humor and intelligence that saves his character from utter ruin, and Zoe Saldana voices the lead woman with spunk and charm. The real character gems in this film are in its three deities: La Muerte (Kate del Castillo), Xibalba (Ron Perlman), and the Candle Maker (Ice Cube). Their performances are fine, their design is out of this world, and frankly I had more interest in their characters than in the humans.

The film's great visuals are sacrificed, sadly, by speedy pace and frantic editing. Rather than using long shots (in which, people seem to forget, a lot can happen, especially when everything on-screen is animated!), first-time director Jorge Gutierrez uses quick shots overloaded with kinetic energy and colors in which we can barely recognize what we see, let alone appreciate it. I think the film would have been better served had he allowed the stunning animation and vibrant atmosphere to envelop us on its own, rather than shoving the material at us and then pushing us along with it.

I expect that Gutierrez and his team hurried the shots to match the quick pace of the film. For a journey that spans three worlds (the land of the living, the Land of the Remembered, and the Land of the Forgotten), the film moves at breakneck speed, presumably to keep younger children totally engaged for an hour and a half. A lot of the comedy -- like the visuals -- was wasted on me, because it is both too quick and too simple. Many moments felt like they came from cheap animated television shows due to the silly nature of the humor and the awkward expressions or movements of the characters.

My final reaction to the film is one of mild disappointment. An animated feature film to celebrate the Day of the Dead seemed like such a fresh idea and a great opportunity for children (especially amidst the immigration debates of our country right now) to understand and appreciate the beauty in non-white-American cultures. While The Book of Life may yet accomplish that, I worry that the film misrepresents the culture and holiday it depicts by making the material so modern and, well, white; it subtly reinforces cultural appropriation, and I'm not sure its messages of tolerance or education are strong enough to overcome that. A few times characters break out into song, but they sing contemporary songs and use modern American vernacular, which completely shatters any fantastic illusion provided by the visuals. Finally, the last two minutes of the film are probably its best, as the three deities share lessons for us all which are really important. But I wasn't convinced by them because they felt tacked on and superficial; if you're going to put a concise, explicit moral at the end of your movie, the rest of the film needs to work hard enough to sell it. I'm not sure this one did.

IMDb: The Book of Life