Avatar: Fire and Ash (2025)

Score: 3 / 5

Another venture to Pandora leaves us elated at Cameron's mastery over visual splendor. While those hankering for more narrative meat to chew in this franchise will be left wanting, Fire and Ash, the third entry in this laughably expensive series mostly recycles the elements established in its watery predecessor. Between an ironically chilling new villain and a story slightly less plagiarized than the two first ones, this film hits similar beats while allowing Cameron's imagined world to breathe and maintain its pace. Some new elements are inspired, so it's not a totally dull retread, but one wishes for imagination to match spectacle here.

Shortly after the events of The Way of Water, Ishmael -- ope, pardon -- Jake Sully and his family are settling in to their new home among the Metkayina, Na'vi who live on oceanic reefs and have adapted to a mostly aquatic life. Jake (Sam Worthington) and Neytiri (Zoe Saldana) are at odds, as the latter has developed an intense, murderous hatred of humans. As the threat of violent encroachment will likely never end, the family must decide what to do with Spider, a rather feral (and obnoxious) human boy who has been semi-adopted by the Na'vi family. Sending him away to live with other humans at the scientist encampment only works until their convoy is attacked by other Na'vi: a rival clan of violent heretics called the Mangkwan. 

Apparently having renounced the nature-god of Pandora, Eywa, the Mangkwan live a somewhat tortured life in no-man's land near an active volcano. Ash and charcoal are their color palettes, and they raid other Na'vi tribes aggressively. They are led by Varang (a hauntingly effective Oona Chaplin), a sort of loose cannon whose mystique is laced with sociopathy. Scattered by the attack, the Sully family struggles to handle a compounded threat when Varang begins to work with the humans in an effort to wipe out Pandora's resistance to colonization and industrialization. Conveniently, this leads almost immediately to Spider being "accepted" by Eywa, and infected with mycelium, so that he can now breathe freely on Pandora. 

Ugh, I know.

From this point, the film loops back into annoyingly familiar terrain -- narratively -- and squanders some promising opportunities hinted at then fully ignored. I like Fern Gully and Pocahontas as much as the next guy, and Moby-Dick as much as the next gay, but we don't need yet another grossly lengthy film dramatizing the same basic story with the same basic moves. Matt Reeves's Planet of the Apes series should have been cited as an inspiration for Cameron in this regard. Especially seeing that the screenplay was basically written by committee (five credited writers, no less), and produced and distributed by the entertainment-industrial complex that is Disney, it's shocking that there is so little attention paid to decent dialogue, pacing, and thematic conceit. The scenes with Spider and the other kids are the worst, still repeating bizarre colloquialisms ad nauseam in every single scene they tumble through. Yeah, bro, you know it, bro!

It doesn't help, I should note, that this film doesn't entirely feel like its own film. Rumor has it that this was intended to be a continuous story from the previous film, so I'd recommend a rewatch of that before this. Most of the characters aren't (re)introduced, so if you don't remember what Edie Falco and her team of weird humans (including Giovanni Ribisi and Jermaine Clement) are up to, you're shit out of luck this time. Additionally, there's the added complications of who is actually an avatar these days; Jake Sully is fully embodied, of course, and Kiri contains the spirit of Dr. Grace Augustine (Sigourney Weaver, who I love, but we can all agree that her voicing a child is weird, especially when she develops affections for her adoptive brother), and Quaritch (Stephen Lang) is still alive but also locked in an avatar body. I don't know, but I do think we've lost the plot a bit when it comes to the damn title.

Scenes with the whales (and their unbearable subtitles) are much worse in this film than the last, perhaps because the awe is gone. There's a montage late in this film of the whales in meetings that is so outrageously silly and dramatically inert that I almost completely checked out of the film. For something so profoundly cool to see on screen, the atrocious dialogue and frankly cartoonish sign language these CGI critters are forced to enact ruin the magic. I also think the editing is significantly poorer in this film than even in the last, though that's also partly due to the screenplay; we often go for extended stretches of time, even in battle sequences, only following a character or two. Granted, there are a lot of characters to keep track of here, but the editing (also apparently accomplished by committee: six credited editors!) seems hellbent on deliberately obfuscating. 

The elements with Varang and her tribe, however, are what I've wanted from this series since the first film. The Na'vi have such an interesting relationship with their god, their environment, and each other, and even back in 2009 we were given a glimpse of the shamanistic theocracy of their culture. The Mangkwan take this to its inverse extreme: they're presented as a Mansonesque cult of unhinged, gleeful violence. While I remain annoyed that Quaritch takes the spotlight in this film, making Varang a sort of minion not long after she's introduced, even her presence helps the film feel more interesting than it should. And it's a shame, because Cameron has introduced us to very strong female characters -- heroes and villains -- before in his career, and nobody can say Saldana's performance in the previous two films isn't one of the best parts of this franchise. 

Just like nobody can fault these films for sheer awesome spectacle. Frankly, I'd love to watch these films just as they are but without dialogue. Sure, we'd still see the repeated climactic battle and the follies of the invading humans, who never fail to underestimate the whales' destructive capabilities. We'd still see repeated raids and captures of children and those pinkish tentacles in their hair having sex with other creatures. We'd still get the rousing music and immersive sound effects, but at least we could come up with our own damn dialogue. 

I don't like just shitting on a movie -- and truth be told, this was a very fun time at the cinema -- so I'll add my own spin here. This movie could have been so much better had we focused wholly on Varang. Perhaps including a story about Jake or even Neytiri trying to find their way forward and getting seduced into this cult, even as the supposedly salvific Spider continues on his way to the humans (which could then lead into the inevitable fourth film). We could have even started with the humans, including the terrifying scene where she decides her people need guns for maximal killing prowess. 

I'm Thinking of Ending Things (2020)

 Score: 4 / 5

"I'm thinking of ending things," the narrator repeats several times in the opening scene. The narrator is also the main character, played by Jessie Buckley, and she's sitting in a moving car. Amidst her not-quite stream of consciousness, including memory and hope, judgment and suggestion, her voiceover feels at once sad, bored, wistful. "I'm thinking of ending things," she repeats, seemingly contemplating dumping her boyfriend of six weeks, Jake, the man driving the car. He's taking her to meet his parents for the first time. On a farm. In a blizzard. It's not ideal. I'd think about ending things too, though by this point it's surely a little too late.

"I'm thinking of ending things," she says, framed by the window of the car and underscored by the sound effects of a whistling wind. The lengthy opening scene is entirely within the car. So is the third major movement of the film, when Jake and our narrator leave his parents' farm. These people spend a lot of time in the car and, thematically, get absolutely nowhere. They're trapped in the world of the film and by the film itself; the movie is shot in a tight 4:3 aspect ratio that feels unwelcome and uncomfortable in our days of big-ass-tv digital screenings. Her entrapment in these frames suggests another, darker meaning to her gerund thoughts: suicide. It helps that most of the shots are from outside the car windows, with the whistling wind and thick snowfall. It makes it that much harder to see their faces and hear their voices, which are the only things worth trying to see clearly. In fact, the first we see of the pair is the clearest we see them, in many ways. Things only get more cloudy, more strange from here.

"I'm thinking of ending things," but who is she? We never really know. Her name is, initially, Lucy, but it apparently changes when other people call her other names like Ames and Yvonne and she doesn't correct them. As Jake introduces her to his parents and their conversation develops, details of her life change from sentence to sentence, including how they met, her job, her past. She quotes poetry at length and, in one incredible scene I had to pause during to reference-check, imitates Pauline Kael while quoting her review of A Woman Under the Influence (a film in which that woman attempts suicide) as if she herself is creating the monologue. And she's not alone in this. Jake, played by Jesse Plemons, is apparently such a vapid man that he has essentially no character. Almost everything he says is a reference, a quote, or something he clearly lifted from another source.

Not long after they get to the farm and meet Jake's parents (played by Toni Collette and David Thewlis), the film teeters close to psychological horror. In this haunted house of Americana, each time the parents -- who very much seem to have missed the memo they'd be receiving visitors -- leave the room and return, they jump to a different time in their lives. From dewy-eyed newlyweds to a couple on their deathbed, their aging follow no linear logic. By the time Jake and his girlfriend leave into a night repeatedly referred to as treacherous, we're fully engaged in an organized nightmare; the problem is, we have no access to the organization of it.

And that's really writer/director Charlie Kaufman's modus operandi. But unlike his other films, i'm thinking of ending things is almost inaccessible in its opaque artistry, its tedious dialogue that would require a reference appendix, its bizarre obsession with -- typical for the creator -- an utterly unlikable and deeply introverted man in the throes of agony simply because he's alive and can't cope. Here, I'd argue (based on the conclusion, which I'd rather not spoil but may need to), his main character is in fact much more fascinating than in Being John Malkovich or Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, for example, but then we'd have to discuss the issue of dramatizing mental illness in this way and with this very specific ending. It just gave me the willies, and not in a juicy frisson but in a guilt-ridden way. "I'm thinking of ending things" might be Kaufman's way of trying to end our understanding of his movies.

Of course, I'm sure a repeat viewing would help, especially now that I have a few notes of specific references these characters make. Frankly, I'm not sure I want to watch this hypnotic, bewildering movie again any time soon. It certainly doesn't help that it premiered on Netflix; this kind of experience needs to be seen in a blackened auditorium with absolutely no distractions. Netflix fare has to compete with all manner of food, cell phone conversations, family members interjecting, bathroom breaks ad nauseam, and to combat the soporific comfort of a viewer's bed or sofa and ambient lighting. I'd be surprised if this movie garners many fans, much like the beautiful and haunting I Am the Pretty Thing That Lives in the House. Then again, Kaufman's work here is clearly a labor of love, and one that manages, despite its unfathomable ambiguities, to carry us along with it by sheer virtue of his control of the craft.

If you've seen it, or read the novel on which it is loosely based, let's have a conversation about it. I'm not at all convinced my interpretation holds all of the water. I'm not sure any interpretation would. I guess that's good, but it's also dreadfully dull in context of this movie. I guess I'd rather end things too.

Wonder Woman (2017)

Score: 5 / 5

People are saying it's the best DC movie. Some are hailing it as the best superhero movie ever made. Certainly it's one of the best I've ever seen, and I'm not even a big DC fan. Actually, I knew exactly nothing about Wonder Woman before I saw this film, other than that she was in Batman v Superman long enough to save the boys. With just that bit to go on, I wasn't expecting much. I've thoroughly enjoyed the other DC films, even when I can't defend their merit as movies, so why would Wonder Woman be any different?

Maybe because it's just so well written. Writer Allan Heinberg (creator of Marvel heroes Wiccan and Hulkling, just so you know how much I like Heinberg!) shapes a magnificent origin story of epic scale. He handles heavy exposition -- gods and creation and Amazons and war -- remarkably well in a dense script that takes massive shifts from character-building and thematic concerns to fierce action. Not a single scene is superficial or unnecessary. He marries the dialogue to the action by keeping everything grounded in a focused story, and even moments that in other films would be pure spectacle or entertainment are here essential to understanding character and theme. An example? Okay, during the climactic battle between Diana and Ares -- the time when, in other DC films, buildings start collapsing and there's so much dust you can barely see the action -- the violence showcases Diana's resourcefulness and perseverance in the face of raw power. Concurrently, the dialogue between the two characters and Gal Gadot's performance highlight the revelation that she, not a sword, is the "Godkiller" and that her life has been leading to this moment. It's a powerful sequence, all the more so because it defies our expectations: She doesn't learn the truth of herself in the quiet before the storm and then go kick ass. She kicks ass, comes into her own, and then saves the day. It's a minute difference, but an important one.

My only complaint is that the film is structured as a flashback; we've already seen Diana in the present day, so why are we shooting her looking fabulous in Paris as she receives the original photo of her in World War I? It felt silly and fake to me. I had a similar reaction to the way Captain America: The First Avenger was structured; now that I think on it, it's a very similar movie. But then, Gadot's costume is on point in that opening scene, so we'll move on.

The other key player here is director Patty Jenkins (2003's Monster). She films the proceedings (which span the many genres of action, war, history, superhero, and fantasy) with a distinctive flair that repeatedly defies conventions. More importantly, she forces us to pay close attention and to think. The beauty of her work is twofold, as the big-picture drama is glorious to behold and the showstopping details are enthralling to catch. She doesn't tell you what to watch for or expect and then follow through; she tells a rich and complex visual story with each individual shot. She paints the screen in such a way that your eye is forced to travel. That is masterful storytelling.

I'd compare her directorial style in that way to Peter Jackson's in The Lord of the Rings. Each shot is a carefully calculated story in its own right. Whether it's the longer, dramatic scenes that keep us riveted and bouncing from character to character or the intelligent kinetic energy of battle, Jenkins knows how to isolate the important images and promote her themes. The beachside battle between German soldiers and the Amazon warriors is an excellent example of this, where we see spectacularly unique action that also serves the story and the world Jenkins is creating. That's what made Jackson so successful in Rings. Later when the action revs up in Europe, it continues to make sense. We never feel lost or confused about what we're seeing. We care about the people in each shot. There's not so much apocalyptic dust or frenzied editing that we can't tell what's happening.

What else can we say? Beauty is woven into the film through its costumes, locations, effects, and performances. No less beautiful are themes of perseverance, honor, trust, and love. The film is a damning critique of fragile white masculinity, as Diana navigates a world of warmongering men and a dishonorable culture of sexist double standards. Especially noteworthy are the scenes between Gal Gadot and Chris Pine, where their banter steals the movie and highlights the unnecessary nature of men in "pleasures of the flesh" and their otherwise "average" physique. I found it unfortunate, though, that a film with such progressive messages would stoop to such lows as having a physically disfigured villain (ugliness = evil?) and caricaturing races in our heroes' strike team. Similarly I was hoping that, considering the Girl Power basis and an island of Amazons, we might see a bit of queer rhetoric if not outright queer characters, but the film repeatedly reinforces heterosexuality as the name of the game. Still, it's a far better venture into metahuman territory than I was expecting, and easily one of the best movies of the year.

IMDb: Wonder Woman

Macbeth (2015)

Score: 2 / 5

Confession: If you start your movie with a child burning on a pyre (or, for that matter, getting mashed to a pulpy skin cream, a la The Witch), I'm definitely going to watch. I'll probably like.

And like Macbeth I most certainly do. It's a nightmarish descent into the psychological depths of what might be Shakespeare's darkest play. Not unlike the Fiennes film Coriolanus (my favorite Bard adaptation by far), this Scottish play/movie works best in its visuals and physicality. It gets us inside the world it presents. The production designers and art directors deserve most of the praise for their incredibly detailed work on this film, and cinematographer Adam Arkapaw (True Detective, Top of the Lake) presents us with a vibrant, dreamlike approach to the bleak atmosphere of war-torn Scotland highlands. I'd compare his technique to that of Nicolas Winding Refn (Valhalla Rising, Only God Forgives) in its stylized poetics as well as its bloody realism. Beautiful and haunting, this vision of hell won't let you look away until after the crimson-lit climactic battle. Light thickens, as Mac would say.

But as a piece of Shakespeare, this movie is no more than disappointing for me. It holds so little of the original dialogue that half of the scenes barely make sense, and that's saying a lot, considering that this is one of the Bard's shortest plays. It's almost as though director Justin Kurzel and his writing team used a search engine to find the most familiar lines in the show and then strung them together piece by piece, weaving together their own story in the gaps. And before you roll your eyes at my purist leanings, consider the almost absent issue in the play of Mac's childlessness. It's almost disturbingly absent in the play, which is what makes his "tomorrow" speech, or his wife's "I have given suck" moment so mysterious and suggestive. But in this film, we start with the death of their child, we see a young man die in battle who later reappears to haunt Mac, and Lady Mac's climactic "sleepwalk" scene is reworked into a strange sort of confession in a church where she's doused with pale white light as if emphasizing her barren nature.

And that is just one example of a rabbit-trail theme in this movie. There are some gems,though, perhaps the best being Macbeth's apparent PTSD as he groans that his mind is full of scorpions through gritted teeth and vein-bulging expression. And maybe I'm being too picky. I just don't really know why you would do a Shakespeare adaptation, and then not use your greatest tool: the language! If you wanted to do a surreal or metaphysical version, why not take out all the dialogue? That would be a trip, which would be totally appropriate for this movie. Who needs dialogue when you could see the visions Mac and his wife describe so beautifully? Maybe that film will happen some day. I'm down. But here, the visceral visuals serve only to pump up the experience of the play, rather than taking the reins entirely, and so the lacking dialogue and plot results in failure to remind us of why this story is so haunting and memorable at all. 

And -- this is totally personal preference -- the wickedly thick accents actually hinder the clarity of the words and the already murky motivations (a result of the butchered script). Kurzel seems to have coached his actors on delivering the lines in conversational and naturalistic tones, and that totally stops the drama from moving, much less lifting off. I've almost never been so bored with the Bard. After MacB slays Duncan's guards and declares as much to the others, one of them stares at him, completely deadpan, and slowly and flatly intones, "Wherefore did you so?" It's laughably dull, and doesn't make sense. I suppose it would if the movie had a faster pace or if the visuals were consistently over-the-top. But it doesn't, and they don't, and what we have instead is a bizarre combination of the two extremes. If the visuals are operatic, shouldn't the performances be, too? I think so.

This just felt half-assed and unsure of its focus, leacing us with a confused mishmash of sight and sound and fury that ultimately signifies little more than the thick fog rolling across the battlefield. Turn, hellhound.

IMDb: Macbeth

The Theory of Everything (2014)

Score: 5 / 5

Maybe a 5 is a bit high, but I was too surprised and pleased with this movie to go much lower. As a biopic, it's exceptional. As a romance, it's phenomenal. And as a thematic exercise, it's a masterpiece.
In short, The Theory of Everything is everything.

Eddie Redmayne is transcendent as our celebrated theorist and physicist. After the first few scenes, I completely forgot that it was Redmayne and not Stephen Hawking himself on screen. Redmayne's physical work is truly incredible; even while I was watching it, I had difficulty holding back tears as his motor neuron disease progressed, so convincing was his performed loss-of-control. Felicity Jones counters Redmayne's every move as his astoundingly brave and loving wife, complete with personal moments of fear, doubt, and revelation.

Besides the stellar acting, the film surprised me in its fresh and complicated romance. This movie is first and foremost a love story, and it is most extraordinary for not being a tragedy. Though Hawking's disease might make this seem to have a wrote ending (I didn't even watch The Fault in Our Stars for that reason), it repeatedly counters that narrative. Though Jane (Felicity Jones) ultimately separates from Hawking, it is apparently a mutual decision and one that ultimately increases the love between several people.

And I said above that this is a love story: Besides the expected monogamous, hetero relationship, the love story also comes from the community. Time and again we see Hawking's friends, teachers, family, and even strangers show amazing love and generosity to each other. That's a really unusual spin for a modern drama. At one point, Hawking's old school friends are partying with him, and when they come to a large flight of stairs, one of the friends almost effortlessly picks him up and carries him, without any obligation or resentment, and continues an intimate conversation while walking. It's so beautiful, I sobbed (something I did about every other scene). Charlie Cox enters as Jane's future love interest, but rather than vying for attention or romance, his character humbles himself to become essentially Hawking's maid, caring for him and providing support for his family. It's a shockingly fresh and beautiful take on a very complicated relationship. David Thewlis, Emily Watson, and Simon McBurney round out the supporting cast with charm and grace.

Director James Marsh controls the film with striking and haunting emotional beats, forcing us to watch characters make impossible choices and struggle with their romantic desires. I smiled so much in this movie that my face hurt halfway through, because we get every single nuance of flirtation, affection, and passion. That's also partly due to the articulate and reserved script (Anthony McCarten) and the vibrant colors and intimate close-ups (Benoit Delhomme, 1408, A Most Wanted Man).

Do yourself a favor and go see this one. It's a profound look at love, life, and the people around us. It will make you cry, but I promise, the tears come from a place of light and joy.

IMDb: The Theory of Everything

Harry Potter 3 & 4

Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (2004)
Score: 5 / 5

Alfonso Cuarón's sole (and priceless) directorial contribution to the wizarding world of Harry Potter is also one of my favorites in the franchise. His vision is so effective because, while he changes a lot of elements from the previous films, he imbues Prisoner of Azkaban with dynamic artistic identity lacking in Columbus's installments. Cuarón presents a masterclass in the grotesque, featuring campy characters and moments that feel perfect for Rowling's complicated world. But he also allows Harry, Ron, and Hermione -- now firmly in the throes of pubescent angst -- freer reign and has obviously worked with them a lot in perfecting their brave performances.

Besides our young leads, most of the supporting cast perform in a fresh way, changing their approach to one fascinated with the bizarre and uncanny. This, of course, may be most clearly seen in the first twenty minutes (ignoring the silly slip wherein Harry is casting spells at home), from Aunt Marge's freak-show turn and the Dursley household mania to the Knight Bus and its three wacky crew members. At Hogwarts, the melodramatic Fat Lady and even Hagrid (Robbie Coltrane) continue the reminders that Harry's world is not only wondrous and beautiful, but edgy and ambiguous. Alan Rickman fronts the darker side of this film, in his most deliciously sinister Snape performance yet.

Our new Dumbledore, brilliantly brought to life by Michael Gambon, is the best thing to happen to the Harry Potter films. He not only gives a stellar performance, but he perfectly embodies the changes Cuarón seeks to make in the series. Gambon subtly camps his role (which was reportedly offered to Peter O'Toole, Christopher Lee, Ian McKellan, and Richard Attenborough) and emanates much-needed vigor. He is accompanied by a startling and delightful Emma Thompson as the effectively bug-eyed Trelawney. Warwick Davis, as Flitwick, is happily much younger (and sports a disturbingly funny moustache), and directs a choir because he's weird like that. Robert Hardy returns as Cornelius Fudge in a greater capacity and performance than in the previous film. Other new (all excellent) additions include David Thewlis as a sweet and bright Lupin, Gary Oldman as a captivating Sirius Black, and Timothy Spall as a sputtering Peter Pettigrew.

John Williams's score (his last in the franchise) is lovely, as he cleverly alters his own themes into darker, more complex patterns. Jany Temime steps in as a new costumer (and remains for all subsequent films) and thankfully allows the students to wear street clothes on their days off. Their characterizations come through much more clearly, as some even change their uniforms to reflect their attitudes; this holds true for Temime's other costumes, as we see on Stan Shunpike, but Dumbledore's soft purple robes take the prize. Cuarón, known for his eye for visuals and longshots, gives a spectacularly wide lens to highlight the actors' performances and beautiful sets with uninterrupted shots. Fluid camera movements connect dramatically to the story and atmosphere, and travel from old to new sets with infectious energy. Perhaps the greatest new set, the clock tower and its courtyard feature prominently, and the camera emphasizes its thematic power in travelling shots that pass also onto the rickety wooden bridge and stone circle beyond.

The script is especially strong here; though the dialogue occasionally falters, the pacing and dramatic focus are remarkable. Cuarón, known for his expert control of a film's style, loads Prisoner with so much thematic imagery and symbolism that it sometimes feels impossibly complex. The stone circle (a sundial), clock tower, Time-Turner, and musical ticking patterns provoke audiences to ponder the magical mystery of time. References to the Scottish Play also abound, and help connect Rowling's world to the mythology of Britain with grace and style. Before we move on, I want to mention one of the film's most haunting moments of dialogue. The Weasley twins chide Ron for calling Harry "peaky" after falling off his broomstick, and offer to throw him off the Astronomy Tower to see how he'd look; that, of course, is how Dumbledore ultimately meets his end. Even this unintentional moment (as the sixth book had not yet been published) shows how Prisoner's aesthetic of dark humor and gothic camp works.

The creature design elements also work exceptionally well here. Buckbeak is especially well-crafted, as far as movie monsters go. The dementors have received various degrees of criticism, but I really like them. If filmed as per Rowling's description, they would have felt too much like Peter Jackson's Ringwraiths. Instead, Cuarón takes his inspiration from Rowling's descriptions of their effect rather than appearance, and allows us to see them as the witches and wizards do. This sensory presence is infinitely more effective. Similarly, the Shrieking Shack set is incredibly complicated, in its effectively psychedelic movements.

Finally, the last forty minutes are some of my favorite in any film, period; it is by far my favorite werewolf sequence. In a combination of heavily thematic atmosphere, homages to classic horror and fantasy, and terrifyingly excellent filmmaking, the sequence from Hermione punching Draco right through Black's rescue from atop the Dark Tower is perfect. Besides the writers and director, props must be given to the heroic editor here as well. I could go on for days about every moment in this enormous sequence, but I'd like to discuss the werewolf design. Like the dementors, it has received a lot of criticism, but there's no denying its unique, haunting appearance. It seems that its designers were inspired by Rowling's intentions for the character, which for me makes this manifestation superior to her own description in the book. Emaciated and hairless, we see the humanity as well as the monstrosity of Lupin's two sides. Lycanthropy, for Rowling (as she has stated on Pottermore), "was a metaphor for those illnesses that carry a stigma, like HIV and AIDS. All kinds of superstitions seem to surround blood-borne conditions, probably due to taboos surrounding blood itself. The wizarding community is as prone to hysteria and prejudice as the Muggle one, and the character of Lupin gave me a chance to examine those attitudes."

IMDb: The Prisoner of Azkaban

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (2005)

Score: 3 / 5

The fourth installment in the film series is not as successful as the previous films largely because of its incoherence as a holistic work. While it has valuable high points, its dangerously unbalanced direction and sprawling script make it feel like a picture made by young fans seeking thrills and style over drama and substance. Stylizing your film only works if you pay proper respect and attention to the story you're telling.

The acting in this film similarly has high and low points. Radcliffe and Watson score well as they gracefully age into Harry and Hermione's maturing bodies and stretch their young adult wings even farther than in Prisoner. Mike Williams remains a solid Arthur Weasley, and Jason Isaacs returns as a slippery Lucious Malfoy. We have the great Brendan Gleeson as a moody Moody (though his metallic costume and blond, scraggly hair leave something to be desired). And best of all, we see the dawn of Ralph Fiennes's reign as a show-stealing Voldemort, easing into his newly reborn body with incredible movement work.

Most of the supporting cast gives in to melodrama in this film; even the main cast does, but to a smaller degree. It could have worked well had director Mike Newell designed the film as operatic or even farcical, but he allows just too much heart and subtlety (and significant sentiment, unfortunately) for that to be the case. Igor Karkaroff, Amos Diggory, and Barty Crouch are perhaps the most extreme examples, and their performances are notably overwrought. To a lesser degree, Rita Skeeter (Miranda Richardson, who is quite successful, if brief), Viktor Krum, and Fleur Delacour also ham it up. It's a partially successful (and quite brave) move on Newell's part, but the imbalance overthrows any cumulative effect. David Tennant is almost insensitively demonizing in his portrayal of an apparently mentally unstable Barty Crouch Junior; rather than chilling or even sad, he creates an inhuman monster that feels outrageously out of place and obnoxiously stereotyped.

Beyond specific characters, attention should also be drawn to the sexualization of teenagers in this film. While I applaud the notion of portraying the teenage witch or wizard body as a turning point in adolescent desire, Newell force-feeds us a heteronormative, hypersexualized range of student bodies (that by my reckoning should mostly be fourteen years old). And rather than making these sexual images funny or somehow relevant to the story, Newell simply sexualizes characters to make them more titillating for young audiences. Durmstrang and Beauxbatons are turned from normal (well, magical) schools into hotbeds of sex-segregated hormones. Apparently only hunky, dark-haired, and thickly-accented men can attend the former, and only skinny white girls with blue skirts, French accents, and a butt-jiggling attitude can attend the latter. Rowling's world is wonderful because its culture is such that individuality is admired; Newell presents us with a world too like our own, with conformity as the social standard.

The camera here reveals great visuals and an aggressively dark color palette, but fast shots with sometimes little connection make the film feel like a video game on more than one occasion. There are also several totally unnecessary sequences in the film. The first and second Triwizard tasks are woefully overwrought, with the dragon chase and grindylow attack acting solely as busied spectacle. Other small moments, like Dumbledore's candy that attacks Harry, just don't make sense; though Newell's team rightly cut away excess subplots from Rowling's book, he wasted precious time dwelling on these fruitless moments rather than enhancing the drama of the most mystery-oriented novel.

But Goblet has its virtues as well. The World Cup, a sequence I for one would have had trouble refining to its meat, is handled quite well, boiled to its basic components while serving to orient the audience to a new adventure. We finally see the owlery, as well as the Dumbledore's Pensieve, both well-designed. Dumbledore's scenes in general draw my attention because their dialogue hints at drama and tension lurking beyond what we see, and even into the future of the series. The Yule Ball is perfect, visually entrancing and elegant. Hermione's dress is a showstopping moment, and the glory of a festooned Great Hall is wondrous to behold. From McGonagall teaching Ron how to dance to Hermione's teary perch on the staircase, the sequence is a beautiful centerpiece to the film. The loveliness continues with Hermione and Harry on the wooden bridge before the second task, with emotional connection, closeup shots, and dialogue. Finally, the third task -- the maze -- is impeccable. Its design brings the strongest thematic element to the movie (besides the graveyard scene, of course), so much so that it feels like a product of Cuarón's film. In fact, I like the maze so much that I consider it an improvement on the source material.

IMDb: The Goblet of Fire