Kinds of Kindness (2024)

Score: 4.5 / 5

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cuckoo (2024)

Score: 4 / 5

As its title indicates, this off-the-wall horror title will be talked about for some time to come. Marketing for this -- and for Longlegs, earlier this summer -- managed to keep most of its plot and theming under pretty tight wraps, and both films are better for it. Some things just need to be walked into with minimal knowledge of the experience to come. And Cuckoo is bonkers.

17-year-old Gretchen (a physically committed Hunter Schafer, from Euphoria and The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes) gets dragged along by her father to a resort in the Bavarian Alps. That in itself wouldn't be too bad, but she's still grieving the death of her mother, so caring for her mute younger sister under the watchful eye of her new stepmother isn't helping her heal. And the somewhat haunted forest ringed by icy mountains, while beautiful, Gretchen views with a somewhat suspicious eye, as if they too are watching her, hemming her in, trapping her. She takes a risk right away to work in the resort's convenience store, and she's the first to notice that the locals are strange. Really strange. Like, young women keep vomiting and being hustled away.

But nobody seems to pay her much mind or care about her concerns. Not even when she's chased by a hooded woman keeping up with her on a nighttime bike ride in one of the film's most chilling scenes. Only Ed, an alluring young woman, sparks much interest in Gretchen, and the two discreetly plan to run away together. It's a wonderfully understated queer element in the film, and while it isn't part of the "bury your gays" trope, it does get abbreviated by another sequence of pure terror involving what seems to be a time loop and a violent car crash. Even when the detective gets called in -- he hypothesizes that the hooded woman is responsible for at least one death already, and her M.O. is something possibly supernatural or technological -- there are too many unknowns and too many weird things going on for Gretchen (or us) to have much grasp on her present danger.

Writer and director Tilman Singer has only made one feature film before Cuckoo (Lux, in 2018, which I haven't yet seen), but he's got a fascinating approach to this weird material. I'm using the word "weird" a lot, and I don't necessarily mean in an alienating, popular sense; rather, this fits into the domain of "weird fiction," a curious and inviting blend of science fiction and horror and character drama (read: insanity and the uncanny). Singer slows down our expectations -- though this isn't, strictly, slow-burn horror -- by letting us dwell with Gretchen in her strange new world and its shadowy horrors. He doesn't give us answers for a long time, letting the twisted mystery get darker and uglier to the point that I occasionally found myself distracted from watching the movie by simply trying to make sense of its bizarre edits, nerve-wracking sounds, and generally menacing aura. Eventually we do get a rather ham-fisted explanation of everything, and while I appreciated it for helping streamline things (I'm rarely invested in plot enough for that to make or break a film, to the point of sometimes seeking out spoilers in advance of a screening), I expect it will be frowned upon by most audiences. That kind of final act, "come to Jesus" revelation tying together disparate elements worked when Hitchcock made Psycho sixty years ago, but it fell out of favor shortly after.

He is, however, clearly an actor's director as much as he is a fresh storyteller. Schafer leans into the possibility that Gretchen's observations and concerns might be all in her head, a manifestation of her discomfort with her family and their new home while still dealing with her own bereavement. Opposite her is Dan Stevens as the delightful and sinister Herr Konig (with a pitch-perfect accent), doing the most with his performance in a way that wildly unbalances Schafer's performance style. The combination is intoxicating to watch. His slick, obsequious mannerisms in running the hotel quickly evolve into passive-aggressive control, micromanaging specifically female workers and guests alike. Stevens is always charming, and he uses that trait here like a honey to lure the other characters -- and us -- into a sense of unease before we realize the extent of his cruel machinations.

There is really no comparing this with Longlegs, which was also notably mysterious and strange in its marketing, but I did enjoy this one better, if only because it felt more fun. Schafer and Stevens have an almost comic dynamic, with Stevens's strangeness highlighting Schafer's deadpan straight man. Even the title and its meaning -- revealed to be, indeed, avian in theme -- suggest an unhinged wackadoodle energy Singer clearly enjoys exploiting. There's even the suggestion in the film of a sort of dark folktale about women's bodies and wills being hijacked by powerful men, but it's so satisfying understated that this doesn't feel overtly like an "issue" movie. It just wants to take you on a unique ride, have a blast, and talk about it after with your friends.

The Hunger Games: The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes (2023)

Score: 4 / 5

A prequel book based on the backstory of the antagonist was probably not what most fans expected ten years after the Hunger Games books were published. However, once its release, it was a sure thing a film adaptation would be in the works. Thankfully, director Francis Lawrence returns to the franchise, carefully maintaining aesthetic and thematic through-lines with the earlier films. This story is set sixty-four years prior to Katniss Everdeen's first time in the titular games, so very few of the characters are the same (though some names like Heavensbee and Flickerman reveal ancestry in fun ways). And while the world is slightly different than the one established previously, it's instantly recognizable as the chilling world of Panem. Here, it hasn't been a dystopian hellscape for long, and this film dramatizes what is only the tenth annual Hunger Games.

It's a remarkably faithful adaptation of the novel, one that honors its story and characters admirably given the book's length (well, the film is plenty long to accommodate) and scope. The primary difference I noticed is that the book features detailed and long-winded philosophical conversations between the young Coriolanus Snow and his colleagues as he climbs the ranks of students, mentors, and finally gamemakers. The film slyly bypasses these, making the film notably more action-oriented than the book, though that's surely not a bad thing given its target audience and the flavor of previous installments. I personally like this series the farther it gets from the titular games; it's the politics and historical references I find most fascinating, and this story feels like a huge step in the right direction (like Mockingjay and its sequel). Additional references to things like District 13, Katniss, Mockingjays, and more are fun in the moment, though they do leave me wanting more.

And it's arguably partly due to the odd nature of the source material here. The book is as odd as the film in that while it's lovely to return to Panem and the ideas in the series, it begs the question of whether Collins has more "origin" stories to tell -- about Coin, for example, or the First Rebellion against the Capitol, when District 13 went underground -- because that would be super cool if they were written as such. The thing about The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes is that it's hard to tell if it's meant to be a standalone prequel. Especially its ending, which features a missing protagonist and the imminent rise of a villain, doesn't quite wrap up this story in satisfying dramatic terms, making us wonder if this is meant to be the start of a series focused on a young Snow.

The film belongs squarely to Tom Blyth in his performance as a young Coriolanus Snow, and it's a gripping performance, due to his striking beauty and arresting presence on screen. It's a shame he neither looks nor acts like Donald Sutherland, but then, who does? What Blyth brings, apart from youthful curiosity and desperation, is a sense of profound entitlement based purely on his own ambition. He's not from the wealthiest of families -- his too-brief scenes with Grandma'am (Fionnula Flanagan) and cousin Tigris (Hunter Schafer) indicate their filial warmth and financial duress -- but he's terrifyingly smart; Snow clearly changes his physical presence and mannerisms once he leaves home and is out among his peers and superiors, making himself more like them and even above them. He navigates a world of appearances and facades with deft footwork and a chilling poker face, developing his manipulations even as his integrity begins to crumble. There comes a point when he can't be bothered to justify or even label what he's doing as moral, much less his goals. It's just so subtle -- and was in the book, too -- which makes Snow such a fascinating and insidious character.

As for the film itself, I had a grand time soaking it all in. Due to its earlier time period, the design of costumes and props is retro, seemingly inspired by '50s decor, perhaps best showcased in the Hunger Games operational hub. A wall of old-style televisions, in front of wood paneling, displays views from within the arena while commentator Lucky Flickerman (Jason Schwartzman) hosts the first-ever national broadcast. He's delightful but in a more restrained way than his descendant, played by a zany Stanley Tucci, though this film features very little camp or comedy. The Capitol is a more dangerous place in this era, so its glamor is notably minimal, perhaps explaining why we get to know so few of its denizens in this film. Peter Dinklage plays Casca Highbottom, the dean of the Academy who co-imagined the Hunger Games and now is mentally tortured by the horror he has wrought with its implementation. Dr. Volumnia Gaul, sadistic and megalomaniacal head gamemaker, is played gleefully by Viola Davis, who imbues the eccentric character with camp and chews so much scenery she'll surely need dentures.

As I said, it's a fabulous film, much heavier and more bitter than I expected and almost devoid of humor, one that very much honors and continues what has come before. Rachel Zegler (West Side Story, Shazam: Fury of the Gods) plays Lucy Gray Baird, a traveling musician and burgeoning revolutionary who gets conscripted into the games, and her stunning voice and surprising physicality help her a lot, because her acting chops feel a little out of their depth here (though she's also not given much dynamics to play with by the screenplay, in which she's pretty one-note, so to speak). When the games do happen, in the middle act, it's more brutal than before, perhaps because of the starved and sick competitors (it's clear they'll be pampered in subsequent years, as the games become more spectacular and popular) and perhaps because of the comparatively small arena. But it's in the final act that I was most intrigued, after Snow and Baird have developed something more than mentorship connections that feel distinctly romantic or manipulative. While Lucy Gray is more fully herself, "Coryo" is steely and cold, and their fraught dance of tension during the denouement and emotional climax is a haunting and deeply uncomfortable end to the larger-than-life story. Which is to say, it's brave and bold and memorable, and not at all what I expected from this franchise at this late point.