The Odyssey (2026)

Score: 5 / 5

How do you tell a new version of one of the oldest stories in the Western world? You start by telling a story about stories. I was a little nervous at first that Christopher Nolan would pull some of his usual shtick again and mess up the timeline of his own film, but then I remembered that The Odyssey itself isn't really linear. Of course there's no reason not to start in medias res, and in this case it makes perfect sense with Nolan's oeuvre. But the truth is that if you're consuming the foundational epic for its plot, you've already missed the mark. Sure, the whole dang thing is arguably "about" its plot, but what makes it really compelling is its sense of style, its complicated characters, its sense of pacing and propulsion despite its stretched timeline. 

Actually, Nolan's film feels at once like a wildly satisfying (and the first, which is crazy) adaptation of Homer's epic poem for a modern audience and one of the most riveting pieces of filmmaking this year. In a perhaps unobvious move, he starts us focused intently on Telemachus (reliable Tom Holland) and Penelope (a glorious Anne Hathaway), fending off a cadre of suitors feasting and whoring in the king's hall in Ithaca. These scenes take place near the end of the story, chronologically, as Odysseus has been missing for ten years. That's in addition to the ten years he was away from home for the Trojan War. He barely knows his own son, and Penelope is nearing the end of her rope. Or, rather, tapestry, which she cleverly uses (and unravels) to keep the wolfish suitors (led by a sniveling Robert Pattinson) at bay. These scenes, occasionally sprinkled in between flashback episodes of Odysseus's adventure, are filmed like a bleak political thriller, ending in a climactic banquet hall battle that, truly, took my breath away with its sheer barbarism and spectacle.

The bulk of the film -- though, as I say, arguably not its focus -- concerns the titular journey of its hero, told in lengthy flashback sequences. He's on an island with Calypso (Charlize Theron, wasted in the bit part but always a commanding and welcome presence on screen), eating lotus flowers (in a curious but effective change to the source material), suddenly trying to remember why he's there and for how long he's been stuck in a somewhat limbo-esque beachside paradise. He's seeing visions of his past in Troy, wallowing with his army for years outside the city gates until he designs and creates a massive wooden horse; this bit takes several scenes, including a particularly gross montage of the men hiding inside with their piss and shit and dead comrades, getting dragged and flipped around as they're brought into the city (again, not part of the original story, nor from The Iliad). He's also seeing the goddess Athena (Zendaya), though he doesn't always seem sure if it's really her, or a dream, or just his own imagination. All this is to say that his mind is fractured, and so is our approach to his story, a highly effective means of granting us emotional access to these characters and their plight as we, too, attempt to figure out what's happening.

Even a graduate-level familiarity with the material won't save you from at least wondering once or twice, "Gosh, I don't remember that part" or "Wait, who is that again?" That's because Nolan's vision isn't a straightforward adaptation so much as it is a thesis project, combining other sources (like Virgil) along with Homer to deliver a story that's familiar but fresh at the same time. He's uniting stories rather than corrupting them. At its heart, it's very much the story we want to see; in his grip, though, Nolan's story takes on new and important themes paired with some of the most arresting and thrilling visuals we've ever seen from an epic. Not because it's bombastic and loaded with CGI, but because most of it is filmed in seemingly natural light and with practical effects. Perhaps the only scene clearly done with CGI is the encounter with Scylla and Charybdis, and while I didn't love those designs, they worked fine enough. But the Cyclops, the Laestrygonians, the sirens, Circe's animals, and all the "big ticket" creatures and visuals are apparently practical. It's gobsmacking.

Yet for all the spectacle -- even the frustrating moments -- Nolan cares more about the effect of these things on his characters than about our experience of them. He makes it a profoundly human story, grappling with weighty themes of fate and purpose; he makes us wonder about our own lives, our glorious intentions, our miserable failures, our great shames and hopes, inviting us to think about the story of our own lives through the warping lens of memory, regret, and uncertainty. With all these ideas whirling around our minds, it might be easy to say the nearly three-hour runtime is a slog, but it isn't. The simplicity of these proceedings keeps us grounded, compelling us to continue experiencing rather than drifting away. The experience, though, is exhausting, and more than once during the film I had to stretch and breathe deeply, just to attempt to revive my endurance.

Despite the hullabaloo online about this film -- perhaps hypocritically, I'm becoming increasingly convinced to leave social media, if only to avoid people complaining loudly about things they neither understand nor care to -- and as a student of the classics, I had no significant qualms with this film's depiction of history or characters (or the cast, for that matter). Everyone is playing at the top of their games, including Benny Safdie, Elliot Page, Lupita Nyong'o in brilliant double roles, Himesh Patel, and even John Leguizamo. Samantha Morton plays such a terrifying Circe that I nearly choked on my own saliva (and, again, her scene features some of the nastiest and most inventive practical effects I've ever seen on film). The costumes are exquisite, especially Agamemnon's helmet. Ludwig Goransson's score is transportive, utilizing ancient instruments to evoke a unique sonic palette. Sure, some of the dialogue can be off-putting (the repeated use of "dad" in Telemachus's mouth is grating), but any complaints about accents, etc., are little more than stupid hot air from people who have clearly never thought critically about any film.

And we haven't even discussed the analog filmmaking, the brutally physical shoot, Nolan's use of brand new technology for IMAX film cameras, or even Matt Damon's performance as the complicated protagonist. There will be college courses based around this film for the sheer amount of material to be covered. While I'd have liked a few changes, having now seen the film twice (specifically, more cleverness and agency and violence from Penelope, more comeuppance for Mia Goth's character, a better visual on the sirens, less obsession with genre lingo like "Zeus's law," and slightly more elevated dialogue a la The Lord of the Rings), I'm so thrilled that this is what we have. Seeing this on the biggest screen possible and with the best sound system will change you; there were moments of such intense passion from the subwoofers that my seat was vibrating like in a 4D movie. Most importantly, Nolan expects us to both do our homework, denying us the pleasures of modern blockbusters and forcing us to catch up with him in a story that feels almost suspiciously anti-AI and anti-summary. These are complex ideas and characters, and we're meant to approach them with appropriate nuance and thoughtfulness. Harryhausen films and their ilk are fabulous and personal favorites, but Nolan is giving us something brand new. Which is saying a lot when he specifically references such things, including a shot from the original Clash of the Titans (1981) involving Athena's statue's head broken off and tumbling down steps. It's a single shot, and I let out a half-strangled moan and laugh combined that probably unnerved people sitting around me. They should be so fortunate to understand the craft at work here. All hail!

Violent Night (2022)

Score: 3.5 / 5

Ho ho ho, and how about that? Kicking off the holiday season always feels good with a new Christmas movie, and it's especially fun to have one that doesn't fit the genre mold. As debates will surely rage on about the canonicity of Die Hard and Gremlins and Iron Man 3 in the Yuletide season -- and others will happily watch fare like Silent Night, Deadly Night and Black Christmas, delighting in the taboo -- Violent Night will likely find a cultural niche somewhere in the middle of it all. It's a crude, violent, sardonic film, all the while delighting in its own festive flair and fun. Much like Krampus, it's got interesting and good things to say amidst the chaos and violence; you might say its heart of gold is aimed at values of family and charity, even while it simultaneously skewers the commercialization of holiday traditions.

The film begins with, as we've seen hints of from Miracle on 34th Street to Mrs. Santa Claus, a dispirited Santa, heavily drinking in a bar on Christmas Eve while delivering gifts. He bemoans the increasing materialism and selfishness of the world, relating it to his own diminishing identity and magic. David Harbour plays the character magnificently, perhaps because of his keen ability to channel world-weariness in a drily humorous manner. One of his house calls finds him at a stately mansion belonging to the obscenely wealthy Lightstone family, presided over by a cold matriarch and occupied by her dysfunctional family and numerous house staff during the Christmas holiday. Surely the film will follow some redemptive journey in which Santa and the elitist family will engage with the true meaning of Christmas and undergo their own Scrooge-like transformations.

The mansion is part of an isolated compound, complete with its own security team and caterers, so it's not exactly a cozy homecoming. The main characters we're meant to follow are Jason (Alex Hassell), son of the matriarch, his estranged wife Linda (Alexis Louder), and their admittedly cute-as-a-button daughter Trudy (Leah Brady). Jason and Linda are trying to work through their differences, perhaps, but being around the Lightstones is deeply triggering, especially for Linda. It doesn't help that Jason's alcoholic, social climber of a sister Alva (Edi Patterson) is there with her conceited, social media influencer son Bertrude (Alexander Elliot) and hot but stupid boyfriend (Cam Gigandet). They seem eager to receive whatever their matriarch is ready to give. But the matriarch, Gertrude (now the grandkids' names make a bit more sense, eh?), played by a delicious Beverly D'Angelo who I haven't seen since probably American History X and the old Vacation films, is late to her own party, and when she arrives, she's about as welcoming as a lioness on the hunt. Jason soon finds an old walkie-talkie to help Trudy entertain herself as the family bickers, telling her it's a direct line to Santa, only to then overhear that Trudy's wish is for her family to heal and come together again. Original? No. Effective? Of course it tugs at your heartstrings. It's just so effing pure.

But this isn't to be a violent night in terms of family relationships alone; the catering staff soon slaughters the household staff and holds the family at gunpoint. Each mercenary is given a delightful festive codename, and soon their leader, "Mr. Scrooge" (John Leguizamo), materializes to fulfill their plan of stealing $300 million. This plays out at the same time Santa lands on the roof to deliver presents. But this isn't The Santa Clause, and it's not for David Harbour to die yet; he fights back even as his reindeer get spooked and fly off into the night. Soon enough he hears Trudy on one of the merc's radios, and they communicate about their plan to rescue the Lightstones. Some expository flashbacks reveal Santa's origins as a Viking warrior, and of course it's ridiculous, but with Harbour in his fabulous red leather suit, we're ready to see him continue kicking ass. Wounded -- and drunk -- as he is for most of the film, he has no trouble with creatively utilizing Christmas decor and winter tools as his weapons of choice, from a snow blower to a star tree-topper. Even Trudy helps with booby traps she learned from Home Alone, including the infamous paint can on a string.

It's all fun and entertaining, and modestly heartfelt, though by the third act I was beginning to feel some battle fatigue. We can watch Santa whooping ass until the snow melts, but more than once you wonder what the film really wanted to be. Sometimes it flirts with home invasion horror/thriller material, but then it leans fully into irreverent satire before flipping into earnest (and gruesome) action. What if it chose one genre and gave itself permission to be really finessed with the action, or more insightful and invective with its comedy? I like the balance here as one of the primary ways this film will be remembered as unique, but the various elements don't always inform or support each other tonally, and that's the tricky thing about genre-benders like this. By the end, we're meant to care emotionally about each of the Lightstones, even though the film only really works that way with Jason, Linda, and Trudy. And Santa, that is, with Harbour admirably committing himself to the role and carrying the movie.

The Menu (2022)

Score: 4 / 5

It's just delicious. The Menu is a pitch-black horror comedy that arrived in time for Thanksgiving, courtesy of versatile television director Mark Mylod and producers Adam McKay and Will Ferrell. Weird, right? I thought so too, until I was blessed with seeing the final product. McKay has very much refined his directorial brand in the last several years, with The Big Short, Vice, and Don't Look Up, and his flavor is still tasted in this feast for all the senses. The filmmakers here are satirizing the snobbish and elite, to be sure, but they're also raising pretty serious questions about the nature of art and the integrity of major artists. There's a lot to unpack, so let's tuck in.

A dozen paying guests are taken by yacht to a private island called Hawthorne, the domain of celebrity chef Julian Slowik (Ralph Fiennes). They've each forked out $1250 for the experience, where Julian and his team harvest all resources from the island itself. Upon arrival, they're escorted around the island to learn about the menu from the maitre d', Elsa (Hong Chau), in a highly theatrical fashion. There are certain things they aren't allowed to see, certain places they can't go, and some questions they shouldn't ask. Elsa's professional demeanor cracks occasionally to show a deeply perfectionistic, even militaristic, passion for her craft. Cuisine, after all, is an art form.

And it's too bad everyone's a critic. The guests (who all have names, but they aren't terribly important) include a food critic (Janet McTeer) and her editor, who helped Julian become famous but whose words have closed many restaurants; a wealthy couple (Reed Birney and Judith Light) who frequent Julian's restaurant as a matter of pride despite not recalling previous meals; an arrogant actor and his assistant/girlfriend (John Leguizamo and Aimee Carrero) who is long past his prime; and a trio of frat boy-type yuppie businessmen. Oh, and of course our main characters: a young snob and foodie fan of Julian's named Tyler (Nicholas Hoult) and his hired escort for the night, Erin (Anya Taylor-Joy). With the singular exception of Erin, everyone else is wealthy and rude, convinced they are just as artful and artistic as the chef himself. Everyone's a critic, right?

Erin is a cynic. She wants to be paid so she can get by, and this excursion is a bit more than she had in mind. It doesn't help that Tyler, her high-strung and demanding "date" treats her like she's a girlfriend to be taught and controlled rather than wined and dined. He sees himself a connoisseur, and the way he discusses food is enough to turn your stomach. Most of the dialogue seems meant to have a similar effect, but in the mouths of such venerable actors, things get really thick really fast. I found myself wishing, by film's end, for a bit more for each character to do. Taylor-Joy, Hoult, and Fiennes take the cake, so to speak, of the film, and they are wonderful. But the likes of McTeer and Light deserved a bit more to chew on.

Similarly, the first half of the film exquisitely sets up parallel tensions that never quite coalesce into a fully satisfying concept. Something is wrong at Hawthorne. The staff are a little too militaristic and sinister. Their bleak, stoic faces occasionally shiver with -- is it fear? Sorrow? We never really know, because they simply follow the orders of their chef. Julian himself eventually graces the dining room with an unnerving energy we've never really seen from Fiennes before. He exhibits an almost Zen-like tranquility while clearly obsessing and fretting over the flow of the evening; it's disarming when he suddenly claps to present each new course. The sound designers bump up the volume on those, making everyone in our auditorium jump each time. Even the film follows his vision for the dinner, adding onscreen text to describe each course, though often in darkly humorous ways.

And yet, despite the tasty buildup and climax -- in which Hawthorne is indeed revealed to have ulterior motives for this particular evening -- the final act leans a bit too far into satire for my personal taste. There comes a point when the film evolves into something not unlike Karyn Kusama's The Invitation or The Most Dangerous Game, but instead of becoming a full-out horror film between gourmet artists and bourgeois guests, they all become curiously resigned to their fates. I won't tell you what their fates actually are, because the dialogue explains everything much better than I could. But it's a little annoying that they all seem to know they deserve what's coming, and while it fits with the satirical purpose of the film, it wasn't quite satisfying dramatically.

Then again, its tone isn't meant to be taken at face value for drama. And so there's much more joy to be had in the ways each dish is served -- increasingly sinister and violent -- and especially the ways Erin fights back against what's happening around her. She's the first to notice that this place isn't welcoming or accessible. She's the first to doubt what she's eating and complain. She decides early on not to take Tyler's shit, and she quickly expands her boundary to include every single person around her. I only wish that, for an ensemble picture, the ensemble had a bit more dynamism beyond its exquisite characterizations. It helps that the whole thing is filmed beautifully by Peter Deming and designed visually within an inch of its life. All in all, it's a menu I'd happily choose to experience again, once my palate is ready.

Encanto (2021)

Score: 3 / 5

Mirabel is the youngest daughter of the Madrigal family, who live in an isolated community in rural Latin America. I don't think the film itself identifies its location, but interviews with the filmmakers suggest its setting to be in Colombia. At least three generations of the family live together in a large house they affectionately call their casita. They work and live together in harmony, and appear to be the hotbed of culture in the village around them; everyone is welcome, and everyone is blessed by the love and fellowship the Madrigals cultivate. But Mirabel feels a bit out of place. She feels mounting pressure to contribute to the family work and to fit in; everyone else uses their unique talents and are loved for them, but Mirabel doesn't seem to have any special skill. 

Thankfully, the film -- which would otherwise be a fairly dull, melodramatic Bildungsroman -- imbues its story with magical realism, a genre most appropriate for Latin American artists. The unique talents of family members are in fact superhuman powers granted to the family after their abuela survived a tragedy. Abuela Alma's special candle provides each child, upon their coming of age, a magic gift as well as a magic bedroom in the casita, fashioned after their interests and talents. Mirabel's mother can heal ailments with her cooking; one sister has superhuman strength, and the other creates beautiful flowers in her wake on the merest of whims. Her abuela seems to compare her to each other family member and finds Mirabel wanting, her chilly disappointment slowly dissolving Mirabel's sense of belonging. When Mirabel notices growing cracks in the casita, she fears that the magic of her home will fade due to her own ineptitude, and she embarks on a journey of self-discovery to save the family magic.

Encanto is a beautiful exploration of a place and culture Disney hasn't really embraced before. My favorite element of the film was the animation of the characters, most of whom are in the same family and all of whom have differing skin tones and hair color and texture. These characters are fully dressed in traditional Colombian garments, with an abundance of colorful skirts, ponchos, and guayaberas. The casita, too, is a fun character in itself, seemingly alive and eagerly responsive to the needs and wishes of its inhabitants. Lin-Manuel Miranda lends his musical talents to this film through its original songs, and the music clearly uses traditional Latin American instruments and melodies to transport us aurally to Colombia.

Unfortunately, the songs here never quite manage to lift off; several of them feel like workshopped pieces scrapped from other projects that never got fully polished. The musical theatre-y numbers all sound derivative in style and substance (the introductory "Family Madrigal" is a verbose trainwreck poorly imitating the opening sequence of In the Heights), not helped by the singers themselves who sound much too like Miranda, whose singing voice has never been endearing to me. And while a couple of the songs (especially the two sung by Mirabel's sisters Isabela and Luisa) are fun, they are almost immediately forgettable, which is an utterly damning problem for a film that almost entirely exists to charm us with cultural delights. I mean, it's in the title!

Apart from the vague initial conflict -- a young Abuela Alma seems to be fleeing some kind of violent conflict before her husband is taken from her -- and the completely mysterious nature of the magic candle, there is no real mythology at work in this film. There is no real villain, either, other than the nameless, threatening doom slowly destroying the casita and causing mishap and mayhem for the family with magic powers. These facts result in a movie more meandering than intentional, and for most of its run time I found my mind wandering far from the spectacle on screen. Notably, while the story centers on Mirabel's discovery of a particularly dark family secret -- which is revealed in one of the more shockingly scary images in a Disney movie in my memory, which leads into a distinctly sad subplot about emotional sacrifices for family -- it is actually Abuela Alma who goes through a lovely dynamic character shift.

While I hope more Disney movies engage with this kind of emotionally honest storytelling, to say nothing of their recent run of movies that span the globe in terms of cultural showcases (a la Epcot), I found this movie shallow in its depiction of Latin cultures and deeply boring in terms of plot, pacing, and theme. Its characters -- brought to life by a brilliant cast of Latin actors -- are beautiful and charming and have lovely developmental arcs, but watching a young girl learn about her potential in relation to her magical family is hardly the stuff of Disney. I kept waiting for her to go on some kind of fabulous adventure (the directors previously worked on Bolt, Tangled, and Zootopia, among many others), but she almost never leaves the casita. I also waited for the film to lean into its potential for abstract visuals in the house (where is the arresting ingenuity of recent Pixar releases like Coco, Soul, or Onward?) but those are disappointingly tame here, despite still being beautiful to view. If nothing else, this movie adds to a growing roster of increasingly culturally aware features under the name of Disney, and it's a fun, safe way to enjoy family time at the movies during this holiday season.

The Infiltrator (2016)

Score: 3.5 / 5

This movie should have been called Bryan Cranston, Slay. It just doesn't get much better than watching this powerhouse man performing his crazy, hyper-nuanced craft in a movie (or show) that otherwise doesn't matter as much as it wants to.

Sure, it would have been nice for the film to be better written and better executed, and its tone is about as confused as its focus. Does it want to be a slick crime thriller, or a Breaking Bad ripoff with some period drama? Does it want to be a dense character study or a fun summer action flick? It doesn't know, which translates onscreen to not really being any of those things. But before long in the viewing, I realized I just didn't care about the story. Its fact-based narrative is intriguing, obviously, but it's been done countless times before, and far more effectively. Derivative and flirting with crippling sentiment, the plot even meanders through familiar thematic territory, leaving us more annoyed than moved.

Cranston, on the other hand, shows us his power in every frame. Singly making the film worth watching, he imbues so much duplicity and earnestness into his performance that I found myself absorbed into his gravelly voice and his gaunt, weary visage. He maneuvers as a gymnast, walking a treacherous balance beam with each conversation he has with his wife, his partner, his boss, his enemies, his targets. Though the script gives him almost no helping hands, Cranston makes the character riveting and emotionally palpable.

He is engrossing. The movie is serviceable. Take it or leave it.

IMDb: The Infiltrator