The Forever Purge (2021)

 Score: 4 / 5

They say it'll be the last entry in the franchise, but we have serious doubts about that.

Finally, we get the Purge movie that the series has been leading up to, a pot of racial and class warfare boiling over into chaos. The bitter memory of an Ethan Hawke-led home invasion yawner is long gone, thankfully, and the threads of racist genocidal design spin together into a thick cord of violence snapping at the heels of the last presidential administration. We've hopped from downtown Los Angeles to Washington, D.C., and Staten Island in the last few movies, and now we're plopped right at the border with Mexico. The heat only exacerbates the overt political tensions, and the violence is appropriately more visceral and alarming than we've yet seen in this series.

Set after the events of Election Year (still my favorite in the series, but now barely), which saw the ultraconservative New Founding Fathers of America (NFFA) politically overthrown, we now move to rural south. As Texas was one of the last places to learn about the abolition of slaves, it is now one of the last holdouts of violent "forever Purgers," in the midst of rebelling against the end of their annual bloodbath. Determined to reinstate the Purge night, they also want it to be continuous, a means of life for the purpose of death, so that they may exterminate minority groups, immigrants, and basically anyone who isn't white (and/or other identifiers left implicit). To be fair, there is also at least one depiction of a radical left-wing group seeking class reduction by slaughtering the one-percenters, but it feels empty if not rational, mostly because the preceding installments have established the one-percenters as the driving force of the NFFA. And then, as we've seen all along, there are regular psychos and criminals and wannabe rebels who just want an excuse to behave badly and/or watch the world burn. But there is a definite focus regarding the evildoers in this installment.

Specifically, The Forever Purge takes as its story the journey of several Mexican immigrants who have come to the U.S. escaping cartel violence. Ana de la Reguera and Tenoch Huerta (both are acting on levels this franchise does not deserve) lead the film as a couple who work in a meatpacking plant and a cowboy, respectively. It's the sort of labor that wealthy, educated white folk don't like to sully their hands with, and so each of them is shown early on battling racism from angry, disenfranchised white folks working alongside them. It's hard to imagine life being so bad back home that they'd move to a country in which Nativists are actively seeking dystopian control, but then again... look at the last four years of our real political landscape! This movie anchors its horror in remarkably arresting specifics, notably a border wall that becomes a barrier for traffic going both ways, rather than just one. During the riots and urban warfare, the Mexican president offers sanctuary for any U.S. citizen wanting to flee the sudden uprisings in all fifty states; it's a wickedly brilliant moment on the filmmakers' behalf, to so quickly flip real-life conservative headlines about Mexican immigration.

As the heroes escape an initial onslaught brought on by vengeful farmhands and racist laborers in town, they find help from an unlikely source: Will Patton, playing a wealthy white ranch owner who is socially and politically liberal. Helpful as he is, he quickly becomes a target of the Purgers, and the heroes go on the run, aided by his son, played by Josh Lucas doing his usual shtick of being handsome and creepy at the same time. Here playing a seemingly one-note racist (not hateful, but just wanting people to stick with their own kind, not mix), the film loosely considers that he's really not all bad, and certainly better than the "let's kill 'em all" bands of neo-Nazis. After all, he's actually helping the brown people he's been foisted upon, whereas one street over we hear masked cowboys shooting people who don't speak English while entire buildings are ablaze behind them.

James DeMonaco, creator of the series and writer of this one, teams well with Mexican-American director Everardo Gout to make this entry grounded in a more realistic reality than we've yet seen from the franchise. Importantly, it also has the most urgent messages about real life than we've yet heard, with the possible exception of The First Purge, although that was less thematically focused and more interested in a "decent people trying to survive an impossible situation" story. And for most of the movies so far, that method has worked to bring in audiences of a different political mindset and, hopefully, show them the error of their ways. I suspect, though, it's been mostly carnage-porn for those demographics, rather than the suggestive cautionary tale its liberal audiences immediately recognized. This movie does not even try to disguise its intentions, its design, or its critique of America right now, and I loved that about it.

I did not, however, love its final act. Despite some virtuoso filmmaking -- including at least one Children of Men or Atonement-style long take in war-torn streets -- the film chooses a safe way out at the end. Maybe it's a balm for the nation, maybe a desire to let entertainment and sentiment win over hatred and violence. But the series is firmly within the horror genre, and its tendency toward happy (or, at least, not dismal) endings makes for a weak sendoff each time. This time, the daring messages fizzle out into a weak sort of "we're all in this together" whimper at the end, as the characters come together in a refugee camp in Mexico, aiming to get along in a new world, once the NFFA is disbanded and the U.S. is all but destroyed.

Because this is apparently the end of the series -- again, we'll believe that when we see it -- permit me a moment of retrospection. I really do like the Purge movies, and DeMonaco was very clever in complicating it with each new story. While the first is by far my least favorite, each entry not only develops the world he created but also draws from other subgenres of horror. In this way, he has effectively created a story not just about his fiction but about our reality, sharply pitting his ideas against current events in our sociopolitical timeline. More brilliantly, in this reviewer's mind, he has created a series that works best by similarly mapping trends in modern horror sensibilities. What started as an overly simplistic home invasion thriller has become a dumpster fire about American paranoia and class warfare. The first was about a white family's fear when a black man enters their home; the last is about a Mexican family fleeing the horrors of nativist violence. The series has always been about the love/lust Americans have for violence, and how that manifests in class, race, and exploitation. But by overtly ritualizing that violence, turning it into a spectacle and even, I'd argue, a campy catharsis, DeMonaco has shown us the genesis, the truth, and the result of our love of violence. That's an amazing legacy, even if the movies themselves aren't everyone's cuppa.

She Dies Tomorrow (2020)

 Score: 4.5 / 5

Amy just bought a house. Amy is young. Amy is cute. Amy has a life to live. Amy should be excited. But our first shot of Amy is actually an extreme close-up of her eye, a vibrant hue of blue amidst black, smudgy mascara and bedewed with tears. She wanders slowly around her new house, drinks a lot, and has Mozart's "Lacrimosa" on repeat. Is she in quarantine like the rest of us? Well, yes. But not because of a viral pandemic in the film. This is apparently self-imposed, though there are suggestions otherwise. First, unlikely colored lights attract her to one room in particular. Second, as she approaches, staring out of the screen and into our eyes, we cannot tell what she's thinking. And, of course, there's her confession -- prediction? assertion? affirmation? intention? declaration? -- that she is going to die tomorrow. Amy is not well.

When Jane calls to congratulate Amy on her new house, Amy is dismissive and absent. Despite needing to go to a birthday party for her sister-in-law, Jane hurries over to check on her friend. Amy's morbidity has led her to search for urns online; it has also led to her looking at leather jackets. After she dies tomorrow, Amy tells Jane, she wants to be turned into a leather jacket, so she can be useful. Disturbed, Jane returns home and then goes to the party, carrying something of Amy's state of mind with her. It's not sorrow, exactly, or fear, or any other distinct emotion. It's more like a cold assertion, a harsh reality with which the subject is attempting to make peace or at least to accept. But it's catching.

Writer and director Amy Seimetz -- whose protagonist's name might suggest a frighteningly personal basis for this movie -- has crafted a movie about life that consistently rejects liveliness. Or at least any conventions of cinematic life. Almost inert, the film feels fragmented, stitched together like a Frankenstein monster with large episodes and oddball shots of microscopic cells, sunsets, and more abstract color-heavy images. There is no exposition, except in shorthand as scenes unravel and we see Amy (and, eventually, others) reveal their symptoms to others. Nobody likes to hear their friend, family member, patient, co-worker, passenger, client, or lover is going to die tomorrow, as if that was something any of us could even say. In that awkward conversation, which repeats uncomfortably in this movie, they laugh it off, sweetly deny it, get angry or afraid, express concern about sanity, and generally fail to comprehend until it is too late for themselves.

She Dies Tomorrow is not even typical arthouse fare. Don't let its starry cast fool you; this is a difficult watch, both due to its content and its delivery. Seimetz exerts incredible control over the film, keeping our attention on what plot exists while forcing our minds to metaphoric "what if" considerations. She shifts her storytelling between time and place, keeping us unsure even as we slowly realize what exactly is happening. It helps that cinematographer Jay Keitel's shots are often unexpected, moving to alarming perspectives that highlight disorientation in the screenplay and in the characters' lives. Deaths. Whatever.

In this way, it's a nearly perfect movie for isolating during a pandemic. Which is to say, it's a terrible movie to watch right now. An overpowering sense of doom compels the film, and it only gets worse as the contagious awareness of death spreads. Of course, there is also real death, which satisfies the horror fiend wanting entertainment even as it increases viewing anxiety in general; this contagion may be less visceral than COVID-19, but it is far more insidious as a disease of the mind. Though we know precious little about these characters, we are them in more ways than one. As they, one by one, gaze into the brightly colored lights like Amy did, they respond in as various ways to their own death as they did to news of hers. Is it fear spreading, or is it something far worse?

While watching, I thought of everything from The Happening to The Neon Demon, but ultimately this movie feels, to me, like the love child of It Follows and Melancholia. An unbearable, looming comprehension of death elicits strange responses from people. But, as we've learned over the past year, collectivity isn't the experience we ultimately undergo. We'll face death on our own, in the end.

Ford v Ferrari (2019)

Score: 3 / 5

If you think racing cars is a sport, then this movie is definitely for you. I don't, and I still enjoyed it; the only other movie about racing I like is Ron Howard's Rush. James Mangold brings an absorbing, warm aesthetic to the (more or less) historical story that makes it accessible in the few times its eminently likable leads aren't stealing the screen. And yet, for all its high-octane tension and occasional sense of fun, I found myself constantly checking the time. At two-and-a-half hours, it's an exhausting exercise in trying to find something interesting.

In the 1960s, the Ford executives attempt to merge with Ferrari. Negotiations fail, and CEO Henry Ford II (Tracy Letts) declares war on the Italian car company to be determined in races, specifically the Le Mans 24-hour race. Ford hires engineer and former racer Carroll Shelby (Matt Damon) to design the car and find drivers. He selects Ken Miles (Christian Bale), a struggling mechanic and professional race car driver with strong personality and a fiery temper. Miles doesn't adhere to the image Ford presents, and so the executives attempt to deter his involvement. But eventually he succeeds in his race and Ford wins at Le Mans four years in a row as the only American company to win at the European race.

As far as sports dramas go, this is strictly standard stuff. The infighting and conflict between the tough-headed macho grunt-men and the equally stubborn, greedy money-men hits every predictable dramatic shift. Miles, a WWII veteran with a need for speed and thrills, has trouble with his wife (Caitriona Balfe) when he promises to stop racing after a near-death experience and then dives back in again. She, meanwhile, is the only woman of any substance in the film, and she calmly plays the dutiful housewife who exists only to support her husband (though she does occasionally yell at him before caving to his decisions).

But the more I think about Ford v Ferrari, the less I like it. It seems determined to hearken to an age of car-obsessed macho-man nostalgia -- read "very white and very straight" -- and even the humor of the film is profoundly sexist. At one point they joke about putting Doris Day behind the wheel, a throwaway line that hangs uncomfortably in the air as it reveals some strong unspoken assumptions the movie constantly makes. My favorite scene in the film works because of its inherent misogyny, when Shelby takes Ford himself in a racing car for a spin; Letts's performance steals the scene as he begins weeping from the thrill and emotional significance, but he stands in stark contrast to the mechanics, who comment on the un-manliness of anyone who doesn't race and estimate how long it takes for weaker men to lose control of their bowels.

And, while the film does end with Miles being killed in a car accident two months after Le Mans, it does not even come close to trying to understand the mystery of why Miles needed to race. He was almost killed multiple times doing it, knowing full well his wife and son did not want him to continue. We can guess his needs, especially in light of his prior service, but the film conveniently ignores the psychological reality of Miles's life and motivations. Similarly, the film conveniently ignores the seriously problematic parts of Shelby's life: while it paints Shelby as a hero, and he is in some ways inspiring, even a cursory Google search reveals the man's history of poaching, womanizing, suing, and even raping. So, taken for what it is, the film is aesthetically pleasing even as its substance lacks in every conceivable way.

Mark Felt: The Man Who Brought Down the White House (2017)

Score: 3 / 5

In yet another curious multiple-feature that happened this year (after the three Wonder Woman movies and two Dunkirk movies), Mark Felt and The Post both tackled Nixon-era scandals. Perhaps this combination isn't quite so curious as it is timely, but what's interesting to me is that neither of these films attempt to re-create Nixon himself. Both utilize stock footage of the former president while dramatizing efforts by reporters and politicians and aristocrats and bureaucrats to bring down the administration. Mark Felt would pair well with All the President's Men, too, were you to brave an all-day marathon of political thrillers set in the early 1970s. These films together would be as fascinating as a marathon of Nixon movies; are double marathons a thing?

Unfortunately, Mark Felt alone isn't much to look at. Dismal and slow, it drones on much like Liam Neeson's voice, forced and gravelly. One would think that a film detailing the many secrets of one of history's most famed whistleblowers wouldn't be so anticlimactic, but here we are. It's as though writer and director Peter Landesman (Parkland, Concussion), so desperate to engage critically with those famed journalists Woodward and Bernstein, has either bitten off more than he can chew or thought so deeply about this period in history that he has made it almost inaccessible to viewers.

Besides the tossing around of names and titles like confetti, the screenplay doesn't inform us of some of the more important details of the story. And before you say "movies can show, not tell", I'm letting you know this movie doesn't show much beyond what it says. Everything is dimly lit in bluish lighting, making of course the mystery of "Deep Throat" enjoyable to watch if too atmospheric for its own good. While the huge ensemble cast gives some fine performances, I couldn't help but feel the varied storylines were individually terribly weak and unfocused. Diane Lane, for example, makes only a few appearances, despite her top billing, most of which take away drastically from the politically thrilling pacing of the movie. It's not her fault, mind, but it constantly left me wanting more.

Then again, there are a few surprising and exciting scenes that should be mentioned. Liam Neeson plays Felt like a sphinx, his silvery hair glinting with his eyes, a total enigma to his peers and his audience. He embarks on several small plot arcs, the first of which involves J. Edgar Hoover's death and the power struggle left in his wake. A later one concerns Felt's daughter (Maika Monroe), who has abandoned her family for a part in the counterculture; this comes as a shock, as Felt has spent most of the film and is eventually indicted for aggressive and illegal actions against counterculture groups. Of course, the real heart of the move lies with, well, the lies told between the FBI and the White House. When politicians start sticking their fingers in FBI investigations, Neeson's character gets righteously riled, and the hairs on my arms stood up thinking about America 2017.

Oh, and for heaven's sake, was the title really necessary? Just Mark Felt or even Deep Throat would have been better.

IMDb: Mark Felt