Crimes of the Future (2022)

Score: 3.5 / 5

Its opening sequence reads like some of the auteur's best work. A little boy in a nasty, dirty bathroom, curls up beneath the sink and begins eating. But this is not a vampire from The Brood or an offspring of The Fly; he eats a trash can. Not its contents. Literally the can itself. It's weird, certainly, but not quite horrifying. That adjective comes into play a moment later, when the boy's sad and disgusted mother enters and kills the boy. A brutal way to start a film, and all the more intriguing because there is no exposition, no rationale, no history. And, noteworthy, we never revisit the scene in the film.

Cronenberg is of course the master of body horror (or "the body beautiful" as he calls it), and Crimes of the Future is very much a return to form after two decades of drama and history and thriller films (almost all of which are also excellent). From his twisted mind, we're introduced very quickly and without any panache to a world in the vaguely distant future that feels grim, grimy, and altogether nasty. Think a less urban Blade Runner aesthetic. Humanity has apparently begun to mutate in this polluted waste of a world so that some humans continuously grow new organs, and most humans no longer experience pain. As a result, of course, new occupations have arisen. In what seems to be his fantasy of the middle of the end of humankind (it's not the beginning because of the world-weary nature of the proceedings and the characters, and it's not the end because humans are apparently generally handling the world fairly well), there has sprung up quite a market for human organs. Technicians have developed biological machines to help humans sleep and eat more organically (as if those weren't two of the most organic functions of humans anyway).

As different people have evolved differently, there seems to be an intense stigma specifically against humans who have evolved to the point of being able to eat plastics. Hence the opening scene. These considerations could make for a film with massive scope, somebody like Michael Bay or Roland Emmerich might make a global disaster movie; somebody like Steven Soderbergh or Ridley Scott might make an epic that is also intimate. Cronenberg, in his signature style, makes a distinctly political premise markedly antipolitical in execution, meaning that this movie that indirectly references the plastics that have polluted our world and that already exist within human bloodstreams and takes it to a logical conclusion: if saving the earth (and humanity) that was is less and less likely, as it is, perhaps we need to look forward into adapting our world to accept and cater to this plastics behemoth we've created.

It's frighteningly accessible to our pandemic world, too; learning to live with the constant threat of annihilation and how to not only survive but use that threat to somehow better ourselves. Enter Caprice (Lea Seydoux) and Saul (Viggo Mortensen), an ex-surgeon and performance artist respectively, who kind of hate what they do but fill a particular need and niche for themselves and their audience. Saul continuously grows new organs (and yes, the idea of increased and unwieldy cancer problems as a result of pollution and plastics is present), and for a profit, they perform surgeries in front of a crowd to remove those organs. It pushes Saul's body to horrific limits, opening the body to new possibilities as the film tells us; since pain isn't really a concern anymore, the body can be molded in much more violent ways than we see today with body modifications and performance/body art.

Where the movie makes its most intriguing (and, for me, horrific) turn is that these surgeries are notably erotic. Calmly wicked, subversive and raw, the new openings in Saul's body provide ample locations for penetration; several scenes in which Caprice slides her fingers or hand inside feel uncomfortably sexual. Perhaps it's this reality -- all captured with a sensual eye by the camera -- that entices Timlin (Kristen Stewart) to fall in love with the artistic duo. She's a bureaucrat gopher in the National Organ Registry, investigating and keeping tabs on new organ growths, which naturally brings her into a potentially compromising situation with Saul. On the other hand, the plastic folk are almost anti-sensual, as plastic (and toxic) in their interactions as in their diet, led by a mysterious and inscrutable Scott Speedman (I don't recall his character's name) who is determined to prove the government's stance on human evolution is wrong.

There is a lot of heady material here, and many lenses can be applied to the film to tease out its many ideas on everything from evolution to sex, from environment to government, from social corruption to economic failure. And yet the film places equal -- if not greater -- emphasis on the subtle, mostly nonverbal, human experience of all these things, as if to say, "this is our reality now, if exaggerated, so what do we really feel about it?" Alarming, calming, horrific and beautiful, this is Cronenberg at his typical best, and while it's confusing and cerebral stuff, it's also a fascinating and fun time at the cinema. 

The French Dispatch (2021)

Score: 3.5 / 5

It might be the most Wes Anderson Wes Anderson movie yet, and that's just what it is. If you like his usual style, you'll probably like this, because he ramps it up about 200% from usual. If you don't like his style, you'll probably hate this because it's just too niche. I've always been on the fence with him, because for me Fantastic Mr. Fox, Moonrise Kingdom, and The Grand Budapest Hotel are wonderful films, especially that last, but I have felt indifferent or negatively toward most of his others, such as his most recent, Isle of Dogs. This most recent is more like Hotel in terms of style, substance, and grandiosity of storytelling, and for those elements I quite enjoyed it. But it's also surprisingly inaccessible, even for people who are willing to let Anderson take them on another funny, weird ride through his unique experience of life in a strange world.

A meditation on journalism -- I think -- The French Dispatch begins with Angelica Huston's voiceover narration about the establishment of the titular magazine. Though it was founded in Liberty, Kansas, where its editor Howitzer (Bill Murray) was born, it is now published in a little French town called Ennui-sur-Blasé, which means something like sophisticated boredom. In rapid succession, we are introduced to Howitzer's loyal staff in their oddly crumbling but quaint offices; the characters are not seen directly at first, and left almost unknowable until they respectively share some of their work with us. The film is divided into sections, one from each of the eccentric journalists, that form what is meant to be the final issue of the magazine. Based on the style of the on-screen font and the unusual focus of the fictional writing staff, it seems that we are meant strongly to think of the Dispatch in the same terms we think of The New Yorker. The secondary opening sequence seems pointedly to satirize (or offer homage to) the New Yorker regular piece "The Talk of the Town," funnily narrated by Owen Wilson in a beret and on a bicycle, riding through the small town and showing us the locations (past and future) when he's not colliding with commoners or falling down holes.

To recount the plot (of which there is essentially none) seems fruitless and even arrogant, as I frankly had trouble with all the characters and their doings. There are three main stories that take up the bulk of screen time, each from a different writer's perspective. One involves an incarcerated painter and his muse who is also his prison guard, and their work with an art dealer on the outside. One involves the writer inserting herself into a student protest led by a moody young revolutionary and the fallout that entails. One involves a legendary chef whose only employ is in the police department kitchen, despite the reporter's best efforts at launching him to fame. The pieces are all shot in Anderson's style, but with various kinds of changing aesthetics; for instance, during a chase scene, everything is presented suddenly as an animated cartoon.

That's shocking, but not really in context of Anderson's work. Everything is usually presented in toybox or dollhouse style in his films, and each piece of the set and props are clearly chosen and altered to cultivate a painfully specific atmosphere. His production design notoriously borders on the obsessive, and here (as in Hotel) that is most clearly sensed. Perhaps that's because it's so removed from most audience members' lived experience. There is almost nothing relatable in this film, at least physically, and yet it seems Anderson wants to transport us to a very real world for which he then wants us to experience some kind of catharsis through nostalgia, even if the nostalgia is for a fantasy. 

I don't really know what else to say about this film. It's a valuable experience, I thought, and one that I'll need to mull over. But even more than in most of his work, here I just couldn't connect to any of the (many, many) characters or even fully understand the setting or themes. I suppose part of the project is to simply appreciate the varied work of specialized journalists, but I'd rather have movies like All the President's Men or The Post than something like this. It just moved far too quickly and with too many moving parts for my taste; I could never really savor the crucial beats in even the expository bits. There's a relentlessness in its pace that denies us access to any thematic underpinnings, even as the experience of Anderson dragging us through his imagination was thrilling.

No Time to Die (2021)

 Score: 4 / 5

One of the first movies to be shelved after the pandemic shut everything down in early 2020, the latest Bond movie is finally on the glorious silver screen. It's also the final outing of Daniel Craig as 007. I'm not, strictly speaking, a fan of the whole James Bond thing, but I've found Craig's tenure as the character to have borne five excellent films, each of which has made me rethink my general disinterest toward the franchise. And this one is a fabulous way to end it, though it does require that viewers have seen at least the previous film to make much sense. Actually, really, it's a culmination of all the previous ones; when Casino Royale exploded onto our screens in 2006, it revitalized a franchise for younger generations who needed action and a different kind of sex appeal. While even these movies didn't add anything new to spy thrillers generally, they carved out a nice niche of intergenerational interest and wrote the most interesting chapter yet in the saga of one of the oldest franchises around.

The twenty-fifth Bond film (isn't that wild?), entitled No Time to Die and featuring a haunting song of the same name by Billie Eilish, takes its beautifully paced time to set up the finale of Craig's iteration of James Bond. Beginning with a flashback that gives us some re-introduction to Madeleine Swann (Léa Seydoux), the film seems to center her as Bond's romantic endgame. We then cut quickly to present-day Italy, where James and Madeleine are vacationing; he briefly departs to visit the grave of his original love interest, Vesper Lynd, before coming under attack by Spectre agents. It's a thrilling opening sequence, with an extended chase and shoot-out in gorgeous Matera. Suspecting Madeleine of treachery, he sends her tearfully away, and then begins the mournful theme song.

See, I told you it requires viewing other installments. Specifically Spectre, although it's helpful to have a working knowledge of the others, too.

Bond goes off the grid into an early retirement of isolation in Jamaica, and lives there (or at least ends up there) for apparently five years. But when a bioweapon called Project Heracles -- a virus mobilized by nanobots that can be programmed to only attack certain DNA -- is stolen by terrorists, Bond is approached twice in the same day for help. First by his friend, CIA agent Felix (Jeffrey Wright) and a new guy named Logan (Billy Magnussen), then by his MI6 replacement, the new 007 named Nomi (Lashana Lynch). Bond's distrust of M (Ralph Fiennes) and his obvious secret knowledge about the new threat pushes him to team up with the Americans. It helps that Moneypenny (Naomie Harris) and Q (Ben Whishaw) are still on Bond's side and help out a lot.

The film's gorgeous cinematography by Linus Sandgren (First Man, La La Land, Battle of the Sexes) paints a beautiful canvas for all these players to thrive, and for the most part director Cary Joji Fukunaga (True Detective, 2011's Jane Eyre, Beasts of No Nation) lets each player shine in their solo scenes. Perhaps my favorite scene in the movie takes place when the team infiltrates a Spectre meeting in Cuba, a birthday celebration for Bond's incarcerated arch-nemesis Blofeld (Christoph Waltz). Bond teams up with Paloma (Ana de Armas), a CIA agent, to find the scientist who developed the virus. Her energy and style steals the entire movie, despite her extremely limited screen time, which can't have been more than 15 or 20 minutes. Also of note, Nomi is a wonderful new character, but her role as, simply, the new 007 is quite limiting; I fear that the producers and writers used her to experiment on audiences to see if people would accept a Black woman as "Bond," and now I fear that the character's un-dynamic role in this film might prevent them from experimenting any further. It feels more like lip service and fan service than about any artistic integrity. But, then, we are still talking about another James Bond movie.

Other problems I had with this one? Well, first and foremost, I was sorely disappointed by the villain. Blofeld finally meets his end, but it's a pretty miserable one that felt unsatisfying. But Rami Malek's new character (I can't remember how it's spelled, but it sounds like "Lucifer") is almost pathetic, not even really showing up until after the halfway point and then hardly doing anything afterward. He monologues through a thick accent and menaces a child and vaguely wants to destroy the world and he just feels like any other Bond villain ever. Javier Bardem's terrifying Raoul Silva in Skyfall was the exception, and Craig deserved a better villain for his final outing. Then again, perhaps Craig's self-tortured take on the character might have been such that Bond himself is ultimately his own bad guy, and in this movie the climax certainly forces him to come to terms with his own willingness to fulfill a mission and also live a happy life. My other problem with this movie is the same as with Spectre in that I don't like watching Seydoux; she is utterly vapid on screen and has no chemistry with Craig (or anyone else) at all.

My own complaints included, No Time to Die is a really good time at the movies and fittingly ends this series on a solid note. I look forward to future viewings of the five Craig 007s because each has some really fascinating and fabulous choices, even for someone like me, who had never seen a Bond movie before Casino Royale and now, frankly, doesn't feel a need to see any others. 

The Lobster (2016)

Score: 4.5 / 5

This is what filmmaking is all about. Aggressively weird and disturbingly tender, The Lobster defies effective description because it is so many things packed into one. A pitch-black romantic comedy that is too clinical and distant to be romantic and too deadpan and creepy to be LOL-ed at, the film seems to exist in a vacuum. In it, single people are observed Big-Brother-style in a hotel, where they are tasked with finding a romantic partner within 45 days despite bizarre and punishing house rules. Failure to mate within the allotted time results in the subject being transformed into an animal.

Enter our not-quite hero, played by a distinctly un-self-aware Colin Farrell. Channeling his brilliant comic timing from Martin McDonagh's films, Farrell plays a man adrift in this dystopian world, who goes with the flow so much he often blends into the strangely familiar sets and landscapes. As he begins to assert himself into the world and make autonomous decisions, however, he learns the cost of nonconformity and takes drastic steps to find his happy ending. Matching his lost soul and dry wit is Rachel Weisz, a member of the lone singles hiding from society in the woods, and as the two embark on a romantic journey they learn that love is not without its consequences.

A star-studded cast populates this picture, but the focus is strictly on Farrell. That's not quite fair, as the script steals the whole film right away. Beautifully crafted, bewilderingly complex, and lyrically absorbing, the dialogue and pacing control the film in wondrous style. Especially noteworthy is Weisz's narration, which adds distance to our perception of the film and lends formidably bleak satire to the proceedings.

It's not a feel-good film, and I'd even be wary of calling it a comedy. This flavor of vicious black humor and absurdism is an acquired taste, and its scathing satirization of superficial courtship (think of our increasingly virtual interactions with potential lovers) and our cultural ideal of the nuclear couple is so dense and allegorized that it will leave you thinking long and hard for days after viewing. The best part? I'm still not sure the film has a message; it just lambastes our norms and mores, leaving them pulpy and quivering on the screen for us to digest at our leisure. Daring cinematic surrealism at its finest, right here.

IMDb: The Lobster

Spectre (2015)

Score: 4 / 5

Confession: I'd never seen a Bond film until last weekend. And all three of the ones I watched starred Daniel Craig. So if that makes you judge me, I'll understand.

My opinions? Casino Royale is brilliant, Quantum of Solace is not, and Skyfall is almost perfect. Am I sad Judi Dench's character is dead? Hell yes. Am I happy that Sam Mendes came back to direct Spectre? Hell yes.

But he couldn't improve on what he did in Skyfall. Don't get me wrong -- Spectre is damn good. In fact, I'd argue that the opening scene in Mexico City is one of the best single scenes I've seen yet this year. The longshot, the costumes, the stuntwork are all stunning. It's a dazzling and arresting way to start any film, and it feels perfect for our leading man's persona. Just when I thought it couldn't get any better, Craig jumps aboard a helicopter for a surprisingly well-edited fight in the sky above the crowded square. Following the spectacle is a delicious theme song delivered by Sam Smith to a beautifully stylized opening credit roll.

But not long after the opening scene, the film retreats into a formulaic pattern. It's still one of the better spy/action movies I've ever seen, but it's not as daring or resounding as its predecessor. Perhaps the reason for my lack of enthusiasm lies in the film's inflated sense of self-importance. Christoph Waltz plays Franz Oberhauser, the villain who is apparently the mastermind behind the events of the three previous films. It's almost as if the filmmakers thought this kind of contrived plot device would make the film more Important or Critical, which is silly at best. Lines like "the architect of all your pain" made me snort out loud, which I'm guessing was not intended by the filmmakers. And then, to make matters worse, they include a scene that goes beyond accepting Oberhauser as a shadowy crazy mastermind criminal by giving him a personal vendetta against Bond: After Bond was orphaned, Oberhauser's father became his guardian while Franz grew jealous and overreacted by killing his father, staging his own death, and changing his name before founding the huge terrorist organization Spectre.

That seems more like the basis of an opera, or maybe a comic book. Not an otherwise intelligent and sophisticated spy thriller. I'm sure it works for some audiences, but it just doesn't for me. It makes the whole film trite and banal, a simple cat-and-mouse on global scale, featuring Waltz in a role that ignores his talents and hinders his dramatic potential from being realized. I think I was just disappointed because the opening sequence was so sharp, and the opening credits so provocative with its images of an octopus over everything, and it all turned out to be a gimmick. I felt that I'd been had, and that the filmmakers -- desperate to one-up themselves -- had layered it on way too thick.

However, the film does feature more screen time for Ralph Fiennes as M and Ben Whishaw as Q, which is never a bad thing. It also finds a much more compelling villain in Andrew Scott as C, the head of the Joint Intelligence Service, who is struggling for power with M and pushing for global surveillance system "Nine Eyes". By the time Oberhauser admits to be behind the push for Nine Eyes, we are hardly surprised, and by the time C is revealed to be in league with him we are just waiting for the confrontation. But Scott himself is delicious in the role, and I would only have liked more screen time for him.

The camerawork is just as good as in Skyfall, as is cinematographer Hoyte van Hoytema's use of colors and striking visuals. We don't get a surprise appearance from Albert Finney or his ilk in this one, but we'll survive that. And I think some of the action sequences of this film might be the best in the series, because Hoytema and editor Lee Smith never let the action get lost in handheld frenzy or quickly edited snapshots. Everything is long and steady, and it makes viewing much easier and the action more effectively elegant. All in all, it's a fine film, a little given over to its own self-aggrandized importance but only rarely indulgent. I'd watch it any day over Quantum of Solace.

IMDb: Spectre