Red One (2024)

Score: 1 / 5

What the fa la la was that? I was already annoyed to hear that Jake Kasdan was taking on a different project before his long-awaited finale to the Jumanji series, and then the lackluster trailer for Red One was released, which didn't help. Finally watching it made my feelings decidedly worse. Christmas action movies -- fantasy or no -- are nothing new, but even before its halfway mark, I was ready to write that Red One stink, stank, stunk.

Derivative in every sense, the story (briefly) concerns a secret global paramilitary organization that monitors mythological beings on Earth. On Christmas Eve, mysterious soldiers break into the North Pole -- imagined here as a fantasy metropolis behind an invisible barrier -- and abduct Santa Claus. His bodyguard and liaisons to the cryptid agency recruit a mercenary hacker to help them find and rescue Santa in time for Christmas. Along the way, the hacker reconnects with his family and the bodyguard rediscovers the reason for the season.

Where to start? That the North Pole's concept is ripped from previous, better films like The Santa Clause and The Polar Express, surely, or that J.K. Simmons's St. Nick is about as un-jolly as he could possibly be, might crack the ice on this mess. The screenplay by Chris Morgan is littered with so many shitty pseudo-sci-fi acronyms that it's almost impossible not to start gagging when one character literally points out the ridiculousness of it all by changing the meaning of E.L.F.s, in pointed dialogue, to be one of the stupidest "jokes" in the whole movie. Then there's the alarming lack of actual Christmassy elements in a film literally about saving Christmas; instead of the typical trappings, the film is overwhelmed by its own product placing.

Aside from its inane incoherence, the film has worse crimes than bizarre general nonsense up its sleeve. It's almost unwatchable due to its heavy reliance on cheaply rendered CGI doused by lighting so lackluster and dull that you can barely see it. The reindeer are giant prehistoric beasts referred to repeatedly as "girls" as if they were dictation stenographers in the 1960s, answering to a single inexplicable Greek word from Santa when he needs them to... slay? It doesn't help when they take off and immediately fly like they're in the Star Wars vision of hyperspace. Various fantasy creatures live in the North Pole, none of which are interesting or given reasonable time to make any impression, artistic or otherwise. The villain employs several giant thuglike showmen to stop our heroes and their singular fight scene -- on a beach in Aruba, just for pointless fuckery -- is one of the most disjointed and aggressively confusing action scenes I've had the torment of ever seeing. Where is the magic? Where is the light?

The lack of artistic joy walks in tandem with a lack of storytelling joy here. Seemingly attempting to rely on the mythological underpinnings of the Santa narrative, the film hinges on its endless exposition to constantly build itself. Every scene is expository, and downright stupid dialogue pours from every character's mouth for the sole purpose of telling the audience what the hell is happening. The primary villain, Gryla the witch, could have been an inspired choice, as to my knowledge she's never been featured in a Christmas film. But she's so underused that I often forgot she existed (Krampus, looking like a D&D character more than the monstrous demoniac spirit, is featured more) until the climax, when she morphs into a laughably artificially rendered giant in a tattered cloak. Trying to break out of traditional molds is good and all, but only if you really go for it: here, though pulling from pagan myth and historical record, the film reimagines these characters in contemporary terms, making the villains less eldritch forces of nature or morality and more put-upon superhero baddies with no style or substance or significance.

Acting is effective in different ways to different people, but none of the acting in this film worked for me. Dwayne Johnson looks good, as always, but adds no charisma or pizzazz to the proceedings whatsoever; even his emotional state -- as the main character who must learn to see the child in others -- feels disconnected in the denouement, when it should be at its heartwarmingest. Chris Evans completely phones in his performance, blundering through the film (looking terrible, a distinct failing on the part of the costumer) as if he's intoxicated and dissociating. Lucy Liu tries to bring some earnestness to her overseer agent role, but by the time the film's focus shifts to Nick Kroll (who might be doing his best/worst Nic Cage impression) and Kiernan Shipka, nothing matters anymore.

And that's the problem. Talking about the theming is pointless because there is none. Gryla seeks to imprison those designated as naughty to leave only the nice people free, the absurd grandiosity of which belies its distinct problems as a plot device and as ethical commentary. If Johnson's character's crisis of faith can't be cured by literally being Santa's right hand man, then dealing with a Grinchy mortal who learns to reconnect with his obnoxious son shouldn't spur him on to a change of heart, regardless of the wrathful, vengeful ancient witch coming from the ether to usurp Santa's fatherly, grace-based modus operandi. Not that any of these potential themes are entertained by a screenplay so obsessed with entertaining that it can't quite make sense of its own ideas, much less develop them in any capacity.

With confused action, bewildering editing, unwatchable cinematography, inchoate plotting and inane theming, Red One isn't for anyone and does nothing. I don't think even kids would enjoy it. Save your time and save your holiday spirit. Depending on its financial state, it will almost certainly spawn sequels and spin-offs, likely based on other holidays, and that might just usher in the end of the world. This is one of the worst films of the year, setting out to do nothing of value and achieving even less by affronting the sensibilities of anyone unfortunate enough to watch it.

Don't Worry Darling (2022)

Score: 3 / 5

Sumptuous and sensual, dripping with style, Don't Worry Darling has finally arrived after much tabloid coverage. And it's about as much a mixed bag as you might have expected, though not for the reasons splashed across headlines and news bytes. Its marketing was confusing and related press even more so, but generally it looked like a cross between The Stepford Wives and Black Swan, and for the most part I'd still say that's a reasonable set of correlations to make. It's probably how I'll describe it (if I ever need to) in the future. We follow Alice, a young married woman, as she experiences her life in a desert utopia in the American West. We aren't given much information about why she's there, though she seems to be learning the customs and socializing quickly enough, or even who she is, apart from her obvious and troubling attempts to look and act just like the other housewives in town.

And, much as the town in the film functions in relation to her, the film itself asks us the same question: Why does context matter, when everything is so lovely? And lovely it is! Victory, the name of the town and its mysterious workplace that only men are permitted to enter, is indeed victoriously designed with its perfectly manicured lawns leading up to stunning mid-century modern houses in tasteful colors. Every man in tailored suits and slicked hair, every woman in vibrant dresses and aprons, every adult with a delicious cocktail in hand at any hour. Oldies music plays loudly in every scene, and the camera enhances each color to be warm and polished, almost surreal in hue as if we were watching it all in a Technicolor commerical from the '50s. And that's to say nothing of the evenings, when the men of town return from work to ravage their wives with renewed vigor and go to booze-soaked house parties that would make Jay Gatsby blush.

But of course all is not well in paradise, and who better to carry us on that journey of revelation and retribution than Florence Pugh, cinema's recent golden girl who churns out yet another Oscar-worthy performance. Her character Alice is innately above the town of Victory, and we see her struggling to completely fit in; early on, instead of a colored dress and heels, she waves goodbye to her husband in the morning in an oversized white shirt and recently-sexed hair. She challenges the normative ways men treat their wives and constantly wonders what, exactly, they do at "work" every day. Her nagging suspicions threaten to label her as a nagging wife, and so she dutifully -- if somewhat resentfully -- swims at the pool and goes to dance class and does what the other good wives do. After all, she's not really paying for this lavish lifestyle, and her only real concern is what cocktail to drink next or how to fashion her hair today. Who is she to complain, right?

A plane crashes nearby and no one seems to care. A friend of hers (one of the few women of color) has a breakdown and then seemingly kills herself but nobody wants to talk about it. She tries to visit her husband's workplace and passes out for a full day. Things are weird in Victory, no thanks to the charismatic and mysterious founder Frank (Chris Pine, delighting in playing what amounts to a wicked little cult leader). But this Mad Men fanfiction takes a dark turn when Alice -- and we -- realize what exactly is going on. Even though by this point it was fairly obvious what was coming, I found the "aha" moment to be more of an annoyed groan. If you're going to reimagine The Stepford Wives or The Truman Show, the best way to do it isn't to use the tech from The Matrix. 

So while the plot itself is neither original nor inspired, I don't want to completely villainize screenwriter Katie Silberman, whose dialogue and pacing is actually exquisite. She grapples angrily with a lot of weighty ideas, launching a film that ultimately tirades against the American patriarchy, and while it's no fresh idea, it is a bit refreshing to be reminded that this kind of feminist film is still horrifically relevant. It's okay to rage against the machine because most of us in real life are still under its yolk. Pugh, to her inestimable credit, takes her fiery feminist streak in stride and makes it relatable without dumbing it down; her response to being constantly gaslit into compliance is eminently believable and we want to fight back too.

It helps, in odd ways, that her costar is Harry Styles. I've never much liked his artistry, and here he fully fits the character: vapid, vain, and unwilling to be uncomfortable. He can't stand the thought of his Alice gaining the upper hand in any conflict or in general, and so he resorts to aggressive placations, feigning weakness to garner support, and even asking for professional help when he is at the breaking point. Styles, much like his character, is incapable of reaching emotional depths to match Pugh, and his manner of listening and responding to her is embarrassingly forced. Perhaps it was a conscious acting choice (doubtful), but it's telling that the original casting had Shia LaBeouf in this role, who has a much more intense and raw method of performing that would have created a vastly different atmosphere for this film. I'm glad Styles is the choice in that regard, as he fits the bill, but he's just not got the chops across from Pugh or Pine or even Olivia Wilde herself, who plays Alice's neighbor to great effect.

It's a stunning film, from the genius of Matthew Libatique's cinematography to the sumptuous production design and costumes, and even the heavy score worked for me. It's just that the screenplay, which nails so many things, was inspired by a half-baked, derivative notion that wasn't properly fleshed out. Films like this can work if they're either consciously referencing their obvious source material or evolved enough to be only vaguely suggesting connections with it. This does neither, and so despite the rapturous artistry in it, by the closing credits I felt that I'd been had as much as Alice was.

Operation Finale (2018)

Score: 3.5 / 5

We all know the story -- even peripherally -- of Adolf Eichmann, one of the Nazi brains behind the "Final Solution," the Holocaust. We know that he escaped Europe and lived for a decade in Argentina under a false identity. We know that Israeli intelligence agents tracked him down, captured him, and returned him to face trial before sentencing him to death. We know, too, that his name is synonymous with the "banality of evil" and that "little Eichmanns" are the sort of sycophantic, mindless paper pushers and bureaucratic desk workers who never get their own hands dirty but whose activities cause great harm to others.

It would follow, as we know the basic story and characters, that a cinematic depiction of these events and characters might be one of those great war thrillers or revenge dramas that sweep awards and educate while they provoke and honor. Operation Finale, while serviceable and highly entertaining, falls short of such expectations for many reasons. Though a pretty amazing team of artists hide behind the curtain -- to say nothing of the ones on screen -- there's just something that didn't quite work on the grand, epic scale of (for example) Munich or Zero Dark Thirty.

Which is not necessarily a bad thing. I don't think Operation Finale even wants to be considered a "great film." It's almost a chamber piece, revolving around its two main characters as they intellectually spar during Eichmann's captivity. The great pleasure of the film lies with these characters and the actors who portray them. Ben Kingsley is chilling as Eichmann, at once silly and conceited yet calculating and manipulative. He seems to have no remorse for his crimes, and endlessly seeks justification for his own existence, about which he has apparently no delusions. He knows he's just an animal, and though brief insights into his emotional state occasionally flash through his stony visage, his existence seems based on instinctual tasks like eating, shitting, and finding comfort.

Oscar Isaac carries the film as his primary captor, Peter Malkin, who struggles to keep his mission professional but nevertheless succeeds where his peers fail. He crosses boundaries in his efforts to get Eichmann to comply, alienating his team, but as the story's end attests, Malkin apparently knew exactly what he was doing the whole time. His beauty in no way detracts from the proceedings, though it does distract on occasion; his greatest contribution to the character, however, is in his dedication to the little moments of silence as he contemplates the horrifically complex ethics of the mission.

With a team including Javier Aguirresarobe and Alexandre Desplat, Operation Finale had great resources and guidance. While director Chris Weitz may have been ill-prepared for a postwar espionage thriller with timely and important themes, there's not a clear reason why this flick isn't a new staple in the WWII canon. Perhaps we can blame the story itself: not really a war movie, it flips constantly between feeling like a thriller or drama or history. How do we read it? How did the director read it? It's not an easy question to answer, made all the more difficult in the film's repeated tonal shifting; I love breaking the mold of genre and experimenting with new art forms, but it's important too to have a sense of purpose and intent and, it's true, direction. Its attention to detail and fabulous nuance in ethical dilemma make Finale engaging if not quite thrilling, and even got me to forget (briefly) how the story would end.

P.S.: Keep your eyes peeled for Simon Russell Beale in a surprising single-scene role as David Ben-Gurion, blessing Malkin's team before they depart Israel.

IMDb: Operation Finale