MA

 

Cast: Octavia Spencer, Juliette Lewis, Diana Silvers, McKaley Miller, Corey Fogelmanis, Luke Evans, Dante Brown

Director: Tate Taylor

Running time: 1 hour 40 minutes

by Jericho Cerrona

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Ma, the latest horror thriller from the Blumhouse brand is trash, but what kind of trash is it? The trailer promises meme-worthy sensationalism or at the very least, a creepy slice of pulp, but Tate Taylor’s film sadly offers neither. This is one of those cases where the casting of Octavia Spencer in the titular role as a mentally unstable woman harboring a painful past is really the only thing worth mentioning, since the script by Scotty Landes may as well have been written by one of the dim-witted teen characters populating a good portion of the running time.

The story centers around Maggie (Diana Silvers) returning to the hometown of her mother, Erica (Juliette Lewis), as she fits in with a group of fellow high schoolers. Soon they are attempting to score booze from the adult townsfolk, happening upon Sue Ann (Spencer) walking her dog near the local liquor store. Hesitant at first, Sue Ann eventually buys them the goods, but later rats them out to the local authorities by giving away their drinking hub. This sets in motion a series of events in which she convinces these underage kids to party in her basement, opening things up for a series of drug-addled high school ragers. Going by the nickname “Ma”, Sue Ann provides the party spot under the condition they don’t go upstairs. To say she’s up to something is an understatement.

But what exactly is this kindly, though seemingly lonely, older woman up to? Well, to say that Ma is harboring secrets is besides the point, since the film spends its first hour alternating between scenes of the teenagers reciting painfully wooden dialogue with Ma working at a vet clinic while obsessing over her new “friends” via social media. Once flashbacks of a young Sue Ann enduring high school bullying and assault back in the 1980s start rolling in, the film’s laughable conceit becomes clear. From this point on, Ma goes from being dull to offensive; using sexual assault in order stigmatize victimhood as a path toward mental illness. If one were being generous, you could say the filmmakers have good intentions here by showing how such experiences at a young age can warp a person’s self-worth and cause major psychological damage, but demonizing Ma as the defacto villain is beyond misjudged.

Spencer’s cunning performance allows for more nuance than would normally be afforded such a reductive character, but what is the point if the film she’s trapped inside is so inept on nearly every level? Taylor’s direction is clumsy, the teenage actors unbearable, and the aforementioned script is a hot mess of detours and laughable coincidences. Of course, the B-movie potential of the film’s central idea could have been wildly entertaining and possibly even subversive had Sue Ann simply been able to exist as a person in the world rather than being used a pawn for plot machinations. There’s even a dark “secret” she’s hiding upstairs (a thread introduced early which pays off limply during the ultra-violent finale), but the logistics surrounding her actions are so baffling that the whole thing comes off as a lame red herring.

Additionally, Ma could have leaned into political signifiers by embracing its racial elements—Sue Ann was seemingly the only black person at her high school and there’s even a token black kid in the present day teenage group—but the film is afraid of such implications. Taylor and company could also have just made a loopy genre movie giving an Academy Award winner the freedom to be deranged while using social media, but too much time is spent on high school romance, Luke Evans’s douche bag dad, and Maggie’s overprotective mom to truly lean into the Spencer show. In the end, Ma is little more than a half-baked revenge story in which a victim narrative is used as fodder for psychosis topped off with a weak social allegory. As such, audiences are better off drinking alone than spending any time with this scare-free, tonally confused turkey.














John Wick: Chapter 3-Parabellum

 

Cast: Keanu Reeves, Halle Berry, Ian McShane, Laurence Fishburne, Asia Kate Dillon, Mark Dacascos, Lance Reddick, Anjelica Huston

Director: Chad Stahelski

Running time: 2 hours 10 minutes

by Jericho Cerrona

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Director Chad Stahelski leans even further into the mythology and creative action sequences of the improbable John Wick series with John Wick: Chapter 3 Parabellum; a self-aware riff on the absurdity of modern action cinema where Keanu Reeve’s retired hitman takes a beating and keeps on killing and killing, and then when he’s finished killing, he kills some more.

The attempt to top the meticulously crafted mayhem of the first two films is alive and well right from the outset, which picks up exactly where John Wick: Chapter 2 ended with our hero fleeing for his life after killing an influential crime lord. Meanwhile, Winston (Ian McShane) provides his old friend a grace period window before he’s “excommunicado” from the criminal safe space of the Continental hotel, even as the bounty of $14 million on Wick’s head mounts. During the film’s first 30 minutes, Stahelski and his talented team of stunt performers unleash some dazzling set-pieces; like a knockabout knife/hatchet fight that goes from playful to grotesquely comic, and a scene set inside a horse stable which features some unexpected equine weaponry. All the while, Reeves looks convincingly exhausted as he throws out the occasional deadpan one-liner in between imaginative kills.

While this opening stretch of John Wick: Chapter 3 Parabellum is breathlessly paced and excitingly choreographed, there’s a sense in which the franchise is starting to spin its wheels. Whereas the second film expanded the goofy assassin lore and added a few wrinkles to Wick’s backstory, Parabellum merely pads out the running time with over-extended plot mechanics and nonsensical detours. For instance, while it’s nice to see Halle Berry onscreen as an ex-assassin who owes Wick a favor, her character is so underdeveloped that when she abruptly vanishes from the film, you forget why she mattered to the story in the first place. Perhaps the most interesting new addition to the cast is Asia Kate Dillon as the Adjudicator, a no-nonsense messenger for a shadowy group known as “The High Table” who comes in to stir up the natural order. Her purposefully flat line delivery and steely gaze gives the film an arch tone which is welcome amidst all the blood-letting and shotgun shells to the noggin.

The baroque world-building of the series continues to both intrigue and annoy; some of the High Table material feels half-baked, for example, while Lawrence Fishburne’s underground homeless hitman lair feels almost secondary here. Still, the goings on at the Continental remain self-aware as ever, especially the keen performances of Lance Reddick and Ian McShane as the hotel concierge and manager, respectively. As far as John Wick himself, it almost feels like the character is a cartoon at this point, with Reeve’s innate charm and comic timing not being well utilized in this entry.

Of course, audiences come to this franchise for the action, and on that front, Parabellum delivers the goods. The variation from gun-based action to swords, knives, and martial arts (complete with several performers from The Raid films showing up for glorified cameos), is a step in the right direction, though the movie’s last half does drag a bit. There’s only so many set-pieces with variations on punch, kick, shoot, stab (repeat) that can be staged before everything begins to feel rote, and the inclusion of testicle-biting dogs and a sword fight blanketed by mirrors simply feels like minor tweaks to a formula that’s beginning to grow repetitive.

It’s no big surprise that at the end of John Wick: Chapter 3 Parabellum, our hero is left for dead as the criminal underworld tries to readjust. Leaving things open for a fourth chapter is a no-brainer, but it also presents an interesting challenge for the filmmakers. With each absurdly graphic dispatch, Wick grows more weary and defeated. How long can he keep this up? Is the entire population of New York secretly assassins? Where will our intrepid killing machine go next, Canada? As the franchise expands the mythology and attempts to top the previous action set-piece, the specter of John Wick as a man who lost everything he loved bent on revenge, dwindles. He’s essentially become a prop in his own films now, dwarfed by choreography, shattered glass, hacked limbs, brain splatter, and the need to exceed expectations.

The Man Who Killed Don Quixote

 

Cast: Adam Driver, Jonathan Pryce, Stellan Skarsgård, Olga Kurylenko

Director: Terry Gilliam

Running time: 2 hours 13 minutes

by Jericho Cerrona

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Terry Gilliam’s The Man Who Killed Don Quixote opens with a title card that reads “25 years in the making—and unmaking.” It’s a wry commentary; referencing both the film’s torturous production history and thematic ideas embedded into the finished project itself. Its the kind of thing a filmmaker like Gilliam does well; using a preexisting text (in this case, Miguel de Cervantes’s Don Quixote) and creating a dialogue with it. The idea of who owns art, how it should be translated, and the cyclical nature of stories is central to Gilliam’s take on what many believe is an unadaptable book. Instead of attempting the impossible, Gilliam chooses to use the novel’s heroic archetypes and graft his own sensibilities onto the framework. It’s a clever touch, and one that benefits from the director’s usual freewheeling style and manic quirkiness.

Don Quixote is played, in a winning bit of casting, by Jonathan Pryce. As it turns out, Quixote isn’t the iconic Cervantes character after all, but a poor cobbler named Javier discovered by egotistical director Toby Grummett (Adam Driver) while scouting for his student film. After a period of 10 years, Toby returns to Los Sueños to helm an expensive Quixote-themed commercial commissioned by his boss (Stellan Skarsgård), who wants to sign a contract with a Russian-led vodka company. During this early stretch, Toby is portrayed as an apathetic sell-out going through the motions, out of ideas and leaking money by the day. He’s a man caught inside a corporate machine which has strangled out any hints of creativity; a feeling Gilliam himself is well aware of over the course of his rocky career in Hollywood.

Burnt out and in desperate need of inspiration, Toby takes a motorcycle from the set and heads off in search of the town and villagers from his student film. What he finds is dispiriting; with former cast members either having died from illness, given into madness, or in the case of Angelica (Joana Ribeiro), a fetching teenager whom Toby had promised to make into a movie star, moving into the realm of escort service. Perhaps most tragic is his encounter with Javier, who so fully embodied the role of Quixote in the student film that he became deluded into thinking that he was, in fact, the legendary character. From there, the young director hooks up with the deluded Javier and the two venture off on a madcap quest where Toby unwittingly takes on the role of Sancho Panza.

Of course, Toby is a stand-in for Gilliam, but The Man Who Killed Don Quixote doesn’t simply work on a meta level. There are elements taken directly from Cervantes’s novel—Javier’s delusions of seeing windmills as giants, women cursed with beards, a knight covered in mirrored armor—but Gilliam takes these familiar episodes and alters the context, blurring the line between reality and artifice. This really comes into focus during the film’s final act, where our heroes end up inside a castle with inhabitants cast as whores, peasants, damsels, and royal knights dressed in period appropriate costumes. Toby suddenly takes on the mantle of noble savior swooping in to save Angelica, who is engaged to a wealthy misogynist Russian thug, and consequently, Gilliam seems to be playing this adventure yarn straight. Javier embodies the sacrificial lamb trope and Toby is exalted to hero status, but is the film really becoming the very thing it’s playfully satirizing?

Vanity and self-worship is a trap, one that Toby and by extension, Gilliam are not immune to. There’s a possibility that Gilliam is questioning his place within the cinematic pantheon here, using iconography from his past work and commenting on it (much like Fellini did in his later years). Like most of the filmmaker’s projects, The Man Who Killed Don Quixote has an odd rhythm and often gives in to self-indulgence; with inconsistent pacing, hit and miss visual gags, and several scenes where characters simply yell over one another. Still, such criticisms can also be read as reasons for Gilliam’s legitimate artistry. He’s a filmmaker always taking chances. Always throwing ideas at the wall. Constantly pushing himself to complete his vision, even if it takes 25 years, and there’s ultimately something hopeful about that.




Long Day's Journey into Night

 

Cast: Huang Jue, Tang Wei, Sylvia Chang, Lee Hong-Chi, Zeng Meihuizi

Director: Bi Gan

Running time: 2 hours 20 minutes

by Jericho Cerrona

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Chinese director Bi Gan is only 29-years-old. His 2015 feature-length debut, Kaili Blues, was a major hit with critics and adventurous cinephiles, but remains mostly unseen. Exposure outside arthouse markets may still elude Gan with his followup Long Day’s Journey into Night, but it’s not for lack of ambition. Words like “virtuosic” and “audacious” will likely be tossed around here, and for good reason. This is a film which could only have been made by a young filmmaker enthralled by his cinematic heroes and willing to attempt technically daunting feats.

Moody, languid, and haunted by a sense of loss, Long Day’s Journey into Night is essentially an epic noir split down the middle into two very distinct halves. Initially, we are introduced to a former casino manager named Luo Hongwu (Huang Jue) who returns home to Kaili for his father’s funeral only to find himself caught up in locating Wan Quiwen (Tang Wei), a mysterious woman he once had an affair with back in the year 2000. Gan switches back and forth in time showing us glimpses of a relationship which, in noir tradition, could never truly survive. There’s also some clear Wong Kar-Wai worship here; what with Hongwu’s hard-bitten voiceover narration and hazy visuals of a world out of time, but Gan succeeds in capturing a hallucinatory vibe all his own.

All of this is to say that Long Day’s Journey into Night is a movie about how cinema can crystalize images and sensations. Gan isn’t shy about flaunting his influences, and there’s a self-reflexivity at work here which comes full circle around the film’s final hour; a 50-minute single take meant to be watched in 3D. Even as Hongwu ’s search for Wan continues spiraling; with his memories fractured and his life in shambles, the final act becomes less about the character’s inner struggle and more about our collective need to embrace the moving image as a means to an end. Using a combination of drone footage, Steadicam, and digital compositing, Gan pulls off a remarkable feat here; riffing on Hitchcock, Scorsese, and Tarkovsky in the process. While just as mind-boggling as something like, say, Alejandro G. Iñárritu’s Birdman, Gan resists the urge to showboat in the same self-aggrandizing way because he’s clearly a young filmmaker raised on the love of cinema.

The idea of characters dreaming in movies and therefore, movies as dreams, is a central preoccupation of filmmakers; Akira Kurosawa, Federico Fellini, David Lynch, Wim Wenders, Terry Gilliam, Hitchcock, and many others have dabbled in such subject matter. During the final set-piece, Hongwu is trapped inside his own subconscious; leading us through realms of dream logic which mirror the real world only in theory. The film’s central idea is that dreams (like memories) are simply projections and only seem to offer us meaning. Hongwu’s life is a mess, and even if he found his long-lost love in the present time, what would that actually change for him? Multiple realties can exist, and as such, multiple choices with multiple outcomes. Long Day’s Journey into Night doesn’t so much answer Hongwu’s probing questions as it points him towards embracing the unknown. Kind of like the magic of the movies, if that even still exists.

Under the Silver Lake

 

Cast: Andrew Garfield, Riley Keough, Topher Grace, Patrick Fischler, Jimmi Simpson, Riki Lindhome

Director: David Robert Mitchell

Running time: 2 hours 20 minutes

by Jericho Cerrona

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It’s no great secret that filmmakers have a long-standing fascination with Los Angeles as a haven for grimy mysteries and conspiracy theories. Writer-director David Robert Mitchell, whose arthouse horror sensation, It Follows, was itself a pastiche of older films (particularly 80s slashers), has taken that fascination to its apex with sophomore effort Under the Silver Lake. For here is a picture which burrows so far into retro-fetishism that it eventually becomes a kind of post-postmodern take on LA’s obsession with itself. Sadly, the film also fawns over its own construction in a way which starts out humorously before dovetailing into an ideological muddle. While this might play for 19-year-old stoners who read into the film’s odd detours with geeky obsession, the rest of us will simply prefer to rewatch Rear Window, In a Lonely Place, Mulholland Drive, or any number of B-movie noirs Mitchell is attempting to emulate.

Our Philip Marlowe-lite hero this time is Sam (Andrew Garfield), a 33-year-old unemployed drag who spends most of his time moping around his apartment, dodging his landlord due to overdue rent, getting drunk, and spying on young beautiful starlets who flood in and out of his purview. Soon after meeting a stunning blond with a fluffy dog (Riley Keough), he becomes obsessed with her, which is further exacerbated when she abruptly goes missing. What follows is a shaggy dog mystery where Sam attempts to decode the clues found in pop tunes, old vinyl records, 70’s issues of Playboy magazine, and lavish hipster parties in order to track down his ingenue. There’s a dead billionaire, squirrels falling from the sky, a dog killer on the loose, and even an old rich songwriter who mocks our protagonist by claiming pop culture is "all silly and meaningless", which is an apt description for the film itself. The whole thing plays like a Thomas Pynchon novel mixed with The Big Lebowski and the work of David Lynch as directed by Nicholas Ray. The only thing missing is a scene where Sam looks directly into the camera and chides the audience for not getting all the references.

This is not to say Mitchell doesn’t have his own aesthetic. His work with cinematographer Mike Gioulakis is often effective; particularly in regards to capturing the golden wooziness of Silver Lake. However, despite Garfield’s best efforts to create a more earnest character as things slide into sub-Lynchian oddness, Sam is a prototypical slacker who not only punches children in the face in one scene, but also obsesses over young women in a way not dissimilar to our current state of “problematic men” hiding behind a nice guy persona. This makes the film’s trips down conspiracy theory rabbit holes all the more galling since we are supposed to root for Sam’s low rent sleuth as he chases down one MacGuffin after the next.

The notion of subliminal messages in pop-culture and that playing a vinyl record backwards, for instance, could produce a drug-addled epiphany is nothing new, and Mitchell’s failure to grasp the dopey humor in his conceit makes the film’s last half feel overly ponderous. While there are plenty of satirical gags (especially during the first act), one gets the sense that underneath the golden age references, Mitchell wants us to take all of this seriously. It’s one of those cases where a talented filmmaker is trying to concoct a cult classic rather than allowing such a descriptor to be grafted onto the work years later, possibly after midnight screenings under the influence. In that sense, it’s a weirdo lark made by someone who isn’t actually a weirdo, but merely playing at weirdness. Worst of all, it’s a film absolutely bereft of intellectual curiosity to even out all the self-regarding nonsense on display.

Under the Silver Lake does eventually lead somewhere, although its labyrinthine plot, which also features a crazed conspiracy theorist (played by Mulholland Drive’s Patrick Fischler, natch) and a lame climax involving a hippie underground cult, is purposefully anti-climatic. The point isn’t the destination, of course, but the hazy journey, and yet Mitchell flails to keep us interested in a wobbly narrative which drags on for 139 minutes. There may be a reading of the film involving the monopolization of “geek culture” (just look at those cash cow Marvel movies) and how it’s now a part of the greater entertainment industry, but Mitchell never investigates these ideas; only introduces them to scatter to the wind like a puff of bong smoke. The main drive here is artifice; how things look and sound (the score by Disasterpeace, for example, clearly evokes Hitchcock-era Bernard Herrmann).

This is all well and good, provided one desires a film without tension, stakes, or a melancholic streak underpinning all the nuttiness. It’s not enough to simply act and talk like a classic noir (or neo-noir), you must prove your existence beyond pastiche. This is a trick Brian De Palma mastered during the 1980s by taking obvious visual and story beats from past directors (mainly Hitchcock) and then reapplying them for that decade’s sleazy aesthetic. Mitchell doesn’t seem to have any grasp on the current culture—no 33-year-old hipster would ever dance to an R.E.M. song without irony—and his stabs at nostalgia feel just as contrived. Therefore, Under the Silver Lake is a lot like trying to decode hidden messages on the back of old cereal boxes; maddening and a waste of time.

High Life

 

Cast: Robert Pattinson, Juliette Binoche, André Benjamin, Mia Goth, Lars Eidinger, Agata Buzek, Claire Tran, Ewan Mitchell, Gloria Obianyo, Scarlett Lindsey, Jessie Ross, Victor Banerjee

Director: Claire Denis

Running time: 1 hour 53 minutes

by Jericho Cerrona

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Director Claire Denis has always been fascinated by the bleaker aspects of human nature, and yet her films have equally fixated on the possibility of love and hope. In features like Trouble Every Day, White Material, and especially Bastards, Denis offered a myopic view of the human race laced with moments of optimism, and her latest project, High Life, certainly fits into that template. Those expecting a Robert Pattinson-starring sci-fi thriller with elaborate special effects and high concept plotting will likely stumble out of the film utterly baffled. However, for those already initiated into the cult of Denis, her elliptical style and sparse visuals will feel of a piece.

Written by Denis with long time collaborator Jean-Pol Fargeau, High Life favors a fractured, poetic mode of storytelling giving us bits and pieces of narrative; often via single haunting images, brief flashbacks, or seemingly throwaway lines of dialogue. When we first meet convict Monte (Pattinson), he’s attempting to fix something outside a rickety spacecraft (which looks like a floating matchstick box) while a baby cries alone inside an onboard room. The space travel bureaucracy which got him there—along with a crew of fellow prisoners—is never made explicitly clear, even as Denis gradually unspools plot information by jumping around in time. Even the team’s initial mission remains vague (something about identifying and researching black holes), compounded by the fact that the crew remains oblivious regarding the length of their voyage, which will theoretically last longer than their lifetimes.

Before Monte and the baby were the lone survivors, we learn that the passengers, including convicts Tcherny (André Benjamin) Boyse (Mia Goth), and doctor Dibs (Juliette Binoche), among others, were basically being used as government test subjects. As Dibs collects semen samples and cross-pollinates them with female eggs (doing so even while the participates are heavily sedated), High Life starts to feel like a Darwinian nightmare. There’s a common idea in space travel films that the inky void of the universe drives people mad, but Denis is offering the notion that human society—with its moral rules and governmental mandates—is the thing which ultimately damages the psyche.

The line between acceptable cultural mores and animalistic desires fuels much of the middle portion of the film in a way which creates an unsettling tension. A chamber known as the “fuck room” is introduced, where passengers can go purge their pent-up sexual longings, including mad doctor Dibs, who straddles a sybian dildo in one harrowing sequence which Denis films like a crossbreed of Aliens and Nymphomaniac. Characters talk in hyper-literal proclamations and whispered half-sentences. Sexual violence erupts. Everyone onboard, including Monte, are deeply flawed and possibly dangerous. Denis refuses to offer us easy answers or even a moralistic hero to connect to, though Pattinson’s impressively coiled performance helps to act in some respects as the audience surrogate.

Most films about space offer platitudes of optimism about the human race (remember Ridley Scott’s The Martian?), but High Life poses troubling questions about the future of mankind. Denis is only using the vastness of space to investigate how we live on Earth, and yet, the film’s climax is quite possibly one of the more hopeful endings in recent memory. This is because Denis sustains such an intense mood of dread throughout that the transitory possibility of hope becomes almost overwhelming. One suspects things will crescendo on a dispiriting note based on all which came before, but Denis upends expectations, even as the final image contains several interpretations.

High Life is ultimately a moving film because it takes our stubborn willingness to keep on existing and defining what makes us human seriously in a way few science fiction films do. Denis would probably even scoff at the term “sci-fi”. To her, High Life exists in the same genre as her films Beau Travail, Bastards, and Let the Sunshine In; probing the blurred line between hope and despair, love and disdain, life and death.



Avengers: Endgame

 

Cast: Robert Downey Jr., Chris Evans, Mark Ruffalo, Chris Hemsworth, Scarlett Johansson, Jeremy Renner, Don Cheadle, Paul Rudd, Brie Larson, Karen Gillan, Danai Gurira, Benedict Wong, Jon Favreau, Bradley Cooper, Gwyneth Paltrow, Josh Brolin, Evangeline Lilly, Tessa Thompson, Frank Grillo, Winston Duke 

Director: Anthony Russo, Joe Russo

Running time: 3 hours 2 minutes

by Jericho Cerrona

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Warning! This review contains finger-snapping fan service spoilers!

There’s no longer any reason to launch a passionate rebuttal to the multi-billion dollar franchise that is the MCU because these movies are essentially critic-proof. Some are entertaining (Captain America: The First Avenger, Captain Marvel), nicely diverse (Black Panther), or even delightfully goofy (Thor Ragnarok), but over the course of 22 films, one thing has remained unchanged; these are assembly line products made for the fans. Now, with Avengers: Endgame, we have the most unwieldy fan-film ever made; a 3-hour behemoth in which nearly every character who has appeared in one of these movies shows up (either in cameo form or with more built-in stakes) while our remaining superheroes deliver the death blow to purple space goblin Thanos (Josh Brolin), keeper of the six Infinity Stones.

If one recalls, Thanos snapped his fingers at the climax of Avengers: Infinity War and eradicated half of the world’s population, including many of the MCU’s most beloved heroes such as Black Panther, Spider-man, Doctor Strange, and nearly all of the Guardians of the Galaxy. The early moments of Endgame sees the remaining Avengers—including Captain America (Chris Evans), Iron Man (Robert Downey Jr.), Thor (Chris Hemsworth), Black Widow (Scarlett Johansson), and Hulk (Mark Ruffalo) dealing with the cosmic fallout. Somewhere within this gargantuan series of video game cutscenes is an intimate movie about grief, but naturally, Endgame merely nods at deeper themes. There’s also probably an actual movie in here too, but at this juncture, that’s an irrelevant observation. Narrative, character, and pacing are out the window; replaced by a series of big moments, wacky one-liners, and epic brand management. The performers are game, and obviously no expense was spared in terms of budget, but perhaps the spoiler-adverse culture can rest easy because Avengers: Endgame is not really something that can be spoiled. Sadly, there are few genuine surprises here. Just a lot of stuff happening. Constantly. For a very, very, long time.

Sure, a few key characters die off, many are brought back to life via some Back to the Future meets 1978’s Superman time travel shenanigans, and there’s the inevitable massive duel with Thanos and hordes of CGI creatures, but in the end, Disney has succeeded in swallowing its own tail. Working from a script by Christopher Markus and Stephen McFeely, co-directors Anthony and Joe Russo have fun with the quantum realm elements (powered by Paul Rudd’s Ant Man), turning the middle portion into a time travel heist where the Avengers must go back into the timelines of previous MCU movies and retrieve the Infinity Stones before Thanos does. Even as this section features clever reshuffling of events allowing our heroes to interact with their past selves, it plays more as a testament to corporate synergy than inspired storytelling. Some will view it as rewarding fans who have spent over a decade of their lives inside this universe, while the rest of us will see it clearly for what it is; just another way for Disney to monopolize its own product, repackage it, and sell it back to us.

For all of Infinity War’s flaws (and they were many), it was a film which actually dared to bum out its audience. Of course, the cynics already knew that the disintegrating core characters still had contractual obligations for more films, and yet there was still something thrilling about ending on such a downer note. Endgame course-corrects, but goes too far in the other direction, attempting to pump up the somber stakes and sentimental nonsense to the point where the effect becomes numbing rather than rousing. With the MCU’s most interesting characters lost to the finger-snapping void, we are left with sweeping arcs for bores like Captain America and Iron Man, both of which already have had multiple stand-alone movies. Why, for example, is Captain Marvel (Brie Larsen) reduced to a glorified cameo here? The film has an explanation, but it’s a lazy one; something about saving other planets in peril and whatnot. Since we know she’s the only one more powerful than Thanos, the writers must concoct a reason for her absence from such universe-altering events, and it isn’t the least bit convincing. Meanwhile, Thor is reduced to a one-joke punchline as a slacker/online troll who has “let himself go” chugging beer while showing off his drooping gut, but the gag feels like a fanboy construct for a new TV sitcom.

After all this time setting up a shared universe over the course of 11 years, Endgame ultimately comes down to white guy saviors with Messiah complexes. It’s no mistake that even though the final CGI-vomit battle features nearly every MCU character getting a chance to fight against Thanos, the film centers its emotional axis on the self-sacrifice of Tony Stark and Cap’s decision to travel back in time and give mortality a shot with his lost love. Just what we need more of in our popular culture; white men of a certain age proving they aren’t self-involved assholes when in actuality that’s exactly what they are. That’s probably why Iron Man’s final tearful goodbye to Pepper Pots (Gwyneth Paltrow, remember her?) rings so hollow. It’s just another sad rich dad playing his redemption card. Sorry, Mr. Stark. You’re still a colossal douche bag and no amount of finger-snapping will change that fact.

Avengers: Endgame lacks the spark of imagination which draws us to superhero stories. Instead, it exists as an impressively mounted advertising campaign; a cultural monolith feeding off our collective desire to drink the Disney Kool-Aid. While all of this may sound incredibly cynical, just think for a moment of this corporation’s own cynicism in repurposing their various products over and over simply to cannibalize the market. By appealing to the masses through decades of comic books, toys, and superhero iconography, Marvel has essentially made something for no one; a hulking ad continuing the homogenized “house style” which seems to run on an expensive algorithm. In the face of such things, film criticism is irrelevant. Dissenting voices will always lose. Capitalism; which is exemplified by long-running serialized storytelling and extended universes, will always win.



 

Her Smell

 

Cast: Elisabeth Moss, Dan Stevens, Agyness Deyn, Gayle Rankin, Ashley Benson, Eric Stoltz, Cara Delevigne, Amber Heard, Eka Darville, Lindsay Burdge, Virginia Madsen

Director: Alex Ross Perry

Running time: 2 hours 15 minutes

by Jericho Cerrona

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Alex Ross Perry has been both praised and criticized for making films with irredeemable characters. From the navel-gazing leads of The Color Wheel, to the egomaniacal NYC writers of Listen Up Philip and manic/depressive central figure in Queen of Earth, the writer-director has never shied away from the messy side of human nature. However, to say he goes out of his way to write “unlikeable” characters or revels in abrasiveness is a misunderstanding of his work. In fact, Perry would probably say he’s just writing what he’s drawn to; the complicated aspects of living on this planet and being forced to deal in close proximity with others. Perry never thumbs his nose or looks down on his characters. Only presents them, flaws and all, and asks us to wrestle with their behavior.

In his latest and most ambitious project, he’s cast Elisabeth Moss (in their third collaboration following Listen Up Philip and Queen of Earth) as a snarling, coked up frontwoman of a grrrl riot trio. Many will see this as Perry’s most aggravating creation yet; a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown, if you will, treating herself and everyone around her like human waste. Her Smell is a film which uses the rock star narrative usually reserved for asshole men and then gives us a female behaving badly.

When we first meet Becky Something (Moss), she and her bandmates have just finished a rousing set and retired to the confines of the venue’s dingy back rooms. Working with regular cinematographer Sean Prince Williams, Perry captures a feeling of roving claustrophobia as the camera follows Becky (often in long Steadicam shots) as she stumbles, slurs, gets high, and throws out witty insults. The self-destructive nature of the behind the scenes rock star life is nothing new, but there’s something hypnotic about Perry’s approach here. The other bandmates Marielle Hell (Agyness Deyn) and Ali van der (Gayle Rankin) are clearly at a loss in trying to curb Becky’s erratic behavior, and their manager, Howard Goodman (Eric Stoltz) seems only concerned insofar as it impacts the bottom line. As the camera swirls and pushes in for closeups, scraping strings and detuned guitar feedback permeates the soundtrack; giving everything a disorienting atmosphere of unpredictability.

Perry throws us into this chaotic situation without context and then draws it out for as long as he can. When we do get backstory, it’s delivered via old camcorder recordings of Becky (often holding her baby) during a more sober period of her life. For the first hour or so, Her Smell is a psychological nightmare in which Moss unfurls a volcanic performance that might have been a bridge too far had she not been so adept at Perry’s loquacious dialogue. Much of the conversations here come off like smutty prose; as if Becky and her minions are rehearsing for a night of Shakespearean musical theater with the amps turned up. Moss’s uncanny physicality informs Becky’s manic energy which is always in performance mode, as we rarely see behind the curtain, even as her mother (Virginia Madsen) often shows up to reveal small cracks in the facade.

Moss will rightfully receive accolades for her work here, but as the band’s bassist, Deyn is actually the heart of the film acting as the audience surrogate. If Becky is loud and unruly, Marielle is more internal and calm. The way Deyn sits back and quietly takes in the tragedy occurring all around her is subtly devastating, and her scenes opposite Moss have an aching soulfulness missing from the rest of the film.

There’s a marked shift that occurs in the final third which is, in many respects, a bold move for Perry. As someone known for exposing the noxious undercurrents in human behavior, the move toward serenity comes as something of a shock. With Becky entering a period of sobriety at home, the camera becomes locked down, the compositions last longer, and the once anarchic tension of the film dissipates. Aesthetically, it’s a noble risk, and there are some nicely rendered moments of domesticity in this section, but it also takes the film into more predictable territory. Perhaps Perry learned a lesson from co-writing the script for studio project Christopher Robin, since the narrative here starts hitting the self-recovery beats of many rise and fall rock star stories. While this shift hinting at a “happy ending” certainly gives the film more widespread appeal, and even makes Becky’s awful behavior more understandable given the nature of her addictions, it also feels like Perry pulling back on what he does best.

Her Smell is a profoundly visceral experience confirming Perry’s gifts at balancing morbid humor with psychological horror movie theatrics. Had he burrowed even deeper into the black hole of Becky Something; exposing the 90’s alt-rock scene as a bunch of drugged-out posers pretending to not be excited about landing on the cover of Spin, and the film may have truly lingered as a companion piece to Penelope Spheeris's incisive The Decline of Western Civilization. Instead, it’s just another story of an asshole musician (albeit a woman this time) going off the rails and then coming back again for one more song.




Peterloo

 

Cast: Rory Kinnear, Maxine Peake, Pearce Quigley, David Moorst, Rachel Finnegan, Tom Meredith, Karl Johnson, Tim McInnerny 

Director: Mike Leigh

Running time: 2 hours 34 minutes

by Jericho Cerrona

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The 1819 massacre in Manchester which killed 15 and wounded hundreds when cavalrymen began shooting and trampling workers demanding political reform is a sad chapter in British history. To that end, there’s very few filmmakers more equipped to bring such an event to the screen than writer-director Mike Leigh, whose impressive body of work has consistently shown sympathy for the British working-class. Even if his concerns more adroitly address modern blue-collar life, Leigh’s period films such as Vera Drake and Mr. Turner have taken historical context and narrowed the scope to focus on intimate relationships. His latest film, Peterloo, favors a long view take on the organizational elements of the suffrage movement while sacrificing the personal aspects. Therefore, the long-winded speechifying and monologues (of which there are many) are interesting only in a broad sense. Overall, the film lacks the sense of righteous indignation this story truly demands.

Part of the problem here is Leigh’s decision to introduce a sprawling cast of characters without bothering to flesh them out beyond broad strokes. There are extremists, moderates, and those unsure where to place their trust, and if there’s a lead character here, it might be the arrogant Henry Hunt (Rory Kinear), a charismatic speaker who many hope will sway the masses. Mostly, the film sets up these clashing perspectives and then runs in circles with a series of meetings held in secret. Rarely do we get any insight into the inner lives of these people, which makes the tragic conclusion feel all the more removed.

Leigh does illustrate the ways in which the elite are abusing the lower class, and scenes of magistrates dressed garishly in extravagant rooms while complaining about the poor are one-dimensional yet effective, with Magistrate Rev Etlhelson (Vincent Franklin) in particular shouting into the void like a buffoon. However, such moments are repeated so often that the film begins veering into the realm of satire without the bite needed to fully land its comedic punch.

Working with cinematographer Dick Pope (who also shot the gorgeous Mr. Turner), Leigh successfully channels the look of the era, but there’s something unusually flat about the compositions here which makes one long for the wildly unpredictable tenor of early films like Meantime and Naked. Peterloo is meticulously staged and well-meaning, and even if the climax is handled with a sure-handed verisimilitude, there’s very little in the way of meaningful catharsis. Since the film is presented as such an exacting history lesson, this moment of chaotic violence is probably supposed to jar the audience into shock and awe, but it works only in the technical sense. Leigh never invites us in. Never bothers to open us up to these people aside from their ideologies. Never presents their zeal and anger at a broken system from an emotional perspective.

Peterloo is a misfire, but it’s parallels with modern day issues of militarized law enforcement and economic inequality are alarmingly familiar. Had Leigh invested these themes with the same kind of intimacy and personal anguish of his past work, then this could have been yet another rousing call to action. Instead, the film lacks the one thing any type of political reform needs to be successful; the plight of the individual.




Dragged Across Concrete

 

Cast: Mel Gibson, Vince Vaughn, Tory Kittles, Jennifer Carpenter, Michael Jai White, Laurie Holden, Don Johnson, Udo Kier

Director: S. Craig Zahler

Running time: 2 hours 39 minutes

by Jericho Cerrona

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Dragged Across Concrete is not for the faint-hearted nor the politically correct. The writer-director, S. Craig Zahler, has been down this road before with Bone Tomahawk and Brawl in Cell Block 99, both of which were apolitical films interested in the mechanics of violence and human apathy. Here, Zahler takes the mundanity of American life and heightens the particulars; setting his film in an unspecified city while following stereotypically grizzled characters as they combat poverty, crime, and bigotry. Every so often, an act of violence happens abruptly; emphasizing the ways in which idealized thinking is absurd when it comes to dealing with such things on a daily basis. Zahler’s aim here is to probe this division; calling into question liberal think-pieces about racism and violence penned by those existing in a place of privilege. Of course, this makes Dragged Across Concrete a have-it-both-ways kind of genre exercise; reveling in “politically incorrect” dialogue while also revealing our sick cultural fascination with violence.

When we first meet detective Brett Ridgeman (Mel Gibson), and his partner, Anthony Lurasetti (Vince Vaughn), they are using excessive force while arresting a Hispanic drug dealer. Naturally, a civilian captures the entire encounter via cell phone, leading to the two men’s suspension, much to the dismay of their superior, Lt. Calvert (Don Johnson). Meanwhile, African-American ex-con Henry (Tory Kittles), is released from prison and instantly struggles to provide for his disabled wheelchair-bound son, which mirrors Ridgeman’s multiple sclerosis-plagued wife, Melanie (Laurie Holden). Zahler spends much of the film’s first act cutting back and forth between the cops’ dealing with their suspension and Henry’s entrance back into the world of crime. There’s a deep-seated cynicism and macabre wit to Zahler’s writing which gives his actors time to rattle off snappy lines or simply react to situations without the need for moving the plot along. To that end, we are constantly shifting our allegiances as the film confronts us with the ugliness of human nature while also endearing us, to a certain degree, with characters we might ordinarily find reprehensible.

One could read Dragged Across Concrete as a right wing fantasy for the good old days when men spoke their minds without fear of repercussion, but that would also infer Zahler is actually interested in politics. Truthfully, the film seems to exist more as a paean to the time where art could be disreputable and provocative, which brings us to the casting of Gibson, whose own career trajectory aligns with Ridgeman in how character and actor have been pushed out of the spotlight (rightfully so) for deeply problematic behavior. For what it’s worth, Gibson’s performance here as a man doing dirty work inside the gutter of a society who no longer respects him is both disturbing and vulnerable. He has a nicely weathered chemistry with Vaughn, who tamps down his usual motor-mouthed shtick as a guy who doesn’t acknowledge his own privilege (he has an African-American girlfriend, which of course, means he’s not racist).

Zahler uses the framework of a typical action thriller; wherein the two out-of-work cops attempt to rob drug dealers, and morphs it into a boldly subversive take on the genre. Nearly 90 minutes in, and new characters are still being introduced, including Euro killer, Vogelmann (Thomas Kretschmann) and a struggling mother, Kelly (Jennifer Carpenter), who returns to her bank job after maternal leave. Such tangents give the film a more expansive scope; and when the moments of brutal violence occur, they pack a wallop because Zahler has taken the time to slowly introduce us to this world and the people populating it. When Ridgeman and Lurasetti eventually find themselves in a stand-off with the drug dealers, the action is paired down and methodical, stretching out into a nearly 30 minute suspense set-piece. Meanwhile, Henry’s scrappy ex-con eventually engages in a tenuous alliance with Ridgeman, which leads to a brilliantly prolonged scene where the two men simply drive and occasionally check their rearview mirrors. Its theses exacting details which are usually left on the cutting room floor in other films that Zahler luxuriates in.

Dragged Across Concrete confirms Zahler as a studious maker of trashy genre entertainment which is unusually attune to the rhythms of middle class life. His vision is nihilistic and unsparing, but also not without humor or pathos. There’s a trolling element to the ways in which the film wants to prod liberal idealism, but it’s also never endorsing the repellent behavior of its characters. More than simply an empty provocation, Dragged Across Concrete is epic pulp; a slow-paced, tense, talky slice of genre filmmaking which revels in its dichotomies.

The Beach Bum

 

Cast: Matthew McConaughey, Snoop Dogg, Isla Fisher, Stefanie LaVie Owen, Martin Lawrence, Zac Efron, Jonah Hill

Director: Harmony Korine

Running time: 1 hour 35 minutes

by Jericho Cerrona

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Florida Man gets the ultimate treatment in Harmony Korine’s The Beach Bum, which uses the Sunshine State as the geographical nexus where privilege, poverty, and hedonism collide. If 2013’s Spring Breakers was a self-aware snapshot of millennial debauchery, then The Beach Bum is what occurs when boomers’ and Gen Xers’ slide completely off the grid; powered by privilege and a mixture of booze and weed haze.

When we first meet Moondog (Matthew McConaughey), he’s stumbling around Key West in a state of permafried contentment, living off his wife Minnie’s (Isla Fisher) money while moving from one hedonistic party to the next. He’s a former critically acclaimed poet who is supposedly working on his next great work, but mostly just lives the good life as a burnout drifter. McConaughey leans into self-parody by fully committing to the attributes which have made him (despite Oscar-winning work in “serious” films), a parody of himself. Moondog is the slack-jawed, off his rocker version of the screen persona which began with the stoner doofus from Richard Linklater’s Dazed and Confused. In The Beach Bum, McConaughey has come full circle clad in a half-buttoned canary yellow shirt and oversized glasses, and it’s a riotously freewheeling performance for the ages.

Once Moondog arrives in Miami for his daughter Heather’s (Stefanie LaVie Owen) wedding, the film becomes a tender picture of an odd marriage. Though both he and Minnie sleep around, there’s a real bond between them (aided by all manner of substance abuse), and some of the film’s most affecting scenes are between these two lovebirds. However, this is cut short by Minnie’s sudden death; leading to Moondog’s realization that he must finish his batch of poems in order to claim his half of her will. From here, The Beach Bum veers into a series of colorful vignettes involving kooky Florida characters while Moondog embarks upon his episodic quest.

Korine as always been drawn to outsiders, and his subjects are often disabled or disturbed individuals caught on the fringes of society. In many respects, The Beach Bum is his most accessible film yet; elliptical and meandering, but also less purposefully alienating. There are plenty of problematic elements here (women are more or less treated as sexual objects, for starters), but Korine’s undeniable affection for his characters; including Zac Efron’s pyromaniac son of a pastor and Martin Lawrence’s dolphin tour guide, keep the film brisling with a weirdo energy. Unlike older films like Gummo, Julien Donkey Boy, and the trollish Trash Humpers, The Beach Bum maintains a hippy euphoria throughout; exemplifying Moondog’s attitude of just having fun until it all comes crashing down. Even the spectator of his wife’s death never turns into a sentimental device. There’s no attempt to redeem his irresponsible behavior or make his journey into some kind of mawkish therapy session about overcoming grief. In fact, a brief stint inside a rehab facility concludes with a scene where he and Effron’s pyro injure and rob a senior citizen.

Is Moondog a good poet? In a traditional sense, probably not. Is he actually a genius, as so many Floridans claim? Maybe, but that’s not really important. What matters here is Korine’s refusal to offer easy tropes found in so many films about troubled geniuses who must rediscover their creative mojo. When Moondog's best friend Lingerie (Snoop Dogg) gives him a primo form of weed, he goes off on a binder that also includes pounding away on a vintage typewriter. Therefore, the excesses of creativity are found in the total loss of control that comes when someone knows they are well past their peak.

Moondog’s self-awareness is never really made clear. He’s so lost in the fumes of his carefree existence that bothering with his mortality is never truly an issue. Certainly, this is easier when such privilege is afforded, but Korine’s strangely touching film somehow transcends its trashy appearance as a bong-ripped wank. There’s a tinge of melancholy to the sight of Moondog, with his hyena laugh and red sequinned bikini top, just thinking that the world is conspiring to make him happy. In a bizarre way, The Beach Bum is the Florida movie the rest of the country needs right now; if only to bask in Moondog’s Zen-like penis poetry and the bohemian sounds of Jimmy Buffet. Alright, alright, alright.  



Us

 

Cast: Lupita Nyong’o, Winston Duke, Shahadi Wright Joseph, Evan Alex, Elisabeth Moss, Tim Heidecker

Director: Jordan Peele

Running time: 2 hours

by Jericho Cerrona

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Jordan Peele wants to scare the masses into introspection. If the writer-director’s galvanizing debut, Get Out, used the horror genre to reflect upon the complex feelings of being black within white society, then his followup, Us, is at least partially about the economic infrastructure upholding the American dream. The film’s central black family are middle/upper-class for a reason; forecasting the idea of minorities taking on the shape and form of white suburban life; exemplified here by a heavily intoxicated married couple played by Elisabeth Moss and Tim Heidecker. Us is also less obvious about its themes than Get Out; choosing to layer messages through symbols (much like the government conspiracies which unfold under the surface of the plot), and forcing audiences to be reflective about their own complicity in the insidious nature of American life.

Of course, Peele is a smart enough filmmaker to realize the horror movie can produce visceral reactions unlike any other genre, and Us is a tense, superbly crafted piece of work; mixing suspense, gore, macabre comedy, and home invasion thriller tropes with startling sophistication. Like Get Out, Peele is able to meld deeper themes into the fabric of a mainstream crowdpleaser, and yet, Us is a more wildly ambitious project in nearly every area.

The film opens with a flashback set in 1986 where a little girl, Adelaide (Madison Curry), wanders away from her parents at a Santa Cruz, California amusement park. Entering a hall of mirrors exhibit, she stumbles upon her literal doppelgänger and almost instantly blacks out. Cut to the present day, where the adult Adelaide Wilson (now played by Lupita Nyong’o) returns once again to Santa Cruz with her husband, Gabe (Winston Duke), and their teenage daughter (Shahadi Wright Nelson) and young son (Evan Alex). During a trip to the beach, she’s visibly nerve-wracked as past memories of her former shadow self flood in, while her friends (played by Moss and Heidecker) remain oblivious as they ramble on about their rich white people problems. Later that night, a lookalike family shows up in the Wilson’s summer home driveway— clad in red jump suits—and the terror begins.

Peele stages the sustained home invasion with the perverse hand of someone tickled by wringing out his audience, and as we come to learn the invaders are in fact doppelgänger quasi-clones who spent time underground while their more “adjusted” counterpoints flourished, the film’s larger themes come into focus. The central idea here—that the success of one is in direction correlation with the harm of another— is nothing new, but a dissection of American capitalism is perhaps not what one might expect after Peele’s rather blunt, but entirely satisfying, treatise on 21st-Century racism in Get Out. As the Wilson’s shadow selves become more empowered, the “less human” class rises up to take control by any means necessary. The great trick of the film is the way it challenges complacent audiences into siding with what in any other horror movie would be the de facto villains.

Some may balk at the film’s nightmarish third act where heavy-handed exposition is laid out and the twists start piling up, but the underground setting (complete with a Dawn of the Dead homage involving a mall escalator) is rendered with such eerie finesse that the larger implications of the story only start to coalesce long after the credits have rolled. Perhaps the most potent twist here isn’t the reveal of Adelaide’s true identity (which will no doubt spawn many think-pieces), but rather, that the real enemy is our own privilege. Peele has fashioned Us as first and foremost a terrifying thriller with an extraordinary dual performance from Nyong’o, but secondly, as an ongoing dialogue about politics, race, generational trauma, and economic disparity which complicates the more tidy (though still unnerving) resolution from Get Out. As it turns out, the ungainly monster at the heart of contemporary America mirrors how we navigate through its capitalistic systems; untethered from our own shadow selves until they return to take back what is rightfully theirs.






Captain Marvel

 

Cast: Brie Larson, Samuel L. Jackson, Jude Law, Ben Mendelsohn, Annette Bening, Djimon Hounsou, Clark Gregg, Lee Pace

Director: Anna Boden, Ryan Fleck 

Running time: 2 hours 4 minutes

by Jericho Cerrona

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Within the ever-expanding, box office-bursting, decade-plus journey of the Marvel cinematic universe, do we really need yet another origin story? Well, the truth of the matter is Captain Marvel exists mostly to prime salivating fanboys for the forthcoming Avengers: Endgame, in which Carol Danvers (aka Vers/Captain Marvel) will presumably go head to head with finger-snapping supervillain Thanos. However, for all the cynicism laced into these corporate products, there’s something pleasurable about directors Anna Boden and Ryan Fleck’s 1990s-set romp; right down to cheesy needle drop music cues and obvious jokes about dial up Internet and Radio Shack. There’s some convoluted cosmic business involving Vers training with her Kree mentor Yon-Rogg (Jude Law) in order to do battle with an alien race known as the Skrulls, but that more or less comprises the film’s opening 20 minutes.

Once Vers crash lands on earth through the roof of a Blockbuster Video circa 1995, she casually glances at a VHS copy of The Right Stuff before teaming up with Samuel L. Jackson’s government agent Nick Fury (aided by uncanny de-aging tech) in order to stop the imminent Skrull invasion. Boden and Fleck’s screenplay, co-written by Geneva Robertson-Dworet, uses its feminist-leaning messaging bluntly; which may offend those wanting more scenes of Vers smiling while kicking ass. To wit, there’s even a nifty scene where a scuzzy dude on a motorcycle asks her for a smile, and she responds by stealing his bike and peeling off; set to the blaring sounds of 90s alt-rock band Hole. All of this brings us to Brie Larsen; who takes a rather impossible role and delivers a performance full of wit, humor, earnestness, and (yes) emotion. Another critical aspect of Carol Danvers’s backstory; leaked out gradually through flashbacks and memory spurts, is that her emotional velocity often overcame her ability to think rationally. She’s spent a lifetime getting knocked down and ridiculed (as a child by her father, in the military, at bars teeming with sexists), and the early moments with Law’s overseer are key in terms of implementing this gendered messaging. The arc of her character, therefore, is simple yet empowering; that she must befriend and accept her emotions as her greatest strength in order to become the powerful hero humanity deserves.

In terms of plotting and execution, Captain Marvel is decidedly middle of the road (as is the case, sadly, with the majority of these movies). There’s a chase scene set on a train involving a shape-shifting Skrull (and one limber old lady) that’s kinetic and well paced, and the buddy cop banter between Larson and Jackson works well enough. Ben Mendolhlsen also shows up as a Skrull named Talos, and what at first appears to be yet another rote villain role for the talented actor becomes something more nuanced, humorous, and surprising. However, the intergalactic space battles and third act where Danvers (now fully transformed into Captain Marvel) flies through ships like a human photon blast, are par for the course; the kind of rubbery pre-visualized CGI action beats which may give audiences what they expect, but diminish the film’s stronger attributes.

Speaking of which, the film’s best section involves Danvers making a pit stop to visit her former Air Force friend Maria (Lashana Lynch), and their quiet scenes together, mostly involving the bond they once shared, is truly something we haven’t seen in a Marvel film before. It’s a bold move; since most audiences will probably want Danvers to snap out of her amnesia-ridden state and just start exercising her powers, but the fact that Boden and Fleck actually invest time in this female friendship is noteworthy.

As Captain Marvel moves towards its inevitable climatic showdown (and setup for Avengers: Endgame), we get a cute cat, more jokes about slow CD-rom drives, and even a fight scene scored to No Doubt’s “Just a Girl.” Even if the film ultimately adopts the studio house style and only adds a few new (or in this case, retro) wrinkles to an existing template, Larsen’s intelligent determination, emotional pathos, and photon-blasting hands are more than enough to maintain balance in the MCU. Just don’t ask her to smile more.


Transit

 

Cast: Franz Rogowski, Paula Beer, Godehard Giese, Lilien Batman, Maryam Zaree, Barbara Auer, Matthias Brandt, Sebastian Hülk, Emilie de Preissac, Antoine Oppenheim, Ronald Kukulies, Alex Brendemühl

Director: Christian Petzold

Running time: 1 hour 42 minutes

by Jericho Cerrona

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In films like Barbara and Phoenix, German writer-director Christian Petzold mined past atrocities for subversive effect, and his latest film Transit, plays like a political noir wrapped in an anachronistic setting where past and present collide. An adaptation of Anna Seghers’s 1944 novel of same name which focused on the authors’ escape from Nazi Germany to France, Petzold’s version uses time elliptically; almost as if events are taking place in an alternate-historical reality.

The narrative centers on a technician named Georg (Franz Rogowski), who carries the final manuscripts from a famous author who committed suicide into the safe zone of Marseilles. Georg hopes to flee to America but doesn’t have papers, and much of the film’s knotty plotting comes down to the implication of his hinted Jewishness. Within the world of the film, references are made to internment camps, but ethnicity is largely sidelined in favor of economic disparity. Of course, it’s not a stretch to link the two, and part of the brilliance of Transit is how it utilizes the modern-day milieu and then strips it of contemporary signifiers such as cellphones and computers.

Georg’s initial aim was to return the dead author’s manuscripts to his wife for a sum of money, but things take a turn once he becomes land-locked in Marseilles awaiting the approval of his transit visa. Through fluid editing and compositions shot through reflective surfaces, Petzold conjures a feeling of being stuck in a loop, as Georg continually gets trapped under layers of government bureaucracy. In the meantime, he strikes up a fatherly relationship with a young immigrant boy named Driss (Lilien Batman), and keeps having odd encounters with the hauntingly beautiful Marie (Paula Beers). Eventually, it’s revealed that she’s actually the deceased author’s wife, who keeps hoping her displaced husband will return. Georg and Marie’s meetings are baffling at first, but eventually their courtship becomes heartbreaking since both of them have been dehumanized. What Petzold is ultimately after is the idea of personal worth, of the ways in which the state strips away the identity of those deemed “less than human.” Like his Holocaust drama Phoenix, he does this not by using obvious allegory, but by suggesting that past transgressions are often filtered through historical generational trauma.

The indefinite time period where Transit unfolds makes the film intoxicating, as Petzold never betrays the noir signifiers by thumbing his nose at genre. At the same time, the picture’s ambiguity create a disorienting effect; as it’s never quite clear where the danger is coming from or even what the larger implications of the story are. By assuming the identity of the dead author, Georg essentially becomes a stand-in for all nameless refugees seeking escape. Meanwhile, an unseen narrator infiltrates the narrative as Georg begins reading the deceased’s novel; further highlighting the ways in which storytelling (unreliable or otherwise) is crucial to shaping our notions of history.

Transit could be labeled Kafkaesque in how it destabilizes the protagonist (who remains caught in a pile of red tape), but this also works similarly for the audience because it masterfully exploits our understanding of 21st century displacement. With the rise of Neo-Nazism and the deportation of immigrants on the rise, another period film about the Holocaust (however noble), might not carry the same weight since historical amnesia tends to set in. By giving us a speculative timeline and characters who are constantly shifting, Petzold cannily shows us that no matter what decade we find ourselves in, fascism is always poised to take center stage.




Everybody Knows

 

Cast: Penélope Cruz, Javier Bardem, Jaime Lorent, Ricardo Darín, Bárbara Lennie, Inma Cuesta, Carla Campra, Eduard Fernández, Elvira Mínguez, Roger Casamajor, Sara Sálamo, Sergio Castellanos, Ramón Barea, Marianella Rojas

Director: Asghar Farhadi 

Running time: 2 hours 13 minutes

by Jericho Cerrona

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Over the course of an exemplary career, Iranian writer-director Asghar Farhadi has perfected the domestic melodrama. However, the particular reference points of the genre; (i.e. sensational plotting, big emotions, and stereotypical characters) don’t exactly apply to the Farhadi brand because he’s always been after something more humane. His latest class consciousness thriller, Everybody Knows, allows him the rare opportunity to move away from the tightly restricted areas of Iran and embrace the wide open vistas of Madrid, Spain. The film still deals in usual Farhadian themes—betrayal, familial secrets, economic disparity— but this time the emotional lives of his characters aren’t operating inside an oppressive societal regime. Instead, the early sections of Everybody Knows maintains a light, sun-dappled tone; following working-class farmer, Paco (Javier Bardem), and his ex-lover Laura (Penélope Cruz), a woman of higher social standing who travels from Buenos Aires with her children to attend the wedding of her sister, Ana (Inma Cuesta).

Laura’s family is warm and boisterous (evidenced by the dancing/wine-guzzling wedding ceremony), but also bitter about their fortune being whittled away by her alcoholic husband. The small-town gossip spreads like wildfire as the film’s title suggests, implicating not only Paco and Laura’s past romance, but also the shocking disappearance of one of Laura’s daughters. This plot turn is unsurprising only because Farhadi has used this trick before in his devastating 2015 film About Elly, and the manner in which the family’s buried secrets trickle to the surface is also par for the course. In pictures like The Past and The Salesman, Farhadi managed to couch blunt symbolism and emotional rawness under the template of geographical, socioeconomic, and political specificity; coming off much denser than the usual garden variety melodrama. Unfortunately, Everybody Knows eschews this kind of subtlety; in part because the larger geographical canvas of Spain makes the proceedings less claustrophobic than the director’s Iran-set melodramas.

Whatever the case, Farhadi leans into the genre elements more forcefully here; getting caught up in narrative machinations involving the kidnapped teen, ransom money, and foreboding text messages. Of course, the actual answer to the mystery is never meant to be dramatically satisfying in a Farhadi film. Indeed, it’s the moral quandaries and class divisions which fuel his flawed characters that ultimately matters. However, too much time is spent moving Paco and Laura around like plot chess pieces to bother with the inner turmoil of their shared history, though Bardem and Cruz are infinitely watchable. By the end, it’s clear Farhadi has allowed the obviousness of his symbolism (escaping pigeons, a crumbling church) to overwhelm the emotional power at the heart of his story.

Everybody Knows has the shape and structure of vintage Asghar Farhadi, but lacks the searing humanism which earns its sentiments by actually engaging with the ugliness of human nature. This time, the soap-opera elements which have defined the filmmaker’s work are used not as entry points into the moral contradictions of his characters, but rather, as screenwriting contrivance.

Climax

 

Cast: Sofia Boutella, Romain Guillermic, Souheila Yacoub, Kiddy Smile, Claude Gajan Maull, Giselle Palmer, Taylor Kastle, Thea Carla Schott, Sharleen Temple, Lea Vlamos, Alaia Alsafir, Kendall Mugler, Lakdhar Dridi, Adrien Sissoko, Mamadou Bathily, Alou Sidibe, Ashley Biscette, Vince Galliot Cumant

 Director: Gaspar Noé

Running time: 1 hour 36 minutes

by Jericho Cerrona

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When it comes to extreme cinema, there are few modern voices as brazen as French filmmaker Gaspar Noé (aside from Lars von Trier, natch). His 2002 psycho-thriller Irreversible had two sequences worthy of the extreme pantheon; one where a man’s face is smashed to pulp by a fire extinguisher, and the other being the infamous rape scene filmed in one long, grueling shot. Then there was 2009’s Enter the Void; an out-of-body sensory experience where the camera was literally a floating POV traveling through the neon-lit hell of Tokyo, and yes, the lens at one point goes directly into a woman’s vaginal canal. With his latest button-pusher, Climax, Noé is up to his old tricks once again with arguably the best unintentional comedy of 2019 so far; a wildly overwrought descent into madness which plays like a Eurotrash version of Pier Paolo Pasolini’s Salò directed by a fleet of drone cameras.

To his credit, Noé does seem to understand the absurdity of his premise; setting his film entirely inside a grungy rehearsal space circa 1996, set to the throbbing sounds of EDM music. Populating these small quarters are a series of annoying archetypes who, when they aren’t dancing up a storm, are entertaining philosophical discussions about such things as the finer points of rimming. Truthfully, the film does contain one truly extraordinary sequence; an exuberant opening dance number where each performer gets a chance to strut their stuff with fearless physicality, and Noé is smart enough to capture this deranged ballet in one long continuous take. However, as soon as the rehearsals end, we are forced to endure long stretches of dialogue which consist mainly of racially and sexually diverse dancers talking shit and hoping to score in more ways than one. This inane banter is all set-up, naturally, for Noé’s predictable swerve into the nightmarish abyss. Someone, it seems, has spiked the sangria with LSD.

Part of the problem with Climax is the lack of characters to really invest in. Once the bad times start rolling after the acid kicks in, there’s very little reason to care about what happens to any of these poor souls. The film is mostly an exercise in extremes which reaches levels of comedic absurdity. Some of the personalities do come through, however; such as Romain Guillermic’s swaggering ladies man, Sofia Boutella’s bi-curious choreographer and big-boned DJ Daddy (Kiddy Smile), who has a memorable moment chewing on a blonde wig once the drugs take flight. Ultimately, the film is less interested in the psychology of its performers than in the ways performance and movement can break down social order. As the dancers start “tripping”, Noé’s roving camera follows their spastic movements, hallucinations, euphoric freak-outs, and awful behavior in a voyeuristic manner suggesting that we too, as the audience, are under the influence. In a way, the film becomes a more ominous version of Luis Buñuel’s The Exterminating Angel, where a group of wankers are unwilling (or unable) to leave their geographical space as the world closes in on them.

Unlike Buñuel, however, Noé lacks satiric imagination, and therefore the one-note maximalism of Climax starts to grow tedious, even as sequences where someone is set on fire or a woman punches herself in the stomach to abort her unborn baby play as comedic highlights. What’s supposed to be shocking and disturbing comes off more desperate than anything else; a telling example of a filmmaker making his name on shock tactics early in his career being pigeonholed into providing minor tweaks to the same formula. For some provocateurs, it can work over the long haul, (see von Trier’s masterful meta-commentary The House That Jack Built), but in this case, provocation without actual ideas can feel a lot like drinking the spiked cinematic sangria. Noé urgently wants us to come away with a visceral sense of shock and awe, but what’s really left after all the bodies stop twitching, is a soft tickle in the funny bone.

High Flying Bird

 

Cast: André Holland, Zazie Beetz, Melvin Gregg, Bill Duke, Sonja Sohn, Zachary Quinto, Kyle MacLachlan

Director: Steven Soderbergh

Running time: 1 hour 30 minutes

by Jericho Cerrona

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Anyone expecting a nuts and bolts sports movie with underdog motifs and come-from-behind victory laps will be largely baffled by Steven Soderbergh’s High Flying Bird; a film which digs into “the game on top of the game.” Of course, this comes as little surprise given the director’s track record for setting up familiar story beats and then pivoting away to explore other ideas. Along with screenwriter Tarell Alvin McCraney (Moonlight), Soderbergh has taken themes of technology, wealth, and sports negotiations and placed them within the context of white capitalist power structures. In that sense, High Flying Bird is more about endemic racism than characters dealing with an NBA lockout.

The film centers on agent Ray Burke (André Holland), who is vouching for young NBA draft pick hopeful Erick Scott (Melvin Gregg) amidst a stalemate between team owners and the Players Association. The former is represented by Kyle MacLachlan’s invisible mustache-twirling villain and the latter by Myra (Sonja Sohn), who seems to have the players best interests at heart. There’s also Ray’s assistant (Zazie Beetz) running her own game against the system, as well as a smug exec played by Zachary Quinto, who’s constantly reminding everyone how their jobs are in jeopardy due to the lockout. With a very sharp script by McCraney, whose heightened dialogue is reminiscent of the works of David Mamet and Aaron Sorkin, High Flying Bird initially positions itself as a modern take on fighting against the powers that be, but that would ultimately be too easy a position (however understandable) for the film to take. Instead, Soderbergh and McCraney go one step further; showing how Ray’s attempts at breaking the rules in order to start a revolution would have consequences that not everyone, including people of color, would be on board with.

One such dissenter comes in the form of Bill Duke’s Bronx gym coach, who has been around the block several times over and has more of a long game view of the situation than Ray. At one point, he even asks the question “why set it up, if it isn’t going to last forever?” which underlines the dichotomy of reforming a system built upon wealthy whites profiting from a largely African-American sport. On the other hand, the film is also smart about showing how the allure of fame, money, and popularity can trap young black athletes into following the rules set up by this institution. This struggle, personified by Gregg’s green NBA prospect, is bracketed by interview scenes with real-life players talking about the personal and professional challenges that come from signing to the league.

This being a Soderbergh joint, there’s also another layer which permeates the ways in which the characters interact with their environment. Specifically, the film was shot entirely on an iPhone (like last year’s psycho-drama Unsane), and this filmmaking freedom acts as a counterpoint to how media can signal change by putting the power back into the hands of black athletes. To wit, there’s even a one-on-one game between Erick and another NBA hopeful that’s captured entirely on a phone, uploaded to the Internet, and spread across social media like a wildfire. The idea of players taking to the streets or gyms in order to gain traction against corrupt patriarchal greed is telling, and Soderbergh’s aesthetic choices—sharp angles, floating dolly shots, rigid camera pans—mirror a world where information comes in trending bursts.

Eventually, Ray’s scheme to upend the system by giving players more creative and financial power makes High Flying Bird a subversive sports movie which entertains through crisp filmmaking, snappy dialogue, and fine-tuned performances, but also nails the disturbing nature of an economic system based on racial injustice. There’s even a Chekhov's’s manilla folder containing a “Bible” given to Erick by Ray in the film’s opening moments; and its eventual reveal, set to the sounds of Richie Havens, is the kind of punctuation more rousing than any game-winning buzzer beater.

Velvet Buzzsaw

 

Cast: Jake Gyllenhaal, Rene Russo, Zawe Ashton, Billy Magnussen, Toni Collette, John Malkovich, Natalia Dyer, Peter Gadiot, Daveed Diggs, Tom Sturridge

Director: Dan Gilroy

Running time: 1 hour 52 minutes

by Jericho Cerrona

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If writer-director Dan Gilroy had his way, negative responses to his latest satire/horror thriller Velvet Buzzsaw would inevitably be destroyed in a mixture of splattered paint and gushing blood, because taking down something this thoroughly mediocre would involve a level of elitism not unlike the film’s central character, critic Morf Vandewalt (Jake Gyllenhaal). Similar to the dated satire of news journalists as vampires in Gilroy’s 2014 film Nightcrawler, Velvet Buzzsaw is here to announce how the art world is a farce championing commercialism over the purity of outsider art. All of this brought to you by the cynical cash cow that is Netflix, of course.

Truthfully, there’s a nifty idea here in regards to art taking vengeance on exploiters, but Gilroy never trusts the lunacy of that premise. Instead, most of the picture spins its wheels making obvious points about art dealers while trotting out a variety of clichéd character types. Along with Gyllenhaal’s glib critic, there’s world-weary gallery owner, Rhodora Haze (Rene Russo), struggling gallery employee Josephina (Zawe Ashton), Daveed Digs as a local artist, Toni Collette in a bad blonde wig, John Malkovich as a former alcoholic painter, and young receptionist Coco (Natalia Dyer), who, in one of the film’s decent gags, keeps finding dead bodies. From a visual standpoint, Gilroy’s streamlined aesthetic has a certain efficiency, even as the self-conscious filmmaking (complete with a shot where the camera glides through a glass of champagne), never fully leans into its B-movie potential.

Eventually, Josephina discovers a bunch of abandoned paintings following the death of a neighbor, and seeking a way to break into the art world club, brings them to Rhodora, who starts selling at a fever clip. The paintings themselves are pastoral depictions of trauma, but naturally, the rich salivate over their supposed brilliance all the same. Gradually, a supernatural presence unleashes itself upon those who merely hope to profit from the artwork, veering Velvet Buzzsaw into the realm of camp horror. A little of this absurd bloodletting goes a long way, but since the characters here are all cartoons placed against art installation backdrops, there’s very little investment in their demise. Gilroy has manufactured his film to be a joke that’s also in on the joke, but there’s only so many gif-worthy images one can pull out until the whole thing collapses under the weight of low-hanging fruit.

At one point, Gyllenhaal’s snobby critic (who becomes increasingly unhinged during the final act in that very particular way of Gyllenhaal going unhinged these days), bellows “the admiration I had for your work has completely evaporated!" to a young artist. The line is a form of Gilroy critic-proofing his own film, all but admitting that Velvet Buzzsaw is purposeful trash. Therefore, what could have been a pulp answer to Ruben Östlund’s The Square (with shades of David Cronenberg’s lacerating Maps to the Stars), instead turns into a smug Black Mirror episode (minus the tech phobia) where pissed off paintings become Freddy Krueger. Which begs the question. Why debate the merits of art, the rights of an artist, or even why dealers are obsessed with finding the next big thing (aside from financial gain) when the answers are this self-defeating?


The Wild Pear Tree

 

Cast: Dogu Demirkol, Murat Cemcir, Bennu Yildirimlar, Hazar Ergüçlü, Serkan Keskin, Tamer Levent 

Director: Nuri Bilge Ceylan

Running time: 3 hours 8 minutes

by Jericho Cerrona

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There’s a scene near the beginning of Turkish filmmaker Nuri Bilge Ceylan’s The Wild Pear Tree where the film’s central protagonist, disillusioned writer Sinan (Dogu Demirkol) stumbles upon an old crush (a sublime Hazar Ergüçlü) while strolling past a massive tree. The scene plays out casually; allowing the passive-aggressive dialogue between these two people with a shared history to flow with the rhythms of a realistic conversation. The role of language has always been important in Ceylan’s films, but his use of elegiac visuals (at one point, the camera even pulls away to bask in the sunlit leaves softly rustling in the wind), de-emphasizes narrative structure; highlighting how language can form the basis for personal, political, and moral ideals.

Ceylan has crafted talky anti-narratives before in films like Once Upon a Time in Anatolia and Winter Sleep, and The Wild Pear Tree continues in this tradition by being less a coming-of-age story concerning a young writer and more about how lives are molded by time. Centering on Sinan’s aimless intellectual (who comes across like the Turkish version of Llewyn Davis from the Coen Brothers’s Inside Llewyn Davis), as he returns to his hometown after graduating from college, the film initially situates itself as a commentary about young ideals pitted against old world values. This includes the strained relationship he has with his father Idris (Murat Cemcir), who harbors an addiction to horse betting. With a degree in Literature and a newly finished novel (described as a genre-less “meta autobiography”) that he hopes to publish, Sinan is gradually revealed to be a self-involved bore, and this is a crucial point. Whereas a character like Llewyn Davis was presented as a romantic cynic, Sinan’s idealism stems from the naiveté of youth, and yet, his anger remains at least somewhat sympathetic.

As Sinan flounders (even bombing a teacher’s exam that may have secured him a job somewhere in the east), the prickly relationship between him and his father rises to the surface. Meanwhile, his mother (Bennu Yildirimlar) seems to berate Idris for his irresponsible behavior while also holding onto her romanticized past memories of him. However, the family drama here is only part of Ceylan’s ultimate aim; as the film takes digressions involving politics, religion, and literature where Sinan finds himself wrapped up in lengthy conversations with old friends, acquaintances, and in one extended scene, a famous local writer (Serkan Keskin). In a way, the film’s stylistic flourishes—long takes, tracking shots, jarring jump cuts—often detach us from Sinan’s endless moaning; luxuriating in the open vistas and sun-kissed landscapes which he takes for granted.

The Wild Pear Tree is loose and meandering, but never gratuitous. One could reduce the thematic message down to the role of male ancestry and which sins are inherited from father to son and which ones are learned, but that would assume the film is primarily about Sinan’s coming-of-age. There are allusions to political upheaval in Turkey (represented most clearly during a phone conversation Sinan has with a friend in which they laugh about the beating of a student protester) as well as how the tourist industry has affected the economy, which gives the film a broader contextual scope. The density of the conversations here (both in terms of content and how long Ceylan allows them to transpire) and the impressionistic visuals lend The Wild Pear Tree a powerfully cumulative effect. Therefore, the film’s final image can be read in multiple ways— etched by melancholy, despair, and hope— landing with indelible force because we have spent so much time with these characters. Sinan’s morose worldview, too, comes into greater focus. By the end, even he seems haunted and touched by the passage of time.



Glass

Cast: James McAvoy, Bruce Willis, Samuel L. Jackson, Sarah Paulson, Anya Taylor-Joy, Spencer Treat Clark, Charlayne Woodard

Director: M. Night Shyamalan

Running time: 2 hours 9 minutes

by Jericho Cerrona

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M. Night Shyamalan has always been a charlatan. Taking any of his films seriously (yes, even The Sixth Sense) is actually doing the writer-director a disservice, since he works firmly in the register of the B-movie. 2000’s Unbreakable was low-key and ponderous, but also undeniably goofy. The Village was a disastrous in-joke about his penchant for plot twists. Lady in the Water was a deconstruction of how a writer of kitsch campfire stories could actually be the savior of mankind (played, unsurprisingly, by Shyamalan himself). His 2016 hit Split, wherein James McAvoy portrayed a multiple personality serial killer, delayed its true intentions as a belated sequel (and villain origin story) for Unbreakable, where a grumpy Bruce Willis showed up in the final shot. Shyamalan’s latest project, Glass, is the climax of a trilogy; converging story threads from two films separated by some 16 years into one unwieldy genre clash. Whatever one ultimately thinks of Glass, you have to hand it to Shyamalan; the guy is doing whatever he wants with a mixture of ego, earnestness, and self-aware humor.

The films begins where Split left off, with Kevin Wendell Crumb (James McAvoy) going through a variety of his personalities while terrified cheerleaders huddle chained together inside an abandoned warehouse. Enter David Dunn, aka “The Overseer” (Bruce Willis) who is still doing his under the radar crime-fighting thing throughout Philadelphia, except now under the guise of a security company, co-led by his son, Joseph (Spencer Treat Clark, reprising his Unbreakable role). Dunn sleepily (or is it just Willis’s somnolent acting?) locates McAvoy’s super villain (aka “The Horde” or “The Beast”) and has a pushing/punching mini fight with him while freeing the shell-shocked teen girls. Shortly thereafter, both are caught by the authorities and thrown into a mental institution run by Dr. Ellie Staple (Sarah Paulson), a gaslighting psychiatrist bent on convincing superheroes they are simply mentally unwell. Dunn’s locked chamber is fitted with water cannons (his kryptonite), while Crumb’s cell is padded with strobing lights which cause him to switch personalities whenever they flash. Obviously, this last bit is merely a ploy in order for McAvoy to launch into his acting exercise at a fever pitch, and a little of this thespian mugging goes a long way (especially when the other actors are so sedated), but the gimmick starts to wear thin by the film’s midpoint.

Dr. Staple’s aim is to pit rationalism against faith, and Shyamalan believes so strongly in the strength of his scattered ideas (it’s the power of cinema, get it?) that the middle portion of Glass plays like the kind of self-reflecting lesson about believing in the power of magic not seen since the days of Lady in the Water. Of course, there’s a third character in this insane asylum triangle; Samuel L. Jackson’s Elijah Price (aka “Mr. Glass”) the brittle bone disease comic-obsessive who was revealed as a master supervillain during the climax of Unbreakable. In a stroke of perversity, Shyamalan chooses to have the titular star of his movie remain heavily drugged, twitching, drooling, and not uttering a word for the first 70 minutes. Meanwhile, Dunn’s son is trying to convince Dr. Staple that his pops is just a curmudgeonly good samaritan, while Casey (Anya Taylor-Joy), the captive set free by the Horde in Split, and Elijah’s mother (Charlayne Woodard) seek their own methods in trying to liberate the captives.

The way to read Glass in which it isn’t a complete misfire is the idea that disappointment is crucial to Shyamalan’s sense of misdirection. In setting up expectations for a certain kind of movie, he goads the audience into thinking they are getting a small-scale comic book retort to the MCU, when in actuality, there are two separate genres clashing together here; the superhero film and the B-movie psychological thriller. While the film doesn’t work in the traditional sense—with its clunky dialogue, uneven pacing, and laughable contrivances—when has a Shyamalan movie ever worked in the traditional sense? Some will see his observations about comics (complete with cringe-worthy meta dialogue and dated references) as being some 20 years behind the curve, but the world of Glass (like Split and Unbreakable before it) doesn’t take place in the real world. In a way, Elijah Price’s masterplan (involving a villain team-up, institution jail break, and showdown in a parking lot) is yet another misdirection practical joke. There’s even a wink towards a spectacular fight atop a skyscraper between Dunn and The Horde, but if one thinks that’s ever going to happen, one hasn’t been paying attention to Shyamalan’s career.

There are simple pleasures to be found in the film’s aesthetics—gliding camera work, odd angles, striking lighting choices—and Jackson in particular gives a neurotic, wounded performance during the film’s final third. However, if the whiff of a climax; complete with multiple rug pulls involving shamrock tattoos and a dangerous puddle of water makes one laugh in disbelief, then that also infers Shyamalan has ever been able (or willing) to let go of his dopey tendencies. The man has always been a charlatan. His films operate snugly in the realm of pulp. When, in trying to diagnose the problems plaguing our heroes and villains, Dr. Staple says, “My work concerns a particular type of delusion of grandeur”, she is, of course, talking about Shyamalan’s self-mythologizing ego. Having faith in yourself (despite personal failures like The Village, The Last Airbender, and The Happening) is the real superpower, and thinking the anti-superhero therapy session Glass would provide any other insights is like expecting a twist ending where none exists.