Reading the comments thread of my essay “The Movie-Going Public” gave me the same feeling I had riding Mr. Toadâs Wild Ride at Disney World as a kid. This is so bizarre yet exciting, with all these surprising twists and turns. I canât figure out where Iâm being taken and I canât stop laughing. It would resemble a classic Monty Python sketch if it werenât so sad.
Because when a deeper discussion I hope to spark fizzles into surreal insanity I take that way more personally than any personal attack. The entire point of my penning the piece was to use myself as a jumping off point, to prompt readers into thinking about their own individual lives in order to foster a meaningful discussion about what it means to be an audience member. Instead, that conversation ended when the focus shifted exclusively to me. And the tragedy is that my particular life isnât minutely as interesting as the larger picture. Itâs disappointing that seven dirty little words referencing sexâin my estimation the least interesting thing about meâout of an entire heartfelt essay could derail the whole critical thinking process.
I guess now would be a good time to state what I thought was the obvious. “The Movie-Going Public” was written from the POV of a movie-goerâin other words, I took off my film critic hat. It is a personal essay, not a film review. However, judging by the comments section you would have thought Iâd stuck a flippant reference to casual sex in my actual review of Traitorâwhich not only would have been inappropriate, but downright Monty Python loony. I happen to be a genderqueer chick, a gay guy inside my female form (which is old hat as Iâve written about it extensively), and tossing off a campy-toned comment about an afternoon tryst isnât bragging if sex is on par with going to the gym. Thatâs just how a flamboyant homo like me talks. Iâm perfectly capable of cleaning up my language when critiquing a filmâI donât “talk gay” any more than Armond White “talks black.” I understand this requirement because, for as long as I can remember, Iâve been muting myself for the sake of the comfort of others. But a personal essay is my sacred ground. And it hurts to censor myself in this context. (On this note I ask anyone still offended to please express your outrage in the comments section of “Taking The Bite Out of Sex.”)
I understand that my experiences are not the same as yours, that I live on the fringe, not in the center. But since we all go to movies, weâre all part of the collective movie-going public. And however different our viewpoints, what we all have in common is that we bring our individualized ways of seeing with us to the theater whether weâre always aware of this or not. And because we all bring something, we all deserve to take something away as well, an experience not provided by the abundance of films that selfishly and lazily preach to the lowest common denominator when they could aim to do what Shakespeare didâspeak to the general public with artistry cloaked in plainspoken language, not with condescension (which happens to be royal critic Roger Ebertâs secret weapon as well). Filmmakers need to stop viewing audiences in linear terms, to start widening the net, embracing an umbrella approach, thinking in the language of prisms so peasants and kings get fed together.
So how on earth can this revolution happen? Contrary to the opinion of some commenters, filmmakers have to actually care what others (beyond “test audiences”) thinkâenough to genuinely listen and to be open to having their viewpoints challenged. To take an extreme example, The Living Theatre has been around since the forties, engaging numerous viewpoints on all different levels because its founder, Judith Malina, is passionate about her audiences, is humbled by their taking the time out of their busy lives to listen to her message. Not once in all my years working with the company did I ever get the sense that Judith valued her friend Allen Ginsbergâs opinion more than that of John, the old black homeless guy who looked after our space on Avenue C during the day (and Iâd dare say the same about Allen). Iâd also venture to guess she would have been thrilled if J. Edgar Hoover, who had an F.B.I. file on her a mile long, had come to see a show and offered his viewpoint, rather than trying to bully her into silence. I just donât get the sense that Jeffrey Nachmanoff, the director of Traitor, really gives a shit what little ole movie-going me thinks as long as I cough up my eleven bucks. But Iâll bet Roger Ebert cares what I think about his own review.
Secondly, filmmakers have to be curious enough to engage with the world outside film so that they speak several sociological “languages” fluently. We need to stop talking about “audiences who donât care to be challenged” when itâs the filmmakers themselves who donât care to be challenged. To use another “fringe” example, I get geeky about S&M, boxing, theater, film, and certain genres of music just about equally, and whenever I enter each of these cliques I try to cross-pollinate a bit, try to find common ground (which obviously backfires from time to time). The reason film is a universal medium is because itâs an amalgam of all “languages” (i.e., life experiences). A good many filmmakers have lost sight of this, which is why so many movies speak only the language of LCD. As another astute commenter noted, The Godfather is both box office gold and a cinephileâs paradise. I donât think itâs a coincidence that Coppola can speak wine as well as film.
But of course all these points could have been bandied about in the comments section of my last essay if the conversation hadnât turned, as it so often does, to my tone or style rather than the substance of my words. So itâs interesting now for me to ask, “Is it because my tone or style doesnât reflect a very set and preconceived notion of what a film critic is supposed to be?” Is the problem really with my challenging the very idea?
I pose this question only after an email conversation with my ridiculously perceptive colleague Steven Boone whose work I deeply admire. Steve observed straight out that I donât sound like a film critic. This hadnât even occurred to me before. But it did strike me as simplistic to assume it all boils down to white hetero males having a problem with my viewpointâafter all, a huge portion donât and there are quite a few women out there who do. The deeper issue is how exactly a person writing about movies is supposed to sound. This is about something much larger than seven dirty little words.
Nowadays, with all the new technology, anyone can make a movie. And similarly, anyone with access to the Web can be a film critic. The defining difference between those of us writing about movies that have an audience and those that donât can be measured in the amount of sweat and tears spilled. Film geeks are learning that studying Goodfellas or parsing Farber isnât adequate anymore (if it ever was). Scorseseâs encyclopedic knowledge of cinema wouldnât have done him a bit of good if heâd never picked up a camera. Likewise, memorizing Kael isnât going to make you a film critic if you favor knee-jerk reaction over the actual tough job of critical thinkingânot just questioning the films but questioning oneself, calling into doubt your own perceptions, asking why it is youâre having the reaction youâre having, experiencing life both in and outside the cinema. You canât be a film critic if you canât see the forest for the trees.
Itâs also interesting that after publishing at The House for nearly a year I still tell people Iâm a writer. Only when they ask what kind of writing I do will I respond with, “Well, right now Iâm mostly doing film criticism.” The reason I canât bring myself to say the words “film critic” is the same reason I have trouble calling myself an “erotica author.” Iâm still trying to figure out what all this means. I wrote a memoir because I happened to be in a mind-expanding relationship with a gay-for-pay stripper and found myself “taking notes” much like he was my college professor. Then I submitted and published my dissertation. Nothing more sensational than that. Likewise, as a film critic Iâm really just a glorified car mechanic: the only difference between me and the rest of the drivers on the road is I happen to know whatâs going on under the hood, can pinpoint exactly how it is Iâm being manipulated and why thatâs affecting me, and am able to translate that into words with some craftsmanship. But I guess this admission is a bit like revealing the wizard. No one, including me, finds it easy to face the man behind the curtain. Because where does that leave usâa population conditioned to look for guidance from on high rather than from inside? (Not to mention that, once you do this, a great many talented and hard-working people whose income depends on keeping the wizard firmly hidden lose their jobs.)
You see, the truth is a majority of us writers at The House donât make our living solely through “film criticism,” and though we all agree that sucks since everyone wants to be paid to follow his/her passion, the upside is it forces us to engage with the world beyond film criticism, frees us up to reinvent the wheel. Film criticism is changingâwho writes it and what it sounds like, mimicking moviemaking itself since the advent of DV, Final Cut Pro, and the Web. And either you stay one step ahead of the times or you fall victim to it. Iâm always humbled reading Agee, Farber, and Kaelâbut I have no interest in being any of them even if I could. Iâm a genderqueer chick, which is reflected in my own specific way of writing, my own POV. I happen to be interested in exploring cinema as it relates to the living, breathing world at large. The more academic “film as it relates solely to other film” approach just doesnât excite me as much, is too confining. I venture to guess thereâs going to be a hell of a lot of marginalized others like me speaking up in their own unique way in the years to come. In other words, Iâm not trying to sound like Kael. Iâm the tip of a different iceberg.
What this means for the future of the film critic is that itâs not enough anymore to permit minorities like Armond White, Rex Reed and Manohla Dargis into the reviewers tent. Itâs time to expand and allow in those who also sound nothing like them. To use an election year analogy, you canât pat yourself on the back for giving the Log Cabin Republicans a seat at the table if you simultaneously demand that the drag queens don pants to be heard. Why isnât their style and tone equally valid as is? The Web has the power to shift the balance, the uncertainty of the outcome both wondrous and frightening.
Finally, letâs not forget that Agee, Farber, and Kael didnât become Agee, Farber, and Kael by studying Agee, Farber, and Kael. They did it by going to the movies and doing the heavy lifting of critical thinkingâengaging with self-doubt, blazing their own trails. The biggest tribute I can give these dynamic legends is not to try to resemble them, but to carry on their legacy by pushing the very boundaries of film criticism itself.
Review: Nightmare Cinema Offers a Mishmash of Horror Mischief
The anthology justifies Mick Garrisâs passion for horror, though he ironically proves to be one of his projectâs liabilities.2.5
As he proved with the anthology shows Masters of Horror and Fear Itself, Mick Garris has no problem recruiting once-great filmmakers and getting them to enthusiastically recycle horror cinemaâs most obvious tropes. With only a few exceptions, such as episodes directed by Takashi Miike and Dario Argento, both of these productions often suggest the horror equivalent of an aging rock band at a stadium, playing music thatâs leeched of its former danger. With Nightmare Cinema, Garris semi-successfully brings this act to the increasingly figurative big screen, assembling directors Joe Dante, David Slade, Alejandro BruguĂ©s, RyĂ»hei Kitamura, and himself for more genre mischief.
Nightmare Cinema is generally of a higher caliber than Masters of Horror, and particularly of Fear Itself. The film starts almost in medias res, with BruguĂ©sâs âThe Thing in the Woodsâ approximating the third act of a slasher movie. Itâs a relief to skip the expositional throat clearing that usually gluts the opening of such a narrative, and BruguĂ©s stages the stalk-and-slash set pieces with style, energy, and a flair for macabre humor. Thereâs also a twist that leads to a wonderfully irrational image. The murderer who stalks the requisitely attractive young people, called The Welder for his choice of mask and killing instruments, is revealed to be a sort of hero, having discovered that alien spiders are nesting in the skulls of his friends.
Danteâs âMirari,â written by Richard Christian Matheson, is even more deranged. Anna (Zarah Mahler) is about to marry a handsome man (Mark Grossman) who manipulates her into undergoing plastic surgery so that she may live up to the ideal set by his mother. The joke, a good one that recalls a famous episode of The Twilight Zone, is that Anna is already quite beautiful, though tormented by a scar running down her face. The plastic surgeon is Mirari (Richard Chamberlain), who turns out to be the orchestrator of a surreal asylum of horrors. Chamberlain is pitched perfectly over the top, lampooning his own past as a pretty boy, and Danteâs direction is loose and spryâauthentically channeling the spirit of his best work.
Nightmare Cinema hits a significant speed bump with Kitamuraâs âMashit,â a tedious and nonsensical gothic in which a demon terrorizes a Catholic church, but rebounds beautifully with Sladeâs nightmarish âThis Way to Egress,â in which Elizabeth Reaser plays Helen, a woman whoâs either losing her mind or slipping into another realm of reality. Slade has directed some of the most formally accomplished hours of recent television, particularly Hannibal, and he brings to Nightmare Cinema a similarly sophisticated palette. âThis Way to Egressâ is filmed in stark black and white, and the clinic treating Helen suddenly becomes a setting of apparent mass murder, with blood-splattered walls that come to resemble a series of abstract paintings. Meanwhile, the people in the clinic become deformed monsters, talking in gurgles and plunging unseen masses out of sinks. (Giving Nightmare Cinemaâs best performance, Reaser ties all of this inspired insanity together with an emotional vibrancy.)
Garris directs âThe Projectionist,â Nightmare Cinemaâs framing episode, in which a theater portends doom for the filmâs various characters while Mickey Rourke saunters around, lending the production his usual found-object weirdness. Garris also concludes the anthology with âDead,â a grab bag of clichĂ©s in which a young piano student (Faly Rakotohavana) grapples with a near-death experience in a hospital while evading pursuit by a psychopath (Orson Chaplin). Characteristically, Garris over-telegraphs the scares with cheesy music and evinces no sense of specificity or reality even for a story thatâs set on such a heightened plane. (One may wonder how a boy recovering from a gunshot wound to the chest can defend himself against a much larger madman.) âDeadâ also bears an unfortunate structural resemblance to the vastly superior âThis Way to Egress,â which is also a surreal journey of a character within an institution. There are notable, surprising highpoints in Nightmare Cinema that justify Garrisâs passion for horror, though he ironically proves to be one of his projectâs liabilities.
Cast: Mickey Rourke, Richard Chamberlain, Adam Godley, Orson Chaplin, Elizabeth Reaser, Maurice Benard, Kevin Fonteyne, Belinda Balaski, Lucas Barker, Reid Cox, Ezra Buzzington, Pablo Guisa Koestinger, Dan Martin, Zarah Mahler, Lexy Panterra, Faly Rakotohavana, Patrick Wilson, Sarah Elizabeth Withers Director: Mick Garris, Alejandro BruguĂ©s, Joe Dante, RyĂ»hei Kitamura, David Slade Screenwriter: Sandra Becerril, Alejandro BruguĂ©s, Lawrence C. Connolly, Mick Garris, Richard Christian Matheson, David Slade Distributor: Good Dead Entertainment Running Time: 119 min Rating: R Year: 2018
Review: Toni Morrison: The Pieces I Am Is an Engaging Tribute to a Legend
In verbally recounting her history, Morrison proves almost as engaging as she in print, a wise and sensitive voice.3
Timothy Greenfield-Sandersâs Toni Morrison: The Pieces I Am is rather literal-minded, opening as it does with an overhead shot of hands re-assembling black-and-white photographs of Toni Morrison that have been snipped into pieces. The documentary continues in a similar vein, reconstructing Morrisonâs life and work out of interviews, news clippings, and archival images that, like the reassembled photographs, comprise a structured and fairly straightforward whole. The meticulously organized film alternates between narrating Morrisonâs background and her writing career, jumping between her family history and her life and legacy to compile a nonlinear but coherent portrait of the author.
The Morrison work that emblematizes the filmâs approach, then, isnât so much one of her acclaimed novels, but The Black Book, a 1974 anthology Morrison edited in her role as a senior editor at Random House. As described by Morrison and other interviewees in the documentary, the book collects written and graphic work from the history of black life in America, seeking to fill in the gaps in the master narrative of American history. The purpose of The Black Book was to capture the good and the bad of the amorphous assemblage often referred to as âtheâ black experience, and similarly, The Pieces I Am aims to craft a portrait of the most significant black author of the last half-century without reducing her to âtheâ black author, the sole voice for African-Americans in an overwhelmingly white canon.
As such, Greenfield-Sanders and his interviewer, Sandra Guzman, call upon a range of significant black writers and intellectualsâOprah Winfrey, poet Sonia Sanchez, and activist and author Angela Davis, among many othersâto discuss Morrisonâs career and its significance in the context of black America. Even before she achieved fame as a novelist, Morrison was a crucial part of post-civil rights black literature as an editor at Random House, where she published Davisâs widely read autobiography and Muhammad Aliâs The Greatest: My Own Story. When they began appearing in the early 1970s, Morrisonâs novels articulated aspects of black life that had long been suppressed, ignored, or softened to tailor to white audiences, forcing into the view of the official culture a distinctly black, female voice.
Interviews with the writer herself, now a lively 88 years old, make up the better portion of this filmic collage. As Morrison emphasizes, one aim of her novels has been to escape the white gaze, which Greenfield-Sandersâs documentary succinctly defines as cultural presumption that white approval is needed to sanction black cultural production. Novels like The Bluest Eye and Beloved humanize black people without relying on white characters to validate their personhood. They also cover a wide range of black life, spanning various historical periods and taking the perspective of both men and women, children and adults.
The film roots Morrisonâs ability to imagine and inhabit such an expanse of feelings and experiences not only in her sharp mind and democratic sensibility, but also in the way her life story itself is woven from the contradictory strands of 20th-century black life: from the Jim Crow South to an integrated town in the industrial North, from a historically black university to the overwhelmingly white and male environs of Random House. Aesthetically, The Pieces I Am tends to be a bit flavorlessâthereâs no shortage of photographs presented via the âKen Burnsâ tracking effect, and the interviews are conducted against monochromatic backdrops that sometimes make them resemble high school photosâbut in verbally recounting her history, Morrison proves almost as engaging as she in print, a wise and sensitive voice.
Distributor: Magnolia Pictures Running Time: 119 min Rating: PG-13 Year: 2019
Review: A Bigger Splash Finds Intimacy in the Space Between Life and Art
Jack Hazanâs portrait of David Hockney stands between documentary and fictional film, reality and fantasy.3
Jack Hazanâs A Bigger Splash stands between documentary and fictional film, reality and fantasy. Following influential pop artist David Hockney in a particularly uncreative period in the early 1970s as his relationship with muse Peter Schlesinger deteriorates, the film is ostensibly a portrait of the artist as an uninspired man. But Hazan dispenses with many of the familiar conventions of documentary filmmaking that would become de rigueur in years to come. Instead of having, say, talking heads discuss his subjectâs life and art, Hazan presents Hockney and the people in the artistâs orbit as essentially living in one of his paintings.
A Bigger Splash, whose title is borrowed from one Hockneyâs seminal pieces, offers up a captivating pseudo-drama of alienated people living flashy lifestyles and who have much difficulty communicating with each other. And in its fixations, the film feels like an extension of Hockneyâs sexually frank art, which has consistently depicted gay life and helped to normalize gay relationships in the 1960s. Indeed, as Hazanâs observational camera is drawn to the coterie of gay men who flit about Hockneyâs worldâone notably protracted sequence captures two men stripping naked and intensely making outâitâs easy to see why the film is now recognized as an important flashpoint in the history of LGBT cinema.
Even though he appears by turns vapid and seemingly indifferent to the feelings of those around him, Hockney unmistakably displays an acute understanding of human behavior. Hazan begins A Bigger Splash with a flash-forward of Hockney describing the subtextual richness of a male friendâs actions, with the artist practically becoming giddy over incorporating what heâs observed into one of his paintings. Hazan subsequently includes extended scenes of Hockney at work, eagerly attempting to capture a sense of peopleâs inner feelings through an acute depiction of their body language and facial expressions. At its simplest, then, the documentary is a celebration of how Hockney turns life into art.
Notably, Hockney is seen in the film working on Portrait of an Artist (Pool with Two Figures), incorporating into his now-iconic painting the pensive visage of a friend. Itâs here that the film homes in on Hockneyâs uncanny ability to transform a seemingly innocuous moment into a profound expression of desire. And throughout these and other mostly dialogue-free sequences, itâs as if Hazan is trying to put us in Hockneyâs shoes, forcing us to pay as close attention as possible to the details of so many lavish parties and mundane excursions to art galleries and imagine just what might end up in one of the artistâs masterworks.
Toward the end of A Bigger Splash, surreal dream scenes sandwiched between shots of a sleeping Hockney and staged like one of his pool paintings show the accumulation of people and details the artist witnessed and absorbed throughout the film. An expression of the totality of Hockneyâs dedication to drawing inspiration from the world around him, these passages also evince Hazanâs refusal to be bound to documentary convention. In these moments, itâs as if the filmmaker is trying to tell us that no talking head can make us understand Hockneyâs genius the way living and dreaming like him can.
Director: Jack Hazan Screenwriter: Jack Hazan, David Mingay Distributor: Metrograph Pictures Running Time: 105 min Rating: NR Year: 1973
Review: The Quiet One Conspicuously Doesnât Say Enough About Bill Wyman
In the end, the film feels like a sketch thatâs been offered in place of a portrait.2.5
Detailing the life of Rolling Stones bassist Bill Wyman, writer-director Oliver Murrayâs documentary The Quiet One offers an appealing stream of photographs and footage, quite a bit of which are culled from the musicianâs own formidable archives. Particularly notable are beautiful black-and-white photos that gradually dramatize the Rolling Stonesâs ascension from a shaggy blues band to an iconic rock nâ roll act, as well as haunting home footage of Wymanâs father, William Perks, sitting on his lawn with his dog.
Born William Perks Jr. in Lewisham, South London, Wyman was distant with his father, and the aforementioned footage of the elder Perks distills years of alienation and miscommunication into a few singular images. The Quiet One includes other such resonant emotional information, and interviews with various collaborators offer telling encapsulations on the cultural effect of the Rolling Stones. One person, for instance, remarks that the Beatles made it in America, while America truly made the Rolling Stones, allowing them to connect with the land that nourished their treasured R&B heroes, such as Chuck Berry and Bo Diddley.
Throughout, The Quiet Oneâs stream of information flows too smoothly, often allowing factoids to drift by unexamined, denying the narrative a dramatic center. Most curiously, Murray imparts virtually no impressions as to what it was like for Wyman to collaborate with the other Stones. For one, the bandâs decision to stop touring for seven years in the 1980s is summed up with a few words to the effect of âMick and Keith got into an argument.â
Elsewhere, the fascinating story behind the creation of 1972âs Exile on Main Street is reduced to a few seconds of footageâthough Murray does include, in an inspired touch, a handful of detailed pictures of the band sweating their asses off in the basement of Keith Richardsâs French home, where much of the album was recorded. Generally, Wymanâs personal life is given even shorter shrift: The beginning, middle, and end of his first two marriages each comprise a few moments of screen time, with elusive remarks that demand elaboration, such as the implication that Wymanâs first wife was unfit to raise their son.
The present-day Wyman is a poignant, commandingly humble presenceâhe contrasts starkly against the enormous presences, and egos, of Mick Jagger and Richardsâyet heâs kept largely off screen until the filmâs third and strongest act. At this point, the slideshow slickness of The Quiet One gives way to a bracing study of faces, especially when Wyman begins to cry when recollecting that Ray Charles once invited him to play on an album. Wyman declined, saying that he wasnât âgood enough,â and this willingness to so directly face this insecurity is brave. At this juncture, The Quiet One comes to vibrant life, however briefly.
Perhaps the most egregious of The Quiet Oneâs missed opportunities is the way that Murray takes much of Wymanâs memorabilia for granted, incorporating it into the film as aural-visual flutter. Early images, of Wyman in his artistic man-cave, recall Errol Morrisâs more personal and eccentric The B-Side: Elsa Dorfmanâs Portrait Photography, which offered a prolonged and rapturous survey of an artist in her environment. Morris captured an artistâs interaction with her materials as a source of inspiration, while Murray reduces Wymanâs cultivation to fodder for pillow shots. In the end, the film feels like a sketch thatâs been offered in place of a portrait.
Director: Oliver Murray Screenwriter: Oliver Murray Distributor: Sundance Selects Running Time: 98 min Rating: NR Year: 2019
Review: Wild Rose Both Honors and Upends the Beats of the Star-Is-Born Story
Tom Harperâs film empathetically probes the growing pains of self-improvement.3
At the start of director Tom Harperâs Wild Rose, Rose-Lynn (Jessie Buckley) puts on her white leather fringe jacket and matching cowboy boots before strutting out of the Glasgow prison where sheâs just finished serving a one-year stint on a drug-related charge. The 23-year-old hits the ground running upon her release, immediately resuming the pursuit of her lifelong dream of crossing the Atlantic to become a country singer in Nashville. In no small part due to Buckleyâs dynamic voice and emotionally charged performance, itâs obvious that Rose-Lynn has all the charisma, spunk, and talent it takes to become a star. Pity, then, that the young womanâs pursuit of fame is always at risk of being stymied by her impulsiveness. As her mother, Marion (Julie Walters), is quick to remind her, she also has two young children for whom, whether she likes it or not, sheâs still responsible.
As soon as Rose-Lynn starts invigorating local crowds with her performances, Wild Rose seems ripe for setting her on a predictable trajectory toward fame. Instead, the film turns its focus to the tensions that arise from Rose-Lynnâs attempts to balance the hefty demands of the two seemingly incompatible worlds of a professional singer and a single motherânot to mention the incongruousness of being a country musician in Glasgow. In the end, Wild Rose is less concerned with whether or not Rose-Lynn will âmake itâ than it is with discreetly observing how this gifted spitfire tackles the moral and emotional challenges she faces.
As Rose-Lynn fights to gain traction in her career, Wild Rose empathetically probes the growing pains of self-improvement. In a scene where Rose-Lynn, whoâs supposedly just re-established her commitment to being a present mother, pawns her kids off on various friends and family over the course of a week so she can practice for an important gig, one is given a sense not just of the childrenâs anger and disappointment, but of the emotional toll that Rose-Lynnâs virtual double life is taking on her. In portraying such conundrums, the filmmakers resist the temptation to moralize or presuppose that she must choose between music and her kids and, instead, merely examine the harsh realities that come from her desiring both.
Wild Rose moves beyond the struggles of Rose-Lynnâs daily grind with an array of captivating musical numbers that illustrate her incredible stage presence and joy she experiences whenever sheâs performing. After she takes up a job as a housekeeper for an upper-middle class family to help pay the bills, a cleverly shot sequence captures the all-consuming nature of her love for singing. Thinking sheâs alone in the house, Rose-Lynn begins to sing along to the music wafting through her headphones, and while she carelessly vacuums, the camera pans around the room in a simple but expressive shot that reveals various musicians from an imaginary backing band tucked away in the background, playing alongside her.
Ironically, itâs through this performance, rather than any that she gives in clubs around town, that Rose-Lynn finds a true believer in her talent, in the form of her kind-hearted boss, Susannah (Sophie Okonedo). In an all-too-tidy bit of wish fulfillment, Susannah almost immediately becomes Rose-Lynnâs benefactor, going out of her way to jump start the musicianâs career and provide the unqualified support and encouragement she craves from her mother. But this dash of sunshine isnât quite the panacea it first appears to be, and similar to Rose-Lynnâs relationship with Marion, this newfound friendship eventually develops into something more conflicted and complicated than its simplistic origin initially might suggest.
The same could be said of much of Wild Rose, which takes on certain clichĂ©s of the traditional star-is-born story but often uses them to upend audience expectations. The skeleton of Nicole Taylorâs screenplay may be quite familiar, but the additional elements of single motherhood, class disparity, and geographical dislocation (Rose-Lynn firmly believes she was meant to be born in America) lend the proceedings a certain unpredictability thatâs very much in tune with the gutsy woman at the filmâs center. As its title suggests, Harperâs film has a bit of outlaw in its blood, and it allows Rose-Lynnâs myriad imperfections to shine just as brightly as her talent. And that certainly makes her a more textured, authentic character, defined not by a clear-cut transformative arc but her constant state of flux.
Cast: Jessie Buckley, Julie Walters, Sophie Okenodo, Maureen Carr, James Harkness, Adam Mitchell, Daisy Littlefield, Jamie Sives, Craig Parkinson, Bob Harris, Doreen McGillivray Director: Tom Harper Screenwriter: Nicole Taylor Distributor: Neon Running Time: 101 min Rating: R Year: 2019
Review: Rolling Thunder Revue: A Bob Dylan Story by Martin Scorsese
The true shock of Rolling Thunder Revue is in how good, how alive, Dylan is on stage.3
Early in Rolling Thunder Revue: A Bob Dylan Story by Martin Scorsese, Bob Dylan reflects on the rotating tour he embarked on in 1975 with Joan Baez, Ramblinâ Jack Elliott, Ronnie Hawkins, Allen Ginsberg, and other legends. The tour was ostensibly intended to commemorate the bicentennial of the United States, but one may assume after watching this quasi-documentary that it was really about recharging Dylanâs creative battery a few years after his tour with the Band, which Scorsese filmed for 1978âs The Last Waltz. When asked about the tour here, Dylan looks away from the camera, uttering the cryptic pseudo-profundities that have been his brand for decades, his voice as mythically raspy as ever. Then, breaking character, he says the tour meant nothing and that he barely remembers it. Dylan insists that the Rolling Thunder Revue was so long ago that it was before he was born.
Anyone familiar with Dylan will recognize that last sentiment as only partially figurative, as this is an artist who has been born again many times, who arguably initiated the now routine ritual of superstar reinvention. The ultimate concept of âBob Dylan,â after all, is that thereâs no ultimate concept, as he has morphed, throughout his career, from folk icon to electric rocker to social justice crusader to burn-out to settled elder statesmen. Nevertheless, Dylanâs violation here of the reverential tone thatâs expected of this sort of autumnal documentary comes as something of a gleeful shock to the system, while affirming the legendâs propensity for self-conscious pranks. And this moment lingers over Rolling Thunder Revue, which is informed with a low-thrumming snideness thatâs uncharacteristic of Scorseseâs work.
The film appears to be split between awe and contempt. The former perspective innately belongs to Scorsese, our poet laureate of cinematic rock nâ roll, whoâs rendered the rockers of his generation with the same conflicted adulation that heâs extended to gangsters. Meanwhile, the latter attitude belongs to Dylan, who seems ready to admit that the countercultural revolution didnât amount to much beyond various statements of aesthetic. This war of temperaments yields a fascinating mixed bag. Much of Rolling Thunder Revue is composed of footage shot at the tour by cinematographers David Myers, Howard Alk, Paul Goldsmith, and Michael Levine, who have a collective eye thatâs uncannily in sync with Scorseseâs own feverishly expressionistic sensibility. Watching this film, itâs easy to forget that Scorsese wasnât involved in the production of this footage, as he was with other concert films.
The footage of the Rolling Thunder Revue has a wandering, druggy intensity, with explosively lurid colors and smoky jam sessions that are occasionally punctuated with a sharp close-up that allows an icon to reveal an unexpected element of their persona. Initially, we see Dylan, Ginsberg, and Baez hanging out in clubs, seemingly patching the Rolling Thunder idea together in between beer and joints and poetry. In a hypnotic image, Dylan and Patti Smith, framed through bars that suggest a prison, discuss the mythology of Superman, with Smith suggesting that the character could crush coal into a diamond. The two artists are clearly playing the role of flake pop-cultural shamans, but theyâre also revealing the obsession with power and influence that drives performers of all kinds, including flower-child liberals.
Contextualized by Scorsese as a kind of narrator and presiding god, Ginsberg speaks near the end of the documentary of the fragments weâve just seen and which we should assemble to make sense of themâa process that mirrors Dylanâs obsession with reinvention and ownership of his audienceâs perception of him. Ginsbergâs preoccupation with fragments is reflected in his style of prose, with the beat style of reading poems in a way that emphasizes the isolation of each word, and Rolling Thunder Revue is assembled in such a way as to underscore the similarity between Ginsbergâs style and that of Dylan, Baez, and the other musicians.
These artists are all occupied with totems, with iconography that suggests found art, which they assemble into new arts. When Dylan describes the gorgeous and intimidating violinist Scarlett Rivera, who played with him on this tour and is prominently featured on his brilliant 1976 album Desire, he speaks of the objects he remembers her having, such as trunks and swords. (Sheâs billed in the filmâs credits as the Queen of Swords.) Of course, Dylan is obsessed with bric-a-brac, painting himself in white makeup and wearing a kind of outlaw wardrobe, which is playfully linked here to both kabuki and the band KISS.
Even the title of the tour suggests a kind of multi-purposed phrasing as found art. Operation Rolling Thunder, weâre reminded, is the code name for Richard Nixonâs bombing campaign in North Vietnam, though itâs also the name of a Native American chief whom Dylan honors while on the tour. This duality is almost too neat, reflecting Americaâs genocidal tendencies as well as its appropriation of its native cultures. But one is intentionally inclined, by Dylan as well as by Scorsese, to wonder: So what? Arenât these musicians just more earnest and self-righteous kinds of appropriators? After all, they live in their own world, going from one cavernous town hall to the next, enjoying drugs, sex and adulation, while America is consumed with Nixonâs resignation and the end of the war in Vietnam.
Scorsese culls various images together to offer a startlingly intense vision of America as place that, to paraphrase Dylan, essentially believes in nothing, following one demoralizing crisis after another. Rolling Thunder Revue gradually collapses, mutating from a freeform document of the concert into a series of essays and anecdotes, such as on the origin of Dylanâs Rubin Carter tribute âHurricane.â The film attains a shaggy shapelessness that suggests the haze of travel, as Dylan and his cohorts push on, delving deeper into their micro worlds.
The true shock of Rolling Thunder Revue, however, is in how good, how alive, Dylan is on stage. All of the make-up and masks he wearsâother allusions to reinvention, to the essential, simultaneously nourishing and damaging textures of pop cultureâseem to liberate him. On this tour, Dylan performs quite a bit of material from Desire, and his singing is clear and urgent and stunningly divorced of his ironic parlor games; heâs connecting with these songs, using the revue concept to channel his canniest and most sincere instincts as an actor and storyteller. And Scorsese frequently contrasts this full-throttle Dylan with the aloof sex symbol who lingers at backstage partiesâa pose thatâs startled by Joni Mitchell and Baez, two of the rare people who appear to be capable of humbling the maestro.
Thereâs enough poetry here, in the music and in the artistsâ descriptions of one another, to fill 10 movies. (Dylan on Ronnie Hawkins: âHe looked like a shitkicker, but he spoke with the wisdom of a sage.â) So itâs a shame that the film gets bogged down in fictional gimmickry. Thereâs a tone-deaf cameo by Sharon Stone, who pretends to be a young Rolling Thunder groupie, and by Michael Murphy, who reprises his politician role from Robert Altmanâs Tanner series, which is perhaps intended to complement another Altman cross-pollination: the presence of Ronee Blakely, who sang back-up on this tour and appeared in Nashville. Worst of all, Martin von Haselberg appears as the filmmaker who supposedly shot the footage weâre seeing, pointlessly obscuring the efforts of real people with a Euro-snob stereotype.
These sorts of satirical interludes are probably meant to further embody Dylanâs own discomfort with the import associated with his legacy (an import he never fails to profit from), and further muddy the filmâs already ambiguous and diaphanous grasp of âreality.â But these themes have already been wrestled by Scorsese and the original cinematographers onto the screen. Dylanâs pranks can be tedious, as his astonishing Rolling Thunder performances require no window dressing. On stage, Dylan accesses the brutal, beautiful heart of America.
Director: Martin Scorsese Distributor: Netflix Running Time: 142 min Rating: TV-MA Year: 2019
Review: Tim Storyâs Shaft Reboot Is a Weirdly Regressive Family Affair
Ultimately, the only truly retro thing about this weirdly reactionary potboiler is its politics.1
Director Tim Storyâs Shaft certainly makes no effort to disguise its ignorance and prejudice, as itâs chockablock with racist stereotypes, sexist pseudo-wisdom, and tone-deaf jokes picking on gay and trans people. The screenplay by Kenya Barris and Alex Barnow even features a plot that bizarrely and nonsensically treats legitimate concerns about the F.B.I.âs Islamophobic practices as some ginned-up media sideshow. Where both Gordon Parksâs gritty 1971 original and John Singletonâs slick 2000 sequel injected a measure of social conscience into their respective tales of swaggering black men dishing out vigilante justice, this film is nothing more than a tired buddy-cop comedy in blaxploitation drag.
Samuel L. Jackson revives his role as the tough-talking ex-cop John Shaft from Singletonâs film, only now heâs teamed up with his estranged son, JJ (Jessie T. Usher), an M.I.T.-trained cybersecurity analyst for the F.B.I. who, after not having seen his father in nearly 25 years, suddenly reaches out to him for help in investigating the mysterious death of a childhood best friend, Karim (Avan Jogia). The two eventually join forces with JJâs great uncle, the O.G. John Shaft Sr. (Richard Roundtree), completing a multi-generational family reunion.
Shaft likes guns and confrontation, while JJ prefers spycams and hacking, but despite their differences in approach, they work together effortlessly in torturing Mexican drug lords, prying into the nefarious dealings of a Muslim organization, and engaging in some indifferently directed shootouts that are scored to waka-chicka funk music in a desperate attempt to lend the filmâs textureless visuals a semblance of â70s-ish stylistic vision. As for the jokes about the lothario Shaft and his nebbish offspring, they practically write themselves. Shaft thinks JJâs Gap-slacks-and-coconut-water lifestyle means heâs gay, and so he interrogates his son about his love for the ladies, while JJ is offended by his dadâs regressive views, such as âWomen want a man to be a man.â But as every joke is targeted at JJâs awkwardness and effeminacy, the film simply gives license to Shaftâs anachronistic foibles.
The film is strangely committed to proving Shaft right about everything. His use of violence and intimidation to get what he wants always works, as does his advice on women no matter how piggish it may be. Shaft avoids ever having to answer for the fact that he abandoned JJ as a baby, and, in a ridiculous narrative sleight of hand, the film even tries to absolve Jacksonâs rogue-ish P.I. of any parental guilt by suggesting the man was always deeply motivated by the urge to protect his son. How? Because he sent condoms and porno mags to JJ on his birthdays.
Unsurprisingly, JJ eventually adopts the trappings of his forebears, walking around with a newfound swagger in in his familyâs trademark turtleneck-and-leather-trench-coat combo. Story seems to think this transformation into a Shaft represents the ultimate in retro cool, but ultimately, the only truly retro thing about this weirdly reactionary potboiler is its politics.
Cast: Samuel L. Jackson, Jessie Usher, Richard Roundtree, Alexandra Shipp, Regina Hall, Avan Jogia, Method Man, Matt Lauria, Robbie Jones, Lauren VĂ©lez Director: Tim Story Screenwriter: Kenya Barris, Alex Barnow Distributor: Warner Bros. Running Time: 111 min Rating: R Year: 2019
All 21 Pixar Movies, Ranked from Worst to Best
Upon the release of Pixarâs Toy Story 4, weâre counting down the animation studioâs 21 films, from worst to best.
Among the familiar elements on display throughout Josh Cooley’s Toy Story 4 is the abandoned and resentful toy as a villain who holds the heroes hostage, which easily invites comparison to Lee Unkrichâs brilliant Toy Story 3. Itâs a comparison that doesnât favor the new film, which isnât as impactful in terms of story or image. Cooleyâs direction is fluid, seamlessly interweaving the fun escapades and the earnest emotions, but it lacks the visual power of the prior film. Thereâs no equivalent to the moment in Toy Story 3 when, headed into a blazing incinerator, Woody and his friends silently grasp hands, taking comfort in one another as they face their ends head-on. On the occasion of the filmâs release, join us in revisiting the Pixar canon, ranked from worst to best. Pat Brown
21. Cars 2 (2011)
The effect of the Toy Story films is practically primal. They appeal to anyone whoâs ever cared about a toyâone they outgrew, gave away, or painfully left behind somewhere. These films, with scant manipulation and much visual and comic invention, thrive on giving toys a conscience and imagining what adventures they have when we turn our backs to them. Conversely, the effect of Cars and its infinitely worse sequel, toons about dudes-as-cars not quite coping with their enormous egos and their contentious bromances, is entirely craven in the way it humorlessly, unimaginatively, and uncritically enshrines the sort of capitalist-driven desires Pixarâs youngest target audience is unable to relate to. Unless, that is, they had a douchebag older brother in the family who spent most of his childhood speaking in funny accents and hoarding his piggy-bank money to buy his first hot rod. Ed Gonzalez
20. Cars (2006)
Maybe itâs my general aversion to Nascar, or anything chiefly targeted at below-the-line states. Maybe itâs that Larry the Cable Guyâs Mater is the Jar Jar Binks of animated film. Or maybe itâs just that a routinely plotted movie about talking cars is miles beneath Pixarâs proven level of ingenuity, not to mention artistry (okay, weâll give those handsome heartland vistas a pass). Whatever the coffin nail, Cars, if not its utterly needless sequel, is thus far the tepid, petroleum-burning nadir of the Pixar brand, the first of the studioâs films to feel like itâs not just catering, but kowtowing, to a specific demographic. Having undeservedly spawned more merchandising than a movie thatâs literally about toys, Carsâs cold commercialism can still be felt today, with a just-launched theme park at Disneyland. And while CG people are hardly needed to give a Pixar film humanity, itâs perhaps telling that this, one of the animation houseâs few fully anthropomorphic efforts, is also its least humane. R. Kurt Osenlund
19. The Good Dinosaur (2015)
The Good Dinosaur has poignant moments, particularly when a human boy teaches Arlo, the titular protagonist, how to swim in a river, and there are funny allusions to how pitiless animals in the wild can be. But the film abounds in routine, featherweight episodes that allow the hero to predictably prove his salt to his family, resembling a cross between City Slickers and Finding Nemo. Thereâs barely a villain, little ambiguity, and essentially no stakes. There isnât much of a hero either. Arlo is a collection of insecurities that have been calculatedly assembled so as to teach children the usual lessons about bravery, loyalty, and self-sufficiency. The Good Dinosaur is the sort of bland holiday time-killer that exhausted parents might describe as âcuteâ as a way of evading their indifference to it. Children might not settle for it either, and one shouldnât encourage them to. Chuck Bowen
18. Monsters University (2013)
Itâs perfectly fair to walk into Monsters University with a wince, wondering what Toy Story 3 hath wrought, and lamenting the fact that even Pixar has fallen into Hollywoodâs post-recession safe zone of sequel mania and brand identification. Whatâs ostensibly worse, Monsters University jumps on the prequel, origin-story bandwagon, suggesting our sacred CGI dream machine has even been touched byâgulpâthe superhero phenomenon. But, while admittedly low on the Pixar totem pole, Monsters University proves a vibrant and compassionate precursor to Monsters, Inc., the kid-friendly film that, to boot, helped to quell bedroom fears. Tracing Mike and Sulleyâs paths from ill-matched peers to super scarers, MU boasts Pixarâs trademark attention to detail (right down to abstract modern sculptures on the quad), and it manages to bring freshness to the underdog tale, which is next to impossible these days. Osenlund
17. Cars 3 (2017)
Cars 3 is content to explore the end of Lightning McQueenâs (Owen Wilson) career with a series of pre-packaged sports-film clichĂ©sâan old dog trying to learn new tricks, struggling with a sport that seems to have passed him by, and facing, for the first time in his career, a sense of vulnerability. The template turns out to be a natural fit for the Cars universe, organically integrating racing into the fabric of the film and rendering it with a visceral sense of speed, excitement, and struggle. Cruz Ramirez (Cristela Alonzo) is a welcome addition, a plucky foil to McQueen whoâs also a three-dimensional presence in her own right, much more richly developed than one-joke characters like Mater (Larry the Cable Guy) and Luigi (Tony Shalhoub). Cruzâs presence also allows the filmmakers to bring some social conscience to this sometimes backward-looking franchise, exploring the discouraging pressures placed on young female athletes while also nodding toward the historical exclusion of women and racial minorities from racing. Watson
Review: Toy Story 4, Though Moving, Sees a Series Resting on Its Plastic Laurels
The film seamlessly interweaves fun escapades and earnest emotions, but it lacks the visual power of its predecessor.3
Itâs probably uncontroversial to claim that Toy Storyâs Woody (Tom Hanks), a flawed leader whose genuine concern for his compatriots intermingles with a narcissistic streak that can get him and his fellow toys into trouble, is one of the great characters in the history of cinema. That this animate, outdated cowboy toy continues to feel just as compelling and just as layered and relatable four entries into this series is a major achievement, and speaks not only to the dedication of his creators, but also to the strength of his original conceptualization. While other Pixar sequels have run their concepts and characters into the ground, or cheapened them for laughs, the Toy Story sequels have remained true to Woody, even deepening his character by finding new existential crises to throw him into.
Toy Story 4, though, finds the series suffering from brand fatigue. While prior entries put new spins on the fear of obsolescence that drove Woody in the original Toy Story, this film is a compendium of elements from its predecessors. Weâve already witnessed Woody desperately try to regain the love of a child, intentionally become a âlost toyâ in order to chase down a missing friend, escape from monstrous (but probably just misunderstood) toys, and face the temptation of a new life outside of a childâs toy box. That all of these moments recur in Toy Story 4 is one reason the film doesnât quite pack the emotional weight of its precursors.
Gifted to a new, preschool-age child, Bonnie, at the end of the last film, Woody opens Toy Story 4 having fallen from his treasured position as the favorite toy. Your typical preschool girl, after all, has little interest in a cowboy toy from âthe late â50s, I think,â as Woody recounts his own vague origins. Wistful for his days with Andy, his previous owner, Woody tries to insert himself into Bonnieâs (now voiced by Madeleine McGraw) life by sneaking into her backpack on the first day of kindergarten. And itâs there that he witnesses her crafting her new beloved toy: a spork with googly eyes and pipe-cleaner arms she calls Forky (Tony Hale).
Forky is a terrible toy insofar as he has no desire to be a toy at all; a very funny recurring gag early in Josh Cooleyâs film sees the toy repeatedly trying to throw himself in the trash, where he feels that he belongs. Woody gloms onto Forky, partially out of genuine concern for his and Bonnieâs well-being, and partially as a way of maintaining a connection to the little girl. And when Forky goes missing during a family vacation, Woody ventures out on his own to retrieve the haphazardly assembled toy and return him to the family RV.
Forky is as familiar as the other toys that populate the Toy Story universe: Many children have made small avatars of themselves out of popsicle sticks and plastic bits and invested far too much emotion in it. As a character, Forky doesnât hold much all that much water, his development from trash to toy more a gimmick than a fully textured character arc. Wisely, though, Toy Story 4 damsels Forky, so to speak, as Woody must engineer a way to rescue him from the clutches of a malicious talking baby doll named Gaby (Christina Hendricks).
Gaby and her army of unsettling, limp-limbed ventriloquist dummies rule over an antique shop that Woody and Forky pass through on their way back to the RV park. A lonely toy discarded decades earlier because of a defective voicebox, Gaby kidnaps Forky to extort from Woody a part of his drawstring-powered sound mechanism. To break into the cabinet where Gaby is holding the sentient spork, Woody must assemble a team of allies that includes Bo Peep (Annie Potts), whom he finds living on her own in the RV park as a lost toy, and Buzz Lightyear (Tim Allen). Woody and Bo Peep rekindle their (G-rated) feelings for each other as they recruit the daredevil action figure Duke Caboom (Keanu Reeves) and the plush carnival-prize dolls Bunny and Ducky (Keegan-Michael Key and Jordan Peele) to help retrieve Forky.
Among the familiar elements here is the abandoned and resentful toy as a villain who holds the heroes hostage, which easily invites comparison to Lee Unkrichâs brilliant Toy Story 3. Itâs a comparison that doesnât favor the new film, which isnât as impactful in terms of story or image. Cooleyâs direction is fluid, seamlessly interweaving the fun escapades and the earnest emotions, but it lacks the visual power of the prior film. Thereâs no equivalent to the moment in Toy Story 3 when, headed into a blazing incinerator, Woody and his friends silently grasp hands, taking comfort in one another as they face their ends head-on.
So, as well-told and emotionally effective as Toy Story 4 is, itâs difficult not to believe the third film would have functioned better as a send-off to these beloved characters. In fact, Toy Story 3 might as well have been a send-off for everybody but Woody, as the new and potentially final entry relegates the traditional supporting cast of the Toy Story filmsâRex (Wallace Shawn), Hamm (John Ratzenberger), Jesse (Joan Cusack), Slinky Dog (Blake Clark)âto the background. Even Buzz is reduced to dopey comic relief, pressing the buttons on his chest to activate the pre-recorded messages he now misunderstands as his âinner voice.â Toy Story 4 is very much a Woody story. His gradual acceptance of his new position in life and his reconnection with Bo Peep are moving, and itâs still remarkable how much Pixar can make us identify with a toy. But for the first time, a Toy Story film feels a bit like itâs resting on its plastic laurels.
Cast: Tom Hanks, Tim Allen, Tony Hale, Christina Hendricks, Jordan Peele, Keegan-Michael Key, Annie Potts, Keanu Reeves, Jay Hernandez, Wallace Shawn, Joan Cusack, Don Rickles, Jeff Garlin, Laurie Metcalf, John Ratzenberger Director: Josh Cooley Screenwriter: Andrew Stanton, Stephany Folsom Distributor: Walt Disney Studios Motion Pictures Running Time: 100 min Rating: G Year: 2019
Review: Men in Black International Struggles to Find Intelligent Life
The film wastes its charismatic leads in a parade of wacky CG creations whose occasional novelty is drowned out by its incessance.1.5
Marvel has had such success staging comic-action team-ups in a variegated and totally incoherent alien world that now would seem to be an ideal time to resurrect the Men in Black series. F. Gary Grayâs Men in Black International even reunites two of the stars of Taika Waititiâs funny and colorful Thor Ragnarok. In that film, Chris Hemsworth and Tessa Thompson trade barbs and butt heads as, respectively, the daftly optimistic Thor and the despondent alcoholic Valkyrie, a combative relationship that seems ideally suited for Men in Blackâs brand of buddy-cop action comedy. Trade Thorâs hammer for one of the Men in Black organizationâs memory-erasing neuralyzers and the film would almost write itself.
Men in Black International, though, fails to recapture the spark of either Hemsworth and Thompsonâs witty dynamic in Thor Ragnarok or of the Men in Black seriesâs original pairing of Will Smith and Tommy Lee Jones. Thompson plays Agent M, a rookie at the MiB who stumbles into an intergalactic political conspiracy when she imposes herself on Agent Hâs (Hemsworth) mission to safeguard an extraterrestrial prince named Vungus. Agent H is on a self-destructive hedonistic streak after a traumatic battle in which he and the head of the MiB London branch, High T (Liam Neeson), defeated an extraterrestrial scourge âwith nothing but their wits and their Series-7 De-atomizers.â Due to his ostentatiously casual treatment of the mission, Agent H fails to recognize an impending threat, and Vungus ends up dead. In his last moments, the hoodie-clad, lizard-like alien prince hands Agent M a magical whatsit for safekeeping, a mysterious crystalline object that nefarious alien forces are out to procure.
So, as usual for the Men in Black series, the plot hinges on an arcane object of power that motivates the main charactersâ journey into hidden pockets of the world where every weirdo is an alien and every bodega or bazaar is a faĂ§ade for a storehouse of hyper-advanced technology. Behind the wall of a Marrakesh pawnshop, Agents H and M discover a colony of pint-sized alien workers and adopt one of them (Kumail Nanjiani) as their de facto third partner in their attempt to keep the whatsitâwhich turns out to expand into a gun powered by a miniaturized sunâfrom falling into the wrong hands. Dubbed âPawnyâ by Agent M, the tiny alien travels in the breast pocket of her suit and pops out regularly to make quips that are mostly tepid.
Also after the whatsit-cum-MacGuffin is a pair of malicious alien twins (Larry and Laurent Bourgeois) who occasionally become smoke monsters and melt people as they chase Agents H and M and Pawny across the globe. From London to Marrakesh, from the Sahara to Naples, and from there to Paris, the trioâs quest earns the âinternationalâ in the filmâs title, but as the film jumps from one CG-infused setting to another, a personal journey for its principal characters never quite emerges. Sure, Agent M is driven and brilliant, and Agent H is indolent and reckless, but these opposing qualities never lead to the conflict that might invest us in the development of the charactersâ relationship, romantic or otherwise. From the beginning, the pair are generally fine with one another, the individualist veteran Agent H breaking down and letting the overeager rookie join him after about four seconds of cajoling.
From there, thereâs not much for the two to resolve, as the dynamic between the characters is woefully anodyne. Agent M is initially drawn to Agent H in part because he possesses Hemsworthâs good looks, but Men in Black International never commits to a flirtatious tone, and never figures out how to apply a buddy-cop schema designed for a homosocial universe to this cross-gender pairing. The film wastes its charismatic leads in a parade of wacky CG creations whose occasional novelty is drowned out by its incessance.
The filmâs pacing also plays a part in diminishing oneâs investment in the principal characters. In its first act, the film feels appropriately zippy, but soon thereafter it becomes a rushed mess, hardly stopping to let the viewer or its characters breathe. On the rare occasion when Men in Black International slows down long enough to get some repartee between its characters rolling, the scenes feel oddly truncated. At one point, the film smash-cuts to Agents H and M stranded in the Sahara Desert with a broken hover bike, with the two bickering over…something. Itâs just one of several scenes, including and especially the filmâs absurdly rushed climax, that are inadequately set up, leaving one with the impression that there are missing pieces. But perhaps thatâs fitting, as watching this film is a bit like being neuralyzed.
Cast: Chris Hemsworth, Tessa Thompson, Emma Thompson, Liam Neeson, Rebecca Ferguson, Kumail Nanjiani, Rafe Spall, Laurent Bourgeois, Larry Bourgeois, Kayvan Novak Director: F. Gary Gray Screenwriter: Matt Holloway, Art Marcum Distributor: Columbia Pictures Running Time: 114 min Rating: PG-13 Year: 2019
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