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Review: Thor: The Dark World

Superhero movies aren’t going anywhere, nor is their standard, on-to-the-next-fight structure, so it’s heartening to see a gem that grandly and amusingly fills in the blanks.

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Thor: The Dark World
Photo: Walt Disney Pictures

Thor (Chris Hemsworth) is busy “keeping peace in the Nine Realms” in the first act of Thor: The Dark World, which means he’s beaming himself from one interstellar land to the next, helping to slay whatever nasties are afoot before becoming king in his home realm of Asgard. On one battlefield, he shows up after his pals have been fighting for what looks like hours, just in time to pull an Indiana Jones and trounce the largest villain with a single blow, spooking all other enemies into surrender. “Perhaps next time we should start with the big one,” says one of Thor’s allies. Little does this valiant quipster know that he’s providing commentary on the state of modern action blockbusters, virtually all of which consist of one skirmish after another, each serving as a plot-lengthening baby step on the inevitable march to The Big One.

Audiences have more than accepted this rather transparent formula, but masking it remains the key challenge of films of this type, which need enough clever, enveloping diversions to distract from the basic, battle-to-battle domino effect. For a movie whose mere existence seems solely and indefensibly cash-conscious, this sequel to Thor and The Avengers does a remarkable job of padding that baseline, offering enough humor, special-effects artistry, and actual emotion to make the trek to the showdown a surprising pleasure.

Though screenwriters Christopher Yost, Christopher Markus, and Stephen McFeely are apparently working from decades-old comic-book mythology, it remains impossible not to view Thor: The Dark World’s story beats as derivative. The film’s heavily narrated prologue alone apes that of the The Fellowship of the Ring, right down to an ancient battle involving mystical elves, and a terribly potent power source that needs to be kept at bay so the lands won’t be cloaked in that catch-all evil of “darkness.” This time, the elves, led by Malekith (Christopher Eccleston), are the bad guys, and the power source is an ambiguous red substance called the Aether, which, in present-day London, is discovered by Jane Foster (Natalie Portman), Thor’s squeeze and the prettiest scientist on the planet. Still reeling from being left behind by her beloved Fabio clone, Jane encounters the Aether in some kind of vortex, and as it consumes her, it awakens Malekith and his minions. Having endangered herself and all Nine Realms at the dawn of a planetary alignment (never a good thing in fantasy film), Jane needs Thor to usher her off to Asgard for help, and as she dons the robes and armor of the sleek, idyllic otherworld, there’s the shocking remembrance that Portman’s pre-Oscar work involved similarly traipsing around Naboo.

Director Alan Taylor’s sequel doesn’t have the near-lyrical theatricality of Kenneth Branagh’s original, but it does use Jane’s departure from Earth to effectively flip-flop Thor’s fish-out-of-water conceit, which saw the Norse-inspired hero bumble around our orb like Encino Man. It also learns from the first film’s mistakes of sidelining certain female players, giving Portman much more screen time to play both damsel in distress and survivor, and amping up the much-welcome presence of Rene Russo, who gets moments of tenderness and badassery as Frigga, mother of Thor and stepmother of imprisoned bad apple Loki (Tom Hiddleston).

Loki is finally called on by his brother to help defeat Malekith, presenting a precarious partnership that yields as many knowing laughs as it does poignant rewards. Loki’s holographic morphing abilities, which he apparently learned from his mama, lead to such jokes as him assuming the form of Chris Evans’s Captain America, while the tricky sibling rivalry reaches steep emotional levels, thanks to two significant in-film deaths and an unforced rehash of the brothers’ loaded history. Easily giving the finest performance in Hollywood’s entire Marvel Universe, Hiddleston lends merit to this brand that can’t be overstated, as Loki’s cheeky deception is laced with the tear-inducing pain of a bastard son.

And yet, it’s levity and visual panache that ultimately seal this film’s triumph. Whereas a lesser sequel would wink at the audience with an overdose of pride, Thor: The Dark World displays buoyant humility in its self-awareness, matching, for instance, Thor’s exposition about the realm alignment with Jane’s cooed response, “I like the way you explain things.” (There’s also a priceless, hysterical bit back on Earth when Thor casually hangs his hammer on the coat rack in Jane’s apartment.) And while a post-production 3D conversion probably won’t do much to enhance the experience, this movie’s imagery is flawlessly, epically realized. The prologue’s likeness to The Fellowship of the Ring might be off-putting, but Malekith’s spaceship-piloted siege of Asgard is anything but, calling to mind the riveting grandeur of The Return of the King’s Siege of Gondor.

And it says something that the realization of this world needn’t only use wars and destruction to dazzle viewers. There’s a nighttime memorial sequence as handsome as anything else in the film, with fallen Asgardians floating down a river in burning canoes, and dissolving into starlight absorbed by the sky just as they hit a waterfall’s edge. Naturally, Thor: The Dark World culminates with one last melee, but it doesn’t lazily resort to having Malekith lay total, requisite waste to a major city a la the insufferable Man of Steel. There’s some rare madness to the genre discipline, be it via contraptions that manically jettison objects through portals, or the actions of a mad scientist played by Stellan Skarsgärd, whose serial nudity has no apparent purpose other than possible prep for Lars von Trier’s Nymphomaniac. Superhero movies aren’t going anywhere, nor is their standard, on-to-the-next-fight structure, so it’s heartening to see a gem that grandly and amusingly fills in the blanks.

Cast: Chris Hemsworth, Natalie Portman, Tom Hiddleston, Anthony Hopkins, Kat Dennings, Christopher Eccleston, Idris Elba, Stellan Skarsgärd Director: Alan Taylor Screenwriter: Christopher Yost, Christopher Markus, Stephen McFeely Distributor: Walt Disney Pictures Running Time: 112 min Rating: PG-13 Year: 2013 Buy: Video, Soundtrack

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Review: The Resonant Tito and the Birds Wants Us to Reject Illusion

The Brazilian animated feature offers relief from the impersonal assault of contemporary pop culture.

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Tito and the Birds
Photo: Shout! Factory

In several ways, Gabriel Bitar, André Catoto, and Gustavo Steinberg’s Tito and the Birds offers relief from the impersonal assault of contemporary pop culture. Instead of the sanitized, disposably “perfect” computer animation that gluts children’s TV shows and films, Tito and the Birds weds digital technology with oil painting, abounding in hallucinatory landscapes that casually morph to reflect the emotions of the narrative’s protagonists. This Brazilian animated feature has the warm, handmade quality of such adventurous modern children’s films as Henry Selick’s Coraline and Mark Osborne’s The Little Prince.

Tito and the Birds’s artisanal tactility is also inherently political, as it invites consumers or consumers-in-training not to mindlessly gobble jokes, plot, and branding opportunities by the yard, but to slow down and contemplate the sensorial experience of what they’re watching. For instance, it can be difficult to recall now that even middling Disney animated films of yore once seemed beautiful, and that the studio’s classics are ecstatic explosions of neurotic emotion. These days, Disney is in the business of packaging hypocritically complacent stories of pseudo-empowerment, which are viscerally dulled by workmanlike aesthetics that deliberately render our consumption painless and unmemorable.

In this climate, the wild artistry of Tito and the Birds amounts to a bucket of necessary cold water for audiences. Throughout the film’s shifting landscapes, one can often discern brushstrokes and congealed globs of paint, which are deliberate imperfections that underscore painting, and by extension animation, as the endeavors of humans. And this emphasis on the humanity of animation underscores the fulfilling nature of collaborative, rational, nurturing community, which is also the theme of the film’s plot.

Like the United States and much of Europe, Brazil is falling under the sway of far-right politics, which sell paranoia as justification for fascism, and for which Tito and the Birds offers a remarkably blunt political allegory. The world of this narrative is gripped by a disease in which people are paralyzed by fright: In terrifying images, we see arms shrinking and eyes growing wide with uncomprehending terror, until the bodies curl up into fleshy, immobile stones that are the size of a large knapsack. Characters are unsure of the cause of the “outbreak,” though the audience can discern the culprit to be the hatred spewing out of a Fox News-like TV channel, which sells an illusion of rampant crime in order to spur people to buy houses in expensive communities that are fenced in by bubbles. Resonantly, the network and real estate are owned by the same rich, blond sociopath.

Ten-year-old Tito (Pedro Henrique) is a bright and sensitive child who’s traumatized by the disappearance of his father, a scientist who sought to build a machine that would reconnect humankind with birds. Like his father, Tito believes that birds can save the world from this outbreak of hatred, and this evocatively free-associative conceit underscores the hostility that far-right parties have toward the environment, which they regard as fodder for hunting grounds, plunder-able resources, and parking lots. In a heartbreakingly beautiful moment, a pigeon, a working-class bird, begins to sing, and its song resuscitates Tito’s friend, also pointedly of a lower class than himself, from a frozen state of fear and hopelessness.

As the birds come to sing their song, the landscapes lighten, suggesting the emotional and cultural transcendence that might occur if we were to turn off our TVs, phones, and laptops more often and do what the recently deceased poet Mary Oliver defined as our “endless and proper work”: pay attention—to ourselves, to others, to the wealth of other life we take for granted and subsequently fail to be inspired by. Inspiration has the potentiality to nullify fear, but it doesn’t sell as many action figures as the frenetic velocity of embitterment and violence.

Cast: Pedro Henrique, Marina Serretiello, Matheus Solano, Enrico Cardoso, Denise Fraga, Matheus Nachtergaele Director: Gabriel Bitar, André Catoto, Gustavo Steinberg Screenwriter: Eduardo Benaim, Gustavo Steinberg Distributor: Shout! Factory Running Time: 73 min Rating: NR Year: 2018

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Review: The Invisibles Is an Awkward Combination of Fiction and Documentary

The film doesn’t bring to light otherwise unexplored aspects of the experience or memory of persecution and genocide.

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The Invisibles
Photo: Menemsha Films

If Schindler’s List and Shoah represent the opposite ends of a spectrum for cinematic representation of the Holocaust, The Invisibles is at the perfect midpoint between those two extremes, combining intimate interviews with cleanly composed, tightly controlled reenactments of the events discussed therein. But in seeking the precise middle ground between the dreadful beauty of Steven Spielberg’s historical melodrama and Claude Lanzmann’s radical privileging of personal testimony over visual representation of suffering, The Invisibles finds a mediated position that’s also decidedly middle-brow.

The basis of director and co-writer Claus Räfle’s film is archival interviews with Holocaust survivors Cioma Schönhaus, Eugen Friede, Ruth Arndt, and Hanni Lévy, four of the 7,000 Jewish Berliners who hid within the city even after Nazi propaganda minister Joseph Goebbels declared it “free of Jews” in 1943. Sheltered by friends, shepherded between members of the limited communist resistance, and in Cioma’s case, maintained in the basement of the Afghan embassy by a network of document forgers, all four managed not only to evade the mass deportations to death camps in Poland, but also to survive the Allies’ incessant late-war bombings of Berlin and the devastating siege of the city that brought an end to the war.

Complementing the subjects’ verbal accounts of their experiences are dramatic reenactments of their lives as “invisibles” in a hostile and dangerous city. Cioma (Max Mauff) is a talented young artist who escapes deportation with his aged parents by forging documents verifying that he’s needed in Berlin as a laborer, eventually managing to eke out a black-market salary from the forgery business. Because his stepfather is a gentile, Eugen (Aaron Altaras) is afforded a bit more time to find a place to hide, ending up masquerading as a cousin to a family of secret Nazi opponents—even occasionally donning a Nazi uniform as part of the act. Ruth and her brother huddle for months with their respective significant others in a single room. And Hanni hides mostly in the open, dying her hair blond and spending her time in the populated commercial area around the famed Kurfürstendamm boulevard.

The four individuals didn’t know each other, and while their stories correspond in certain ways—Ruth and Hanni both adopt disguises, using the omnipresence of mourning women in Berlin to their advantage, whereas Eugen and Cioma must either hide completely or come up with reasons for why they haven’t been called into service—Räfle and co-writer Alejandra López resist staging an arbitrary intersection of the subjects’ lives. While they’re all in the same city, they’re totally isolated, from their families as well as from other young Jews like themselves. “I thought I was the only one,” the real-life Hanni explains as she recounts discovering that 1,500 other young German Jews survived the war in Berlin.

Through its subjects, The Invisibles tells us much about the precarious conditions that they endured during the war, but the staged reenactments show us little that these individuals’ words haven’t already captured. The short bits of drama that Räfle and López compose out of their subjects’ testimony have a cable-documentary quality, both in terms of the excessively neat, stagy sets and the simplicity of the correspondence between the real survivors’ narration and the action depicted. The narrative loosely assembled there has affecting moments—particularly the finale to Ruth’s ordeal, which features a tense confrontation with a Russian soldier—but it never develops its own unique insights or personality.

Missing from the narrativized sections of the film is also a strong sense of environment. We see the cramped corners that the four young people must hide themselves in, but the film is limited in its ability to convey a sense of what Germany’s capital city was like under the constant bombardment that brought an end to the war. Bombings are mentioned but never depicted, except in intermittently deployed archival footage. The Battle of Berlin, when Soviet forces sieged the city and effectively ended World War II, is largely depicted through allusion. The absence of a palpable representation of these events, and of a sense of the city as a whole, is enough to make one wish that the film had simply stuck with the interviews.

The Invisibles’s combination of documentary footage with dramatic conventions doesn’t bring to light otherwise unexplored aspects of the experience or memory of persecution and genocide. The result isn’t a film that manages to craft out of its staged portions a meaningful and evocative portrait of life lived under the constant threat of death, nor one that, like Shoah, gives itself over fully to the harrowing stories of survivors.

Cast: Cioma Schönhaus, Eugen Friede, Ruth Arndt, Hanni Lévy, Max Mauff, Alice Dwyer, Ruby O. Fee, Aaron Altaras Director: Claus Räfle Screenwriter: Claus Räfle, Alejandra López Distributor: Menemsha Films Running Time: 110 min Rating: NR Year: 2017

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Review: Myth and Reality Are Smartly Tangled in The Kid Who Would Be King

Joe Cornish’s film is vigilant in its positivity and hope for the future at nearly every turn.

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The Kid Who Would Be King
Photo: 20th Century Fox

In modern-day London, 12-year-old Alex Elliot (Louis Ashbourne Serkis) is thrust into combating forces both global and intensely personal. Following an animated prologue that briefly recaps the legend of King Arthur, the opening shot of Joe Cornish’s The Kid Who Would Be King pans over a series of newspapers, each with headlines preaching doom and gloom while overlying audio from various news programs informs us of the widespread rise of authoritarian strong men. This is the only direct glimpse we’re given of the current chaos of our political climate, but it looms large over the film’s events as the focus shifts to young Alex, who finds himself with more immediate problems to confront.

At his new school, Alex and his best friend, Bedders (Dean Chaumoo), a goofy but sweet pushover, are quickly targeted by the most notorious bully in the yard, Lance (Tom Taylor), and his loyal minion, Kaye (Rhianna Dorris). Acutely aware of his status as one of the most “insignificant” and “powerless” kids at school, Alex fights back against his tormentors, tackling Lance from behind, only to later be scolded by the school principal (Noma Dumezweni): “The world is not going to change. It’s you who has to change.”

It’s meant as a condemnation of Alex’s violent reaction to aggression, but the woman’s
empty platitude also serves as a motto for the scarcely effective adult leadership in Alex’s life. Indeed, the boy’s principal is incompetent, his father abandoned him as a child, and his mother (Denise Gough), caring as she may be, seems incapable of truly listening to him. Adults have let the world turn to shit and Alex is quickly learning that they’re not particularly well-equipped to protect him or fix the very problems they’ve allowed to fester and multiply.

When Alex soon discovers a sword stuck in concrete, The Kid Who Would Be King shifts gears into a full-on adventure fantasy akin, though never beholden, to ‘80s kids’ adventure films like The Goonies and The Neverending Story. Cornish layers familiar forms with new meanings, amending an age-old tale to directly address the perilous and uncertain future that today’s youth must face. In doing so, the director’s postmodern re-imagining of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table retains a refreshing earnestness in both its unwavering sincerity and commitment to lending its characters an affecting emotional vulnerability.

The film’s humor doesn’t stem from ironically mocking stodgy, centuries-old mythology, but from richly rewarding character details mined from children grappling with an increasingly terrifying world. Cornish retains the framework of Arthurian legend while connecting its themes to the struggle of the disenfranchised to forge bonds with their equally oppressed enemies. In The Kid Who Would Be King, the myth of King Arthur becomes entangled with reality—and a catalyst for self-actualization. Here, adventure empowers Alex and his friends to apply lessons from the past to the challenges that await them moving forward.

As Alex and Bedders discover the responsibilities they must shoulder as a result of Alex pulling Excalibur from the stone, the two convince their former foes, Lance and Kaye, to help them take on the fiery skeletons on horseback that arise from the underworld under the command of the evil Morgana (Rebecca Ferguson). Along with the extremely verbose and awkward Merlin (played by the hysterically precocious Angus Imrie in his 16-year-old form and by Patrick Stewart whenever the magician is in his dotage), the group sets out across England to find the portal that will take them to Morgana. But even as the group battles Morgana’s demons along the way, they continue to struggle with the ever-present fears and insecurities of adolescence.

In one of many inventive grace notes, Cornish has all of London’s adults vanish at night whenever Morgana’s army arises, leaving the kids to literally fend for themselves as they adapt to their newfound roles as both protectors and shapers of the future. And despite its relatively bleak view of the present, The Kid Who Would Be King is vigilant in its positivity and hope for the future at nearly every turn. Cornish’s film meets a world full of bullies, thieves, and malevolence with a warmth and pureness of heart that’s evident in everything from the inclusivity of its casting and its offbeat sense of humor to its thrilling, galvanizing finale, which sees Alex’s entire school takes up arms in an epic battle against Morgana.

Cast: Louis Ashbourne Serkis, Dean Chaumoo, Tom Taylor, Rhianna Dorris, Angus Imrie, Rebecca Ferguson, Patrick Stewart, Denise Gough Director: Joe Cornish Screenwriter: Joe Cornish Distributor: 20th Century Fox Running Time: 120 min Rating: PG Year: 2019

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