Reviews

Unfrosted is Jerry Seinfeld's directorial debut, and is only his second contribution to cinema after the Bee Movie. Needless to say it's an uneven film, though still possibly the best comedy movie produced by Netflix (Adam Sandler fans may differ, but it's a low bar nonetheless). At the very least it feels like an actual film, with all the idiosyncrasies of a singular human mind, instead of the usual algorithmic dribble that Netflix churns out.

The film itself is a kind of quasi-spoof of all those corporate brand origin stories that have been plaguing the movie industry for a while now. It's about Pop Tarts, and takes place in the apparently cutthroat world of cereal corporation rivalry and espionage. Seinfeld uses the same framework for humor utilized in the Bee Movie; namely to create a fantasy world that incorporates 'normal' elements of human society, rendering them absurd with gags and puns. Thus the cereal corporations have their own award ceremony, press conferences, and political system where they have to negotiate for milk and sugar. Everything revolves around cereal. A man dies testing the first Pop-Tart and is buried 'with full cereal honors', namely mascots dumping milk and cereal on top of his coffin as it's being lowered into the grave.

The film's mileage with viewers will depend on how much of this absurdity they can take, since that's almost all there is for the full 90 minutes. Like 'Undercover Brother', for example, it starts out funny but eventually becomes exhausting. There are some nice touches; the colorful production design is excellent, reminiscent of a Frank Tashlin or Blake Edwards film. (How many modern comedies can you say that about?) Most of the ensemble cast excel in their roles (Bill Burr and Peter Dinklage are highlights), while the less palatable ones (ie Amy Schumer) are at least utilized in ways that don't derail the film. There are a few Tashlinesque gags involving gadgets and corporate buffoonery.

Unfortunately the satire is just too haphazard to cohere; everything feels like a side gag. There doesn't seem to be point or real story to all this. The overall film still passes the low standard for comedies today, and the critical revulsion is unwarranted though anyone can see the real reason for it.

Someone has to mention this. Reading the 'professional' critic reviews (to say nothing of the cretinocracy that is Letterboxd) explicitly show that some reviewers have an axe to grind with Seinfeld after his offhand comments criticizing 'the extreme left'; nobody likes having their bubble burst. As it turns out the extreme left is so used to being pandered to that it's incapable of processing any criticism, and its defensive attacks are way overcompensated. How can this even remotely be 'Worst film of the year'? Have they watched any other Netflix films? So now Seinfeld was somehow never funny in the first place and owes all his success to Larry David? Have they seen David's wretched 'Sour Grapes'? Practically no one hits home runs all the time, especially in comedy.

(As another side note, the climactic scene of the mascots rioting is the point where you can imagine more liberal viewers squirming uncomfortably in their seats. It's not just that Seinfeld is lampooning two of their current sacred cows-worker's unions and the Jan 6 riot-but that he dares to conflate them. It's the only really gutsy sequence in the film, and is also quite funny.)

Ultimately the film reminds me of those similarly disdained comedies of the 90s (like the films of Sandler or Chris Farley), which later went on to become cult films. I could see Unfrosted having the same fate, if it can transcend its Netflix origins.

Here comes the first big movie of 2024, Denis Villeneuve's Dune Part II. After years of tropey rot and arty trash coming out of Hollywood it's nice to see these popular/spectacular epics in the classic tradition: the past few years have yielded Oppenheimer, Killers of the Flower Moon, Maverick, and now the complete Dune adaption. (Well, complete adaption of the first book at least). There are moments here that remind you how awesome movies can be.

This may be Villeneuve's most visually inventive film yet, as well as his most propulsive. He's still an art-house director at heart, and doesn't quite have the commitment to or comfort in grand spectacle the way Peter Jackson did, but is able to paint an engrossing world nonetheless. The nearly three hours fly past while watching it. The mid-plot detour to the Harkennon planet is a high point, with its inkblot fireworks and black sun that paints the outside world in monochrome. (This almost functions as a meta gag aimed at the critics who found Dune 1 too colorless). The production design is massive and (maybe excessively) Brutalist. There is a lot of open space and very little ornamentation.

How does it fare character-wise? Not quite as well, though for the most part it's faithfully following Herbert's writing. Butler and Bardem are standouts as the psychotic Feyd-Rautha and the comically superstitious Stilgar respectively. The major changes from the book mostly concern Zendaya's Chani (in the book she's basically just Paul's concubine); remade here into the voice of modern audiences, she ridicules the prophecies and criticizes Paul's Messianic rise.

This change is somewhat justified since Paul's conflict in the book is almost completely internal, and the film needs someone to voice it out loud, and Chani is the logical choice. The problem (or maybe strength, depending on how one looks at it) is that it doubles down on the film's thematic ambiguity in ways that Villeneuve probably did not intend.

Villeneuve has made it very clear that the film is meant to be a dissection of messiah narratives, showing how belief in a messiah can lead to fanaticism and destruction. However, the world he (and originally Herbert) have constructed is so dysfunctional that death and destruction seem par for the course anyway. Just about every faction in the Dune universe is vying and backstabbing others for its own gain, and by giving Chani the politically-correct concern *only* for her own people, she seems about the same. Only Stilgar defies this trend, and as a result comes off as the most likable figure. He's still something of a buffoon, and his habit of attributing every event to some obscure prophecy drew a lot of laughs in the theater. But he's the only character who believes in something higher than himself. It gives him a kind of nobility, which, even if misplaced, contrasts with the Game of Thrones-esque machinations of everyone else. And the film never explicitly shows that his prophecies are *not* true, (even if they were planted by the Bene Gesserit), creating the main conflict. Is Paul destined to become a messiah, or is he only allowing himself to become one because the prophecies say he will? The question is not answered (maybe saved for the rumored third installment; I have not read Herbert's Dune sequels). Again, this is Villeneuve the art-house director playing with ambiguity. When Paul abruptly leans full tilt into his space-dictator role, it was so grandiose that cynicism fell away, leaving me fully onboard with his jihad, and this is Timothee Chalamet that we're talking about. After all this Chani comes off as a bit of a loser. It seems absurd that in this kind of world she wouldn't want to be connected with the most powerful figure in the universe. Only the Machiavellian types seem to ever succeed.

There is a lot of talk about how this film is the defining epic of a generation, how it's better than Star Wars, it's this generation's Lord of the Rings, etc. This is hyperbole. I wouldn't expect the series to have that kind of impact, primarily because (A) it's quite emotionally distant since the characters are non-heroic, and (B) as implied above, it's more intellectual than crowd-pleasing; the Dune world is objectively kind of depressing despite its aesthetic coolness. In the words of Frankie Valli in 'Genuine Imitation Life': "It's a lovely place to visit/but I wouldn't want to stay".

The writing was on the wall for 'Dial of Destiny' well before that baffling McGuffin was revealed. Star Harrison Ford was nearly 80. For the first time in the series' history Spielberg declined to return to the director's chair. It was plagued by reshoots. The budget exploded to a ridiculous 300+ million dollars. Combine all this with modern Hollywood's almost complete inability to tell a proper story, and the result is a plodding, pathetic film that only provides some entertainment if other people are there to make fun of it with you. (If I was watching by myself I doubt I could have even finished it). Nearly everything that could have gone wrong here did.



The script: Co-written by director Mangold along with 'Crystal Skull' alumnus David Koepp and several others, the screenplay displays a stunning lack of imagination analogous to JJ Abrams' Star Wars sequels. In both franchises it seems that the writers have no reference point other than the previous installments, and so prove incapable of doing anything interesting. (It's notable that both franchises lost George Lucas, who was absurdly well-versed in all types of pulp). Most modern writers seem to have a very politically correct tendency to dismiss or ignore most genre works from the 20s to 50s, which is why their plots all seem so copy and paste. That's why the plot, aka Indy racing around trying to find the parts to Archimedes' time-traveling invention, seems so familiar. It's the same thing as the map in Star Wars 7, the AI key in Mission Impossible 7, or the transwarp key in Transformers 7.

Meanwhile, the decision to bring back Nazis as the main villains echoes Abrams' resurrection of the Empire in 'The Force Awakens'; it reeks of nostalgia-baiting and like it makes little sense in the context of its world. Nazis in the 60s? They want to go back in time and take over the Reich so Germany can win, despite having apparently made a good living for themselves in the United States. "We have conquered space, now we will conquer time," the main NASA-Nazi villain gloats. (It's the only clever moment in the film, tying the ridiculous Dial, the bogus Nazi masterplan, and the moon-landing time period all together). "What kind of Nazi kills the Fuhrer?" Indy growls, hilariously forgetting that the Fuhrer, in fact, killed himself.

The direction: Despite praising the story of 'Dial of Destiny' (and eventually the completed film) Spielberg declined to direct it, which was already a bad sign. 'Logan' director James Mangold was brought onboard to fill Spielberg's massive shoes, which (spoilers) he can't. Mangold is at least competent, but he doesn't have anything near Spielberg's complex blocking skills or sly visual sense of humor. This film is directed the same TV-fashion of most other Hollywood blockbusters, which is a massive step down from any previous Indy film. Additionally, Mangold has no sense of momentum, giving the film a sluggish lack of impact. Action scenes are peppered throughout but mostly just spin their wheels without advancing anything; there's none of the breathless, headlong pace of Raiders or Temple of Doom, let alone their inventive semi-slapstick gags. Part of this goes back to the writing, which has provided such an unremarkable plot structure that everything just sits there dead.

The acting: Yes, Harrison Ford is old; they were even making jokes about it back in 2008 when Crystal Skull came out. Dial of Destiny tries to mitigate this with an extensive flashback with de-aged Indy, but it comes off as phony since he still sounds 80. Other than that Ford gives it his all and deserves some credit. On the other hand, we have Phoebe Waller-Bridge, what can I even say. There are also many side characters who are mostly just gunned down by the Nazis, adding to the generally depressing tone of the film. It probably has a higher body count of non-villainous characters than all the other Indy movies combined. Veteran actors like John Rhys-Davies and Karen Allen are awkwardly shoe-horned in and try their best in goofy cameos.

"Have you ever made love to a historical figure?" - Indiana Jones, probably

There's so much more that can be said about this film, from John Williams sleepwalking through the soundtrack to the Dial's inherent lameness compared to the other artifacts Indy has pursued in the past, and so forth. But that would start to get just as depressing as a broken down Indy who wants to die.

John Wayne famously refused to work with Clint Eastwood after this film, calling it a false representation of America. Whether it is or not is nearly beside the point, but Wayne was right that there is something wrong with this cavalier revisionism, even beyond its general ludicrousness.

The story concerns an unnamed stranger in the Wild West who rides into the town of Lago. Hardly any time passes before he's killing and raping in scenes that are basically played for laughs. The townspeople, having paid for their initial hostility, soon turn to him to protect their village, and the bulk of the movie is Eastwood acting as a kind of cowboy dictator, confounding them with ridiculous orders that they all blindly follow. The depiction of the townspeople is where the film leans so far into revisionism that it becomes irritating to watch. They are nearly to a person so cravenly pathetic, corrupt, and useless that it's a wonder they could survive anywhere. (Maybe the only exception would be the dwarf who is promoted to sheriff, aka Eastwood's toady). None of them even know how to shoot a gun properly.

There are supernatural underpinnings throughout the film that hint at an allegory of divine retribution (i.e the townspeople are being punished for their collective inaction during a murder repeatedly seen in flashback) but then is this supposed to excuse the type of actions Eastwood's character takes? Is he a figure of goodness/justice or an anti-hero? You can't have it both ways, and the film can't decide. At times director Eastwood seems to be aiming for the scope and breadth of the films he made with Sergio Leone, but Leone had something that is missing here (outside of sharper directing skills). Maybe part of it was Ennio Morricone, whose gorgeous soundtracks were able to give even the nastiest Leone film an operatic, elegiac tone, which Eastwood can't replicate. It's too bad. We have so few Leone films.

Side note: Clint Eastwood is typically seen as more 'right wing', but there's a reason why Hollywood's left-wing establishment people tolerate and even award him. His streak of revisionist films fit neatly into their idea that America was always a quite wretched place. It's a deliberate counter to Wayne's (sometimes excessive) patriotic idealism, but the problem is that, taken at face value, it can be seen as an endorsement of wanton cruelty-no matter what intention Eastwood had in creating characters like the high plains drifter, most people watching today will simply see him as cool or maybe even a role model. Ironically the phenomenon of 'toxic masculinity' was popularized by 70s left-wing ideology. You won't find any examples of how men should act in this film, nor for that matter in today's course-corrected 'emotional' films by lesser filmmakers. You have to go back to Wayne for that.

Much like Disney's once-prestigious animation company, it's difficult to overstate how huge Aardman Studios was in the 2000s, and how disappointing it is to see both studios now in the rut of belated sequels punctuated by undercooked original films. I still think Aardman is faring better than Pixar today-- -- -- they're less pretentious, less concerned with appealing to movie critics, their animation is more interesting. But Dawn of the Nugget is not a step in the right direction. It contains a few good visual gags (the 'employee eye-pad' is a funny reminder of the kind of loony wit Aardman excels at) but the overall story and barrage of jokes contain more misses than hits and mostly dissolve into a noisy chaotic blur, broken up by inane emotional moments Just give us something bonkers like the first half of Pirates, you Brits!

Obviously the recasting seems to be the most common criticism. They didn't bring back Mel Gibson (cowards) but perhaps it's just as well, since the Rocky character is reduced to the stereotypical 'bumbling idiot dad' trope popularized by Disney. Zachary Levi is better for that sort of thing. Despite Julia Sawalha being told she was too old to return as Ginger, they kept the Mrs. Tweedy actress who is ten years older. Questionable. (However, it is worth noting that the return of Mrs. Tweedy is the only reason to see this film, and her gruesome fate shows that Aardman at least hasn't lost its penchant for over-the-top cartoon violence)

Overall I'm hoping Aardman can pull itself back into relevance, but while being stuck with Netflix it's not likely. They have a new Wallace and Gromit coming out soon with Nick Park returning, but how many people will care by that point? And what will the studio do afterwards?

Charlie Chaplin's previous two films, 'City Lights' and 'Modern Times', were his two absolute best films, trying as he was to prove that silent films still had a place in the all-talkie world. The quality of those films probably had something to do with this mission to prove something, for by the time he finally surrendered to sound with 'The Great Dictator', he turned completely to politics and things were not quite the same, though the film is still a sub-masterpiece, maybe his fifth best film.

It's not the first Hitler comedy (the Three Stooges of all people beat Chaplin to the punch by less than a year), but by explicitly drawing attention to the duality of Hitler and the Chaplin persona, it's the most consistently funny. The globe scene alone is the best Nazi parody ever put to film, even better for the fact that the Nazis were growing in power at the time it was put out.

My main caveat with the film would be Chaplin's extended speech at the end.

It's visually dull: the camera stays centered on Chaplin's face as he delivers a grandiose political lecture straight to the audience, talking about peace, democracy, etc etc. It's surreal seeing all this egalitarian stuff coursing from the mouth of a Hitler look-alike, but is probably a good example of why directors such as Welles and Kubrick would later criticize Chaplin as director. Did he not trust the satirical content by itself and so saw fit to cap it off with what is essentially a 4-minute sermon? Even if people at the time 'needed' to hear such things, it's not very original now at all. For someone who had held out against the 'talkie' tidal wave for so long with such great results, it's disappointing that Chaplin would end up abusing dialog in this way right off the bat.

It gives a taste of the didactic material he would incorporate into later films ('Monsieur Verdoux' had Chaplin's serial killer character justify his murders by grandiosely comparing himself to war heroes, and for all I could tell the director actually believed it) as well as giving a hint at the preachy tone many modern comedies would eventually take on. Not a good trend to start.

Underrated director Frank Tashlin was already winding down by the 60s, having apparently exhausted every possible ability of Jerry Lewis. However, he still had some comedy gems left in him, and The Glass Bottom Boat is his final one.

It's a pure farce, plain and simple, consisting of a very silly sequence of misunderstandings that leads Rod Taylor to suspect that his girlfriend Doris Day is a Russian spy. Meanwhile the real Russian spies are out to steal a secret formula from his top secret government facility. The plot starts out a bit slow but builds and builds until the final half hour which is pure comedic chaos, finally climaxing in a classic Tashlin chase scene.

Most of the film's success is owed to the cast, an eclectic bunch of 60s character actors who are all perfectly utilized and who each have their own scenes to shine. Notable is Dom DeLuise, (in an early role before Mel Brooks got his mitts on him) playing a bumbling tool of the Russians. Also there's Paul Lynde as a security guard, able to make any line reading funny with his distinctive nasally voice. Edward Andrews, a very funny bit actor who would have a mini-renaissance in the 80s (appearing in Sixteen Candles and Gremlins) shows up as a blustering army general. Dick Martin is hilarious as the hapless womanizer 'Zack', and it's too bad that he spent most of his career trapped in a dated TV show. And so on; there are even other faces that will be recognizable to fans of 60s pop culture.

Tashlin also plays up to his strengths in this film. Unlike his previous oddity (a black and white mystery-quasi-spoof with Tony Randall as Poirot) The Glass Bottom Boat is a showcase for colorful widescreen cinematography and innuendo-laced humor. The kitchen scene best exemplifies his satire of modern convenience, while the Cold War lampooning is the culmination of his long-standing habit of rendering American culture ridiculous. It works quite well, but was the last good film from this director. It's difficult to believe that just a few years later he followed this up with another spy comedy with Day: the leaden 'Caprice' which couldn't seem to decide if it was comedic or serious. Then he only had a mediocre latter-day Bob Hope film in him and was done.

The Goes Wrong Show proves wrong the usual consensus that slapstick is an inferior form of comedy or that it's completely dead. It's easily the most hilarious thing produced by the BBC in ages.

Why should this be? First off, the actors are all very funny, basically to a person. Their expressions, body language, and intonations are all spot on, perfectly capturing the awkwardness of theater plays where nothing goes to plan, as well as the personalities of the fictional actors they portray. This is the kind of skill that can only come from experience in live performance, basically in the tradition of music halls in Britain, or vaudeville over in America. (It's notable that all the best classic comedians started out in this way).

Secondly is the format of the show itself. By filming each episode live as a play, the writer/director/acting team can preserve a feeling of spontaneity. Most modern comedies use TV-style fast cutting which creates a layer of artifice around the comedy; we're constantly reminded that the movie is working laboriously to create certain gags and as a result they feel fake and contrived. The Goes Wrong Show is one of the only comedies of this century that doesn't have this problem. Everything is staged in wide shots, the cutting is methodical, and the gags (for the most part) grow methodically from the setting and actors.

Thirdly are the meta layers of character work underneath the slapstick. Half of the humor comes from the personalities of the fictional actors, their quirks and foibles. The explosive rivalry between Robert and Chris, the hapless Dennis consigned to non-human roles, the poor Vanessa who can't improvise, the hammy Max...they're all just quite funny to watch, and grew more so the more episodes I watched. There are some points where the gags go maybe a bit too far and you're left wondering how the troupe could be so stupid to make some of these mistakes, but the in-universe concept 'play of the week' somewhat mitigates this. How many actor teams could pull off a new play every week?

'The Shadow Line' ('Smuga cienia' in the original Polish) is director Andrzej Wajda's follow-up to his far more acclaimed 'The Promised Land'. Like that previous film it has lush cinematography and glorious wide angle lens compositions. Both also benefit from gorgeous theme music from Wojciech Kilar, whose work is about on par as the great classical composers. Like 'The Promised Land' it's also a literary adaption- -from Joseph Conrad this time, leading to what is to my knowledge the only English language film in the great director's entire filmography, unless I'm overlooking something.

The language isn't the only difference this film has from Wajda's previous film. It's not as opulent and crazy, moving at a stately pace and tackling a more intimate story. The director's usual political themes are absent, and the runtime is more concise than some of his other films. (Compare this film's 100 minutes to 'Man of Marble's 165, 'The Promised Land's 180, or the whopping 234 (!) for 'The Ashes').

The story follows a fictional version of Conrad himself, recently made captain somewhere in the Orient, and the problems he encounters on his first voyage as such. The ship gets becalmed, fever breaks out among the crew, and the somewhat deranged first mate blames it all on the previous dead captain's 'old tricks'. This vague supernatural underpinning is excellent at creating an atmosphere of uncertainty, especially as the ship, and maybe even Conrad himself, slowly sink in a mire of sickness and possible madness. It's remarkable how engrossing the film manages to be when there isn't much in the way of action or drama- -other than a few intense moments the film is very realistic and almost sedate. But it's still an excellent adaption, certainly worth a watch.

Currently this film is available for free on YouTube. The main character does narrate in Polish during some scenes, and this is not subtitled; however, it is fairly infrequent.

This quote appears ironically at the end of RRR, and it seems a bit off. (Wouldn't 'British Empire' be more appropriate?) Throughout the film the cartoonishly exaggerated Brits speak in a stilted way that adds greatly to the comic effect in this crazy, borderline absurdist experience.

Obviously writer/director SS Rajamouli can't compete with the $200+ million blimps regularly puked out from Hollywood, at least in terms of effects and cinematography. Much of the environments look flat and sterile with obvious CGI supplements and bright, TV-show-style lighting. It's only when the storytelling and goofy exaggeration come into play that these downsides can be overlooked, and so one must enter the film with an open mind for it to work. The storytelling is the director's sharpest skill; I always thought Indian films existed in their own cultural world, with no intention of appealing to Western audiences, explaining why they seem to gain little recognition internationally. RRR is still an Indian movie through and through, especially with the musical sequences, but Rajamouli has concocted a highly dramatic, visual, almost mythic story involving friendship, betrayal, plot reversals, warfare, etc, which can really appeal to anyone regardless of nationality. He seems to be taking inspiration from Mel Gibson's directorial efforts in this regard; and indeed he seems to have embarked on a Gibson binge before directing. (There's a flogging scene that manages to evoke both the Passion and the Braveheart execution, while a later gag with a falling tree references Apocalypto).

The end result is something that actually benefits from being produced outside Hollywood. It's refreshingly, impossibly free of the dull speechifying that has recently dominated Western filmmaking, unless one wants to count those broad anti-imperialist strokes. And even these lack the self-loathing baggage that a modern Western writer/director would bring. Its agenda exists somewhere else entirely. The ending musical scene seems like outright propaganda though I have no clue what it's supposed to be saying.

'The Sun never sets on the English Empire'. The line could almost be a meta-ironic commentary: maybe it refers to the domination of the English language in world film since the sound era, a power which just might be collapsing.

The supposed 'best picture' of 2014 according to the Academy Awards is 'Birdman', a loopy one-shot drama involving Michael Keaton wanting to make 'art' instead of superhero movies. (Get it? Get it? Haha). He turns to theatrical production and crass meta hijinks follow. The movie and theater industries are roundly skewered, though there aren't any good insights, mostly just dopey metaphors, like when Keaton has to run around Times Square in his underwear. And on a side note, for a movie so concerned with 'true art' it's aggravating how lowbrow its sense of humor is. No sophistication in the script whatsoever. It has that at least in common with superhero movies.

The alternative title 'The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance' is unnecessary, and makes even less sense when it's finally given some sort of context by the film. Maybe it's a jab at the movie critics; they'd have to be pretty ignorant to think this is any good, and then it's director Inarritu who can benefit from this 'unexpected virtue'.

Meanwhile, the one-take gimmick is technically impressive if (as it usually is) superfluous-the goal seems to have been to distract from the basic storyline with flashy visuals, the exact methodology of modern superhero movies! Even with the single shot Birdman is neither as logistically mind boggling as the later '1917', nor as cohesive (or, for all its dirty jokes, as funny) as Hitchcock's 'Rope'. It's not even that creative in its blocking--Inarritu and DP Lubezki's typical tactic is to either swing the camera back and forth to face whoever's speaking, or to rotate incessantly around characters. There's none of the intricate staging that Spielberg can bring to the extended one-shots of even his lesser-known films. In fact, the comparison to Spielberg is a big irony; here is a director famous for straddling the fine line between art and commerce in a way Inarritu apparently can't comprehend.

Overall it's a bitter and ugly film that isn't worthwhile on a satirical or a technical level, though it's always trying. The scene with Keaton, at his lowest point, giving vent to his fantasies and flying around New York (a bit reminiscent of Gilliam's 'Brazil' there) is the best scene. But of course, who wants that wretched escapism, that's not art.

'Annihilation' is what should happen when a hapless director tries to play pulp. It's been called 'weird fiction' but the most weird thing about it is the attempt to straddle contemplation and shoot-'em-ups; this film is essentially a remake/cross between Tarkovsky's Stalker and King Kong, and without the integrity of either. It sounds like an interesting experiment to combine such disparate film styles, (and as everyone knows a talented director like Nolan can pull it off), but Garland struggles to measure up to either end. The monster action seems out of place, arbitrary, even pandering, while the more meditative elements simply pale in comparison to what Tarkovsky already did. Nothing really meshes or creates any new insights.

It's at least more ambitious and watchable than Garland's ugly, joyless, pointlessly violent Dredd remake, with rare moments of beauty and some interesting effects, like a person who explodes and becomes a floating pulsing blob thing. At any rate those who would find Stalker too boring may find a 'cooler' alternative here, with more gore and hipster musing. Now this director has fallen back into the loving arms of equally anti-human studio A24, and I can't say I'm looking forward to whatever the result will be of such a collaboration.

The Matrix sequels have to be the most esoteric blockbusters ever made, piling on so many bizarre plot elements and stunted philosophical dialogues that they undermine the original film, which had a very specific Y2K style and a clear science fiction plot. The bulk of Revolutions consists of people standing around talking about how serious everything is, until we get to the climactic action scenes that ultimately disappoint.

The film's main set piece, the Battle of Zion, is problematic for multiple reasons, only the least of which is the fact that it takes place in the 'real world' and thus lacks the stunts and interesting photographic style of the Matrix. The stakes are established- - -humans are fighting a defensive battle against robots- - -but the machines are given such overwhelming numbers that the humans' main tactic of pummeling them with machine guns feels repetitive, redundant, and finally ridiculous after a while. Even worse is the fact that none of the main characters are present at the battle-not even many of the secondary characters. Calling the ones fighting tertiary characters may be something of an overstatement. None of them can garner any emotional impact. The machines have even less personality: all of them are giant squids which buzz around snapping at things with their tentacles. Not the most interesting of villains, especially when thousands of them are getting gunned down.

The final confrontation between Neo and Agent Smith fares little better. Despite having thousands of clones and transforming the Matrix into his own image (which would have been interesting had we seen it from the perspective of someone inside) Smith chooses to fight one-on-one, leading to an endless sequence of flying punches that would have Zack Snyder checking his watch. So much for philosophy.

Really the best thing that can be said about the Matrix Revolutions is that it does occasionally spring a memorable image at you. The nightmarish machine city, its overlord, rising up from the cliff side to appear like the Wizard of Oz. The glowing yellow world that Neo sees after being blinded. Or the moment, one of the best in the trilogy, when Neo and Trinity see the sun for the first time, providing a rare moment of beauty and relief amidst the grinding mechanical ugliness.

Actually no, the best thing that can be said about Revolutions is that it is not the Matrix Resurrections, a truly wretched sequel if ever there was.

David Fincher brings his serial killer obsession to the fore with Se7en, the tale of two detectives being led around by their noses while trying to catch a serial killer. Like all media serial killers, this film's 'John Doe' has a quirky MO: in this case basing his kills off the Seven Deadly Sins, for reasons that don't really make sense even when they're eventually explained. The film takes place in a decrepit city, deluged by constant rainfall, plagued by violence, and filmed through Fincher's trademark brownish hues, (which still looked good at this stage being shot on film). The cops are tired and disillusioned. This atmosphere is impeccable...in keeping the central city unnamed Fincher creates a suitably timeless feeling, an evocation of American corruption analogous to Batman's Gotham City (indeed, director Matt Reeves would lift this film's style and conceit for his mediocre Batman adaption). If the film could pass on this alone, it would be excellent, but there's no way to ignore certain contrivances.

Like most serial killer films, many of which essentially copy Se7en's general plot, the ridiculous machinations of the central antagonist become tiring and irritating. Threatening someone at gunpoint should only go so far; at least I would rather be shot than forced to die in some goofy, torturous manner. Fincher instead indulges all his sadistic impulses, while treating his antagonist's plan with a completely undeserved seriousness. Everything falls so neatly into place like a set of sick punchlines.

It's nice to see a film literate enough to reference Dante, Milton, and Gustav Dore among others, but Fincher doesn't use this symbolism to say anything. He seems to be the type of person who gives up on the Divine Comedy half-way through the Purgatorio when it stops being graphic; someone in it for the grotesquerie and little else. 'John Doe' gives a large speech at the end that's completely unbelievable, yet the film acts like we're supposed to take it seriously. He thinks he's making the world a better place? Really?

'What I have done will be studied in the years to come' he says ominously. What's there to study? He killed people in ways vaguely corresponding to certain vices, so what? Does anyone watching this film come out of it considering anything metaphysical? They don't; fans of this film seem to mostly revel in the atmosphere and gnarly kills, and it's not such a stretch to assume that the fictional inhabitants of this city would react in much the same way. Sin itself becomes nothing more than a gimmick.

Even though Oppenheimer is far more cohesive and easy-to-appreciate than the divisive Tenet, the two films still share many Nolanisms: the ticking time-bomb scenario, scientific exposition, an intense, panic attack-inducing soundtrack (this is very much a sound-driven film), non-linear storytelling. How Oppenheimer varies from Tenet, and why it's a better film, has something to do with the acting. Cillian Murphy embodies Oppenheimer to the degree that it's impossible to imagine anyone else in the role, and he's buttressed by an impressive ensemble cast including Matt Damon, Emily Blunt, Robert Downey Jr (what might have been...had he not devoted the best years of his life to Marvel), and many others who will certainly look familiar, meriting a visit to the Wikipedia cast list. It even becomes difficult to keep track of all these characters. Oddly enough there is no Michael Caine.

Another point of improvement over Tenet comes, ironically, from the fact that Nolan is reforming what is by now the most stale and unremarkable Hollywood genre of all: the biopic. Oppenheimer has a better idea of what kind of film it is, what story it wants to tell, and how to tell it.

That being said, there is something missing in the depiction of Oppenheimer's moral quandary; much like in Luhrmann's recent 'Elvis', the film lacks the knowledge (maybe strength?) to give its protagonist the truly moving, epic/tragic dimension he deserves. The difference is that where Luhrmann was immoral (his Elvis was by turns redeemed and destroyed by profligacy) Nolan is more amoral (generally concerned with physics and technicalities over emotional resonance). Murphy completely sells Oppenheimer's horror at what he's created, but when the film switches to McCarthyist machinations it's anticlimactic, almost beside the point, proving that Nolan is more awestruck by the effects of the Bomb on humanity as a whole instead of on one man. It still works dramatically, (and Nolan's position is far more understandable than Luhrmann's) but, much like in real life, Oppenheimer himself gets a little lost in the magnitude of his work. You feel his pain, understand him, but are not emotionally moved---history merely marches on. It should come as no surprise that Emily Blunt, playing his wife, feels underutilized.

Putting all that aside, a striking feature of the film is Nolan's restraint: any other director would be desperate to spice the film up with violence and destruction, but we watch Cillian Murphy's reactions. The real climax of the movie is not Hiroshima, but the Trinity test, and it's here that the old cliche 'it must be seen in the theater' holds true. This scene HAS to be experienced on a huge screen to get the full effect. Home viewing or streaming will not come close to what I sat through in the IMAX theater, and I'll leave it at that.

Ultimately Oppenheimer is still a singular, worthwhile experience which I plan to see again in the theater. It goes without saying that it's a better film than the more popular 'Barbie', a movie so ridiculous that even its supporters contradict themselves, saying 'It's just a movie about a doll! You can't take it seriously!' and a few sentences later: 'subversive masterpiece!' Out of these two films, infamously released on the same day, it's easy to tell which one will endure.

Another quibble, coming at the expense of sounding too snobbish: Nolan and cinematographer Hoytema are far too obsessed with soft-focus compositions, which make up nearly every shot in the film. The innovative black and white Imax film looks incredible of course, but what's the point if it's shot in the same woozy fashion as the color sequences? One of the main effects of black and white film is an emphasis on shapes, forms, and position, which is how directors such as Orson Welles and John Frankenheimer were able to work such wonders with it. Nolan could have blocked his scenes more creatively and found something even more visually stunning than the practical effect nuclear explosion, but his depth of field is so narrow that it can barely allow two things to be in focus at the same time. This works when we're meant to be getting inside Oppenheimer's head, but for the entire movie?

Once again Cruise proves he can entertain like no one else making movies today, running, jumping, driving motorcycles off cliffs. Another day with Mission Impossible.

This is now director Chris McQuarrie's third Mission film, and by now he's settled into a comfortable groove: simple stories disguised by labyrinthine plots, multiple warring factions, noir-ish flavors punctuated by explosive action and stunts, little Hitchcock homages, etc. It's easy for people to criticize the MI films since they adhere to this basic formula, but the truth is that they are genuinely good filmmaking, old fashioned blockbusters with physical humor and a sense of delight. It's amazing how consistently excellent they've been, especially when similar blockbusters such as the (weirdly similar) Indy 5 are currently drowning in awfulness.

Like the other Mission films, Dead Reckoning stands quite well on its own (even given the 'Part 1' it does possess a sense of closure, unlike most other films released this year). One of the reasons most will criticize the exposition scenes is that they are straining to make this 7th franchise installment palatable to first time viewers. Obviously how well this tactic works will depend on the audience member. What's certain, though, is that the movie only slows down for these scenes of Ethan planning with his team, and once they end the movie barrels forward unremittingly. The massive climax on the Orient Express is by turns intricate, thrilling, suspenseful, excessive, and perfect. The best studio film of the summer.

One of the most demented classic-era movies produced in Hollywood, this film concerns two past-their-prime film-star sisters (played by aging stars Joan Crawford and Bette Davis) tormenting each other in a rundown Hollywood mansion. Despite being produced in the 60s it's fairly disturbing, maybe even more effective for coming out before the onslaught of 70s sleaze and trash that would conquer American film. There's a stately formality to the filmmaking even at its most absurd... The over-the-top makeup is especially noticeable: Crawford, with her giant eyebrows, looks a bit like a Russian peasant, while Davis-her pale face slathered with dark, garish makeup-looks more like an exhumed corpse. This face alone is either the movie's greatest horror effect or visual gag, probably depending on the viewer.

Director Robert Aldrich is certainly no Hitchcock, though he can play quite dirty and suffuses the entire film with that trademark Aldrich nastiness. He manages a few scenes of genuine suspense, as well as an effective atmosphere of crippled helplessness. It's too bad that these are nearly always undercut by the overall ridiculousness of the characters, who rarely act like normal human beings, let alone sensible ones. Throughout his entire career Hitchcock never made the mistake of trying to wring suspense out of a character's stupidity, but Aldrich does exactly that with a woefully inept climax involving the maid, one that had me slapping my forehead in irritation. Some twenty minutes later the movie ends on a grotesque note of madness and death, and that's it. There's nothing illuminating about this film; you can't fault Aldrich for squeezing every bit of juice possible from the concept of a deranged former child star, but his storytelling lacks impact. Everything just hinges on the wacky horror tone.

John Campbell's 'Who Goes There' is one of the best golden age sci-fi novellas, and after the somewhat silly vegetable-man of the first Thing movie, it would make sense that Carpenter's more faithful adaption would be better. Alas. More effective, yes, more appealing to modern audiences, yes, a better movie, no. For once the initial critical response wasn't that far off the mark.

It's true that the movie is too much in love with gory effects.

It's true that the characters are mere meatbags to be mutilated and killed, completely lacking (even before the descent into madness) the camaraderie seen in the original Howard Hawks film. Though Carpenter runs around trying to give them things to do they are essentially doomed from the alien's first arrival. The blood test to figure out who might be alien ends in complete disaster since even a Petri dish of blood can somehow explode into a mass of mutating organs. Using dynamite is even more ridiculous since, if every individual drop of Thing blood has its own 'mind' and autonomy, then blowing it apart would only result in many more chunks of Thing crawling around. The flamethrower is probably the best bet, if they could only figure out where to use it.

So what is left? An effective atmosphere of paranoia, interspersed with a few moments of empty suspense and much outlandish gore to leave the adolescents gawking. It can be admired from a distance, I suppose, but as a story, as something the viewer can really latch onto, it falls flat. Carpenter's hipster nihilism defeats him in the end, for if nobody and nothing really matters, why should I care?

The Man Without a Face, is a huge outlier in Mel Gibson's directorial filmography; it's his only one so far to take place post WW2, and is a straightforward drama instead of a historical/biblical epic. Practically the only violence is a cat jumping on a man's head, and there is no blood even there.

Gibson has cited some of his biggest directorial influences as the directors he worked with, particularly George Miller and Peter Weir. The Man Without a Face is much closer to Weir than Miller, and would easily fit in with the former's Aussie films. The drama, concerning a boy studying to attend a military academy and finding an unusual tutor, is engaging, intelligent, and, despite a relative lack of ambition compared to Gibson's later films, worth watching. It shows a director with a firm grasp on storytelling and a populist energy.

(It's worth noting that The Man Without a Face does have much in common with Gibson's other directorial efforts, whether in peripheral elements such as rambunctious children, dream sequences, and classical allusions, or more notable elements such as the broad sense of humor, the vague undercurrent of Catholicism, and themes of persecution and injustice).

As far as mockumentaries go, 'This is Spinal Tap' is occasionally quite funny if not 100% convincing. Apparently some of the original audience took it at face value, believing that Spinal Tap was a real band, but it at times seemed a bit contrived, not as deliriously persuasive as Peter Jackson's 'Forgotten Silver'.

In this directorial debut (which gives little indication of the heights he would scale or the depths to which he would fall) Rob Reiner uses the fictional band Spinal Tap to send-up rock culture in Britain and the United States, an ample target indeed. Everything from the banal flamboyance of Queen, the craziness of AC/DC, and the pretensions of the Beatles is turned up to 11 in the band's members.

Their shows contain elaborate set-pieces (which are prone to malfunctioning). Their songs, including such hits as 'Big Bottoms' and 'Sex Farm' are ridiculous parodies, but somehow not that different from rock lyrics in general (especially those from Queen). There are many in-jokes about rocker culture: gags about the fascination with Eastern philosophy, choking to death on 'someone else's' vomit, etc. One of the band leaders has a Yoko Ono-esque girlfriend who threatens Spinal Tap's unity. It's all a bit crass but also a deserving send-up.

Reiner, as the film's 'fictional' director, walks through Spinal Tap's origin, from their beginning as British Invasion Beatles rip-offs to hippies to heavy metal rockers. It's here that the authenticity starts to waver since I'm not sure if any bands in real life transformed from flower power to Alice Cooper-style shenanigans. Maybe Reiner never set out to be convincing: he's instead giving an exaggerated history of rock'n'roll itself, which is what makes the movie interesting.

An interesting note: even though a major plot element is that Spinal Tap's popularity is declining, nearly every time they perform we see them surrounded by screaming, adoring fans. It's not just rock stars being spoofed; it's rock audiences.