Reviews

I had hoped and expected to like this film far more than I did. It's certainly visually and aurally stunning and, if you're going to see it, it's absolutely worth seeing in a theater. The problem is that I'm not sure what film Garland was intending to make and it appears he may not have been either.

While it most obviously intends to be a cautionary tale for our extraordinarily polarized time, it plays more like a film about the dispassion of journalists in violent situations a la Medium Cool. To the first point, while it very effectively shows the horrors and brutality of war, by choosing to not describe the genesis of the conflict (though it's not hard to fill in the blanks given current politics and rhetoric) he ended up making a spectacular film about an abstract war with little context. In the end the message seems to have been simply war is bad and let me show you why in stunning detail. Had he spent some time exploring the reasons behind the conflict and maybe even talking a side it would have been a much better film.

In addition to Medium Cool, Civil War brings to mind The Year of Living Dangerously and Under Fire. All had similar themes and, while none had the technical brilliance of Civil War, all three were better movies.

I didn't love Maestro (Netflix). In fact I can't say for sure how much I actually liked it. Let's start with the obvious: Cooper's performance.

Like most of us I know Bernstein from his music and professional life. I don't know what he was like in private. Cooper plays the young Lenny as silly and unserious. Perhaps that's accurate but, for me, it was distracting. But we do have plenty of interviews with Bernstein in later life and for that period, Cooper's performance feels far too much like an impression rather than a portrayal and, dare I say, a bad one. Rather than hearing Bernstein's subtle but still identifiable New York accent, I kept hearing Prince Charles as portrayed in the final season of The Crown.

Then there was the dialogue, particularly among Felicia and her friends, that sometimes sounded like the pretentious patter satirized in The New Yorker cartoons.

Finally there was the story choice. It was much more Felicia's than Bernstein's and Mulligan's performance was extraordinary and Oscar worthy. But the focus on his bisexuality and the stress that created on their marriage, while compelling, never really told us how or if that informed his professional life. In that sense, this was a story about the strained marriage of a man who just coincidentally happened to be an incredibly influential composer and conductor. For a movie entitled Maestro, that feels like a horribly missed opportunity.

I've gone on for too long and now I have to go chain smoke an entire pack of cigarettes.

The film is glorious to look at. The set design, lighting and cinematography are a wholly satisfying mashup of German Expressionism, mid century modernism and some Art Deco thrown in for good measure. Unfortunately, it's all in service of a pretty terrible film.

Yes, it's Ayn Rand, and many will be put off by her the hell with the greater good selfishness she pompously calls objectivism. I was but that's not the problem I have with the film. Rather, it's the overblown, pretentious dialogue delivered by characters who forgot they they're supposed to be humans rather than just archetypes in a morality tale. It didn't have to be that way. It could have been an interesting film exploring a controversial idea. But, alas, it wasn't. Perhaps getting Rand to write the screenplay wasn't the best of ideas.

I've been assured by someone whose family member was a creator and writer for the show that the premise is absolutely true and Ronald had no idea the whole thing is fake. Still, I find it incredible that he can possibly be that naive. I served as a foreperson on a civil suit and, while we had some odd characters on the jury, it didn't come close to that level of absurdity. I've been told that they filmed many, many "normal" days and interspersed the crazy ones carefully so that Ronald didn't "get it" and they also had multiple scenarios ready if they thought he was getting suspicious. Still, the mobile chair made of crutches and, even worse, the scene where James bounces on the bed for Noah and Jeannie? Really?!! C'mon!

The other problem is that the show does not remain true to its artifice. What is the point of having characters other than Ronald talking directly to the audience by themselves and in character? We're in on the joke. Anything staged that's not for Ronald's benefit doesn't make any sense.

It is funny and it is silly and I suppose one shouldn't watch it too critically. But it's a problem when there are things that make you seriously doubt the key premise at the heart of the show.

I understand why this film may have limited appeal. It's slow and not a whole lot actually happens. Many people felt the same way about Banshees of Inisherin, another film I loved. And that's a shame because A Love Song tells a poignant story that sticks with one and features a brilliant performance by Dale Dickey, a prolific character actress starring in her first leading role, a role she inhabits without ego and, apparently, makeup.

We meet Faye outside her trailer at a desolate and barren campground somewhere out west. The first shot of her is a closeup of her face and we see she's as weathered as her old trailer and surroundings. I couldn't help but think of the opening lyrics from Brandi Carlile's The Story, "All of these lines across my face ...". Faye's daily routine consists largely of trapping crawdads in the nearby river and eating them for dinner (and maybe lunch and breakfast) and waiting for the daily visit by the rural mail carrier and his mail laden mule. We later learn she is waiting for a letter from an expected visitor and the mail carrier seems as invested in her hopes as she is.

Her routine is broken by a bizarre but satisfying visit from a group of cowboys and their wise-beyond-her-years young spokesgirl. We never really learn why the cowboys are mostly mute. They've come to dig up the body of their "pop pops" because his view has been ruined by a nearby oil derrick since erected. Problem is he is buried under Faye's camper and she explains her anticipated visitor has been told to find her at that site and she dare not move. No worries, the girl explains, they'll come back. That's a scene that would be more at home in a Coen Brothers or Wes Anderson movie but, for reasons I can't fully understand, it seems perfectly at ease with the rest of the film. (We also learn it's apparently quite easy to transfer an engine from one truck to another and back again with no winch and few tools.)

She is invited to dinner by some fellow campers, a lesbian couple struggling with commitment issues. The scene gives us the opportunity to learn a little bit of Faye's back story.

Finally her long awaited visitor arrives. We learn that Lito, well played by Wes Studi, like Faye, lost his spouse some years ago. Turns out they once had something of a relationship and this reunion seems meant to determine whether their likely final chapters in life will be spent alone or together. To say more would be a spoiler.

Comparisons to Nomadland are understandable and inevitable. There are certainly similarities but this one is content to focus on Faye and her story and mostly skip the larger social commentary. As a result and contrary to what one might expect, A Love Song is the more powerful film.

I wish more people would see it because it deserves a much wider audience. And, while it has been nominated for and won some more obscure awards, the Oscar's failure to recognize Dickey's performance is a real shame.

It's 3 hours long, the story develops slowly and it's Japanese with subtitles. You've been warned!

But, unlike so many of this year's best picture nominees that may be more fun to watch but are otherwise forgettable, this superbly written drama tells a story that will stay with you for a very long time. It does require patience but, if you let it, it will pull you in with a beautifully portrayed story about love, grief, self doubt, guilt and redemption.

Much of the film revolves around a production of Chekov's Uncle Vanya which at first seems a distraction until we come to realize that the play echos the themes of the film and also serves as a catharsis which seems to catch the protagonist off guard as well as it does us. If you're unfamiliar with the play, you may want to read a plot summary before seeing the film.

As he did in Shape of Water, del Toro, aided by cinematographer Dan Laustsen, captures the look and feel of a place and time with gorgeous and lush photography and the star-studded cast mostly delivers. Unfortunately it's all in service of what is a fairly pedestrian femme fatale film noir and ends up a triumph of style over substance.

The story is undeserving of a 2:30 run time and del Toro takes far too much time developing a plot which, due to its familiarity, doesn't deliver enough of a payoff for the wait. It would have been more effective as a tightly edited 90 minute feature. While it was beautiful to look at, I expected more from del Toro.

I found this to be a beautiful film and not merely because of its gorgeous scenery and exquisite cinematography. Robin Wright, in her directorial debut, plays a woman fleeing alone to the wilds of Wyoming to escape a tragedy that is fully revealed to us only at the end of the film. She gives herself the challenging task, one she is clearly up to, of portraying her grief with little benefit of dialogue because she is alone for most of the first half of the film.

The relationship that develops between her and the stranger who happens upon her at a critical time and, as we later learn, is suffering from his own demons is beautifully portrayed by Wright and co-star, Demián Bichir.

Not everyone will like the film. It's not plot driven and it moves slowly and the dialogue is sparse. And, one can certainly question the logic of a Chicagoan, grief notwithstanding, retreating to an off the grid cabin in Wyoming when she clearly lacks the necessary survival skills. But that's a minor gripe and one that is explained, satisfactorily or not, by the fact that she sincerely doesn't seem to care if she survives.

Finally I have to give a shout out to the haunting score performed by the string trio, Time for Three, an ensemble I've know since their early days. I'm happy to see their work getting the recognition it deserves.

Of course I got it; it'd be impossible not to. But it was so heavy handed and over the top that at times it was just profoundly silly, even as parody (though it did have its funny moments).

It could have worked as social commentary if only they hadn't felt the need to deliver the message with all the subtlety of a train wreck. Perhaps they should have had a little more faith in the intelligence of their audience to "get it" without turning it into burlesque.

A great but totally wasted concept. Miami under water was little more than a cheap contrivance for the post apocalyptic desire for nostalgia (though it did make for some great visuals). Due to the shamefully unexplored consequences of that scenario one could simply substitute any disaster and it would have made no difference.

The even bigger problem is, with all the time shifting, the plot gets exceedingly complex and half way through I decided I didn't care nearly enough about the characters or plot to work that hard.

Do yourself a favor and skip it.

My wife are I are big fans of Brit police procedurals (Line of Duty, Broadchurch, etc.). We watched River knowing nothing much about it and were at first a bit put off. It's not a typical police drama.

The plot is convoluted and is enough to hold one's interest though it's a bit confusing and the severity of the underlying crime scheme doesn't seem to quite justify the characters' actions. The personal relationships between therapist and patient as well as boss and worker are often inappropriate. And It's certainly fair to ask why River's obvious psychosis is not disqualifying. But, oddly enough, in the end none of that matters because, as I said, beneath the surface this is not a typical police procedural. Rather it's about relationships, love, loneliness and longing.

Skarsgard and Walker are brilliant. Eddie Marsan makes the most out of a small part. It's a testament to his ability that I had to repeatedly convince myself that this was the same actor who played Terry in Ray Donovan. Because much of the story has been discussed in other reviews and I think it's best watched without much foreknowledge I won't say more except that the ending is surprisingly satisfying and uplifting. Oh, and I can't get that dammed song out of my head.

This is hardly a great film but, on the other hand, there are far worse ways to spend two hours of your time. A moody and atmospheric neo noir, it's gets the look right but falls a bit short in the screenwriting.

In brief, it's the story of a disgraced Philly cop who comes to Atlantic City to try to repair his career as well as his relationship with his estranged wife and daughter. It has all the noir essentials: mobsters, corrupt cops, drugs, gambling and some illicit sex thrown in for good measure. Unfortunately it also has one or two more subplots than it needs, the end result being a loss of focus and plausibility.

Akinnuoye-Agbaje is actually quite good as the lead character and we can feel his struggle and disaffection. Heather Graham is good enough but her character is woefully under-developed. She is as much a plot device as a flesh and blood character. Reyna de Courcy, as "Surfer Girl" is quite literally a plot device as the film's superfluous and slightly annoying narrator. The much anticipated approaching hurricane is little more than a cheap metaphor for the foreboding that pervades the film and never amounts to much of anything.

What I liked best was the cinematography and the use of the landscape as character. But I need to confess, I grew up in Philly and still own a house at the Jersey Shore so, for me, it was a pleasure seeing areas I know on screen and trying to figure out where some of the unfamiliar locations were. (The home Babs rents is in an area called Grassy Sound, just north of Wildwood and is well worth a visit if you're in the area.) Still I don't think that's a prerequisite for enjoying this small, moody effort. You'll remember the feel of it long after you've forgotten the story.

I'm many ways Detour is worth the investment of your time especially because, with a runtime of only 68 minutes, it's not a very costly one. It's filled with every noir cliche imaginable: stilted dialogue, foggy streets, (often overbearing) narration by the main character, seedy roadside cafes, the hapless patsy played convincingly by Tom Neal and the scheming hard-hearted dame played brilliantly by Ann Savage. Of course, since this is a rather early noir it's fair to say many of those cliches had not yet been fully established and, besides, isn't that exactly what we love about the genre?

The problem here is in the writing. If the terrible and terribly improbable things that happen to Neal's character don't strain our credulity, his responses to them will tear it to shreds. At every single opportunity he makes the absolute worst choice. And given that we need him to make those choices to drive the plot the whole story is rendered rather silly.

Still, if you're a fan a noir, you could do a whole lot worse.

In his first feature-length film, director, Ari Aster, shows confidence and a mastery of the horror genre. Unfortunately, he is a better director than he is a writer.

The first two-thirds of the film are not bad. We're never quite sure if we're seeing reality or an expression of the main character's madness. Toni Collette is brilliant, as usual. The pace and atmosphere are appropriately foreboding. But neither of those things are enough to rescue a script that, by the end, degenerates into predictable banality. We've seen this plot before. Rosemary's Baby immediately comes to mind.

By the trite ending, we feel robbed. While there are things we may not quite fully understand we simply don't care enough to try to figure them out. And that's the biggest indictment of a horror film of all.

Until I see something better, and I suspect I'll be waiting a long time, this is the series against which I'll judge all others.

Berlin in 1929, while suffering under the sanctions of the Treaty of Versailles, also happened to be a time of extraordinary creativity in all of the arts as well as political intrigue. The writing, cinematography, art and set direction recreate the era brilliantly. The lead female character is one of the most engaging you'll ever meet. The labyrinthine plot moves at its own pace but never insults your intelligence. You'll often be confused but, don't worry, it all reveals itself in time and your patience will be rewarded.

Watch at least until the end of the second episode. If the scene featuring "Zu Asche, Zu Staub" doesn't hook you, just give it up.

Finally, as some others have said, WATCH IT IN THE ORIGINAL GERMAN with english subtitles (found under the "options" setting). The voice actors used for the english dubbing are just awful and will ruin it for you.

We can't wait for season 3.

By which I mean, any actor who could recite these trite lines in furtherance of this absurd plot with a straight face deserves as Oscar.

What struck me after watching the first episode of "The Night Of" is that this is a story that has been told on countless iterations of "Law and Order". The difference is the luxury of not having to tell it in 40 minutes and the bringing to bear of HBO's prodigious production values combined with a first-rate cast of mostly little-known actors.

The portrayal of the police is unlike anything I've seen before: annoyance about working past the end of a shift, the passing of the buck so someone else gets a case that will doubtless go into the wee hours of the morning, the careless handling of evidence due to available manpower. Here the police are neither heroes nor villains, rather they're just working men and women doing a job.

The atmosphere of the precinct house in the middle of the night is palpable as is the overwhelming sense of helplessness felt by the naive lead character as his night goes from bad to worse. John Torturro's portrayal of a low rent defense attorney who stumbles onto a case much bigger than he imagined holds great promise for future episodes.

As I said at the beginning, it's hardly a story we've not seen before but we've never seen it told this well. I look forward to watching it develop.

Many years ago, as a young film student, I attended a screening of a film called "Savages" at which the director, James Ivory, was present for Q and A. Savages is about a group of primitives who stumble out of the forest to find an abandoned mansion. They enter and, one by one, assume the various trappings of civilization. One character finds and plays a cello. And, as you could have guessed, one by one, they leave the mansion to return to their presumably more noble lives in the wild.

After the screening one attendee earnestly asked Ivory, "By having the cellist be the last one to leave the mansion were you making the statement that it is the artist who is the last to appreciate his art?" Ivory bemusedly shrugged and responded, "Um, no, I mean, somebody had to leave last."

I think of that moment when I see a film like The Lobster and see how very hard some people will work to ascribe profound meaning to what some others will dismiss as self- indulgent drivel.

I'll concede that's probably too strong a criticism in this case. The Lobster's artifice, which I won't bother to describe since so many of the other reviews have done so already, is clever enough and the film has its moments, some of which are genuinely funny.

The struggle to find loving relationships and dealing with loneliness are central tenets of our existence and Lanthimos deserves credit for examining them in an offbeat and inventive way. But, despite it's ardor, The Lobster fails to develop the subject matter in any meaningful way or reveal anything particularly insightful. It pretty much says all it has to say in the first 30 minutes and the rest of its two-hour length finds us waiting for a point which never comes.

By itself that might have been excusable were it not for a relentlessly somber tone and pace that wore me down to the point where any concern I had for the characters was replaced by an obsession with checking my watch to see how much more I'd have to endure.