Reviews

How do you sully the Cronenberg name? Well, this is a start.

Maybe that's too harsh, as "Humane" is a passable movie going experience, but it does pale next to what poppa David and brother Brandon have unleashed lately.

After a career in photography Caitlin Cronenberg joins her family of filmmakers with this auspicious eco-thriller debut, and it does look great. It has that. It also has the spunky yet amateurish charm of the early Cronenberg films, where horror sprinkled with macabre comedic touches is the payoff of to quickly ignored and outlandish plotlines. The set up to "Humane", a voluntary 20% euthanasia program to combat climate change, is great. Even better, a well to do family gathers for a squabbling dinner only discover that one of them will be "volunteered" before the night is over. Greater! Jay Baruchel turns in another stellar performance, this time as the fast talking, back-tracking, squirming son who is squeamish about walking the walk he's talking. Greatest!

The rest of the movie is a sibling rivalry gone extreme exercise, as the kids are literally at each others' throats. Spoiler: things get bloody. Sounds, er reads good on paper, but the execution is just not up to the task. The plot holes are too egregious to ignore, and the action not engrossing enough to forgive the sketchy story line. A thriller without the thrill. Perhaps filming during the Pandemic hampered the production, who knows?

There's enough here to satiate those without expectation, and if including Trooper's "We're Here for a Good Time (Not a Long Time)" seems like a laugh riot knee-slapping inclusion, well, then you may dig this.

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Irena is a Polish woman caught in the early stages of Nazi occupation, enlisted to work for the new regime, who after witness to the horrors unleashed against the local Jews, decides to do everything in her power to save the victims. That is her vow. And this is her astounding true story.

Presented more as a theatre piece than movie, "Irena's Vow" seldom moves outdoors, save for a few market square scenes, focusing mainly on interiors, where Irena keeps mansion for a high ranking officer, and keeps a group of Jews hidden in the cellar.

The grit, grime and scuffy realities of war are absent here, as everything focuses on the characters and the carefully orchestrated set pieces. The clean and simple play presentation makes for a distancing film experience, which slowly dissolves as the story picks up the pace. And the story is the star here.

Scrambling to avoid detection under the enemy's roof, Irena shows cool resolve, clever problem solves, and total dedication to her cause. The surface sheen of the movie which never digs far enough to get a good grip on the characters, is finally broken with the post film credits, that feature photos and historic summaries of the aftermath. Then it finally hits home.

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One divisive film.

A-hem. Kinda ballsy to throw up a classic big budget Hollywood blockbuster about an America gone rogue when that possibility has never been more, uh, possible. Is director-writer Alex Garland stoking a dangerous fire? Is he firing a cautionary flare in hopes of scaring the masses into coming to their collective senses? Is he just being a cheeky Brit pressing buttons from the sidelines? Who knows? Whatever the case, it is quite the spectacle, and does make for some thrilling entertainment.

Plenty has been discussed about the vagaries of this conflict, and that is the big lure of this epic. We have a split America, waging full out war against itself in some bizarre and confusing regional alliances. Confusing enough that the sides are hard to identify (damn you camo!), and hard to cheer for. It is all a bit confusing. Garland delivers his apolitical political mess through the eyes of journalists, who bravely (stupidly) run straight into the lines of fire, claiming impartiality.

If "Civil War" were to remain vague it would have worked. Worked as a tense, heart-racing thriller about a group of clicheed misfits (of course) bent on delivering stories from the battle lines. Starts out that way, as the set up is murky yet enticingly so. But Garland gets carried away, or maybe he was carried away by others, and instead of settling on an open-ended story (way more chilling), he takes sides and decides on a tidy conclusion which is as preposterous as it is eye-rolling predictable.

Too bad, because properly executed, this has the makings of great cinema. Kirsten Dunst is the war veteran shutterbug, all business and no emotion, until of course she suddenly gets stupid. Ouch. With no backstory nor character development, she is wasted in a sleepwalking role. A lead character we should care for deeply, yet one who looks bored for the duration and blurs all too easily into the background.

Thankfully there are supporting characters. Or character. Kudos to Jesse Plemons and his five minutes of chilling killin'. Yes, re-delivering his "Breaking Bad" turn, but still super creepy great. This is the scene of the year: tense, simmering, unnerving, tough to look at but impossible to look away. Especially for an IMAX experience. Technically astounding, "Civil War" sounds and looks great on a big curvy screen with thundering aural blasts. Probably not gonna be so awesome on a small screen.

The movie is cleverly bookended by the haunting and unsettling strains of Suicide ("Rocket USA", and "Dream Baby Dream"), but leaves the middle bit wanting. There is lots to digest and spar over, but the movie never decides whether it wants to be an apolitical look at journalists in the throws of a meaningless war (as if there are other kinds), or a detailed political stance on the fracture of Democracy as we know it. It does neither.

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Make no mistake, this is not great movie-making, and with that caveat out of the way, we shall proceed.

With many elements to love - precocious kids on motorbikes wielding paint guns outsmarting buffoonering adults - this bizarre, amateur school play of a movie does spin a yarn of charm that is undeniable. Forget the Swiss cheese plot, just crawl through the holes and enjoy the potty-mouthed kids as they serve up some whoopass comeuppance on the elderly fools that dare stand in their quest to fulfill a blueberry pie recipe for their ailing mother - bed ridden, with what seems to be just a common cold and a strange craving for pie. Once they deliver, she will hand over the password for their television so's they can play their favourite video game. Uh, yeah. Again, the plot is the weak link here, and frankly it seems to be deliberately childish. Like kids came up with this tall tale!

Shot in washed out and grainy 16mm film, this nails the eighties, which may or may not be reason to celebrate. Certainly not for the masses, this does have enough offbeat appeal to enjoy cult status, especially if mind-altering substances are involved. Perhaps one of those giant sugary sodas.

Much like someone you knew growing up, there is a kid with a fast and hard to follow slurry speech pattern. Brilliant solution: subtitles. No need for recasting or dubbing. If only life were so easy. "Riddle of Fire" is one crackpot movie that somehow captures the free-wheeling unbridled innocence of brash youth on a summery day epic adventure, when life was indeed easy. Nice and easy. And super weird.

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Turn of the century (not this one) France with the rise of an adventurous chef experimenting with culinary combinations previously impossible, is the tasty setting here. Opening with a meticulous and lengthy food prep scene that feels good enough to sniff, "Taste of Things" is a loving ode to the craft of culinary magic largely destroyed by present day reality television. It is sweet, dedicated, artful and reverential.

It is also lacking proper exploration of the human characters involved. As the tale of a longtime chef and his equally adept cook, this is a love story of a partnership without any bite. Much of the human interaction is banal and staged, with a dearth of character development. Instead the players are presented much like the dishes: served on a plate, ready to consume, easily digestible, posed as a carefully lit oil painting. They exist solely in the moment. Emotions are rendered bland, even when love, life and death are involved. Too bad, because there is much to work with here.

The food prep, creation and devouring is the sumptuous lure for seeing this delicious (looking) film, which should come with an inevitable hunger warning. While the kitchen is the real star, the story is only half-baked. That is all.

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A lovely, meditative slice of life delivered in edible cinematic form, "Perfect Days" is a sweet visual poem from venerable film auteur Wim Wenders.

With no backstory, or front story for that matter, we follow the seemingly mundane yet rigorously calculated routine of Hirayama, a solitary, middle-aged gent moving about his tiny but perfectly functional apartment to greet the dawn, procure a vending machine can of coffee, popping in a wonderfully curated cassette in his stubby van, winding his way through a yawning Tokyo, to spend the day cleaning funky public restrooms. Funky as in design, not cleanliness.

His regular haunts - a used book store with a super chatty proprietor, an after work bar tended by a gifted vocalist easily cajoled into entertaining the regulars - are charming in their predictability, providing mind and sustenance comfort. For lunch break in the park, Hirayama takes time every day to bathe in the swaying trees above, leaves dancing in the wind, before taking his usual old school snap. The camera, the music tapes, the dog-eared books, it all references an analogue time gone by, a time often romanticized in film, yet here it just exists. Hirayama has a past, it is touched upon, introduced with subtle referential tones, briefly disrupting his solitary life, much like his young and unpredictable coworker disrupts his days. His past, however interesting and mysterious and perhaps even glamorous, is just that, the past.

Those hoping for a wild plot twist or crazy revelation will be left wanting, but those willing to take the squinting against the sun morning drive with our hero as Lou Reed croons "Perfect Day", will be in for a real treat. There is power in serenity and simplicity, a dig at the speeding out of control go-go digital modern world, and Wenders has truly captured it. Also trees, trees play a big role here.

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An old fashioned historic epic, with a cast of tens.

Yep, tens, maybe less. There are class clashes, racial clashes, religious clashes, gender clashes, family clashes, but they are chiefly one on ones. When ominous figures on horseback appear as dots on the endlessly flat horizon, they are but a few strong.

Probably historically correct as the battle of empty Danish lands, lands with but a few characters who have interest in the barren countryside. Enter Ludvig Kahlen, a self-made soldier of renown, hoping to be of fortune, with a far-fetched plan to turn the dusty heath into farmland. His folly of a quest is ridiculous enough to be dismissed by grander powers, yet Kahlen is surprisingly granted permission by the drunky King (eager to settle the space) to have a go.

Local nobleman De Schinkel has other plans, devious ones. Ruthless even. He is evil incarnate, and combats Kahlen at every turn. Conquest at all costs. And so it begins. Not only is the earth inhospitable, so are the neighbours. Sheesh.

"Bastarden" in Danish, a much better title, "The Promised Land" covers non-fiction past with a sprinkling of fictitious embellishment. But not too much. This plays true. People are dispatched. Weather battles crops. Alliances are forged. More people are dispatched. Romantic angles complicate things. That is when things really get going. A little bit of Clint Eastwood's man with no name westerns, a little bit of "There Will Be Blood" but with a farming angle, perhaps "There will Be Potatoes".

As the stoic, no nonsense soldier tackling hostile land for the King, Mads Mikkelsen and his weather-beaten face is perfect as the resolute hero. A granite slab of a man, forging silently ahead through a series of devastating setbacks, eventually revealing himself through the tumultuous toil.

This is a story of country, family and self, in proportional portions. A big film, sprinkled with lovely little moments providing just the right balance, one that could have easily sunk into sentimental waters but stays well afloat due to a buoyant performance from Mikkelsen.

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Hoo-boy, adulting is hard. There is very little light in this overcast tale of struggling grown-ups, resulting in a tough viewing experience.

Jessica Chastain, as an emotionally detached, recovering alcoholic single mother, and Peter Sarsgaard as a gentle giant simple man suffering from the onset of dementia, form an unlikely, damaged couple. Hated in fact. Sylvia believes Saul attacked her in high-school, and carries a lifetime of spite. Saul has no memory of the event, can offer no real defense, only a meek apology.

Mexican writer and director Michel Franco spins a messy web dealing with various memory issues with all parties involved. The film takes time to develop, often at an infuriating pace, offering very little to solve the puzzle, and presents it all in an uncomfortable, grey sheen. The dialogue rings true though, characters stumble over each others' words. Silences are achingly long as pregnant thoughts are sometimes aborted, or awkwardly presented. The stark realism that feels improvised on the spot, might be a great achievement, but it is not for everyone.

The leads are magnificent, stumbling through their vulnerabilities, and eventual hard truth reveals. Kudos. Those dedicated enough to go along for the ride will be rewarded with what amounts to closure, and more importantly, something to ponder in the days to come.

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A Polish teacher in a German school? Sounds like a "don't mention the war" vehicle, yet that set up turns out to be a set up. This is all about a young, optimistic teacher dealing with precocious kids, a stuffy education system, and the cultural sensitivity mine field in today's Europe.

The school is their world. Everything happens there. There are no insights into lives outside of the institution, yet it feels perfectly natural and organic. Shot in old school (yes) 4:3 aspect ratio, which boxes the visual experience into tight spaces, yet the flow and life in this film avoids any claustrophobic squirminess. That evolves from the verbal confrontations, most come from recent changing of the norms. Not too long ago, the schools were authority, respected and often feared, never questioned. All that has changed. Much like current societal changes, where, for good and bad, authority no longer has unmitigated power, and the process of problem solving takes precedence over results.

Chief problem: theft. Seems minor enough, but a series of minor swipes on campus have the faculty obsessing to no end. A frustration which leads to a misguided sting, which in turn topples a domino series of unfortunate events. Who is right? Who is wrong? Does it matter when the process is flawed? "The Teachers' Lounge" plays out like a tense courtroom drama, where accusers mingle with suspects in an awkward daily dance.

A squirmer and one for long debates (check that great ending), filled with terrific acting turns, this hits all the marks, and slots nicely between two current films it shares a similar clever aesthetic: "Monster" and "Anatomy of a Fall".

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There's a great movie in here, but it suddenly disappears in the last act.

For the first time in her varied career Anne Hathaway nails the acting thing. She totally transforms herself into a mysterious vixen, channeling an angular version of Marilyn Monroe as she disrupts a small, bleak New England town in the repressed sixties. All glam, cigarettes and high heels, Rebecca is the new psychologist at the local juvie detention centre, where she befriends fellow worker, the mousy Eileen.

The film moves smartly and methodically forward as the ladies form an unlikely bond, teasing Eileen with disruption of her mundane, servile, lonely existance, and threatens to veer into dangerous territory. Soon enough there's inappropriate dancing at a local watering hole that shocks the locals, and who knows where all of this is heading?

Indeed. The film veers sharply away from breaking old timey taboos and goes completely off the rails. Rebecca and Eileen are not what they seem, hell, they don't know what they are, and that is part of the thrill and repulsion of this crazy ending.

Not for everyone, but certainly unforgettable, stylish and worth it for the two leads.

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Those expecting a monster movie from a Japanese production will be sorely disappointed. Or maybe not. "Monster" might be a giant red herring of a title, but it makes perfect sense once the dust settles.

A quaint story of a protective single mother and her withdrawn elementary school age son, this film opens with some seemingly straightforward campus altercations, handled with embarrassingly apologetic inaction on the part of the faculty. As the plot moves forward it grows in mystery, what was crystal clear suddenly turns very cloudy. A clever ploy, reeling in the audience before pulling the rug, yet the real twist here is a gradual reveal of all the characters involved. Nothing is as simple as it seems, yet simple is the goal of all involved. The "there's two sides to every story" theory expands to three, maybe four.

Goading the viewer into questioning events works well, retracing steps from different points of view generates unforeseen power to previous events. Whose truth is the real truth? Communication fumbles, sketches of memories, well-meaning white lies, trust, and relationship clashes (gender, cultural, generational) are at the heart of the film. Who is the monster (if one even exists), and what exactly does that mean, are slinky questions examined throughout.

At the core of the mystery is a refreshing relationship between two very young boys, living in their own fantasy-laden world, keeping the adults, and adulthood at bay. That and the careful attention to detail really does make this feel like a non-animated Studio Ghibli project. A fitting goodbye to Ryuichi Sakamoto who provided his last works to the gorgeous soundtrack, "Monster" climaxes in a carefully orchestrated, stormy finale that, like the opening scene, appears straightforward, but is open to various interpretations. One to ponder.

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Split decision: the islanders will love it, the mainlanders, well...

No denying the heart behind this very local project. "Who's Yer Father?" is full of cheeky performances, brain-haired whodunit plot twists, Maritime lingo, self-depreciating jabs, and plenty of seafood. As a series of silly, slapstick skits it is clever comedy, as a full-fledged film, it lacks a singular vision, though there is great joy in playing spot the landmarks.

Susan Kent and Chris Locke are right charming as a sleuthing couple mixed up in a lobster caper in Canada's smallest province. Everyone knows everyone, and everyone is an odd character. Fact? Fiction? The lines are blurry. Whatever the case, this movie is fun, and loaded with hilarious nuggets which unfortunately, never quite come together as a cinematic whole. Still as a proud Canadian, it is hard to not salute the effort, even dumb comedy has its place, and this is no doubt an absolute laugh riot in a rowdy theatre.

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Warning: three hour movie incoming!

No worries, split this sprawl in two, and away we go. First half is a bank caper, the second an existential quest for idyllic existence. Nice.

Moran is a frumpy, bald bank teller, stuck in a nine to five glum who decides to shake up his life with an inside heist. His anagram Roman is an lanky bank teller who becomes an odd accomplice. Their anagram Norma is an effervescent hippie and the object of their desires. Their anagram is Namor and that has nothing to do with this film.

Moran is a man of simple means, who calculates exactly how much he needs to swipe to match his cumulative pay upon retirement, allowing escape from the rat race. Seems fair. His other calculation is three and a half years, which is the time spent in jail upon surrender with good behavior. Again, what could go wrong? Roman is reluctantly roped into the audacious plan, which surprisingly seems plausible, save a couple of hiccups.

Part two: the major hiccup: Norma. A dark-haired, free spirit prancing about the countryside with her film-maker friends, collecting eggs, riding horses, splashing in a swimming hole. Sweet. Moran and Roman fall for her in separate story lines, and it looks like we are headed for an anagram triangle confrontation. Also the bank starts to close in, and the tension begins, but when the movie should start to ramp up, it instead meanders and lingers on mundane passages instead. Sigh.

Lots of filmy things going on here, starting with the beautiful expanse of the Argentine countryside, and the savouring of life's simple pleasures. An actor plays two characters and it somehow makes sense. Split screen shots feature Roman and Moran pondering their individual fate over cigarettes in different time lines.

For a heist and love triangle film, there's a dearth of action, and not much return on your buck. This is a very small film with a very lengthy running time. Three hours may be a tall ask, but there is something weirdly captivating to savour, not just the characters, but the whole experience. "Delinquents" is quite captivating in an offbeat way.

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There's a lot missing here, and that is the key. Starting with a fresh cadaver, "Anatomy of a Fall" rides a series of tough questions till the very end. Accident, murder, suicide? Seemingly simple, straightforward options that dissolve in a murky family soup, played out in a thrillingly wordy courtroom drama.

Sandra is a German writer, living in an idyllic, remote French Alp cabin with her husband and son. She is introduced sharing wine over a friendly interview. The son is introduced taking their dog for a walk in the wintery surroundings. The husband is introduced in a prone position, pool of blood soaking snow. And we are off. The fatal and shocking plummet swiftly evolves into a complex investigation, of the death itself, but of equal importance, of relationships.

Sandra Huller is the perfect lead here, jovial, friendly, yet clinically steely and stately, she is the tough nut to crack defendant caught in a seemingly horrific nightmare. A nightmare that opens relationship wounds in a court of law, relying on sequential event memories with lives on the line. Not only are old wounds reopened, but public opinion is in play, and most importantly, so is a prone, confused child. Marriage and family is messy enough, let alone post-mortem.

The spoiler here is that there is no spoiler. The shoe never really drops. All facts are presented from all sides as they see fit. It is for the audience to judge and jury Sandra, and this film, which is an infuriating stroke of clever.

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A declined card derails a down under party vacation, but instead of hightailing their sorry asses back home, our spunky leading ladies choose sketchy employment in the Australian outback to right their sinking ship. A miners' pub in the middle of a barren nowhere is their only option, and provides quite the unsettling setting. Hilarity does not ensue.

So begins the very dark and very tense "The Royal Hotel". Juliana Garner as Hannah and Jessica Henwick as Liv are in for it, and whatever "it" is, it will not be good. Filmed almost entirely in shadowy, smoky, claustrophobic confines, the film uses the surrounding sun-bleached, baked sand expanses as a harsh reminder of a desolate predicament. Soon the hooch is flowing, the manly men are carousing, and the overwhelmed women are scrambling. Prisoners of their folly of a solution, Hannah and Liv not only have to deal with the unpredictable locals, but with each other as well. Their dynamic is all too familiar: Hannah, cautious but game letting her extravert buddy lead them deeper and deeper into troubled waters.

Writer-director Kitty Green cleverly sculpts suspense through the wide-eyed point of view of the wary travellers. There are no clues as to what the mysterious, working-class miners are all about, except that they like to gather at night for drink, and to cause mayhem in a jovial manner that borders on chest-beating explosive. They, collectively, are the perfect mystery monster.

Feels like a horror film, but plays quite real, "The Royal Hotel" is not for everyone, proving a visually flashy tale of gender and class clashes played out in a desert locale where time stopped long ago.

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More promise than execution, "Passages" tackles twentysomethings navigating gender fluid sexuality with Paris as the backdrop. Welcome to the Tomas, Martin and Agathe dance. Narcissist and disagreeable German film director, Tomas is the unfortunate rotten core here. His marriage to Martin is disrupted by a purely sexual tryst with fetching schoolteacher Agathe, and Tomas can't wait to gush about his walk on the straight side to his husband. Things don't go well.

An interesting premise for sure, but one that plays out sloppily, without any character development to speak of, unless Tomas' deplorable indifference counts. An ugly persona, with an appearance to match - a patchy beard, gaunt features, a snaky lisp and a horrific wardrobe (which ironically, is getting kudos from GQ) - it's a bit of a puzzle as to his alure. Surprisingly, he's quite dull to boot, which makes for an odd protagonist: a difficult one to hate, or care for.

"Passages" takes stabs at the French New Wave, dishing up randy youth moving aimlessly through Paris to a jazzy backdrop, but with the exception of a lovely, film-closing evening bike ride, doesn't hit the mark. Without style, the absence of substance dominates this lackluster experience.

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From off the grid hippie wild child to runway model, Cea Person has lived a life. Many lives in fact. "North of Normal" tells tale number one: Cea's early years in the wilderness with her teenage mom, and commune honcho grandpa (aptly named Papa Dick). It's a fascinating tale, which focuses more on the family dynamic than the circumstance of their off-beat existence, all from Cea's point of view. Also, it's a pretty damn good-looking film. Director Carly Stone, in only her second feature, is one to watch for.

River Price-Maenpaa as the spright eight year old Cea, and Amanda Fix as the mature but barely teen version are quite good, bridging the gap between precocious forest beast to blossoming woman, discovering her true self with the help and hinderance of a disappearing mother, an oddball grandfather, and a revolving door of sketchy boyfriends. "North of Normal" delivers a nice, bouncy balance of idealistic innocence and reality slaps of a nomadic yet intimate lifestyle, without preaching in any one direction, whilst capturing a full senses vibe of the seventies (carefree soundtrack, muted colour schemes, authority rebellion, VW buses).

Sure the push and pull of a flighty mother and a longing daughter caught in unstructured circumstances is engrossing, but every back to nature adventure begs a good backstory. The reason and execution for anti-establishment living is too juicy to not explore, or one would think. Nevertheless, there's enough here for a solid recommendation, and perhaps a prequel down the road will complete the circle.

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Iconic canvas "The Persistence of Memory" (melty clocks) is key to a flashback of lifelong lovers Dali and Gala bond over his genius, yet it is shown in disappointing silhouette, sucking the life right out of the scene. Any film featuring a grand master should be swimming with his art, for without it he is just a man, and in this case, a bit of a buffoon. The lack of visual masterpieces in this late life biopic is truly embarrassing.

As an emperor without art (clothes), Dali prances around his over the top parties, directing young pretty things for his voyeuristic pleasures. Mod pop fills the soundtrack whilst seventies overindulgence flows freely. Fun! Fun for a minute at best, yet with no proper follow through. "Daliland" offers no clue as to the genius here, or even a hint of what makes the cartoony Dali tick. A film about Dali, one of the greatest artists of all time, without exploring Dali. Weird.

Mary Harron has directed better - "I Shot Andy Warhol" - but not for quite a spell. No comeback here am afraid. Exploring Dali's latter career spiral through the eyes of a young gallery assistant is ripe for adventure: the eye candy, the groovy characters, the debauchery, the cocaine, and yet it is quite lifeless. Boring actually. Worse, Ben Kingsley and Barbara Sukowa as the bickersons are dreadfully one dimensional, taking turns in an overacting contest. They both win, and the movie loses. What a frustrating stumble.

A film rife with juicy ingredients ready to burst from the screen in a rainbow of colourful magic, is instead a quick remedy for insomnia troubles. Hiss.

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For those who remember tippy typing on their obsolete devices in utter denial, this film contains a built-in spoiler. A spoiler that does not spoil the show. A feat, this is.

The rise and (insert Final Jeopardy music) of BlackBerry is a geek fest riot. One that delivers so much more. Developed by a cackle of soldering nerds - whose solution to work glitches is emergency movie night - the world's first and best smart phone is a revolutionary product which they have no idea how to sell. Enter Jim Balsillie, a clever, ruthless, maniacal product pusher who quickly jettisons this rag tag bunch of kids to the world stage. And in a fantastic running subplot, he is a huge, huge hockey fan.

Jay Baruchel as head techie Mike Lazaridis is a wonderful combination of skittish, mousy, determined, innocent, and charmingly funny, even when saddled with a preposterous Man From Glad wig. Glenn Howerton as his demonic, temperamental, yet super successful pitch man, torches the screen with every scene. In a good way. This is good torching. He owns this movie. He shaved his wondrous hair for the role. A trooper. Half his gift is whipping immature nerds to dominate the big bad grown-up tech sector. The cutthroat nature of the exploding business makes for thrilling drama, with the intrigue and pacing of a nail-biting spy caper. The ominously creepy shadow of Steve Jobs lurks in the background, ready to wreak havoc on the BlackBerry. Very Darth Vaderish. This may not end well.

Some primo Canuck eggs - from Don Cherry to Waterloo to Copps Coliseum - are slyly slipped in without sabotaging the film, because they are absolutely essential to the story. (Play the damn anthem right here). You'll be root-root-rooting for the home team!

An absolute joy to watch, "BlackBerry" is a boffo reveal of recent history that has gone lost in the shuffle, until now. Hilarity ensues.

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The Irish really are an island unto themselves, and that may be the point of this movie. Loved and despised in equal doses, "The Banshees of Inisherin" nevertheless is rewarding cinema. Set solely on the gloriously green rolling knolls of a cute island (sit down tourists, no such place) where the rain only sprinkles at night, the muffled sounds of revolutionary shots fired are at a safe distance on the mainland, and the locals gather daily at the local pub. All seems idyllic in the charming farming community, until a long-standing friendship is suddenly disrupted. Forget small town, this is a small island, where everyone not only knows everyone, but appear to have no will to escape.

The break-up, abrupt, congenial, silent, eats away at a confused Padraic (Colin Farrell and his expressive eyebrows). A simple man, his confusion and childlike determination to mend matters with the stoic and complicated Colm (Brendan Gleeson) is rife with comedic tension, until, well, until things get way out of hand.

The battle of wills takes on an unsavoury, physical bent that becomes the knife twist in the film. One which tests an audiences' mettle. An allegory for the warring factions on the horizon, the odd couples' relationship runs the gamut of absurd to horrific. A tragic comedy that delivers more victims than victors.

Farrell and Gleeson are superb, bringing plenty of grand ideas to the table - the regiment of life, the role of friendship, reinventing oneself, the cuffs of relationships, unrequited love, vengeance, and mortality. Plus a bunch more. Sunny yet dark. Do a favour with a viewing.

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Britifying Akira Kurasawa's "Ikiru (To Live)" makes perfect sense, and intriguing cultural comparisons of just post war nations. Japan and England appear polar opposites on paper, but have much in common with longstanding traditions of conformity, subservience, apologism and impeccable manners.

When a head clerk deft at lifelong paper shuffling and buck-passing bureaucracy is handed a terminal medical sentence, he attempts to transform what is left of his clock-punching days. Bill Nighy (the y is silent, cuz, uh, Brits?), is perfectly cast as the stodgy, whispery gent who begins his transformation by ditching his bowler (or billycock to some) for a fedora! More excitement follows. Actually, not much, but that is the idea here. Life changes can be subtle, and our walking zombie finds meaning in small pleasures - a decadent lunch, a workday movie matinee - and culminates in spearheading a neighbourhood project.

There are no grand gestures, nor earth-shaking reveals, just the tweaking of the human condition to make a difference.

This is a gentle film, shot in wonderfully retro colours and meticulously designed sets, capturing the time and aura perfectly. Nighy, swell as always, seems particularly sculpted for this role.

A good one.

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Black market baby sellers, a prostitute mother and her pricey offspring, driving around in search for a big payday, with a couple of quirky yet determined cops in dogged pursuit! Bonanza time, but best turn down that excito-meter, as this rip-roaring premise for adventure gives way to a carefully paced, oddball family affair of misfits in a van that eschews action for character study.

"Parasite" star Song Kang-ho carries the cast as a genial, reluctant thief with a heart of gold. It is mushy stuff, but quite digestible. Circumstance determines fate, and back stories revealed in careful drips, open the players to gradual acceptance. Let the baby-traffic rooting begin! Weird.

Weirder still is the languid pace and warm vibe the film embraces, filtering the rough story line into a feel good road adventure brimming with joy, squabbles and a dash of oddball comedy.

What is right? What is wrong? What makes people do what they do? No answers here, but a pretty good look at human interaction when dealing with whatever life is throwing at us, and trying to move forward, no matter what that road looks like.

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There's a point in every unfolding spy thriller where either all the seemingly disparate clues come together and the confounding series of mysteries gel into some sort of cohesive climax, or not.

"Hunt" spends a lot of effort, multi-layered political intrigue, slick choreographed action scenes, and personal character development, in a great looking slice of Korean history, which unfortunately proves way too convoluted to follow. Granted, historic scholars will have an easier time of this, but it turns out that back in the eighties the North South conflict was complicated with enough internal factions that deciphering the good guys from the bad is near impossible.

Squid Game leading man Lee Jung-Jae turns in a stellar performance as a many layered intelligent agent who is dealing with assassination attempts, possible coups, a standoffish daughter, and a competing intelligent agent who may or may not be evil incarnate. He also directs, so hands quite full.

The spy twists are many and complex, and soon become one big knot. Hard to cheer for anyone when no one is wearing white cowboy hats. A score card of who's who, and what factions are involved would be most helpful.

Best to just stop thinking and go along for the action ride, which admittedly, is really quite good.

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The real decision to leave comes at the halfway mark of this two hour and eighteen minute opus. See, there's really two movies here, and though they are joined by characters and plot, work quite well as separate parts. Also: it is two hours and eighteen minutes long!

The first act is a straight ahead mystery whodunnit, with a sharp insomniac Sherlock cop fighting loin urges with his chief suspect. Cracker Jack old story, unfolded stylishly, shot beautifully, adventurously edited, and uh, disappointingly bland. The hunter and hunted waste no time in exchanging deep, doughy-eyed stares in their cat and mouse lovers' game, which is a tad odd for a seemingly devout married man, and someone who should be grieving her recently breathing hubby. Silly instant crush aside, the plot is set for some Hitchcockian twisting and shouting. It comes, but not for a long spell, and when the reveal is revealed, it is muddy and perplexing. Not that movie confusion is a terrible thing, as it implores repeated viewings, which showcase a bounty of striking details often missed (well worth it here), but it takes two hours and eighteen minutes to get there!

The second act plays like a wacky reboot of the first act: same characters, another dodgy death, more lovey dovey eyes. This one has more bite though, and starts to bring everything together, muddy as it may be.

Perhaps less attention should be paid to the plot and various distractions that lead nowhere, and more to the sumptuous cinema making excellence. The advantage and foible of modern technology as communication means, depicted through innovative angles and personal gadget sorcery, is key to telling the story in a disarming and disorienting manner: via text and apps. There is never any certainty as to the voracity of what is happening on screen, and yet it is hard not to be invested in the characters and their foolishness. Sometimes cloudy is what works best.

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Like a bursting suitcase in a luxury liner suite, there's a lot to unpack here.

The worry patch of skin channeling the eyebrows, and Ruben Ostlund's latest film, "Triangle of Sadness" is a divisive thing. One can be altered by a shot of botox, the other is beyond any surgical intervention. Not that it needs it. Either one for that matter, but sticking to the movie, despite a series of lengthy yet wandering episodes that excel in their own vignette space, the project as a whole is a bit of a slog. Not for all, slogs can still be worth the trek, and this one is.

Ostlund has created beguiling cinema before ("Force Majeure", "The Square"), and it is good to see he has not abandoned his inner weird. This looks great, feels great, has a throbbing pulse. Even when tipsy characters are arguing communism and capitalism over a cruise ship's open mic, at excruciating length, there is vibrancy, tension, and slick humour.

Woody Harrelson, as the drunky, philosophizing, captain is perfect as the everyman foil subtlety yet subserviently skewering the elite sensibilities of his patrons. He is but a bit player in a strong ensemble that take turns carrying the weight. The lone constants who permeate the choppy plot line are despicable yet gorgeously delicious hottie couple Carl and Yaya. He of the boyish face and chiselled runway model bod, she of the slick oiled, tanned figure and pouty face of an Instagram influencer. They are fabulous, they are funny, they are incredibly petty, and they are selfishly ruthless. The perfect targets in an eat the rich fable. Some cannibalism may apply.

Class clash may be nothing new, but it is seldom boring. Reminiscent of Lina Wertmuller's "Swept Away" in turning tables, it also blurs the lines of right and wrong depending on the circumstances. Let's face it, people are awful, but it sure makes for great cinema.

What fun!

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