Category Archives: Film Review

“I read what pleases me.” The Color Purple (2023)

27 December 2023

5 Comments

My assessment of The Color Purple in all of its sundry adaptations always has been first processed through the narrative structure of Alice Walker’s Pulitzer Prize-winning book. I don’t say that to sound pretentious. The novel is structured as a series of letters to God, first by Celie and then by her sister Nettie. As such, the narrative takes on a fragmented, dreamlike, haunting, episodic quality. The story beats all come in the form of firsthand accounts that we the reader interpret cumulatively to understand the hopes and horrors of the central characters’ lives. Imagine if the Brothers Grimm had been steeped in the American miasma of misogyny and racism and told Cinderella in reverse. (I know Cinderella was written by Charles Perrault. Just roll with me here.)

I’ll be forever grateful that Professor Warren Rosenberg at my small all-male college in rural Indiana (Wabash College) made this novel required reading, along with Toni Morrison’s equally gut-punching The Bluest Eye. We then were all tasked to watch Steven Spielberg’s film adaptation of The Color Purple as well. (Because I had a beautifully progressive mom we’d seen it in the theatre in 1985 when it first came out, but I gladly watched it again.) Professor Rosenberg’s assignment was for us to assess how the author’s intent shifted through the cinematic gaze and identify what was lost and what was found. I suspect that assignment is in great part why I continue to blog about movies three decades after that early 90s coursework.

But here I’ve done what so many well-meaning folks (men) do and I’ve fallen into the trap Spielberg did of making the narrative about myself. It ain’t.

That said, going back to the structure of the original novel, the reason Spielberg’s adaptation doesn’t quite work – stellar cast and production that it had – is because he couldn’t un-Spielberg himself. Spielberg was still stuck in “EVENT MOVIE” mode. The delicate, nightmarish nuance of Celie’s letters – unanswered confessions, prayers, and pleas – were lost in the sweep of an Oscar-bait film. Nonetheless, in great part without Spielberg and producer Quincy Jones, the original film might not have ever seen the light of day, given Hollywood’s general populist tendencies (stated politics aside). Regardless its flaws, the film served a crucial purpose in establishing Walker’s narrative in the public consciousness for all time. Of course, career best performances by Whoopi Goldberg and Oprah Winfrey are really what lasted in the mind’s eye. And the irony that I first offered credit to two men – Spielberg and Jones – given the work’s core message of women reclaiming their agency against all odds is not lost on me.

So, this self-indulgent “look what I know” preamble aside, what does all this mean for Blitz Bazawule’s musical remake of The Color Purple? In my humble opinion, the film is the perfect distillation of the central thesis in Walker’s work – that strength comes from within and through sisterhood and that the socioeconomic deck has long been stacked against African-American women in every way possible. And, at least for me, the musical form is the best cinematic framework for the epistolary structure of Walker’s novel. Each song is staged like an unanswered prayer, a moment in time (joyous, tragic, introspective) where the characters reveal their truest perspective on the nightmarish forces at work in their lives. Bazawule, who brought a similar sensibility to Beyoncé’s Black is King, embraces the heightened theatricality of the film musical, juxtaposing hardscrabble existence and tuneful escape beautifully. (At times, I thought of Lars Von Trier’s heartbreaking Dancer in the Dark. Bjork’s character in that film endures her own series of tragedies and finds solace in music, sometimes inspired by the industrial noise around her.)

That is not to say this new adaptation is without flaws. The first act – young Celie and Nettie before they are horrifically separated – just doesn’t connect the way it should. This is a shame because it is this bond that should set the stage for all that is to come, how Celie has lost half her heart, and how important it is when her life comes full circle. The opening scenes between Halley Bailey (Nettie) and Phylicia Pearl Mpasi (Celie) are lovely, lilting even, with a dynamite new ditty in “Keep It Movin’.” However, the early scenes all feel formulaic. The stakes are not raised high enough when Celie is forced by her father to marry Mister, nor when Mister forces Nettie from his home, declaring the sisters shall never see each other again. (That’s one scene that Spielberg DOES nail, if I recall, because his biggest gift is in capturing childhood terror and innocence lost.)

Fortunately, once the adult ensemble enters the picture, the sheer force of their talent and their dynamic rights the ship. Fantasia Barrino is remarkable as Celie. This is not an easy role – Celie has learned to survive by shrinking, hiding her dreams, her hopes, her anger, and her disappointment in a God (and a family) that seemingly abandoned her. Maybe Job is a better analogue than Cinderella! Yet all the pain must remain bubbling under the surface, just beyond view. Celie is a character whose agency has been utterly stripped away, yet she still must be a compelling protagonist, not relying on audience sympathy alone. It’s not a “showy” part in that way. YET, it’s a musical. And Fantasia has a VOICE. What she builds throughout the film is indelible.

She’s aided and abetted by Danielle Brooks as Sofia and Taraji P. Henson as Shug Avery. Both characters are pivotal influences on Celie’s awakening and are such larger than life personalities that they run the risk of driving her nearly off the screen. That doesn’t happen here. Both Brooks and Henson bring love AND fireworks to their portrayals. If I were to continue my belabored Cinderella-in-reverse metaphor, consider them the antitheses of the Evil Stepsisters. Brooks lights the screen on fire with her showstopper “Hell No,” and Henson picks up that baton nicely for its musical complement “Push Da Button.” Both women (and songs) anthemically reclaim power for women in the film. Sofia has tragedy ahead while Shug does not, but by the final act the three women are arm-in-arm, celebrating the power of unity. Their number “Miss Celie’s Pants” is such a barn-burner that it nearly eclipses Celie’s 11 o’clock number “I’m Here” (but not quite). Taken together, the music fuels the film and propels this trio to empowerment through reclamation (and we gladly go along with them).

I also should highlight Colman Domingo’s performance as the villainous Mister and Corey Hawkins’ as his conflicted son Harpo. Either character could devolve into being a melodramatic foil to the plot. Both actors avoid this deftly. Don’t get me wrong, Mister’s treatment of Celie is as vile as the day is long, but as Celie finds her footing and ascends, Mister’s world crumbles. Domingo does a lovely job finding the notes of burgeoning self-awareness without ever becoming maudlin. Similarly, Hawkins does not play Harpo for crowd-pleasing comic relief. Rather, we see Harpo studying his father’s ways, ultimately rejecting them, and finding his own place in this world. If The Color Purple carries a feminist message (and I would argue that it does) then it’s crucial that the men in this world find enlightenment as well, and in this adaptation they do.

When we first meet Brooks’ Sofia, she’s proudly stepping into a bar to confront her future father-in-law. The patrons point out a sign on the wall that reads, among other things, that women are not allowed in the establishment. She deadpans in reply, “I read what pleases me.” And if there’s a message I took from this latest Color Purple it is that. Don’t let the naysayers derail you – and, oh, how they will try and seemingly succeed – but there is power in the collective. And that unanswered prayers are answered here on earth by those who truly care about us. Read what pleases YOU!

Omg!! 🥰

“We’re invisible to people like that. It’s our superpower.” Blue Beetle

27 August 2023

4 Comments

I still haven’t seen Oppenheimer. But I did just see Blue Beetle. And it’s a delight. I’m not one bit ashamed!

Representation matters. It is especially impactful when done with such love and with detailed cultural inclusion. It’s a shame the film isn’t doing better than it is at the box office – whether due to the impact of actors’ strikes, weather weirdness, and just late summer doldrums. We can simply hope it finds an expanded audience on streaming and cable and gathers good-hearted steam the way the equally charming Encanto did. 

In fact, both films, albeit showcasing different cultures (Blue Beetle the Mexican-American experience, Encanto set in Colombia), center themselves on the ties that bind: mi familia. This theme gives both films their superpowers, highlighting the magic, both tangible and ephemeral, in a close-knit clan.

Director Angel Manuel Soto slows the pace, not often a luxury in superhero spectacles, to shape our understanding of the Reyes family, who are hitting hard times in the fictional Palmera City but never losing their love for each other, their hopefulness, nor their senses of humor. Much of the rest of the film is a paint-by-numbers superhero origin tale, but it works because of the moments we spend early in the film, investing in this beautiful family dynamic.

Karate Kid’s Xolo Maridueña is well-cast as the Peter Parker-esque Jaime, recently graduated from college and quickly realizing that the “American Dream” is not all its cracked up to be. Maridueña acquits himself nicely in the film with an easy charm as he finds himself in possession of a mystical alien scarab that affixes itself to his back (and soul) and imbues him with seemingly limitless superpowers (much to the chagrin of the furnishings and structure of his family’s home). Maridueña deftly makes the leap from small to large screen and carries the film without breaking a sweat.

But his family, oh, his family. I deeply wish DC Studios’ head James Gunn posthaste would turn this film into a streaming series, following the Reyes’ misadventures. Soulful Damián Alcázar as gentle patriarch Alberto, compelling Elpidia Carrillo as deep-feeling mama Rocio, sparkling Belissa Escobedo as quick-witted sister Milagro, zany George López as conspiracy-theorist/tech-aficionado uncle Rudy, and, most notably, beguiling Adriana Barraza as flinty/sassy Nana are a collective, well, marvel. Their ensemble scenes crackle with a world-weary merriment and a canny resilience that give the film its corazón.

There are so many intentional, thoughtful touches throughout, highlighting the socioeconomic and cultural challenges endemic in this country, without ever devolving into moralizing. The film doesn’t pull its punches, though – particularly where fictional global conglomerate Kord Enterprises is concerned. Kord is the chief source of all disparity in Palmera City, a creeping corporate fungus reshaping anything down-to-earth (like the Reyes’ neighborhood) into a Blade Runner-esque high rise megalopolis. At one point, Milagro observes (with a healthy hint of justifiable anger), “We’re invisible to people like that. It’s our superpower.”

Kord is run by Victoria Kord, portrayed in an understated way by Susan Sarandon, who, quite honestly looks a bit lost amidst the summer blockbuster bombast, but holds her own. Blessedly, Sarandon, as the film’s primary villain, plays the role like the misanthropic captain of industry Victoria is, not like Cruella de Vil. A trap lesser actors would fall into, chewing every bit of scenery in their path. It’s just that Sarandon’s believability – refreshing as it is – can’t quite keep pace with a kid who gets glowing blue superpowers from alien tech. Ah well.

Victoria is after the scarab – natch – to develop an army of tech-infused killing machine warriors … and, more importantly to her, to make a lot of moolah by selling to the highest bidding nation state. Eventually the film does devolve into the wham/bam/CGI-fest that one would expect. There are refreshing differences, however.

The film is not afraid to offer overt critique of the evils the military industrial complex wreaks upon the world, nor to question the corrosive impact rampant capitalism can have on authentic community. In a final act twist, Victoria’s henchman Carapax (an occasionally haunting Raoul Max Trujillo) is revealed to have been tragically shaped by the very real-world human collateral damage such warmongering causes. It’s a bit of a stunning reveal for a popcorn kids’ movie, unfortunately a bit rushed, but nonetheless impactful. Kudos to the production team for including.

Structurally, the film feels like a modern-spin on 80s blockbusters that championed the underdog, cracked more than a few ill-timed (but funny) jokes, used moments of tragedy to impel their heroes onward (sometimes defying logic TBH), and gifted us a joyous ending (with one spectacularly prurient one-liner). Ah, memories. Hell, Blue Beetle’s evocative, synth-soaked score by Bobby Krlic sounds like something Tangerine Dream would have knocked out in an afternoon.

Blue Beetle is a charmer. Great cinema? Nah. But a lovely and loving exploration of the Mexican-American experience (the warm, the heartbreaking, the inspiring) in the guise of a superhero yarn. I can only hope that the sociocultural critique subtly woven throughout will impact positively the young people who find this gem on streaming – much like I used to discover cult classics like Buckaroo Banzai and Flash Gordon and Time Bandits and The NeverEnding Story on HBO in the 80s, eating sugary cereal and staying in my pajamas all day but nonetheless … thinking.

“When I found out the patriarchy wasn’t about horses, I just lost interest anyway.” Barbie the Movie

6 August 2023

3 Comments

Kudos to Barbie helmer and co-screenwriter Greta Gerwig (Lady Bird, Little Women), Hollywood’s first solo woman director (and likely NOT the last) to earn $1 billion at the international box office for a film. In just over two weeks no less.

I was reflecting on that milestone on the way home from seeing the fab film this morning. Why? What is it about this movie that has captured the zeitgeist so? Admittedly, we are all a bit weary of superheroes. We all likely feel a bit lost in this topsy turvy world. Are we all looking for a new hero? Someone not in spandex and a cape, but still reminiscent of childhood’s limitless hopes?

On the surface, that might be the initial draw. Refreshingly, Barbie is something else altogether. It’s deeply weird. And wonderful. Its scenic design alone is immersive, glorious, impeccably off-putting. An uncanny valley, warped toyetic reflection of reality. Plato’s Allegory of the Cave in garish bubblegum pink. An apt metaphor for what Barbieland’s free-thinking denizens intend to inspire, yet trapped in a magic shell of real life sexist consumerism run amuck.

The fact that the subversively progressive creatives (namely Gerwig, co-screenwriter and life partner Noah Baumbach and producer and star Margot Robbie) won the day over the corporate product placement overseers (Mattel, Warner Brothers?), even openly poking fun at the latter, is a miracle. This is no slick toy commercial disguised as a major motion picture (see: any/all Transformers flicks … save arguably the sweet, goofy Bumblebee). Ironically, that does more for our adoration of – and desire to purchase – associated merch as a result.

The film juggles a ton of big ideas, mostly successfully. It is proudly feminist. And also humanist. For a movie about dolls. Body types, skin colors, ages, genders, sexualities are all deftly represented and celebrated. And a key point at the end of the film is made that extremes, even in course correction to prior imbalance, perpetuate alienation. Two wrongs never make a right.

Barbie is more surreal than it is comic, though I belly-laughed plenty and cried often at unexpected moments. Its surreality is its superpower. And that quality gives you the movie you need, not necessarily wanted.

Enough ink has been spilled about the movie’s plot – and crackerjack dialogue – that I would be veering into the mansplaining zone (which this movie has wicked fun with by the way) if I recapped here. I might simply note that if Kurt Vonnegut led a writers’ circle chat with Betty Friedan, Franz Kafka, Stanley Kubrick, Tina Fey, Mel Brooks, Samuel Beckett, and Amy Heckerling, conceptualizing what an existential crisis might look like for a Barbie doll, it would likely not even touch the absurdist vistas in this film.

In essence, Barbie comes to realize a toybox utopia isn’t reflected in real life and, in fact, can be wildly misinterpreted by the now-grown children it was intended to benefit. Her awakening shares as much with Pinocchio as it does The Feminine Mystique. Refreshingly, this is not a film centered on romance, which it might have become if placed in lesser hands. Don’t get me wrong, Ken is so deeply infatuated with Barbie he ultimately launches a mutiny from unrequited frustration. Not that THAT unbridled male egotism ever happens in life. Wink. But Barbie’s journey in the film is one of self-discovery, mining fairly deep psychological territory, including identity politics, free agency, and self-determination.

When Ken’s plot to turn Barbieland phallocentric flops spectacularly, he sobs, “When I found out the patriarchy wasn’t about horses, I just lost interest anyway.” Didn’t we all, Ken. Didn’t we all.

Yes, this may be the first billion-dollar summer blockbuster to hinge its primary plot points on matriarchy vs. patriarchy. Woot!

As for our principal players: Robbie is haunting as Barbie, spinning the character’s superhumanity inward, never stooping to camp, but layering ferocity and heartache in a truly touching portrayal. Ryan Gosling as Ken is delightfully daffy and walks a quirky high wire between guileless, mercenary, and poignantly clueless. America Ferrera is our narrative anchor, still trying to keep her head above water with the disappointments and curdled hopes that daily living outside Barbieland brings. She takes all the weirdness in stride, avoiding any overreactive cliches of “real human in cartoon situations” films. And her speech about the trials and tensions and spectacularly unfair expectations women endure kicks off the film’s conclusion with just the right level of introspective pathos. Taken together, Robbie, Gosling, and Ferrera steer this glittering super ship beautifully.

They are aided and abetted by remarkable supporting players who can – and do – carry their own movies but here seem perfectly content to be stitched into a communal crazy quilt of inclusive sensibilities: Kate McKinnon, Issa Rae, Alexandra Shipp, Emma Mackey, Simu Liu, John Cena, Michael Cera, Will Ferrell, Helen Mirren, Rhea Perlman, and more.

Music is yet another character in the film (although my old ears wouldn’t mind if cinemas cranked DOWN the volume every once in a while). Music producer Mark Ronson and a host of pop superstars supply commentary both overt and subtle throughout the film. My hubby turned to me at one point and said, “I thought you said this wasn’t a musical.” Oops.

Yes, this film is in many ways a frolic. As expected. But it’s also something more. And surprisingly I suspect I will be thinking about Barbie for weeks to come. I also surmise this is a film that will benefit from repeated viewings, which may be the ulterior motive after all, knowing that most kids (and adults) will watch a beloved movie over and over and over. With the empowering messages woven together here, that’s a very good thing. In the end, there is no shame loving Barbie, toys, or yourself. At any age.

Yours truly as a TRULY creepy AI-generated “Ken.” You’re welcome.

“Yesterday belongs to us, Mr. Jones.” Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny

5 July 2023

4 Comments

Now is the winter of our discontent

Made glorious summer by this sun of York;

And all the clouds that lour’d upon our house

In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.

Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;

Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;

Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings,

Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.

William Shakespeare from the play Richard III

________________

One could argue, looking at the themes and box office performance of this year’s would-be summer blockbusters that actually we are in the “summer of our discontent.” Of course, I’m intentionally missing the point of this famous speech which observes that, in peace, those who’ve found power in the chaos of war long to return to those ugly moments that made them successful. Or maybe I’m not missing the point after all.

Much like The Flash (and as I understand a number of other big box office swings this summer), Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny is not simply a nostalgic cash grab, but a film focused on the corrosive nature of time and of nostalgia itself. Blessedly, there are no “multiverses” to be navigated here, but we do see time travel used as a metaphor, a rather effective one, for the regrettable state of our present world. Central to the conceit of the film: how some seek the golden glow of remembered peace and adventure as a balm; how others seek a return to darker, even more chaotic moments as their salve for the inexorable passage of time; and how some (Indy) try to deny any of it ever happened at all.

As directed by James Mangold (who swam in similar “past is prologue” waters with Logan), Dial of Destiny is a loving, if overlong, capstone on the storied careers of both Indiana Jones and Harrison Ford. It’s quite impossible at this point to separate the two. Yes, Ford has crafted similarly iconic hero figures in other silver screen franchises, but Indy (at least to this lay-viewer) has always dovetailed spectacularly with Ford’s apparent “curmudgeon with a heart of gold” real life persona.

The film would have benefited from about 2.5 fewer car/horse/boat/motorcycle/train chases. It’s a lot. And for a film ostensibly about the emotional collateral damage of a long life (mostly) well lived, it’s a bit hard to accept so much wanton destruction of personal property and commuters’ sojourns for sheer entertainment value.

Much like The Flash, the film truly shines in its quieter character-driven moments. Fleabag’s Phoebe Waller-Bridge (making quite a name for herself in the action genre) is a welcome addition. Her winsome brand of cynical, pleading snark as Indy’s ne’er-do-well goddaughter is a nice juxtaposition to Ford’s rock-ribbed “not this again” comic exasperation. They play very well off one another, although a few too many lines get lost in, yes, all the car/horse/boat/motorcycle/train chases.

Mads Mikkelsen adds another notch on his (shiny black leather) belt of playing icy Teutonic baddies. This time a full-on Nazi. (I do hope America remembers we don’t like Nazis.) Mikkelsen plays all the grace notes of sly sociopolitical critique in the early moments of the film when he “seems” to be a reformed Nazi helping America win its much-vaunted space race. (The film is set in 1969.) Given that such things actually did (and do) happen in America, it’s a pointedly clever reminder that the great U.S. of A. is not above reproach in its opportunism and global empire building.

We quickly find out he ain’t reformed. They never are. (Remember that, America, at the voting booth, mmkay?) His hope is to find two parts of an ancient dial, crafted by ancient mathemagician Archimedes, that will allow him to, yes, time travel and help MAGAfy World War II. More or less. “Yesterday belongs to us, Mr. Jones,” Mikkelsen hisses at one point. Kander and Ebb wept.

And thus kicks off a 2.5 hour rollercoaster ride (remember the cars, horses, boats, motorcycles, trains?) for multiple parties to find the dial and avert/create disaster (but mostly it’s just Indy vs. the Nazis).

Along the way, we meet friends old and new from prior entries in the series. Much like Mangold did so effectively with Logan, we watch a man (Indy) come to grips (arguably peace) with the tumultuous threads of his life, the disappointment of looking back on it all and realizing all he has to show is a (literal) retirement clock, ultimately warily acknowledging he wouldn’t change one bit of it, even if he could.

Admittedly, watching one’s childhood screen idol wrestling with the emotional and physical storm of aging is haunting, mixed as it is with my own awareness of how quickly time travels. I sat there, gazing at the screen at fifty years old, with the same awe I had when I was nine soaking up Raiders of the Lost Ark for the first time, thinking, “Wait, is Han Solo allowed to be in another movie!?” Indeed, he was and is little Roy … and we have been all the better for it.

Tempus fugit.

“You should seek the help of a mental health professional. The Justice League isn’t very good on that part yet. Trust me.” The Flash (2023)

3 July 2023

5 Comments

Early on in DC’s latest cinematic effort The Flash, the titular hero (a manically charming Ezra Miller) averts a literal “baby shower” (i.e. babies and a cute rescue dog falling from the sky) when a Gotham City maternity ward starts crumbling after some criminal attack. (Honestly, I’m not sure what caused the near catastrophe … the opening sequence which also features Ben Affleck’s pitch perfect Batman is that chaotic, though nonetheless entertaining.)

After said rescue (yes, all CGI babies and pup end up … unscathed?), The Flash AKA Barry Allen tells an (also rescued) nurse, “You should seek the help of a mental health professional. The Justice League isn’t very good on that part yet. Trust me.” Honestly, it’s a line that is a bit unnerving given Miller’s real-life troubles. (Google him.) Yet also forms a kind of meta thesis for the whole enterprise, an epic existential meditation on regret and healing, wrapped in the wobbly cinematic logic of time travel and parallel universes. Everything Everywhere All at Once. In Spandex.

You see, Barry’s father (shaggy Ron Livingston … at his shaggiest) has been imprisoned (wrongfully Barry believes) for the murder of Barry’s mother. Barry realizes his ability to travel at light speed (he’s the fastest man alive, you might recall) and beyond light speed will allow him to step back in time and avert this family tragedy from ever befalling. And a carefully placed can of crushed tomatoes is the key. (You’ll have to watch the movie to understand.)

Even though Bruce Wayne (Affleck) cautions Barry not to go back in time because of some space/time continuum risk mumbo jumbo (not dissimilar to Willy Wonka intoning exhaustedly “no, don’t do that” to any number of the ill-fated Chocolate Factory brats), Barry does it anyway. And mumbo jumbo ensues.

It all works better than it should but is probably more enjoyable to nerds like me who have subsisted on a steady diet of DC Comics and tv shows and movies since birth. Fan service at its self-indulgently finest. 

Michael Keaton returns to form as another Batman (that would be the mumbo jumbo), and is a welcome reminder to how a grounded yet winking performance sells these summer blockbuster shenanigans. Sasha Calle is a lovely, wounded Supergirl with not nearly enough to do amongst the overstuffed spectacle. Michael Shannon, always a presence, pops up again as General Zod, who seems as beleaguered by superhero cinema as the rest of us at this point.

Oh, and Ezra Miller does double (triple?) duty as another version of himself from earlier in the timeline. It’s a shame his offscreen antics have overshadowed his talent. He really does excellent, nuanced work differentiating the performances, effectively capturing the angst and poignancy of interacting with one’s younger, more impulsive, less world-weary self.

Director Andy Muschietti, working from a screenplay by Christina Hodson, strives overtime to offer haunting and witty character moments throughout. The film is most effective when it’s quiet. That’s not often. But the stellar cast gives it their all, as if they are performing a reflective tragicomic piece by Thornton Wilder or Arthur Miller … but with a lot more kabooms, capes, and poorly rendered CGI. (Truly, the time travel nexus or whatever it is which appears repeatedly is astoundingly bad. Like all the SFX crew had to work with was an old Sega game console.)

But here’s the thing. I actually liked the film. A lot. Maybe in spite of itself. As a musing on what any one of us might do to turn back the clock and prevent life-altering experiences that weigh on our hearts, it’s quite astounding. And refreshing. It may be the most human-centric superhero flight of fancy to ever grace the silver screen. And a timely one as so many of us read the daily headlines and wonder how our world has become so cruel and unkind and callous. 

Or maybe the world has always been that way. And no amount of running back through time could change where we are now. And that’s ok?

That’s the ultimate lesson of The Flash. And it’s a sobering one. No wonder it’s not making any money.

“There are the hands that made us. And then the hands that guide the hands.” Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 3

8 June 2023

4 Comments

There are but a few movies in my life that so deftly balance abject horror and empathetic peril and heart-tugging poignancy that they reduce me to repeated fits of ugly crying: Dancer in the Dark, E.T., Watership Down, and now … Guardians of the Galaxy, Vol. 3?!? I did NOT see that coming.

This latest Marvel installment in the lives of Star-Lord Peter Quill’s merry band of space-faring misfits landed in theatres about a month ago. I’m behind. Hell, I’m only halfway through Ant-Man and Wasp: Quantumania on DVD. (It’s not nearly as compelling.) Nonetheless, I will try mightily to avoid spoiler territory while still warning my animal-loving, humanitarian friends that this damn movie is TRIGGERING. But toward good (I hope) ends. Director James Gunn has somehow fashioned a high-flying summer blockbuster from a timely, haunting cautionary tale against the evils of eugenics and animal experimentation. The man swings BIG and it lands (mostly) in a powerful way.

The film centers chiefly around the beloved miscreant Rocket Raccoon – voiced terrifically again by an unrecognizable Bradley Cooper, giving classic film mobster with heart of gold vibes. We finally learn Rocket’s backstory (although fans of the early 80s Rocket Raccoon mini-series by Bill Mantlo will see that Gunn doesn’t stray far from that source material). Told in flashback as the team races to save Rocket’s life after a random attack by literal golden boy Adam Warlock (a pouty Will Poulter, criminally underutilized given the vast potential of THAT trippy godlike character), we bear witness to Rocket’s deeply disturbing origins. He is a sweet, gentle raccoon cub plucked from his pack by the menacing High Evolutionary (Chukwudi Iwuji walking a fine line between outright scenery chewing and method acting tortured madness) and turned into a cyborg killing machine through relentless surgical and emotional abuse and manipulation.

Rocket has an adopted family in the Evolutionary’s HQ – similar cast offs: an otter, a walrus, a bunny … at least I think that last one is a bunny. They love each other, they are kind to each other, and they lift each other up in the most daunting of circumstances. Think the Plague Dogs by way of Frankenstein. Linda Cardellini, per usual, is particularly luminous and warm as the voice of otter Lylla. She offers the film’s central thesis with this line: “There are the hands that made us. And then the hands that guide the hands.” In an era of such ugliness toward all creatures great and small in America, this message of “found family” or “framily” couldn’t be more needed.

When Rocket, still hopeful for a better life, volunteers a scientific insight the Evolutionary has overlooked, Iwuji turns all “no wire hangers” Joan Crawford and things get EVEN uglier. Ain’t that always the way? Sadly, Rocket’s pals bear the brunt of Rocket’s “punishment.” It’s one of the hardest things I’ve witnessed on screen in years. It’s a really tough watch. Be prepared. Is it kid-friendly? Probably not. Is it essential and brave of Gunn and sends a piercing message about how all beings deserve grace and kindness? Darn tootin’. PETA should send screeners of the film to every household in America.

Further note, for those who worry about such things as I do, there is a wonderfully redemptive “button” toward the end of the film, where the menagerie of remaining animals imprisoned by the Evolutionary are all rescued Noah’s Ark style to live the rest of their days in peace and happiness in the Guardians’ Knowhere HQ. I know that’s a spoiler, but it’s the kind of spoiler I like to know going in. So you’re welcome. At the film’s climax, Rocket does get his revenge on the evolutionary but not as you might expect, ultimately delivering the kind of compassion Rocket was never shown. Rocket solemnly intones, “You didn’t want to make things perfect. You just hated the way things are.”

In parallel to the flashbacks to Rocket’s origin, the Guardians are scrambling in real time to find one MacGuffin after another that will save Rocket’s life. It’s all done in epic, manic, classic rock-soundtracked style – per prior films in the series. Gunn ensemble standby Nathan Fillion has great fun as a stoic, slightly dim, very uncollegial security guard, dressed like the Michelin Man … in creamy yellow. The best comic bits are offered by Guardians Drax (Dave Bautista, a lovely goof throughout), Mantis (Pom Klementieff, who does earnest rage better than anyone), and Nebula (Karen Gillan, who arguably has had the best arc of all in the series, never losing her ill-tempered ferocity but layering in beautiful moments of grudging compassion). At one point, Mantis cuts Nebula to the quick when Nebula has been disparaging Drax’s value as a teammate: “He makes us laugh. And he loves us. How is that a liability?” It’s a wonderful time capsule moment, capturing the dynamic authenticity of this great trio.

The film is far too long – I’m not sure what could have been cut, but a 30-minute shorter run time would have made the flick more of a jet-fueled roller coaster. Chris Pratt just seems worn out as Star-Lord at this point. He appears to have one note – one might call it “smugging” (read: smug mugging). It’s fine. It serves the role, but I think he (and we) need a break.

All in all, go for the incredibly deep message around animal autonomy, stick around for the day-glo shenanigans, enjoy your popcorn, and then have a thoughtful conversation at home about the crucial role we all must play in being better caretakers for all living beings. Bambi ain’t got nothing on Guardians of the Galaxy, Vol. 3.

Glorious fairytales of hardship: Peacemaker; tick, tick…BOOM!; and Being the Ricardos

16 January 2022

4 Comments

I spent this afternoon with John Cena. It was heaven. HBOMax’s Peacemaker is brilliant. A dash of Netflix’s Cobra Kai, a smidge of Fox’s Deadpool, some of Amazon’s The Boys, and even a little of HBO’s Watchmen. (That last reference comes full circle as Watchmen’s “The Comedian” was a riff on the original comic book “Peacemaker.”)

The show is bonkers, irreverent, subversive, and more than a bit poignant. Yes, Peacemaker is a study in male arrested development and will appeal to the naughty and vulgar 8th grader in all of us.

But Cena also conveys a tragic sadness amidst the rampant silliness, a beefy Willy Loman in spandex. And the smart ensemble trapped in an unceasing series of Rube Goldberg-esque dead-ends owes as much to The Iceman Cometh as it does to the X-Men.

See? Not all of my references are comic book-oriented.

Danielle Brooks as a comically green field agent (who might not be as inept as she telegraphs), Jennifer Holland as her more seasoned (read: wryly, candidly cynical) colleague, and Freddie Stroma as adorably homicidal and overeager wannabe sidekick Adrian Chase (aka “Vigilante”) are standouts.

Showrunner James Gunn takes the merry melody he began in last year’s The Suicide Squad and turns it into a symphony. Whereas that film occasionally was mired in its own fan service, Peacemaker builds upon its predecessor’s promise and avails itself of the expanded real estate serial television provides to develop its characters without sacrificing any gee whiz puerile shenanigans.

And watching The Suicide Squad is not a prerequisite. There is a brief recap in the first episode, and, in many ways, Peacemaker is the far stronger production. I almost wish I HADN’T seen The Suicide Squad first (which nonetheless I did enjoy).

Even if you loathe superheroes – or ESPECIALLY if you do – you’ll find it endlessly entertaining.

A week or so ago, I caught up with Netflix’s tick, tick…BOOM! and Amazon’s Being the Ricardos, which also could be dubbed the “late bloomers double feature” (not just because I saw them well after their respective premieres). Both films explore the challenging intersection of art and commerce, a limbo often riddled with casualties who *just* haven’t quite made it yet but keep hitting that show biz gaming table for one last hopeful spin.

tick, tick…BOOM! is the autobiographical musical by the late Jonathan Larson, Pulitzer Prize-winner for Rent. Detailing his 30th year of living, the piece reads like a Gen X bohemian Company with its protagonist bouncing from well-meaning friend to less-well-meaning friend on a journey to find himself and a backer for his long-gestating musical (no, not Rent … yet).

Director Lin Manuel-Miranda displays a sure hand with the material, fueled no doubt both by love and respect for his contemporary Larson but also from his own career’s stops and starts.

The film is a glorious fairytale of hardship, and its leading man Andrew Garfield (always a marvel) turns in a career best performance, deftly walking a high wire of being inspiring, endearing, maddening, and self-serving. Oh, and he sings (gorgeously), plays the piano, and (sort of) dances, all while painting one of the clearest-eyed portrayals of the white hot isolation of a creative spirit I’ve ever seen.

Supporting players Alexandra Shipp, Robin de Jesus, Vanessa Hudgens, Joshua Henry, MJ Rodriguez, Judith Light, and Bradley Whitford (as Stephen Sondheim no less!) are all stellar, sharply capturing the earnest if ephemeral nature of relationships in the theatre community. There are Broadway cameos aplenty, and I won’t spoil the fun, but I will give shout outs to Laura Benanti (always a comic delight) and Judy Kuhn who are positively larcenous in their all-too-brief respective scenes.

Comparably, Being the Ricardos is shaped by the endless, thankless years performers toil in an effort to “make it.” While the film focuses on Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz at the peak of I Love Lucy’s fame, we learn, through flashbacks and writer/director Aaron Sorkin’s signature rat-a-tat dialogue, the steep challenges through which this legendary couple powered to achieve blockbuster success relatively late in their respective careers.

The film clarifies without belaboring that Lucy and Desi’s success came with a steep price. Years of working in obscurity created hairline fractures that would eventually blossom into infidelity, but throughout they remained a united front in art and business.

Notably, while Kidman doesn’t look one whit like Ball, she does nail Lucy’s husky smoker’s voice and overall demeanor. We leave the film with incredible admiration for Lucille Ball as an entrepreneur who transformed the industry, as a comic visionary with an artiste’s obsession for detail, and as a social progressive who beautifully didn’t give a damn for mid-century social norms.

Kidman and luminous Javier Bardem (as Desi) conduct an acting master class in how to portray beloved historical figures, channeling their essences, while making them uniquely their own. Consequently, they land a timely and timeless message of living in one’s moment.

They are aided and abetted by JK Simmons and Nina Arianda as William Frawley and Vivian Vance respectively. Despite Arianda being saddled with an unfortunate body shaming subplot, both Arianda and Simmons sparkle brilliantly as showbiz workhorses who simultaneously value and resent their “second banana” success.

And, for those who geek out over sumptuous scenic and costume design, there is lush Eisenhower-era eye candy aplenty, with one postcard-perfect image after another of Hollywood’s (and television’s) golden age.

The film’s politics get slippy at times. Sorkin seems intent on force-fitting a modern liberal’s gaze onto Lucy and Desi’s history, but tricky details like Richard Nixon exonerating Lucy from her communist party past get in the way. Be that as it may, the performances transcend any pedantry to detail lives fully lived in service to art and cultural progress.

“These are your ghosts. Not mine.” King Richard, Belfast, and House of Gucci

29 November 2021

6 Comments

Belfast

The world has been so upside down for so long that it’s hard to reconcile what “normal” even is anymore … if there ever was a “normal” in the first place. For my family, Thanksgiving wasn’t really much about turkey (vegetarianism tends to hamper the typical American holiday diet) or large gatherings (if you met my extended clan you’d understand). Rather, we typically were cloistered away in the dark comfort of the cineplex – sometimes taking in as many as three movies in a row, much to the chagrin of my father’s aching back and wallet. Tickets are expensive enough, but you’ve never seen us hit that concession stand!

2021 has been rough. It hasn’t been the sweet relief from 2020 all had hoped it to be. I lost my beloved mother, but her spirit is with me every day. I’ve lost track of what letter of the Greek alphabet this virus and its endless variants have adopted as nomenclature. I feel sadder and fatter and more exhausted than ever in my life. There have been bright spots, sure, but I feel myself aching for the mundane joys of life circa 2019 (and earlier) more and more.

King Richard

Hell, writing this blog entry is both comforting and daunting. I crave the click of the keys under my fingers, barely keeping pace with the popcorn thinking in my addled brain. Yet, I also feel like someone has asked me to enter an Olympic pole-vaulting competition as I stare at this blank screen.

My wonderful dad and I started some new traditions this year, with an eye toward our past. We met up with new pals for lunch (try the Lucky Moose/Turtle if you’re in Fort Wayne, Indiana – wonderful atmosphere and service and a menu that goes on for days, including many veg-friendly options), and we rekindled some longstanding friendships (Phyllis and Scott Gates are lovely, loving, lively hosts with a cocktail and appetizer array that deserves a Michelin star). And, yes, we finally got back into the movie theatre, safely masked and distanced with hand sanitizer at the ready. We skipped the concession line, though, for multiple and obvious reasons, and my father’s wallet breathed a sigh of relief.

Thanksgiving collage … with pics of new addition Hudson for good measure

We caught up with three marvelous films over the holiday. As I have the unfortunate habit of forcing patterns that may or may not actually exist on random collections, it was clear, at least to me, that King Richard, Belfast, and House of Gucci – taken together – explore, dissect, and celebrate the power of family – the good, the bad, the ugly, the essential, and everything in between.

King Richard covers the developmental years of tennis aces Venus and Serena Williams and the fierce commitment of their parents Richard and Brandi. This is Will Smith’s best work in years as he imbues Richard with a haggardly leonine focus that walks the fine line between Great Santini-esque obsession and Mister Rogers’ “you can do anything as long as you’re having fun” positivity. I guarantee you’ll never look at tennis shorts and knee-high athletic socks the same way again!

Aunjanue Ellis is an understated marvel as mom Brandi, a fine counterpoint to Richard’s relentless push, filling in the humanity where Richard’s parenting falls short. Jon Bernthal is a delight as endlessly exasperated yet mindfully hopeful coach Rick Macci. His Dorothy Hamill-ish bob deserves an Oscar. The film – never a bore and consistently entertaining – ends where it should, at the beginning of Venus’ pro career and offers unassailable proof of the foundation to success that involved parenting provides.

In Kenneth Branagh’s semi-autobiographical Belfast, the parents play a similar yin-yang role in their children’s lives. Jamie Dornan (shedding all the ooky kink of his Fifty Shades of Grey days) and Caitriona Balfe are on the razor’s edge of heartbreak, their idyllic neighborhood torn asunder by the Protestant/Catholic “troubles” in Northern Ireland in the late 1960s. The push-pull of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs hangs over the picture, as Dornan’s character urges the family to leave for greener pastures, and Balfe struggles with her husband’s profligacy and not losing the creature comforts of family and friends sharing child-rearing duties.

Judi Dench and Ciaran Hinds are akin to a warm, woolen, slightly scratchy blanket as Dornan’s ever-present parents, and Jude Hill is a luminous find as the young protagonist Buddy, golden child of the family. Filmed in lush black and white, the film is a throwback to coming of age fables set against the backdrop of cultural turmoil like To Kill a Mockingbird, at times a bit too artsy for its own good, but leaving the viewer with a poignant, optimistic gut punch as the family finds its legs again.

“These are your ghosts. Not mine,” Maurizio Gucci (a compelling Adam Driver deftly balancing giddy nebbishness and aloof austerity) declares to his father, Gucci fashion empire scion Rodolfo (a miscast Jeremy Irons, desperately in search of an Italian accent by way of Downton Abbey), a spectre who lives hopelessly in the past. Ridley Scott’s fizzy, haunting House of Gucci exposes the dark underbelly of family survival: love and admiration that curdles into resentment and maneuvering. Much has been written (unfairly) about the film and its script, claiming it’s a loose amalgamation of riffs last seen on Dynasty and Dallas. Hogwash. That isn’t to say there isn’t plenty of escapist disco-era glitzy materialistic fun to be had, though.

And, no, Lady Gaga – who is incredibly nuanced and infinitely watchable as Maurizio’s ambitious, brilliant, tortured wife Patrizia – does not sound like Natasha of Bullwinkle fame. I was fine with the accents and mannerisms throughout the cast, Lyons notwithstanding. Italia! (I’ve never seen so many cigarettes smoked or espressos drunk in my life.) Pacino is in fine form as swaggering yet bedraggled Aldo Gucci, and a thrillingly unrecognizable Jared Leto is heartbreaking comic relief as Aldo’s dingbat-yet-deeply-misunderstood child Paolo.

But the star of the show is Gaga – she continues the stunning movie star path she began in A Star is Born, commanding the screen like Liza Minnelli or Susan Hayward, vibrating with the fiery frustration of a woman who knows the way ahead but can’t quite reach past the male egos around her. Like Liza, her eyes can flare from limpid to enraged in a nanosecond. I’d watch her read the phone book at this point.

Family defines us, shapes us, inspires us, frustrates us, comforts us. These three films unpack in beautiful form how one reconciles individuality in the face of such influence. Highly recommend them as a triple feature. Popcorn, candy, and soda pop optional.

Holiday postscript … in the spirit of new traditions

LINK TO FULL PHOTO ALBUM: https://lnkd.in/e_A5CyUM … It’s the hap-happiest season of all. In part because I sort of dust for once in anticipation of putting up our mammoth tree, at which time I spend HOURS nestling what seems like 1,000 ornaments amidst its branches. I know some might go for aesthetics or theme in their holiday decor. But we’re not much on restraint. No, we go for nostalgia.

Every well-loved, slightly tired knickknack or ornament we unearth reminds us of happy times – and a few not-so-happy – but all essential. Yes, John and I have ordered a personalized stocking for Hudson (on its way). And, no, we don’t want to think about packing all this holly jolly away in a little over a month. We shall just enjoy the season as the world spins nuttier and wilder every day.

And thanks, Don and Corinne, for this nifty shirt from Sechler’s Pickles, Inc., reputedly the purveyors of Frank Sinatra’s fave gherkin. Alas, Frank didn’t accompany today’s festive shenanigans – but Jennifer Nettles, Kylie Minogue, and Taylor Swift kept us humming (and singing) along. Happy holidays!

And thank you, Lori, Andrew, and Gabby – between you all and my mom Susie, you account for about 90% of those thousand ornaments on our tree! ❤️

And shameless self-promotion post-postscript …

THIS THURSDAY AT 3 PM ET …

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/155057871244919/posts/4648251118592216/?d=n  

YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YB7GvGtRrX0

LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/video/event/urn:li:ugcPost:6871173503022964736/

Legal Marketing Coffee Talk is back this Thursday to kick off December with host Roy Sexton and his guest, Scott Lawrence, the man responsible for Roy’s professional headshots. Did you know that Roy moonlights as a superhero? He has the headshot to prove it, thanks to Scott!

Roy and Scott will talk about the fine art of personal and professional branding and how having a range of headshots is essential in this glittering age of digital marketing. Different audiences require different looks and styles to create lasting engagement.

Scott observes, “I believe people hire people, so you must use a professional image that reflects who you really are. … I’m a headshot photographer with a business background. Get noticed with an authentic professional headshot. Leave your selfies behind. I work with individuals in customized sessions. We discuss your personal brand and craft an image that sends just the right message to your followers – both professional and personal. I also help large organizations to properly highlight their people – the most valuable asset.”

Join us Thursday, December 2nd at 3 PM ET right here on Facebook

Legal Marketing Coffee Talk is brought to you by: By Aries and Kates Media.

Gaga for Lady Gaga in House of Gucci

Celebrating one year of The Ibis’ Beyond the Ghost Light, discussing reboots, remakes and reimaginings (oh my!)

11 July 2021

3 Comments

Had a great time popping in briefly to celebrate one year of this great show Beyond the Ghost Light from The Ibis and hosted by the divine Luna Alexander, Victoria Rose Weatherspoon, and Nick Rowley. I mused about what The Black Hole and American Psycho The Musical reboots could look like in 2021. I appear around the 22 minute mark.

VIEW VIDEO HERE: https://fb.watch/v/2QHD4ky67/

Show description: “This Sunday join the Creative Coven and returning guest, the ever delightful Michelle Kisner, as we discuss reboots, remakes and reimaginings and celebrate a whole year of Beyond The Ghost Light.”

Toxic masculinity begins at home: The Four Horsemen’s film Life

29 May 2021

3 Comments

The pandemic pushed my theatre friends to increasingly innovative avenues of creative expression. My pal Kyle Kimlick – we were in Farmington Players’ Legally Blonde the Musical together nearly ten (!) years ago – started an arts collective Four Horsemen with a few of his buddies. Kyle’s day job is helping manage automotive marketing events, but somehow he and his cohorts found time to film a 60-minute thriller last year. And a pretty damn good one.

I made the mistake of watching Life the other night right before bed. Don’t do that. I’ve had creepy dreams since. That’s how effective the piece is. From their website:

Nothing is as it seems as a sinister force puts strain on the relationship between two best friends, bringing out the best and worst in both of them and revealing the true nature of their relationship.

Kimlick

The project that started it all! We came together on a whim and made this movie during the beginning of lockdown. We’re extremely proud of it. If you can look past the amateur quality of the camera and sound at times, we think you’ll really enjoy what we put together.

P.S. watch it a second time for an entirely different experience….

Kyle plays one of said best friends, and his real life BFF Eli Ansara portrays the other. They are named “Kyle” and “Eli” in the film respectively (natch). AND they directed and wrote Life, also respectively.

Kimlick and Ansara

Like any good horror – think Stephen King, Twilight Zone, Hitchcock – the premise of Life is allegorical but based in a real-life dynamic. I suspect Kimlick’s and Ansara’s shared bachelor life is not dissimilarly grubby and devil-may-care as what is depicted in the film.

That said, capturing such a dynamic on film – notably guerrilla style – isn’t easy. Life succeeds at plumbing the natural love these two clearly feel for each other and, indicative of their generation’s sensibilities, doesn’t shy away from any homoerotic subtext in their otherwise heteronormative frat boy antics. That is refreshing.

Kimlick and Ansara

I don’t want to spoil the twists but there is, yes, a supernatural component. Think Groundhog Day as channeled by George Romero or Sam Raimi. Morgan Gagnon has a nicely spidery turn as the potential mystical catalyst for the boys’ troubles.

Gagnon

But don’t be mistaken. The problems Kyle and Eli incur are uniquely their own. That is likely what I appreciated the most. The film both celebrates and skewers the man-boy impulses of their age group, noting that toxic masculinity begins at home, between obsessive online gaming and rec room bar aspirations.

Ansara

The film is shot and edited in a compelling, grungy, skittering fashion. Blair Witch-esque but with a bit more élan. If I were to offer a critique or recommendation, it would be to trim a few minutes, primarily from scenes of the boys’ party antics. Those sequences do set up context for how primal their living situation has become, but ultimately they pull focus from the unraveling mystery of Kyle awaking every morning in the nearby woods.

The film is currently free to view on the Four Horsemen’s website and is well worth checking out. This arts collective is one to watch as they also promise offerings in poetry, DJ sets, design, and more. Pandemic has been good in some strange and surprising ways.

Kimlick and Ansara