This past weekend, in our summer of Windy City discovery, my husband and I took in a remarkable production at Chicago Shakespeare Theater, a gem of a space with nary a bad seat in the house. Alas, this was one of the final performances, so this review is more for my own posterity than anything else I suppose.
Ang Lee’s Brokeback Mountain is a beloved film in our home. For young gay men twenty (!) years ago, it was a revelation and an affirmation (tragic as the story was) to see Hollywood release a blockbuster film, starring au courant heartthrob actors, focused so incisively, so delicately on the gay (closeted) experience. The fact that it was a worldwide critical, cultural, financial success, nominated for numerous Oscars (criminally robbed of winning Best Picture) made for a very powerful moment in our community.
So when we learned Chicago Shakespeare would be bringing last year’s London stage production stateside we quickly added tickets to our digital wallets and to our 2026 summer itinerary, just in time for Pride month.
Fun fact: when my husband loves a piece of entertainment, he NEVER stops watching it. I saw Brokeback Mountain in the theatre with him, opening weekend (I think), but any chance he got afterward he went and saw the film again and again and again on the big screen. I’m guessing about half a dozen times. He’s done the same thing with High School Musicaland Wicked … and 98 Degrees. (He’s gonna kill me for sharing this! Sorry – not sorry.)
The elegiac staged treatment draws from Annie Proulx’s source short story but retains all of the essential story beats of the film, coming in at a brisk 90+ minutes. The staging at Chicago Shakespeare was abstract and atmospheric, evoking sepia-toned memories unfolding before our eyes.
If anything, I wish the script by Ashley Robinson had been more of a tone poem to match the staging. The vignettes all rolled out as remembered, beautifully performed by a tight ensemble – Harrison Ball as a deep-feeling Ennis Del Mar, Jack Cameron Kay as a bounding Jack Twist, Cordelia Dewdney as a tortured Alma, Thomas Cox doing exceptionally differentiated character work as Joe Aguirre/Bill/Jack’s father, and Kat Eggleston and Alina Jenine Taber on double duty as angelic vocalists in the band and as Jack’s bereft mother and fractured wife Lureen respectively.
If only the workmanlike script had given these brilliant performers liberty to be even more dreamlike and ephemeral. The raked stage at Chicago Shakespeare with set pieces rising and falling from the floor, surrounded by dense brush evoking the Wyoming plains, made us feel as if we were peering into Ennis’ subconscious, but the more literal quality of the scenes themselves at times fought the ethereal setting.
The absolutely exquisite touch of a live bluegrass band, fronted by Eggleston and performing Emmylou Harris-style compositions by Dan Gillespie Sells, created an immersive and haunting atmosphere. As if the AM radio that kept these lonely cowboys company during their bleak work guarding an unruly herd of sheep had become a kind of Greek chorus, offering commentary on the heartbreak of a love in 1963 that was utterly forbidden, particularly in such rural environs.
The production was deftly, sensitively, efficiently directed by Jonathan Butterell. Special recognition to the lighting design by David Finn, sound design by Christopher Shutt, scenic and costume design by Tom Pye, fight and intimacy coordination by Zev Steinrock, and music direction by Jacob Yates, and their teams. Their stagecraft was exemplary, enveloping the actors and audience in a moment both oppressive and liberating as the text requires. Truly remarkable work.
Should this stage adaptation find its way into your neck of the woods, run, don’t walk to see it. We find ourselves in an era where lived truth is more important than ever. As Ennis observes, “If you can’t fix it, you gotta stand it.”
Happy Pride, y’all! I have a tendency to schedule my filmgoing in obsessive bursts. If I see a block of time and can figure out how to squeeze two movies in *just so.* I do it. This has resulted in some nightmarish double feature pairings. For example, Noah and The Grand Budapest Hotel (I’m still nauseous from that experience) or Coraline and The Reader (that one caused pure psychological whiplash). This brings me to what will likely be the (inadvertently) gayest double feature I’ve navigated: Masters of the Universe and Stop! That! Train! Loin cloths and drag queens and Sarah Michelle Gellar, oh my!
I’m a child of the 80s. When we got HBO for the first time (maybe around 1982 or so?), you’d get a little glossy booklet every month, teeming with entertainment ‘round the clock. There were always one or two big splashy blockbusters to draw you in, and then … a whole LOT of d-list 80s dreck. I would dutifully circle every showing of Star Wars and ET and The Neverending Story but also Xanadu and Krull and Flash Gordon. And I would watch them all over and over and over and over. I suppose that’s why my brain is a block of day-glo Swiss cheese to this day.
Masters is an unapologetic throwback to those (very) financially unsuccessful fantasy films of the Reagan era – Flash Gordon particularly – and Stop! That! Train! is essentially (also unapologetically) Airplane! but with drag queens … on a train. And with that low bar to entry in mind, both work reasonably well. Ten year old Roy would have watched both movies 98 times in one summer while my horrified parents stared on in disbelief they’d raised a child with such dodgy taste. Fifty three year old Roy will have seen both of these movies once, will likely buy the DVDs for “collecting sake,” but admittedly was neither fully transported nor utterly delighted by either. Try as I might to tap into my misspent youth while watching these films, I just couldn’t get there.
And that’s a shame. I don’t know if that says more about me, the fraught cultural moment in which we perpetually find ourselves, or the performative goofiness that afflicts both films. It’s clear that Travis Knight (director of Masters) and Adam Shankman (director of Stop! That! Train!) are as informed by the same oeuvre (can I even really call it that?) as I. But neither of them quite land the oomph to bring these influences full circle in a way that acknowledges the past while connecting with arguably savvier audiences today.
Masters clearly aspires to have its cake and eat it too (a la Barbie), simultaneously lampooning and celebrating its source material while weaving in a modern message about overcoming toxic masculinity with empathy and heart and self-effacement. But unlike Barbie, Masters is missing a certain sparkle or joie de vivre. I wish I could pinpoint where it misses the mark. Perhaps in aping the very plodding structure of a throwback like Krull, the film kneecaps itself by tying a nostalgic boat anchor around its neck. Sorry (not sorry) for the mixed metaphor. The visuals are there, the Easter eggs are plentiful, and Nicholas Galitzine does a bang-up job as the follicularly blessed, muscle bound, fish-out-of-water protagonist He-Man. Honestly, he deserved a much punchier script to match the gorgeous production design.
As for Stop! That! Train!, RuPaul is (naturally) the best thing in a film that likely should have just been a hourlong special episode of Drag Race. While I kept a stupid smile on my face for the entire film, I only laughed out loud about 3.5 times. And those guffaws were when the criminally underused Ru appeared onscreen. I would giddily watch two hours of RuPaul strutting around the White House as the sassy glamazon President Gagwell. Dealing with the “national crisis” of a runaway train barreling through literally EVERY possible calamitous weather front in the meteorologist’s lexicon, Ru commands “bring me my TV pantsuit” as she’s about to address an angry press corps. I *may* have snorted at the line delivery. Ru is an utter delight, and I wish the filmmakers, rather than go the tired route of Mad! Magazine-style spoof, would have written a sharp satire about our tumultuous political age centered around the spicy, stylish delivery of Ru. Le sigh.
If wishes were horses, we all would ride. Or something like that.
Better luck next time, Hollywood. Maybe pair President Gagwell with He-Man for the sequel. And actually write a decent script for them both.
“You can’t go home again.” A sentiment oft attributed to the author Thomas Wolfe. But dang if Hollywood doesn’t try. We live in a media cacophony of reboots and reinventions, sequels and prequels, all infinitely merchandisable with a sea of product placements and corporate synergies. There is seemingly no IP at this point that cannot be franchised into its own universe of spin-off narratives and monetizations.
Which brings us to The Devil Wears Prada 2. Miranda strikes back. I’m happy to report that in this (rare?) instance Prada 2 is a nostalgic cash grab with something to say. And a raison d’etre. Plus, it’s just a darn good bit of fun, kicking off the summer ’26 blockbuster season in frothy, fizzy fashion (with a neatly nestled poison pill of cultural commentary).
I’m likely the only person who is going to invoke Joker: Folie a Deux in my review here, but like that much-maligned film (I think I’m literally the only person who liked Joker 2 … ah well), Devil Wears Prada 2 presents a deftly redemptive arc, offsetting elements of the original film that haven’t aged terribly well (e.g. body-shaming, rampant careerism, classism, low-key misogyny) with a wry and dare I say winsome self-awareness. It’s a nifty bookend to the original film … and hopefully Disney/20th Century Studios can resist the greedy urge to force a trilogy down our collective throats. Although I suspect that will be an offer the cast and crew can’t refuse.
Returning director David Frankel and screenwriters Aline Brosh McKenna and Lauren Weisberger (author of the original novels on which all of this is based) wisely lean into providing a narrative framework tantamount to cinematic comfort food. All of the story beats burned into the consciousness of viewers who *may* have watched the first installment, say, 918 times are basically there: protagonist in desperate need of job finds herself in shark infested waters to pay the rent; a MacGuffin gauntlet is thrown to test said protagonist’s mettle (unpublished Harry Potter in the first, white whale of a feature interview subject in the second); protagonist starts to squeak into the inner circle; a fabulous European fashion extravaganza yields palace intrigue; the very industry featured throughout the film finds itself in existential peril; a double (triple?) cross puts everything right again; and just when you think all are happy and settled, there is a limousine-set exchange that makes you realize corporate America is a delicious jungle, baby (always has been, always will be). Finis.
How’s that for a spoiler/non-spoiler summation?
The core four from the original film – Meryl Streep, Anne Hathaway, Stanley Tucci, and Emily Blunt – are all dynamite (duh), bringing grit and wit, joy and gravitas to material that otherwise would float forgettably into the ether in less capable hands. New adds to the cast – Justin Theroux, Lucy Liu, Kenneth Branagh, Lady Gaga (!?) – have far less to do but make the most of limited screen time, running just shy of becoming a red flag for overstuffed sequelitis (Sex and the City 2 … I’m looking at you).
There are some inevitably clunky moments. Twenty years passing between installments will do that to a franchise. You can practically hear the plot-point gears grinding against one another to justify bringing the old band back together, but once the momentum is established, the whole enterprise feels like a cozily familiar cerulean blue sweater.
But as the world keeps burning, I suppose we all need entertainment that comforts and critiques simultaneously. Some have argued that Miranda Priestly has “lost her edge” in this latest production. I beg to differ. With time and the inevitable repeat viewings, the glitz and the flash of this sequel will retreat, and the film’s incisive assessment of the precarious moment we all find ourselves in culturally will be that much more evident.
We are buffeted by an increasingly fragmented, misleading, manipulative media landscape. Journalism dies a thousand deaths every day. Art and beauty are succumbing to an army of algorithms and ’bots shaping public discourse in spiraling, reductive ways. The authority of singular visionaries helping curate taste and style has been lost in a sea of “influencers.” Devil Wears Prada 2 straps on its Louboutins and runs headlong into this miasma with a hardy “may the bridges I burn light my way.”
Unleash hell, indeed.
P.S. I was in London last month and have been remiss in giving a shout out to the theatre scene there. Sometimes, honestly, I just want to go see something and NOT feel like I have homework to do after. That said, I took in, yes, Devil Wears Prada The Musical at the Dominion Theatre, starring fabulous Vanessa Williams with a score by Sir Elton John. Indeed, it’s yet another reinvention – first a book, then a movie, now a musical – but it’s also damn delightful. Imagine the relentless pep of Legally Blonde the Musical with an arch side of the chilly Teutonic pop of American Psycho the Musical. Rodgers and Hammerstein wept. Hopefully, the show will make its way stateside for you to form your own opinion. That’s all.
P.P.S. Oh, wait. That’s NOT all. I also saw Moulin Rouge the Musical at the Piccadilly Theatre and Disney’s Hercules the Musical at the Drury Lane Theatre. It’s not lost on me now that everything I saw was an adaptation/expansion of a beloved film. I sense a theme! Moulin Rouge is by far the stronger offering, with a louchely immersive theatrical experience and a clever updating to the pop/rock pastiche score that will bring smiles of recognition (and a pang of heartache or two). Hercules is gorgeously staged, and the Supremes-esque gospel Greek chorus deserve their own (better) show. Go for the spectacle, stay for the muses, and try not to think about the hodge-podge book too much. Now THAT’s all.
Thank you, St. John Neighbors’ publisher Diane Lee Jortner, writer Janet Woodward, and photographer Ginnie Wilsman Lange, for your kindness and for this cover story opportunity! You have been so lovely to work with, and we are incredibly honored to be featured in this way. Thank you for all you do for our community!
A Life of Authenticity and Performance: Meet Roy Sexton and John Mola
By Janet Woodward
For Roy Sexton and his husband, John Mola, life in St. John is a beautiful blend of professional achievement, artistic passion, and a deep-seated commitment to authentic living. After moving to the community exactly one year ago, the couple has found more than just a house; they’ve found a neighborhood where they can truly be themselves.
A New Chapter in St. John
Roy and John’s journey to Northwest Indiana was sparked by Roy’s career. In late 2024, Roy was recruited to join Vedder law firm in Chicago as their Chief Marketing Officer. Seeking a location that offered easy access to the city while remaining close to family—Roy’s father, Don, lives in the Fort Wayne area—the couple set their sights on St. John.
They fell in love with their new home here for a somewhat unique reason: the previous owners were avid Star Trek fans. While the memorabilia didn’t come with the house, the “die was cast,” and they knew they had found their place.
In August 2025, John’s father passed away and they helped John’s mother also move into their neighborhood nearby, so the family can be close.
“Our neighbors have been so welcoming,” Roy shares. “It’s a lovely community with people who are fun, genuinely care about each other, and aren’t afraid to be their authentic selves. That’s all we could want”.
From the Stage to the Boardroom
Roy’s professional path is as colorful as a Broadway playbill. A graduate of Wabash College with a double major in English and theatre, he also holds a master’s degree in theatre history and criticism from Ohio State. While he later earned an executive MBA from the University of Michigan, Roy credits his theatre background as the secret to his marketing success.
“My theatre background has been incredibly useful—from understanding an audience and landing a message to the finer points of production and project management,” he explains.
His career has spanned healthcare and law, leading to his current role as CMO at Vedder, where he recently oversaw a refreshed brand and website launch. Roy is also a respected leader in the Legal Marketing Association, serving as their international president in 2023.
A Commitment to Visibility
Roy’s leadership is deeply rooted in his lived experience as a member of the LGBTQ+ community. Growing up in Indiana as an only child, he didn’t always find meaningful acceptance. Today, he leads openly and authentically, believing that representation is “not symbolic—it is catalytic”.
His advocacy has not gone unnoticed. Roy was named a Notable LGBTQ+ Leader by Crain’s Detroit Business in 2021 and has been recognized on the INvolve Outstanding 100 LGBTQ+ Executives Role Model List for three consecutive years. In 2024, he even hosted a digital interview series, All the World’s YOUR Stage, which focused on how embracing identity strengthens both performance and culture.
Life at Home: Pups, Cars, and Boy Bands
The Sexton-Mola household is shared with three beloved rescue dogs: 13-year-old black lab Duncan and two spunky Chihuahua-mixes, Hudson and Henry J. Roy notes the hilarious dynamic of the 7-pound Hudson lining up to howl alongside the 60-pound Duncan. Hudson is particularly attached to a “filthy and patched” stuffed mummy toy that he prizes above all else.
When they aren’t managing the “chorus” of rescue pups, Roy and John enjoy a few quirky hobbies. They are surprisingly dedicated fans of 98 Degrees, having attended so many concerts that the band members now recognize them by name.
John is the family’s resident car enthusiast. He once claimed to have the fastest PT Cruiser in North America and has recently restored Roy’s late mother’s 1994 forest green Pontiac Grand Am GT—affectionately known in the family as the “Dead Mother Car”. Roy’s mother, Susie Sexton, was a well-regarded columnist, and both she and Roy have published books of their work.
A Heart for the Neighborhood
Through the years they spent many summers making memories at DisneyWorld with John’s sister Lori and her children Gabby and Andrew. Since Roy and John had never visited the resort when they were children, they insisted on taking the kids on every ride and attraction, even when the kids weren’t interested. Roy says they nearly missed an important dinner reservation at Crystal Palace by watching Carousel of Progress for 45 minutes.
They also traveled to St. Augustine for a great vacation that they would like to repeat.
Roy and John are now focused on creating new traditions in St. John. From exploring local favorites in Crown Point and Valparaiso to simply chatting with neighbors, they feel they “won the lottery” with their new community.
“Thank you for your kindness and for welcoming us with such open arms,” Roy says to his neighbors. “Pulling up stakes and moving to a completely new area made us nervous, but everyone being so genuinely invested in getting to know us has meant more than I can properly express”.
Neighborly Note: Roy is still looking for his “theatre home” in the area. If any local theatre groups are looking for a “slightly over the hill singing actor,” be sure to give him a call!
Thank you for having me, Rachel Clar, Esq.! I enjoyed that conversation on the power of authenticity very much, and I found the engagement from our wonderful attendees so affirming. Thank you for being you.
The more you try to fit in, the easier it is to be undervalued.
You sit in silence as he mispronounces your name again, because correcting him feels riskier than letting it slide.
This is the invisible tax so many women in BigLaw still pay.
Not because they lack skill.
Because they were taught to shrink to stay safe.
Rachel coaches BigLaw women across the AmLaw 200.
Roy leads marketing inside a global firm and has lived this firsthand.
On Wednesday, December 10 at 1 pm ET/noon CT, join Rachel Clar, Esq. and Roy Sexton for:
Coming Out as Yourself in BigLaw: Strategy Over Sanitizing
We will unpack how your identity can support your strategy in the rooms that decide your future.
This Live is for attorneys who want to:
→ Speak directly without being labeled difficult → Ask for resources in ways that raise your status → Decline misaligned work without whispers about your lack of dedication
This session sets the stage for a deeper dive in winter 2026, where you can learn to use your voice in ways that shift outcomes inside your firm.
All registrants get The BigLaw Power Moves Cheat Sheet, which includes ten strategic cues to get yourself heard in high-stakes moments.
P.S. Which moment feels most familiar: Being talked over. Being labeled “too direct.” Being the default note taker. Being the token woman in the room. Or saying yes because no feels dangerous?
Screenshot
P.S. I received this lovely note froman attendee …
I completely loved your and Rachel’s session — and found SO MUCH of it to resonate deeply within me. Here are just a few of the MIC-DROP statements you made that I wrote down! 🎤💥
–the importance of *earning* the right to express more and more of one’s unique authenticity through work quality and reliability
–how you used compassion, humbleness and humor in response to someone butchering your name to convert that challenging moment into a critical bonding/trust moment with him
–don’t look to the company who is paying you to define who you are (boom!!)
–the hidden cost of sanitizing oneself and the profound effects of doing so on mental health, anxiety and overall thriving
–WTF happens in law school such that it spits out people who are in a frantic race to be the first to be second?!? LOL!! #truth
–one can have an abundant mindset in a world/environment of scarcity through authenticity (can I add another BOOM!!??)
–distinguishing between non-negotiables in one’s identity and “gravy” — and how this directly dictates one’s energy and passion
–how you were using your gayness as a lens to signal to everyone else who is feeling othered to be themselves
–the right people will COME TO YOU when you are in your authentic self
🥹🥹🥹
P.P.S. Rachel’s summary …
You don’t have to be all things to all people. Because then you’re nothing to no one.
Thank you, Roy Sexton, for sharing so many pearls on yesterday’s Live, 𝗖𝗼𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗢𝘂𝘁 𝗮𝘀 𝗬𝗼𝘂𝗿𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗳 𝗶𝗻 𝗕𝗶𝗴𝗟𝗮𝘄: 𝗦𝘁𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗴𝘆 𝗢𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝗦𝗮𝗻𝗶𝘁𝗶𝘇𝗶𝗻𝗴.
In this episode, Megan K. Senese & Jennifer Ramsey of stage are joined by the incomparable Roy Sexton (me?!), Chief Marketing Officer at Vedder Price, former International President of the Legal Marketing Association – LMA International, and one of INvolve People’s Top 100 OUTstanding LGBTQ+ Executives: https://share.transistor.fm/s/de26f09f
In this warm, funny, and deeply insightful conversation, Roy opens up about how he’s learned to lead without losing himself, including why he no longer ties his self-worth to professional validation, what helped him climb out of burnout, and how he approaches every CMO role with humility and curiosity. He shares the unexpected path that led him into legal marketing (spoiler: it involves penny loafers, a theater degree, and a rocking chair), his take on building true connection through content, and the power of karaoke.
Thank you, Melanie Scroggins of Scroggins Creative, for your expert production and kindness.
Megan wrote in her post: “We sang (a lot), we laughed (a lot) but we didn’t cry! Roy Sexton was the first stage spotlight. He has been a big online supporter of our content, our message and our brand. We are big fans of him. It’s hard to express how special it was to have him as a guest on our podcast. We had so much fun listening to his stories and talking to the person behind the profile. Did we mention there was singing?? Thank you, thank you, thank you Roy Sexton. You did great. Listen to our latest episode with Roy. Change your location: Change your perspective.”
Perhaps it is just the ravages of living in this present timeline, but this summer it seems as though all of us are just ready for some good-hearted, brightly-lit escapism (see: Superman). The Fantastic Four: First Steps, the latest installment in the sprawling 20-year epic that is Disney’s Marvel Cinematic Universe, couldn’t be timelier. There have been a *few* previous attempts to bring Marvel’s “first family” to the big screen with varyingly debatable levels of quality. It puts a big ol’ nerdy smile on my face to declare Hollywood finally got it just right. Chef’s kiss. At first you don’t succeed, try again … try again … try again.
Director Matt Shakman, working from a kitchen’s sink script (seriously, there are like 83 writers on this thing … which normally is a huge red flag), delivers a tightly paced, deeply immersive experience. In order to offer a self-contained fresh start (don’t worry, you don’t need to have watch 412 previous films and tv episodes to know what’s going on), the film is set on a “parallel earth” (because that’s now a thing) where mid-century futurist chic rules the day. From an art/production design perspective, the film is sumptuous. Saarinen wept.
I think most of us take for granted the degree of difficulty to pull off a convincing world, with its own unique visual language, that feels both familiar and exotic at the same time (see: Star Wars, Black Panther, Lord of the Rings). This film deserves all the Oscars for this design feat. Eye candy galore. And the distinctive look is aided and abetted by composer Michael Giacchino’s evocative, percolating score – one of his best yet!
Blessedly, the creative spark doesn’t end there. As fanciful as the setting appears, the movie is grounded in its own humanity, but not lazily gritty and dark and heavy (sorry, not sorry, Zack Snyder). The stakes are real and impactful – our intrepid heroes do have to save humanity from a globe-eating giant named Galactus (because it is a summer blockbuster after all), but the saving isn’t just for saving’s sake. Shakman leans into the longstanding familial dynamic among team leader Reed Richards (an arch, brilliant, befuddled, debonair Pedro Pascal), his spouse Sue Storm (a luminous, stately Vanessa Kirby), her brother Johnny Storm (a wry, spritely, slightly haunted Joseph Quinn), and honorary uncle Ben Grimm (a warm, big-hearted, anguished Ebon Moss-Bachrach). We care about the fate of the world because we care about them. Their joys and fears are our joys and fears – this is as much a dramedy about the ties that bind as it is about people who stretch and flame on and turn invisible and clobber, while rocking some very natty Spandex couture.
(Say this about producer Kevin Feige and the Marvel machine: they know how to cast a film.)
Deftly, the film skips through any origin-retelling and jumps four years into our heroes’ nascent world-saving careers. The film employs an Ed Sullivan-style chat show as a narrative device to catch up anyone who somehow doesn’t already know that our quartet got bombarded by “cosmic rays” on a space voyage and thereby developed their strange and wondrous abilities. We get a greatest hits overview of all their victories, vanquishing no end of fever dream silver age villains (Red Ghost! The Wizard! Giganto! Mole Man!), and we are quickly apprised of how beloved The Fantastic Four have become, bringing world peace and utopia, with their good-natured wisdom and heroics. (As an aside, it’s also interesting in this present moment that both Fantastic Four and Superman depict worlds where noble heroes save us from our darker impulses and from our free-wheeling animosity for “the other.”)
Into this blissful global existence, a shiny metallic herald arrives on a boogie board. We’ve seen the Silver Surfer onscreen before, but Julia Garner brings a world-weary gravitas we haven’t yet observed in such a tragically drawn character (a plot point which I won’t spoil here). She ominously advises this Jetsons-esque planet’s inhabitants to “get their affairs in order” because the big, purple Cuisinart named Galactus (a frighteningly detached and unrelenting Ralph Ineson) is on his way to gobble them up.
As a galactic hail Mary, the Four pursue the Surfer back to Galactus’ home base to, well, attempt to talk him out of it. That … doesn’t go well, and he demands Sue’s unborn child in trade for potentially sparing Earth. Understandably, Reed and Sue are, like, “Nope!” and high tail it back home to divine a different hail Mary altogether. Beyond that, I’ll let you see for yourself how the plot resolves itself, but as “comic book-y” as it all sounds, the wrap up is believable, accessible, and affirming.
Scene stealer alert! Paul Walker Hauser has what amounts to a glorified cameo as another longstanding Marvel villain Mole Man (yes, you read that correctly), and he is utterly brilliant, lovable, infuriating, and iconic in his screen time. We can only hope that there is an alternate Hollwood in the space/time continuum where the filmmakers were brave and silly enough to dump Galactus and focus the entire film on Mole Man’s love/hate relationship with the Fantastic Four. Hauser’s scenes crackle with unpredictability and comic sparkle – and not in what has become that clichéd Marvel “bro humor” way, but the kind of elegant comedy that spins from altogether relatable jealousy and misdirected tension. “Johnny, don’t be mad. I didn’t dress you.” – a quip from Hauser that is far funnier onscreen than it reads here, both from the context of the scene and from Hauser’s delivery, dripping with pointed sarcasm.
If I have any quibble (and I really don’t), the film sands down the rougher extremes of Reed, Johnny, and Ben. Kirby’s Sue is perfection – she nails the emotional high wire act of being an alpha-level matriarch who carries the weight of worlds both immense and confined on her shoulders. “I will not sacrifice my child for this world, and I will NOT sacrifice this world for my child” she observes in a powerful speech to, well, every resident of our Big Blue Marble.
Pascal is a fabulous presence, and one of his innate gifts is imbuing morally ambiguous characters with a compelling lovability. The script fights him a bit on this here, not giving him quite enough opportunity for us to worry that Reed’s pursuit of scientific truth (and quite frankly hero worship) might lead him to throw everyone over for victory. That said, it is quite chilling at the Four’s Sunday family dinner when he calmly intones that potentially sacrificing his only child is “Mathematical. Ethical. Available.”
Similarly, Ben and Johnny are missing some of the emotional extremes that make their characters more interesting in print: for Ben, a sense of outsider loss and insecurity from existing as a lumbering pile of orange rocks, and, for Johnny, the mammoth chip on his shoulder that he isn’t the brainiest member of the group, offsetting that with reckless daredevilry. Again, these are minor character nuances, the absence of which doesn’t detract at all from what Shakman delivers, and perhaps we will see more of this in future installments … of which I hope there are many!
The future foundation is bright again for the MCU.
My God, Jurassic World Rebirth is an astonishingly stupid movie. The kind of movie that makes me angry I saw it. I don’t want to devote any more time to the damn thing by writing about it, to be honest, but I have … thoughts.
Here’s the thing. The overarching conceit – 32 years in – just doesn’t work anymore if it ever actually did past the first installment. As an audience, can we in good faith care about, worry over, or invest in the humans in peril if they are such nitwits that they willingly return to the former park setting, research lab, holding island, WHATEVER where chaos has already ensued countless times? Shouldn’t we in fact feel utter sorrow for the dinosaurs at this point? They asked for NONE of this, happily extinct until “life found a way” with greedy entrepreneurs who only worried about whether they “could not if they should” (and all the other pseudo-philosophical bromides that have peppered this film franchise).
Have these films become my generation’s version of those Irwin Allen disaster pics of yore where random celebs at various points of their careers survive an airport on fire in the middle of a hurricane which is also on fire? Paging Shelley Winters.
Rebirth director Gareth Edwards is one of our more interesting filmmakers, particularly with this kind of capitalistic science run amuck enterprise. Why didn’t he finally flip the script on its head and give us a film where without equivocation humans were the real enemies?! That would have been interesting. No one would have bought a ticket, but at least there would have been a raison d’etre.
What do we get? An L.L. Bean catalog costumed romp through Spielberg’s greatest hits:
Beautiful cinematography of sweeping jungle vistas
The epic swell of John Williams’ iconic theme (a LOT)
Random yuppie family members inexplicably in peril – people who should be nowhere near ANY of this but by dumb luck and poor life choices are
Chic product-placed SUVs
One whimsically likable and infinitely merchandisable pocket dino to contrast with those mean big ol’ SCARY ones just looking for a meal
Thumbnail tragic back stories ONLY for the characters who will clearly survive so we are manipulated into fretting over them
A handful of other people, each of whom will clearly get offed every seventeen and a half minutes because they’re painted as marginally unlikable
Absolutely zero grief from the survivors (UNLESS it’s a red herring death of a cast member who will reappear from the jungle ten minutes later)
Internal logic that is all over the map – e.g. don’t make a sound to inadvertently attract the dinos UNLESS we need you to scream and wail in the next scene with little existential consequence
Flippant jokes made amidst the carnage to show how chill the characters really are
Characters who periodically whoop and holler with glee at unearned “victory” or “in awe” moments – like they are attending a college football game
AND a terrifically talented and terrifically wasted cast who would have been better served playing Pickleball than showing up for this drivel
Scarlett Johansson plays a kind of remixed Lara Croft mercenary version of Chris Pratt’s and Laura Dern’s characters from earlier films. Mahershala Ali is the wise and world-weary boat captain with a secret heart of gold. Jonathan Bailey fares the best of the three as the Sam Neill/Jeff Goldblum arch-but-sexy-nerd “voice of reason” paleontologist. Bailey manages to wring some gold from the lines he’s given, landing a few zingers along the way – my favorite: “What would I do with mutant dinosaurs from an accounting perspective? Is that REALLY what we are asking?” Or maybe I just found that funny because it felt like an indictment of Universal Pictures still pumping these movies out.
Seriously, the film is sharp enough to cast three smart, winning, box office draws who can act but then has them wander around cavalierly for two and a half hours like they are at a blood-splattered country club. It felt like this was the direction they were given: “Yes, we know being surrounded by frantically carnivorous dinos should elicit some authentic reactions of abject fear, but we think it would be better if you portrayed your characters like they were in a Hallmark movie on their way to a county fair after grabbing a low-fat soy macchiato at Starbucks and some workout gear at lululemon. Can you make that work?”
There are simply no stakes in this film. I suppose I should tell you the hook for all the mayhem THIS time. In short, people in this Jurassic universe just don’t care about dinos anymore – they’ve moved on. Ho hum. And the remaining dinos can’t survive anywhere but a few equatorial islands. THAT could have been an interesting concept to explore in detail – how jaded and indifferent we have become as a society through the lens of dinosaurs becoming extinct, not literally but in popularity. We cavalierly cast aside such a miracle of science because it ceases to entertain; not to mention the planet’s atmosphere is so effed up these amazing creatures can’t survive here anyway. But, no, that’s just a passing thought in the first 10 minutes to set up an excursion to the equator to draw DNA from THREE – count ‘em THREE – very specific dinos (one by sea, one by land, one by air … naturally) in order for big pharma to develop a cure for heart disease. Yup, that’s why these nincompoops travel to hell on earth and get themselves killed (or mostly killed). For MacGuffins. Bailey’s character is stuck being the Jiminy Cricket conscience, periodically chastising with comments like “Science is for ALL of us, not SOME of us” and “WE don’t rule the earth … we just THINK we do.” Sigh.
Hey, Amblin Entertainment and Universal Pictures, the next time – and that is a fiscal inevitability – you start cranking up your marketing machinery to gestate another one of these Jurassic babies, just take a moment and remember what Jeff Goldblum cautioned alllllll the way back in 1993 (and I repeat for those in the back): “You were so preoccupied with whether or not you could, you didn’t stop to think if you should.”
Writer/director/mega geek James Gunn’s new cinematic take on DC Comics’ mainstay Superman is indeed, well, SUPER. Sorry, not sorry for the corny lead in. In fact, Gunn’s film (and one could argue his entire oeuvre) pops corn into anarchic, infectious punk rock. For some reason, “being punk” is a running theme in the caped blockbuster – in this case, grace and decency being a new form of rebellion. Even more inexplicably it works. I suppose many of us are just hungry for nice, a concept so out of vogue that it seems revolutionary now.
Gunn runs headlong into every goofy trope that makes Superman interesting. He owes a good bit to Grant Morrison and Frank Quitely’s miraculous run on the All-Star Superman comic book, written twenty years ago, remixing half-baked silver age futurism, radioactive monsters, pocket universes, and merchandisable sidekicks into an infectious summertime confection that packs a poignant punch just when it seems ready to spin into fizzy incoherence. Gunn is that kid who takes every toy from the box, piles them in the middle of the room, and curiously spins a compelling yarn from absurdity.
Before I go further, there is nothing “political” about this film (not sure when that word became anathema but here we are anyway). This is ironic since one of the many, many narrative conceits is that the big blue boy scout has gotten himself into a social media quagmire after intervening in geopolitics, preventing two warring nations from blowing each other up. This is a film about kindness and compassion, delivered with such bonkers glee that I’m hard pressed to identify how anyone could be offended by it. Although many will try, glomming onto the media hype to eke out a moment of attention (or ratings). Gunn is savvy enough to lay a meta trap for these types by depicting in movie universe how supervillains big and small vilify the good-hearted and the downtrodden to score their own points. If hyperventilating real-world pundits WANT to be aligned with bald baddie Lex Luthor then more power to them, I suppose.
This is about as comic book-y a movie as I’ve ever seen, and on the balance that is a breath of fresh air. The film is unashamed to be bright and cluttered, buoyant and episodic, with not one whiff of “grounded and gritty.” That said, Gunn also finds ways to embrace every type of Superman that has come before, with Easter Eggs and callbacks to every movie era, unafraid to acknowledge, nay embrace, that we in the audience have long term memories. The smartest move the film makes is working in John Williams’ iconic 1970s/80s theme to the score as a periodic emotional exclamation mark. Oh, and we even get some of the swooping neon font used previously in the Christopher Reeve films for this take’s opening and closing credits. Those touches never seem pandering – homage maybe but utterly welcome. They cue us that we are back on familiar ground where Superman can be fun.
I’ll admit there were times where Gunn’s script and the day-glo CGI lost me. I still have no clue what was happening interminably with some interdimensional rift threatening all of humanity, and I guess I don’t care. Gunn’s strength is always in the off-kilter character dynamics and the softer moments of human connection, arguably illuminated in how they stand out from the video game antics.
And the man knows how to CAST a film. David Corenswet is a rangy, floppy golden retriever to former Superman Henry Cavill’s sleek, GQ Dobermann, but the shift is needed here. (Cavill got saddled with one rotten screenplay after another so he’s not really to blame.) Corenswet’s Superman – and especially his Clark Kent – is kind of an adorable mess, which makes the character’s boundless co-dependent compassion that much more compelling. This Superman is every bit the sweet orphan who hopes to change the world by encouraging us all to find our better angels. When grilled by Lois Lane regarding his controversial intervention in that global firefight, he responds in pained befuddlement, “I wasn’t representing anyone but me. And doing good.” Oh, if we could only have more of that today.
Speaking of dogs, for the first time in film history, we also get the treat of seeing Superman’s canine companion Krypto on the big screen – he’s an even bigger mess than Supes: disobedient, reckless, and utterly perfect. One day, we’ll look back on all of Gunn’s films and realize the actual key to them is how much he understands and respects animals (I’m still a mess from that last Guardians of the Galaxyinstallment).
Rachel Brosnahan gives us a Lois Lane for the ages – yes, in love with Superman/Clark – but more in love with the truth, complete in her agency as a character. No damsel in distress, Lois is in fact key to helping rescue humanity from the precipice, with some smart reporting … while piloting a flying saucer. Yes, you read that correctly.
Speaking of the spaceship, it’s owned by another superhero Mr. Terrific, a beautifully deadpan Edi Gathegi, whose smarts and tech prowess and cynicism are a nice palate cleanser from Superman’s “gee whiz” winsomeness. When Terrific and Lois team up in the film’s final act to rescue Superman from the clutches of Lex Luthor, the film crackles with comic energy. I can’t do this moment justice (and don’t want to spoil it), but just know that Brosnahan’s delivery of this line to Gathegi will bring down the house (as it did in my showing): “You have a flying saucer, but you couldn’t get a faster garage door?”
(I flash back to Carrie Fisher’s Princess Leia breaking through all the self-seriousness in the first Star Wars with her acerbic delivery of “Aren’t you a little short for a Stormtrooper?” Summer movies need those “get over yourself” bits.)
Nicholas Hoult, who would be remarkable just reading the phone book, nails Lex Luthor’s egomania, entitlement, and xenophobia without devolving into cartoon histrionics. For all of the cotton candy whimsy in this film, Hoult’s Luthor is genuinely terrifying, NOT because he’s chewing the scenery, but because he ISN’T. Hoult nails an inherent truth in the character. Yes, he’s monstrously envious of the adoration Superman receives and wants it for himself, but Luthor, like all great villains, thinks he himself is the hero, trying to save us from ourselves by redirecting our idol worship onto a more worthy subject … Lex Luthor. The subtle tears he sheds when his scheming inevitably falls short are a surprising but brilliant choice, Hoult’s haunted, beatific, yet spoiled brat face, a contortion of frustration, isolation, and grief.
Nathan Fillion is clearly having a ball as the petulant Green Lantern Guy Gardner, nailing the unearned swagger of a failed football hero, and Anthony Carrigan brings a nice touch of circus freak sadness to the shape-shifting Metamorpho. Skyler Gisondo is low-key hysterical as Jimmy Olsen, jettisoning the overeager insecurity we’ve seen in the character previously for a wily wit and opportunism that works nicely.
But the pure heart of the film is provided by Ma and Pa Kent – Neva Howell and Pruitt Taylor Vince. Their scenes are brief but utterly charming, capturing deftly the folksy, insular world of farmers blessed with an adopted son who fell from the stars. Vince is one of those remarkable actors who just doesn’t get enough mainstream attention or praise – it’s criminal really. If you aren’t a puddle when he tells Clark/Superman how proud he is to be his father, well, YOU’re the monster!
The film isn’t perfect – it doesn’t need to be. The sheer exuberance offsets the flaws. At times I wondered if it wouldn’t have worked a bit better as a series, so the viewer could digest/compartmentalize the many subplots that are likely unnecessary but add to the entire enterprise’s escapist delight. The film bursts at the seams with too many ideas, too many characters, and yet miraculously still hangs together as a breezy, yet powerful reminder that kindness matters. When the theatre lights go up and you’ve happily sat through all the credits, not caring if there are any bonus scenes (there are two – and they’re just cute little touches – not attempts at sequel-driven world building), you’ll exit with a big, dumb silly grin on your face. That’s summer movie magic, right there.
Advanced warning, this will be a short one. I admit, I escaped to the movie theater today, my place of comfort and retreat, while mover men clambered all around our house packing up all of our worldly possessions. (Side note: today and tomorrow are vacation days for me, although given all that activity it’s hardly what I would call a rejuvenating 48 hours.)
Yesterday, I stayed in the house on conference calls, while the movers were doing their work, and I just couldn’t take it again today. I’m so excited about the future, but it feels like the end of an era to be honest, watching as 20+ years of beloved possessions are packed away by very nice, but complete strangers, seeing a house we have loved so much look increasingly like a war zone. Plus, if one more worker came around the corner and said to me, “Gosh, there sure is a lot more stuff than was in the estimate,” I was likely to scream bloody murder.
So how did I pass the time? By catching up with a double feature of sequel entries in beloved franchises, two films that are perfectly serviceable, completely entertaining, but don’t hold the luster of their predecessors: Paddington in Peru and Captain America: Brave New World.
Surprising no one who has seen the previous two Paddington films, that one was the stronger entry here. It doesn’t quite have the arch, scruffy wit of its forebears, but it still retains all of the warmth and sweetness. I may have cried some ugly tears at the end. It could simply be from exhaustion with this move, but I was deeply affected as Paddington rediscovered his roots in deepest, darkest Peru. The little CGI bear is ably supported by a wonderful cast, including new additions, Olivia Colman, as a literal singing, slightly devious nun and Antonio Banderas, as a non-singing, slightly devious boat captain. Both have a hell of a time, chewing every bit of scenery in their wake, and it works very well.
But the secret weapon of these films remains Paddington, so winsomely voiced by Ben Whishaw. All it takes is one melty glance from the little bear and the film has you in the palm of its hand. When Paddington explains to his adopted human family – The Browns – “This is where I’m from [Peru], but you’re where I belong,” I dare your heart not to pang. It’s worth your time if looking for a late February escape.
Captain America: Brave New World is fine, but seems like a shadow of the superhero spy, clockwork genius of Captain America: Winter Soldier or evenCaptain America: Civil War. Brave New World fills in all the expected story beats smoothly, but still feels like a diet soda, full of fizz and empty calories. The cast is uniformly excellent and deserves a better script, notably, a gruff and flinty Harrison Ford – is there any other kind of Harrison Ford at this point? Anthony Mackie is terrific as the new Captain America, full of steely swagger and enough side-eyed bewilderment to keep his character interesting. I hope the Marvel machine makes better use of him in the future.
I should also admit that I had to field about four work calls and two calls from the movers during Brave New World so it’s quite possible I missed something integral to the plot, but it says something about the film that every time I returned it didn’t feel like I’d actually missed much at all.
