If swelling music, period bonnets and close-ups of Emma Mackey’s eyes are your thing, this movie is for you. The story, a fabricated version of Emily Bronte’s life, contains no surprises or clues as to her artistry, but it’s pleasant enough to go back in time to the English countryside. Although Emma Mackey was attractive enough, she was an unexplained six inches taller and 30 pounds heavier than her sisters, and no match for Emma Corrin in Lady Chatterly’s Lover.
An acting tour de force from Andrea Riseborough, who inhabits this down-and-out but deviously charming alcoholic named Leslie. Just when you think you can’t watch her another minute, the story turns and we end up with tears in our eyes. The plot, above all the ending, doesn’t withstand much scrutiny; but you want to go along, thanks to the performance by Riseborough.
A little gem. A quiet movie, very Irish, about a young girl and some adults. We come to know her, and love her, and I wouldn’t mind spending more time with her. If the ending is heartbreaking, even tragic, that’s Ireland for you.
With cinematography by Walker Evans, dialogue by Kahlil Gibran and star turns by Ben Whishaw as Anthony Perkins and Rooney Mara as the non-Virgin Mary, this film had serious and artsy engraved on every tableau. Unfortunately, it just didn’t connect with me. I couldn’t tell if it was a fable, a parable, a women’s dream, a philosophy class or a visitor from an alternate universe, one where the Southern Cross is visible in the Northern Hemisphere and census workers broadcast “Daydream Believer” from their van.
For an action movie directed at the short-attention-span generation, this was one slow film. Every scene between fights dragged on; as for the predictable fights, they were without visceral emotion and internal logic, as was the rest of the film. Deep looks of concern and longing mainly recalled their comic book source. The ending was one long hint of a sequel to come, which I will be glad to avoid. On the plus side, I was happy to see Richard Schiff and Julia Louis-Dreyfus representing the White establishment, and Wakanda gets my Oscar vote for costume design.
A simply shot, mesmerizing courtroom drama, semi-opaque as a drama but evocative of ideas. Of maternity, of personal responsibility, of colonialism, of man and woman, of race, more of race, of journalistic objectivity. From our viewpoint, it is also curious to observe and try to understand the French criminal justice system (with six seasons of Spiral as our background). We never quite understand the two Black women at the story’s center, the writer and the defendant who murdered her child. It is not our place to understand them. But they are unforgettable.
Utterly remarkable footage of the last days of the Afghan war, embedded with American troops/advisers in Helmand Province, then with the Afghan forces after the Americans withdrew. The story wasn’t much, and there were perhaps too many scenes of soldiers looking at each other, talking on the phone, and just thinking; but the portrait it painted of the two forces was devastating: the Americans exuded competence, the Afghans were amateurs. You wondered what 19 years of American training had accomplished; or, conversely, what we were doing there at all. There was no discussion or explanation of why the Taliban were such superior fighters, or even what the war was about. And footage of the withdrawal itself–what a mess! As a scrapbook of a doomed war, this should be a keeper.
A one-trick pony on an unpleasant journey. I take it this was based on Annie Ernaux’s experience seeking an illegal abortion in 1963 France (similar in monotone to her 2002 memoir which I’m currently reading about her affair with a Russian diplomat). The acting was impeccable and realistic, a la Francaise, but the film wasn’t easy to watch. From the start we knew where we were going, just not exactly how we’d get there. The subject, an important one, was handled more to my appreciation in Call Jane.
What a spectacle, what a production! If there was an ounce of originality in the story or characters, however, I missed it. The dialogue might as well have been cartoon bubbles; action scenes came straight from Moby Dick, Wizard of Oz and Titanic, just to name obvious sources. Any drama was dissipated by the three-hour length. And attempts to make the incredible plausible–e.g., the discussion of breathing underwater–just called attention to the logical absurdities–e.g., every arrow hit its target, while the machine guns mostly missed. And call me a racist, but I didn’t find the Navi terribly appealing.
As movies showing the horror of war go, this is hard to beat–more realistic and thus more powerful than 1917. In fact, that is perhaps the sole purpose of the film. There are characters, but we are told nothing about them, any more than we know about the pawn or the knight on a chessboard. The wastefulness, uselessness and stupidity of World War I trench warfare hits even harder when we have read that morning of Ukrainian and Russian soldiers locked in similar combat. What a species are we! My only complaint, and it’s not insignificant, is that the 2-1/2 hour film is a half-hour too long. I kept identifying welcome and appropriate endings, only to have the camera find one more battle, one more wound to the gut to show. [Although a Netflix film, this needs to be seen on the very wide screen of a movie theater.]
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