Good music and a clever production – at one point a musical within a musical within a musical – marred mainly by an annoyingly frenetic Andrew Garfield in the lead. For the first half hour I feared I was back In the Heights, but the movie slowly grew on me and charmed me by the end, with its echoes of Rent to come adding welcome gravitas. Bradley Whitford’s portrayal of Stephen Sondheim, who died the day before I saw it, added some more.
A strange black-and-white, in every sense, picture of the 1930s, with a lack of subtlety and artistry mimicking films in the ’30s – was that intentional? Tessa Thompson’s character was nervous every minute – and she was in every minute – striking a Hitchcockian note that eclipsed whatever social point may have been intended.
After a clever opening sending up French culture and The New Yorker, the movie devolved into four unrelated vignettes that seemed an homage to that magazine’s pieces in the ’70s that went on and on, lacking drama or point. I realize Wes Anderson is a cult taste, but I don’t see how he continues to finance such follies (see, e.g., Isle of Dogs), or how he gets top actors to play for him. In this case, that included such stalwarts as Bill Murray, Frances McDormand, Benecio del Toro, Timothee Chalamet, Adrien Brody, Jeffrey Wright, Elizabeth Moss, Matthieu Amalric, Owen Wilson and a voice-over from Wallace Shawn.
A delightful snapshot of a pivotal time for one young boy growing up in Belfast. The well-publicized fact that the boy was based on director Kenneth Branagh eliminated any anxiety that the story would turn out well, which allowed us to sit back and enjoy spending time with this family, played by the estimable Judi Dench, Ciaran Hinds and Caitriona Balfe, who grabbed the screen every minute she appeared. If we hadn’t known it to be Branagh’s story I suspect we would have been left hanging at the end, but no matter. The unresolved political conflagration that backgrounded the film was only one of many parallels between Branagh’s Belfast and Cuaron’s similarly engaging Roma.
Harvey Keitel’s performance as a wizened Meyer Lansky rates an “A”; everything else in this movie gets a “D.” Sam Worthington as an insecure, barely competent writer is a misguided role that is painful to watch, and all the flashback scenes are cartoon cliches. In all, a very pale copy of Scorsese’s The Irishman.
(TV) Remarkable performances by Benedict Cumberbatch and, more pleasingly, Claire Foy, but one wonders, why make a movie of this? Perhaps if one was British and familiar with the cat illustrations of the title character it would be more interesting to see the dysfunctional family he came from, or marvel at the delusional nature of his mind. Knowing nothing, however, and not particularly interested in cats, I kept wondering, why am I bothering to watch this? An odd film, to say the least.
What if a robotics company could create a partner designed to satisfy your every need and desire. Would that make you truly happy? Or would you miss the sturm and drung of a “real” relationship? Or would you be frustrated, knowing your partner was only a robot? This is the existential issue posed by the sci-fi romance I’m Your Man and wonderfully acted by Maren Eggert, as a personally unfulfilled but professionally successful academician, and a German-speaking Dan Stevens, as the robot. Despite falling in love, despite her reservations, Alma reports that the experiment is not worth pursuing. But she is not really convinced, nor are we. Unlike most films in this, or most any, genre, the plot holes get filled in, rather than open up, as your thoughts continue after the film ends. And your thoughts do continue.
A 21st-century morality tale set in 14th-century France that would scarcely pass the credibility threshold if it were not, somehow, “based on true events.” The plot is more a short story, elongated over two hours by being told thrice. And being an American movie (very Ridley Scott), there is not much subtlety or nuance. Conversely, the dialogue is easy to understand. Matt Damon, Adam Driver and Ben Affleck play unappealing characters, and supporting roles are even worse, so it’s left to Jodi Comer to carry the viewer’s interest. Viewed with our 21st-century eyes, she does.
Very real people–largely played, in fact, by non-professional actors–are faced with a series of moral dilemmas and almost always make the wrong choice. The remarkable Iranian director, Asghar Farhadi, wants his audience to keep asking themselves questions after the film is over, and in this he succeeds. His best move is making the hero, Rahim, an open-hearted soul you have to root for, even as his mistakes mount. I would have liked a more convincing back story, covering Rahim’s path to debtor’s prison, but that’s a minor quibble. In all, this was an expertly made, low-key look into Iranian society and human nature that made us glad, for the first time, to be back at the movies.
Clint Eastwood has forgotten more about acting and directing than I will ever know, and based on this movie he seems to have forgotten most of it. In the twenty minutes or so we watched, every character, scene, plot point and bit of dialogue was more absurd than believable. It was amateur hour with a C cast, including the chicken. The scenery and cinematography was topnotch, but on the TV screen that didn’t amount to much. In the effort for movies to come back, this was a setback.
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