Spielberg keeps us in the dark for as long as he can, perhaps to keep us from recognizing the absurdity of the entire premise of his movie. In fact, it is easier to accept the presence of aliens than the plot developments involving humans, let alone the various powers of his magic wand. Eve Hewson, Emily Blunt, Colin Firth and Josh O’Connor are fine, and so is Jeremy Shamos.
Director Baz Luhrman atones for his dismal 2022 biopic Elvis with a joyful homage based on concert and rehearsal footage from the early 1970s, when Elvis was the greatest showman of our lifetime. The documentary plays his songs complete and gives full play to his twinkling smile and kidding personality. There are just enough interjections of the offstage world to keep it real: the Army, marriage to Priscilla, the movies, Col. Tom Parker. But we’re spared the bloated, drugged-out late Elvis, while also getting only hints of the early avatar of rock’n’roll. What Luhrman gives us is the singer, the outfits, the hair, the mesmerizing, transporting effect on his female audience of a performer in full.
A brilliantly conceived and faithfully executed homage to Jean-Luc Godard’s directorial debut, Breathless, in which he broke all the rules and pioneered independent cinema. Viewing Breathless beforehand, as we did, only made the recreation more telling, and amusing; the star here is Godard himself, although the radiant Zoey Deutch, as Jean Seberg, fills the screen wonderfully. In its rigor, a fitting companion to Richard Linklater’s simultaneously released Blue Moon.
A smart and entertaining romp with something fun every two minutes, smartly employing a cast of 80. Writer-director Noah Baumbach is a star. George Clooney is the meta lead, playing a handsome movie star (Jay Kelly even sounds like George Clooney), which meant I always saw him as George Clooney, acting, which made me less concerned by his personal troubles. (Interestingly, the clips of his Jay Kelly movies made him appear to be a terrible actor, emphasizing his role as “movie star,” not a person.) Adam Sandler was another figure recognizable only to Hollywood. Billy Crudup, by contrast, grabbed me as a person, not an actor. Key plot points fell apart upon examination, but I loved the ride.
Two hours of Jessie Buckley is a treat–what an actress!–but the movie is a bit of an unmodulated slog, careening from dramatic incident to dramatic incident. None of it would matter, of course, if it wasn’t William Shakespeare we were watching (and if you hadn’t read the book you might not realize who “Will” is until 90 minutes in). The point of it all shows up in the final ten minutes, at which time the film dispenses with its realism for a bit of “manipulation” (to quote director Chloe Zhao) that feels overdue and welcome.
What distinguishes America, according to a character in this movie, is “imagination,” which might be another word for greed. Director Tony Tost gives us an array of mid- to low-lifes, the kind you might find at a remote Badlands diner, in a smart, funny take on American dreams, in the language of Quentin Tarantino, which probably accounts for the title’s punctuation. Sydney Sweeney in the Shelly Duvall role and Halsey as Joan Jett are superb. This was my kind of Tuesday afternoon movie.
It was formulaic, but why shouldn’t it be? It’s fun to immerse yourself in a different world, and Formula 1 is that. Not understanding the sport, I couldn’t tell how accurate it was or even understand what was happening, which was probably a plus. Instead I could just admire Brad Pitt being Brad Pitt, the gorgeous maverick outsider with a troubled past and a soft heart. Javier Bardem and Kerry Condon command the screen as well. Great cinematography and good score too.
A remarkable challenge to Iran’s theocracy, this Cannes Award-winning film not surprising earned director Mohammad Rasoulof an eight-year prison sentence. The first half was a compelling political drama, intertwined with family dynamics and believable characters. The second half went off the rails, so much so that streaming it on two separate nights we felt we were watching different films.
Unremitting footage of Israeli bulldozers knocking down Palestinian homes made a depressing, discouraging point if not compelling cinema. All honor to the Palestinian-Israeli filmmakers who bravely documented the cruel destruction of a defenseless West Bank village, humanizing the Palestinians with their goats and chickens and dehumanizing the Israeli soldiers with their uniforms and tanks. Rather than offer even a sliver of hope, the movie left us with our knowledge of how much worse the Palestinians’ plight has since become.
A parade of moral dilemmas kept us hanging and thinking until the end, and beyond, as the Clint Eastwood film held off providing any answers at all. As in almost every courtroom drama, this realism-loving ex-lawyer found many “I-don’t-think-so’s” as the action proceeded, but the essential question of how to get to “justice” came through. And the interplay among 12 very human jurors struck a chord from my own limited experience.
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