An effective and moving dramatization of the women’s collective in Chicago, 1968, that provided compassionate but illegal abortions pre-Roe v. Wade. Sigourney Weaver is Oscar-worthy as the group’s leader and Elizabeth Banks does almost as good a job filling the screen as the Betty Crocker housewife turned activist. In its setting, its politics and its feel-good ending, Call Jane is a cinematic bookend to The Trial of the Chicago 7.
There is little in the way of dramatic arc or suspense in this documentary about the discovery of the last slave ship in Mobile Bay in 2020. Rather, the film should be seen as a portrait of the community of descendants from that ship’s cargo still living in the Africatown district of Mobile. The film is provocative, whether intentional or not, in exploring the expectations of the descendants: their desires to get relief from the surrounding chemical plants, or reparations, or even apology or acknowledgement from the descendants of the ship owner. Most interesting to me was the fact of this community of descendants from slaves who were brought over illegally in 1860, and were slaves for only five years before they were emancipated.
Why bother? The original film was memorable, and presumably is still available, and was sharper, more intelligent and, of course, more original. The actors in the musical are appealing, especially when viewed from our seats in the second row, center, but inevitably invite unfavorable comparisons with Billy Crudup, Kate Hudson and Philip Seymour Hoffman, not to mention others I’d forgotten: Frances McDormand, Zooey Deschanel, Jason Lee, Jimmy Fallon (I concede props, though, to Rob Colletti in the Lester Bangs role). If the added attraction was new music, the score is blandly generic; the story plods along, between trite and obvious. Perhaps the show will survive through the holiday season on its name an nostalgia. The actors work hard but deserve better.
A deeply personal play–and he wants you to know it–by Tom Stoppard, an apologia for not knowing until late in life that he is (100%) Jewish and most of his family died in and around the Holocaust. By honoring so many of his ancestors he assembles a cast of characters that challenges the audience’s understanding (“Aunt! – Why no, she’s my sister-in-law’s sister-in-law”), at the expense of identifying deeply with anyone. In fact, I found the play a much better read than a performance. Except for the two British imports (Gretl and Fritz/Leo), the actors disappointed. It felt they were reciting their lines, not inhabiting them, and the ensemble never flowed. (The child actors didn’t help.) I wonder if sitting in the third row hurt. There is drama and emotion, but some of it comes from the Holocaust, more than Stoppard.
A deft combination of the personal and political, pathos and humor, this historical drama was held together, above all, by Ricardo Darin’s remarkably human portrayal of Julio Strasseras, tasked with prosecuting the Argentine military junta for its decade of torture and disappearances. In composition and appeal his family echoed Tony Soprano’s, and the film was just as good in its domestic scenes as in the stories of the young lawyers and torture victims that led to the courtroom finale. Although the ending was never in doubt (either due to reviews or actual Argentine history), the suspense never flagged and–a rarity in recent moviegoing–we felt exhilarated as we departed the theater.
The setting: how many dramas are set in and around a symphony orchestra?
The dialogue: starts as a New Yorker interview and remains at that lofty level.
The acting: Cate Blanchett is a lock for an Oscar nod, and the great German actress Nina Hoss (Barbara, Phoenix) is just as good in a subtler featured role.
The directing: Todd Field’s stamp is all over the film, predominantly shot in close-up with lots of negative space in a wide-screen format, and I can’t even remember if it’s in color or black-and-white.
The score: in a movie about a conductor, there is zero background music, making the orchestral bits stand out.
The story: Even the most guarded review unfortunately gives away the ending; so the suspense is how it happens, not what. The ending: Whaaa? It’s a close call as to which goes furthest off the rails, Lydia Tar or the movie she’s in. In sum: powerful and gripping, but unresolved and frustrating.
(Theater). An intimate four-hander about, I think, the human need for companionship, and the agony that can result therefrom. It was beautifully staged and impeccably acted, but I found the story needlessly confusing–i.e., I didn’t understand the husband-wife relationship or when scenes were taking place. The casting of “differently abled” actors turned out to be a plus; but the whole thing would have worked better without advance fanfare on a smaller off-Broadway stage.
A loud and frantic collage of David Bowie’s personae, songs and thoughts, in that order, without concern for dramatic arc or, even, chronology. You could watch almost any fifteen minutes of the two-hour-plus film and see all there is to see. The songs are different, but none play out at length. Greater attention is given to Bowie’s costumes, hairstyles, makeup and facial expressions. He is good-looking, but I wonder if I wouldn’t have more enjoyed watching, in sequence, the music videos for “Changes,” “All the Young Dudes” and “Ashes to Ashes.” This is not a film for the casual fan.
A charitable view sees this as a Marvel super-hero tale, ignoring the “inspired by true events” prologue, for there is not a believable action or bit of dialogue in the entire film. The battles are bloody and one-sided and the moral message is simplistic: “palm oil good, slavery bad.” A mature Viola Davis is rather a stretch as the Kirk Douglas/Chris Hemsworth figure, but two of her lieutenants are more appealing, and John Boyega does what he can in this orgy of Black woman triumphalism.
It’s obvious early on, despite Javier Bardem’s suavity, that the “good” in the title is meant ironically. His badness, however–again, maybe due to Bardem’s inherent charm–never seems that bad: how would you react to a maniac setting up with a bullhorn and banners in front of your front door, and the personal attention he gives to the plant manager who continually screws up seems wildly excessive if the only goal is a regional corporate award on top of a dozen others already won, including “the Oscar of scales.” The pleasures of the movie are in the individual performances, not the story, which left me cold and confused.
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