Cook-a-little, talk-a-little, cook-a-little, talk-a-little, cheep-cheep-cheep, talk-a-lot, cook-a-little-more. For a non-foodie, there was a lot of same in this documentary recounting of Julia Child’s admittedly amazing career. There were occasional plot twists–Julia’s derision of nouvelle cuisine, her support of Planned Parenthood–but they disappeared as abruptly as they arose. The movie announced its theme at the outset and replayed it all the way to its close.
Emilia Jones steals your heart in this year’s crowd-pleaser, not just with her winsome charm but her amazing singing, and signing. The plot is over-the-top obvious, with every plot point telegraphed from the moment it’s introduced, but it’s still a fun ride. Troy Kotsur is endearing as the father, but Marlee (“I’m a famous actor”) Matlin is a bit hard to take as the mother. It’s also nice to see Gloucester, Mass., and the community of fishermen get a moment in the sun. The music selection, from “Clouds” on down, is superb.
This was Aaron Sorkin in overdrive, with every scene in a five-day period a crisis, and more issues than I could count. Unfortunately–and this was a big problem–I could never accept Javier Bardem as Desi Arnaz (whom I don’t know). He was too big, too physical, too much Javier Bardem, and I couldn’t sense any chemistry with Nicole Kidman’s Lucy. The gap between Lucille Ball offstage and on was also a bridge too far. Interestingly, my favorite parts of the movie were the black-and-white recreations of actual “I Love Lucy” episodes. I’m sure the threat of Communist exposure was as real as depicted, but everything about that plot seemed overdramatized. Partly this was the fault of the portentous score. Perhaps Sorkin was trying to recreate the feel of a 1952 movie, but if so, that just added to the confusion of trying to shoehorn ten stories into one movie. As a six- or eight-part miniseries, each plot would have had room to breathe. But still, there would be Javier Bardem.
A disjointed series of rather fantastical episodes, linked only by the only slightly less fantastical relationship between Gary and Alana, a relationship we didn’t know whether to root for or cringe at. Cooper Hoffman and, especially, Alana Haim were faultless in their roles and fun to watch, remarkable for first-time actors without great looks, and she was a great runner. It was hard to believe Gary was 15, but that wasn’t essential. More of an issue was the movie’s 2:13 length: it kept going on and on without any particular story driving it. Sort of Paul Thomas Anderson’s Belfast?
A taut psychological thriller that played out, almost entirely, on Olivia Colman’s face, photographed in intense close-up the whole way. The setting and characters were wonderfully reminiscent of the other Elena Ferrante books I’d read, a surprising achievement for a first-time American director. Jessie Buckley was just as good as the young Leda, but I had trouble connecting the two characters–the physical dissimilarity didn’t help–and I almost felt I was watching two different films. The young Leda’s struggle with motherhood was convincing; but I could never figure out Colman/Leda’s deal with the doll. Did one story explain the other? If not, why not? Still, it was good to see a film that made you think and made you tense with anticipation, even though, like much of life, it ended in anticlimax.
As a sucker for broad comedy (see, e.g., Monty Python), especially when it leans in my political direction, I enjoyed every minute of Adam McKay’s latest satire. Low expectations, based on word-of-mouth criticism that it was too obvious or just too much, undoubtedly helped. While it’s unfair to single out any of the star-studded cast, I loved Jennifer Lawrence. Not so much Leonardo DiCaprio, but maybe his role was the nondescript squishy middle that the others played off of. The movie took on climate change deniers, celebrity journalism, tech giants, social media, Live with Kelly!, space billionaires, political appointees, MAGA and more! Plus, it had the snappiest ending I can remember.
A theoretically dramatic story of the cave-diving rescue of 12 trapped boys in Thailand in 2018, this documentary somehow left me cold. Maybe because I compared it to the superior Free Solo by the same directors. Visually, 40% was talking heads, 40% faceless swimmers in dark, muddy water. Many of the action scenes were unannounced re-enactments, which made you wonder, “how’d they shoot that?,” and left you a little confused (as opposed to Free Solo, where you asked the same question but then were amazed by the answer). The divers were worthy heroes, but once we met them there was little more to learn. It was a hard story to tell after the fact, with obvious restrictions. Although in both movies we knew the quest would succeed, I was tense through much of Free Solo, but never here.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, or Belfast–Italian Style, Paolo Sorrentino’s love letter to growing up in Naples in the 1980s captures La Famiglia in all its frictions and closeness. His style is distinctive: every scene is short and self-contained, without musical background (except once). His characters, too, are distinctive: the lusty aunt, the prankster mother, the misanthropic matriarch and on and on. Best is the film’s sense of humor. There are no–well, only one or two–overt jokes, but the situations and people had me laughing the whole time. There’s a nod to Fellini, but more to Italian realism. And how beautiful Sorrentino makes the world. Like young Fabietto will make his movies.
Billed a “fable,” this is more a ghost story, about a haunted Lady Di. I lost emotional attachment early on, when I realized that I wouldn’t be able to understand Kristen Stewart’s breathy, stage-whispered dialogue and that the portrait being painted of a hallucinating, bulimic princess hounded by a monolithic, unfeeling royal family was so extreme as to be uninteresting. The triumphant, if equally unrealistic ending notwithstanding, I was bothered that director Pablo Larrain had capitalized on someone else’s celebrity to sell his movie then proceeded to trash her. Even the score by Jonny Greenwood, who did the wonderful Power of the Dog soundtrack, was insistently unpleasant. The redoubtable Timothy Spall and Sally Hawkins, in subsidiary roles, were the only bright spots, although Stewart looked lovely as usual.
My Fair Lady has the best songs, but West Side Story has the best score of any Broadway musical, and it was a treat to hear it (conducted by Gustavo Dudamel) on a big screen in a big theater (with only two other people). The story of Romeo (Tony) and Juliet (Maria) has stood the test of time and doesn’t need or deserve my quibbles. That leaves open the question of this particular production by Steven Spielberg with these actors. These were my reservations: Ansel Elgort was unconvincing and uninteresting as Tony: a pretty boy without the fire to lead the Jets, serve a year in Attica or kill someone. His extra height was supposed to make him stand apart, I guess, but it added to the perception that he belonged in another movie. The dancing was another problem: a few of the set pieces were cute, but others largely distracted: we waited for them to end so the story could continue. And, as with In the Heights, there were too many. Maria was lovely and had the only voice you wanted to hear, but the secondary characters were nondescript. Officer Krupke, normally a buffoonish relief, was a nonentity, as portrayed by the normally reliable Brian d’Arcy James. Spielberg presumably felt a need to be faithful to the original production–hence all the dancing–but I wish he had tackled the story afresh, building around the music. As it was, I felt this movie would have made a great stage play.
© Copyright 2019 Robert Marshall | All Rights Reserved.