Mickey and Mallory. Kit and Holly. Sailor and Lula. Cinema has long had a fascination with killer couples and their twisted relationships. The feature debut of Australian writer-director Ben Young revolves around a married couple that abducts, abuses, and murders high school girls.
Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2
"Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2" is not a bad film, yet it disappoints — not because it fails to deliver what its audience wants, but because it delivers exactly what they want.
Colossal
In his latest (and first full-length American) release "Colossal," Spanish director Nacho Vigalondo ("Timecrimes") plays with the giant monster genre, mashing it up with the romantic comedy and using the creature as a fluid metaphor for some seriously dark truths about human nature. The result is a completely original bit of magical realism, intertwining giant monsters with a compelling human-scale story.
Graduation
Director Cristian Mungui (“4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days”) is adept at excoriating the corruption and hypocrisy in her country, Romania. Her latest film portrays a desperate moment in the life of surgeon Romeo (Adrian Titieni), who cheats on his wife but refuses to take bribes. That is, until his daughter (Maria-Victoria Dragu) has a chance to leave the country, if only she can pass her school exams after she's been the victim of a violent crime.
The atmosphere of the movie is defined by threats of violence and a sustained tension. This gives the probing of the country's culture of exceptionalism—can the ends justify the means?—an extra poignancy.
Donald Cried
The first feature-length film from writer/director Kris Avedisian begins with the realization that something has been lost. The item—a wallet—belongs to investment banker Peter (Jesse Wakeman), who has misplaced it on a bus somewhere between New York and Warwick, Rhode Island, where he has reluctantly returned, intending to dispatch all that remains of his grandmother, including her actual remains, before catching the next bus back to the city.
But best laid plans, as the saying goes, often go awry; even more so for anyone lacking the conventional items carried in a wallet, such as cash, credit cards and ID. This leaves Peter at the mercy of former neighbor and childhood friend Donald, played by Avedisian with a choppy bowl cut-mullet hybrid and outdated aviator eyeglasses, to lend Peter both the mobility and legitimacy needed to complete the business of mourning.
Donald is the title character, but at first it's difficult to believe this tactless dimwit capable of displaying any emotion other than awkward expectancy. “Do you still masturbate?” he asks without a whiff of humor as he shows off the poster of his favorite porn star he has plastered above his bed. It's just one of the many candid questions he has for his friend when they first meet up again.
Not just Donald's bedroom décor and taste in music but everything he says and does date his arrested development to high school, and he's eager and able to resume his intimacy with Peter as though his friend has just returned from a mere summer vacation. Hence Peter's vacillations between amusement and discomfort as Donald basically holds him hostage for the day.
In the time since Thomas Wolfe declared that you can't go home again, each generation of filmmakers has made it a mission to corroborate the claim. From Jack Nicholson's sarcastic roughneck in “Five Easy Pieces” to Zach Braff's impotent proto-hipster in “Garden State,” those who have dared to venture out and then come back prevail as the hero, or anti-hero, in Nicholson's case, of their own story. Rarely has the contrasting point of view of the one who's been left behind overtaken the screen in such a raw and overwhelming way.
For Peter, there's no escaping Donald, and so it is, too, the condition of the viewer. There's no relief even when the real world pierces the fog of depression and sad nostalgia. It seems there was never a time in which Donald wasn't already a loser or Peter, a secretive poser; only moments in which they're allowed to pretend otherwise and only to themselves.
Frantz
Not long after the war to end all wars but still a few uneasy decades before the next, a young Frenchman (Pierre Niney) arrives in a small German town. His presence there, in a place near the border where both nationalities had shared art and culture and learned each other’s languages but is now where the French should fear to tread, is the source of much speculation.
Anna (Paula Beer) soon witnesses the young man leaving flowers on the empty grave of her fiancée, Frantz; his body buried in a mass grave on a battlefield in France, and tells this to her fiancée’s parents, the Hoffmeisters (Ernst Stötzner and Marie Gruber), with whom Anna lives. In mourning, the three conjure up Frantz (Anton von Lucke) by foisting a hoped-for narrative on the visitor: Surely, Frantz and Adrien were friends before the war in Paris, where Frantz had gone to study.
Adrien, desiring to keep the fellowship by avoiding spilling his secret, complies, and he recounts his imagined memories, realized in soft color in an otherwise black-and-white film, to salve their grieving hearts. Collective wishful thinking is a powerful facilitator to denial.
This first act of director François Ozon’s (“Swimming Pool,” “In the House”) latest film was lifted by Ozon and Philippe Piazzo almost directly from Ernst Lubitsch’s 1932 earnest antiwar film, “Broken Lullaby,” the director’s only film in sound that isn’t a comedy. (Lubitsch based the movie on Maurice Rostand’s play L’homme que j’ai tué, or ”The man I killed.”) Where the two differ is that Ozon has much less faith in the message and the messenger of the movie.
As if Adrian’s guilty conscience isn’t enough to capture the interest of his audience, Ozon embeds this section with lurid suggestions for alternate motives. Show me a viewer who doesn’t consider a relationship between Frantz and Adrien beyond the trenches of war, and I’ll show you someone who wasn’t paying attention. Yet, the insinuations are pointless. If that isn’t distracting enough, in the second act Ozon offers even more aspersions, particularly on Frantz’s time in France before the war, and builds only blind alleys of suspense.
Since the ubiquity of color film, the choice to shoot in black and white comes with a built-in psychological component. For this film, Ozon purposely exploits this shorthand to tease mystery and indecency—in line with early Hitchcock—where there is none. It’s as if Ozon, lacking faith in the story, has layered the film with false starts and innuendo, only to deny these tricks by the end of the film.
The Lost City of Z
Charlie Hunnam portrays British explorer Percival Fawcett, on the hunt for the ruins of an ancient city in the Amazon rumored to be somewhere on the border between Bolivia and Brazil. Written and directed by James Gray ("The Yards," "The Immigrant"), filming outside the boundaries of his New York comfort zone for the first time, the story—conveyed by Hunnam's performance especially—doesn't convey the same sense of obsessive crusade as David Grann's 2005 New Yorker article and 2009 non-fiction book of the same title.
The question of whether Hunnam, whose butt came to public attention in "Sons of Anarchy," can act hasn't been definitively answered by any of his latest projects. But it may be possible that the script just failed to get to the interior of Fawcett. Robert Pattinson as Fawcett's scruffy aide-de-camp Henry Costin and Angus Macfadyen as whingeing explorer James Murray provide a few moments' entertainment, but overall the movie's timeline is frustratingly protracted.
Despite showing only three of Fawcett's eight actual trips through the jungle, Gray's insistence on running the gamut of jungle cliches—hostile natives, black panthers, bugs and rapids all make their inevitable appearances—makes the film's running time a masochistic trial in patience.
The short shrift given to Mrs. Fawcett (Sienna Miller) only adds insult to injury. The proto-feminist is the one who discovered the written documentation of the discovery of the city, yet there are no scenes of her research or any hint of her life in England while her husband is away.
Far ahead of his time, Fawcett makes the argument for the complexity of the ancient civilization and the capabilities of its inhabitants ancestors—underscored by the hypocrisy of the supposedly open-minded members of the Royal Geographic Society shouting Fawcett down with a chant of "pots & pans." But Gray bogs the mission with tropes from the most xenophobic of early jungle movie's. Under these circumstances, the most dazzling of archeological finds would be hard-pressed to change even the most modern of minds. Zed's dead, baby.
Free Fire
A gun deal goes wrong in an abandoned umbrella factory in Boston. The premise for director Ben Wheatley's latest could be the the most ingenious in a decade. But its lack of snappy lines and a needed shift in the second act makes it only a rip-off of those who do these things best—Tarrantino and the McDonagh brothers.
The violence, almost all of it perpetrated by gunfire, is cartoonish but its relentless action quickly wears on the nerves. The film's excellent sound design should come with a warning for anyone suffering from PTSD. Not even Cillian Murphy ("Peaky Blinders") and those prominent cheekbones can provide respite from the film's increasing ridiculousness.
Tommy's Honour
Biopic about Scottish golfing pioneer Tommy Morris (Jack Lowden), the youngest major champion in golf history, proves about as exciting as watching the game of golf itself. Throw in the topical issue of caddies versus club members, led by a sinister Sam Neill, and an ill-fated love story, and you've got a slow bloat bookended by a flaccid frame story.
The only moment worth watching is a betting contest in which Tommy takes on an archer. But it just goes to show that even the most avid golfers sometimes get bored of their own game.
The Lure
It would be startling to mistake Polish director Agnieszka Smoczyńska's debut feature film for a one-to-one live-action version of Disney's "The Little Mermaid." Although the daring filmmaker uses myth from the same source material, her film takes on gritty subjects such as sex trafficking, Communist theatrics and vampirism, all set to an '80s disco beat. Not to mention the phallic symbolism of the girls' turgid tales.
Not for the squeamish, the film offers great rewards for those willing to take it on. It's innovative and adds a fresh point of view to the ongoing conversation about transformation and myth happening in the vibrant indie horror genre, which has revitalized movie-going in this century.
Land of Mine
True story: The European Theater of World War II is over, but the west coast of Denmark is still chockablock with lethal land mines. The Danes, rightfully outraged over German occupation, show no mercy to those left behind in their country. Who better to assign the dangerous task of removal to than Nazi prisoners of war? The post-war cleanup is almost as dangerous as battle: Around 2,000 German POWs were tasked with clearing Danish beaches of more than two million mines and nearly half were either killed or maimed in the process.
In writer and director Martin Zandvliet's ("The Outsider," "Applause") Oscar-nominated film, Sgt. Leopold Rasmussen (Roland Møller) is put in charge of a squad of piteous recruits, practically still children and starving to boot. So what begins as hostile authority softens into empathy, hastened by the great risk of his charges blowing themselves up on any given day.
The Danish seaside has never been so dangerous, nor beautiful. DP Camilla Hjelm provides stunning, sunny photography of the dunes in which the misfit troop silently, carefully works to dismantle the bombs. It's a painful, exquisite tension, but not the only source in the story. After some time, even the most squeamish viewer can anticipate when to cover their eyes, and can move on to the more important task of rooting for Rasmussen to keep his promises.
Don't let the unfortunate play on words in the title keep you from this film. (In the original Danish, it's called "Under Sandet,” meaning "under the sand.")
The Sense of an Ending
Despite his grumbling, Tony Webster's (Jim Broadbent) life is rather idyllic. His drinks tea in his charming kitchen and helps the occasional customer in his Leica camera shop; both surroundings practically awash in golden sunlight. His only daughter (Michelle Dockery) is about to make him a grandfather without the bother of a bumbling son-in-law. Even his ex-wife (Harriet Walter), a sharp lawyer, remains on friendly terms with him.
But this wasn't always the case. It's just that Tony doesn't remember; that is, until a bequest arrives in the mail, answering the age-old question—why start the story on this day of all days?
Indian director Ritesh Batra (“The Lunchbox”) and playwright Nick Payne, who adapted the story from Julian Barnes' 2011 novel of the same name, straddle past and present to jog Tony's memories. These involve the events surrounding his breakup with an old flame Veronica, portrayed by both Freya Mavor and Charlotte Rampling, as well as old school chum Adrian (Joe Alwyn), who in history class quotes a non-existent scholar: “History is that certainty produced at the point where the imperfections of memory meet the inadequacies of documentation.”
For better or worse, Tony's history has plenty of documentation, namely a letter he composed in anger, and his friend's diary, the object of the mysterious bequest, which is being withheld from Tony by Veronica. Tony becomes obsessed with the latter, self-centeredly (and mistakenly) believing it will reveal something about his younger self and his relationship with Veronica's mother. Instead, as long-forgotten events emerge, Tony is reminded how little a part he played in the eventual outcome.
The story's very nature saddles Batra with the troublesome task of shooting frame story and jumps back in time—it's not particularly difficult to follow but it is a bit frustrating at times. He and Payne must carefully dole out information only in the order Tony is able to winkle it out of Veronica. So why not simply let Veronica tell the story? Because she's not in need of the reminder that she's not the center; that's been her entire life. Tony, alone in that cosy kitchen, needs it more.
Kong: Skull Island
The second entry in Legendary Pictures' "MonsterVerse" (2014's Godzilla reboot was the first), which promises to resurrect the old Toho Studios kaiju critters, "Kong: Skull Island" plays much like it's titular figure: big, loud, and, ultimately, a bit disappointing.
Get Out
Historically, horror and comedy have offered filmmakers a way to address indirectly, as subtext, ideas and perspectives too controversial or inchoate for direct expression (except in documentaries, such as last year's 13th and I Am Not Your Negro). From its opening scene, however, writer-director Jordan Peele establishes a direct connection between the fictional horror on the screen and the very real and increasingly dangerous experience of being black in America.
Fist Fight
It’s the last day of the year at an Atlanta high school. When English teacher Andy Campbell (Charlie Day) arrives in the morning, the senior pranks are already causing chaos. Campbell’s feckless attempts at restoring even a modicum of order mostly include hoping someone else will take charge. But who?
Not the security guard played by Kumail Nanjiani, defeated as much by his one-note role as he is by unruly teenagers, or guidance counselor (Jillian Bell), who confesses to both smoking meth and waiting for the last bell to ring so she can date the young men who are no longer officially her students.
The principal, played by the ever-irascible Dean Norris, is, in one of the arguably only two funny gags in the entire movie, being held hostage by a mariachi band as he presides over budget cuts that will leave him with fewer staff members than are currently being terrorized by mob rule.
It’s extremely satisfying, then, when history teacher Strickland (Ice Cube), wielding the weapon of choice—a baseball bat—of the disciplinarian principal Joe Clark, imposes an angry martial law in the hallways. But the order he restores is short-lived and we quickly learn his ire doesn’t stem from any grown-up or reasonable standard. In fact, the speculative causes of his non-stop rage, which he unlooses on anyone in his vicinity, are the stuff of legend.
It’s undeniable that writers Van Robichaux and Evan Susser have packed their screenplay full of reasons for Strickland’s displeasure. Indeed, there are far too many reasons (budget cuts, layoffs, students whose best idea of vandalism is to draw innumerable cartoon penises on school grounds) none of which gets to the heart of either Strickland, the true lead of the movie, or Campbell, the ersatz hero. There’s far too much happening to characters too thinly drawn to handle it all, so one challenging another to a fist fight in the parking lot after school
And director Richie Keen (“It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia”), brandishing his television sitcom credentials, prefers to pile it on. As Campbell becomes more desperate to avoid the confrontation with Strickland at the days’ end, we get far-fetched schemes such as one that has him buying two laptops because he’s too gutless to tell his wife he’s using one to bribe a student and a transparent subplot offering a lesson to cowards on how to handle your bully; it only works if you’re a 10-year-old girl.