Some movies just don’t get the love. For instance, The Alto Knights has come in for a lot of criticism, including the presumed stunt of having Robert De Niro play not one, but two real-life mobsters, and the advanced age of its director (Barry Levinson, 82) and screenwriter (Nicholas Pileggi, 92). All this carping should not (but does) obscure the fact that this is a vital, compact, entertaining gangland film; it is by no means flashy, but it’s intelligent, well-paced, with several good performances—two of them by De Niro. He plays both Frank Costello (the more humane mobster) and his former friend turned rival Vito Genovese, a more hot-headed, volatile type (the part Joe Pesci would play if he were available—though people might think it would be too reminiscent of Good Fellas and Casino. 

Alto Knights begins with a bang (with the botched hit on Costello) and neatly depicts the origins of the Costello/Genovese feud and the various events that contributed to the dissolution of their professional and personal relationship. This culminates in a nicely crafted supposition of what happened at the fateful Apalachin summit, which brought the various factions of the mob to the attention of Federal authorities. Pileggi’s script and Levinson’s direction nicely build the tension and provide layers to the friction between the two capos. De Niro does a fine job of delivering two distinct and polished portrayals, with both emerging as compelling characters in their own right. Debra Messing also gives a solid performance as Costello’s wife, and the supporting players led by Cosmo Jarvis and Michael Rispoli score as well. And don’t let the ages of the main creative forces fool you; Alto Knights is compelling throughout, a far cry from being an “old man’s film” and is worth seeking out when it comes to streaming.

Dear Nicole Kidman, As someone who admires a good deal of your work and has followed your career for thirty years (or so), I just want to say…you don’t have to take every job that comes along. I already (in a previous review) expressed my disappointment with Baby Girl. And now, Holland, written by Andrew Sodorski and directed by Mimi Cave, has caused me further sadness. I get that the character you’re playing is supposed to be this stifled housewife (and teacher) in an idealized, stylized vision of suburbia from 2000. (Though the way it’s played, it seems that you and your hubby are straight out of the 1950s.) However, the plot goes hither and yon, beginning with a scene where you fire your son’s tutor (we thought that would lead somewhere but it doesn’t), then your concerns over your husband’s frequent out-of-town business trips (as your character observes, a number of years into these trips, it does seem suspicious, considering he’s an optometrist). Enter fellow teacher Gael Garcia Bernal (who delivers the film’s best performance) as a lovelorn colleague who reluctantly agrees to help you get the goods on your husband. Only…the goods are far more devastating (and predictable) than your character could imagine—though we did. The big problem is, after a “big reveal,” the movie goes…nowhere. It meanders, then attempts to shock, and finally contributes a coda which renders much of everything that happened prior as meaningless. I mean Nicole, you’re the executive producer, couldn’t you see that when you signed on? By the way, Michael Macfayden (from Succession) is fine, but I wish he had more to do. Hope the next one is better. 

Yours truly, Mike P.

Julie Benko at the Catalina Club!

And since I don’t want to end this on a downbeat note, might I add a little plug for the prodigiously talented singer Julie Benko and her two-night engagement on April 15 and 16 at the Catalina Jazz Club in Los Angeles. I’ve seen Julie a number of times, both on the “legit stage,” (she was a dynamic Fanny Brice in the revival of Funny Girl and registered strongly in Barry Manilow’s Harmony) and in her various nightclub acts, including a delightful Mardi Gras-themed show and a show dedicated to her years as a Broadway stand-by. Together with her husband, Jason Yeager, who accompanies her on the piano and in some lively banter, you are guaranteed to have a most satisfying evening out on the town, and at a reasonable price. Check Julie Benko out—you’ll be happy you did.

https://www.juliebenko.com/upcoming

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Black Bag, directed by Steven Soderbergh with a script by David Koepp, is the kind of film that I feared had gone out of style: a literate, compact, entertaining thriller that doesn’t overstay its welcome, where the direction, dialogue, performances, and plot twists are rewarding throughout. It begins with a respected member of British Intelligence (Michael Fassbender) who is ordered to look into the dangerous software leak of Severus, which in the wrong hands—well, you know…The problem for Fassbender is that all five suspects are intimates or colleagues—including his own wife, a fellow officer (Cate Blanchett), a satellite imagery specialist (Marissa Abella), her boyfriend (Tom Burke), a psychiatrist for Intelligence (Naomie Harris), and her boyfriend (Rege-Jean Page). And so the name of the game is “find the traitor,” first by subjecting them to a dinner party laced with inhibition-lowering drugs, where all kinds of indiscretions are revealed, and which serves as a starting point for the fun to come.

Much of that fun is in determining the nature of Fassbender and Blanchett’s relationship. They seem to be devoted, but they each have their little secrets from each other. The question for them (and for the audience) is if their love for each other will outweigh the misdirects and allegations that come their way during what turns out will be a tense week of investigations. In addition, the other suspects are mired in messes of their own making, including infidelity, deception, and questionable ethical behavior. Fassbender and Blanchett are both very effective, balancing the characters’ controlled sense of professionalism with an understated (but clearly apparent) affection. The other suspects are also good, especially Marissa Abela’s conflicted imagery expert and Naomie Harris’ psychiatrist with some moral and ethical conflicts of her own. The twists are solid, there are a few genuinely suspenseful sequences, and a satisfying wrap-up. It makes for a good reason to go to the movies.

Black Bag Showtimes and more>>

Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy alas, didn’t make it to American movie theaters, though it is enjoying much success overseas. I wish it would have had a domestic theatrical release since it also represents another kind of film that has gone out of style: the witty, wise, and warm romantic comedy. Renee Zelweger’s Bridget is back and as bumbling and endearing as ever, only now she is sidling into middle age alone (as husband Colin Firth has died heroically before the film begins—though he makes a few strategic appearances). In this installment (superior to the previous one), Bridget is coping with motherhood, re-joining society (having been reclusive since her husband’s death), and re-entering the dating scene. To that end, there is the young but sensitive hunk Roxster (Leo Woodall) and (possibly) the teacher at her daughter’s school (Chiwitel Ejiofor)—but he seems barely interested. Emma Thompson is also on hand as Bridget’s doctor, as well as Hugh Grant, stealing every scene as Bridget’s older and wiser former adversary turned good friend and confidant.

Directed by Michael Morris with a script from, among others, Bridget’s creator Helen Fielding, the film does take its time (it could have been a little shorter than its two-hour length). However, the dialogue is good, the characters appealing, and there is a fairly satisfying resolution that may not surprise but is certainly welcome. The movie is streaming on Peacock and is worth the visit.

Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy showtimes and more>>

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The Oscars are this Sunday and, for various reasons, I’m more dismayed by the slate of Best Picture nominees than I have been for a long time. I’ve already shared my feelings about The Brutalist. So, I’d like to share a few thoughts concerning The Substance and Anora. Both (at press time) are considered front-runners in various categories, including Best Picture and Best Actress and…both films left me cold. And only after a needlessly excessive running time (Is it me, or do films nowadays lack the wherewithal to leave the audiences wanting more?).

The Substance is, plain and simple, a horror film, albeit a horror film with pretensions. Written and directed by Coralie Fargeat, it stars Demi Moore as Elizabeth, a 50 year-old host of an aerobics TV show who is unceremoniously dumped by boss Dennis Quaid (in full sleaze mode and enjoying every minute of it), mainly because of her age. She is told she would be a good candidate for “the substance,” which would basically create a younger, more perfect version of her (via one major injection, then a series of stabilizing shots). Of course, there are a few provisos concerning this “substance,” especially regarding the timely manner of shots, so as to prevent decay and deformity in the original body. Plus the fact that the younger and older women cannot be out and about simultaneously: while one is amongst society, the other remains in an unconscious (stabilized) state—and is dependent on the conscious one to switch roles in a timely manner.

And of course before you can say Seconds or Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde or Dorian Gray, it’s not long before abuses set in. The younger version of Elizabeth, calling herself Sue (Margaret Qualley) is instantly embraced by Elizabeth’s former employers, complete with TV show and full-scale publicity build-up, while Elizabeth becomes increasingly age-conscious and more reclusive. Each is resentful of the other, even though they are different versions of the same person. So…what’s my problem? Well, both Elizabeth and Sue behave stupidly and selfishly (beyond the realm of credibility) in a rather rapid fashion, so there is precious little to care about. This leaves the viewer to only care when will this thoroughly implode (or even explode)—and when it does, it does so in a prolonged, redundant manner that by the end one is exhausted (and perhaps pummeled), but not necessarily entertained. The two ladies are fine but there’s little opportunity for them to do anything but scratch the surface. Apart from one scene where Demi Moore’s Elizabeth squanders the chance to reconnect with a former admirer, her nominated performance consists of horrified reactions to her deterioration (in turn enhanced by make-up and special effects). After she gets her Oscar, I hope she finds a role that doesn’t prove to be an endurance test for her or the audience.

And then there’s Anora. I was intrigued by the premise: Cinderella story, only Cinderella is a stripper in Brighton Beach, only her Prince is an immature Russian with some unsavory family ties. Written and directed by Sean Baker, this “madcap screwball” romp has Anora (Mikey Madison) enjoying a (well-paid) week of fun with Vanya (Mark Eydelshteyn), the immature son of some very powerful Russian parents. Vanya convinces Anora to marry him so he can get a green card, then all hell breaks loose, as the family fixers (led by Vanya’s godfather Toros, played by Karren Karagullan, and his henchman Igor, played by Yori Borisov) arrive to put the kibosh on the marriage. What ensues is allegedly meant to pass for humor, as Toros finds Anora a handful, so much so they have to tie and gag her, followed by Toros’ endless explanations about how immature Anora is, and why they have to do what they have to do. For her part, Anora is played as single-minded, abrasive, and more than a little dense, and between the screaming and screeching of all concerned, I wanted this to end long before the inevitable conclusion. Most critics don’t agree, as Anora has been nominated for Best…Everything. If you want, see for yourself—don’t say I didn’t warn you.

What are your thoughts on the Oscar nominations and have you seen The Substance and Anora?

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If you’re going to dislike The Brutalist the way I did, then you at least owe it to yourself to see it on the big screen, as the cinematography is indeed impressive (using the VistaVision process) And in that same theater, you can avail yourself of the fifteen-minute intermission, something that Marty Scorsese doesn’t grant the viewer with his more recent lengthy epics. However, unlike director Brady Corbet’s overly indulgent and patience-testing cinematic slog, Scorsese’s films are reasonably entertaining (albeit with some flaws), well-paced, and offer some sense of satisfaction in the (very) long run.

The Brutalist doesn’t offer anything approximating that sense of satisfaction.  What it does offer is Adrien Brody as Laszlo Toth, a Jewish Holocaust survivor and trained architect who emigrates to the U.S. and stays with his cousin Attila (and his Catholic wife) while he tries to find work. Luckily his cousin Attila (who owns a furniture store) lets Laszlo work with him; unluckily, while they’re renovating the library of uber-wealthy Harrison van Buren (Guy Pearce) secretly, at the behest of the son, an enraged Harrison fires the men and reneges on the fee. However, time (and some glowing notices for the new living room) soften Harrison’s hard heart and he finds Laszlo (who by this time has been shown the door, courtesy of some unfounded accusations from Attila’s wife) and commissions Laszlo for a new, ambitious project—a community center with a library, theater, and chapel. And so the bulk of the film is Laszlo and how he copes with his own uneasiness, his feeling that he is not entirely accepted (and quite possibly being screwed) by Harrison and his entourage, and his frustration at not being with his wife (who has been detained). The feeling that he doesn’t belong only intensifies after his wife (Felicity Jones) does arrive, along with their silent niece Zsofia.

There are many weighty themes on The Brutalist’s plate: the pain of assimilation, the immigrant experience, exploitation by the so-called benefactors, the question of identity, the idea of belonging—and the agony of drug addiction (although Brody’s Laszlo seems to function pretty well—until…). And yet, the movie proceeds at a funereal pace, every thought and idea is given unnecessary emphasis, scenes linger far too long, characters behave in confounding (and not entirely credible) ways, and…just when it gets really interesting (if not entirely plausible) courtesy Felicity Jones’ impassioned portrayal, there is a confusing and unnecessary epilogue. Confusing because it raises conflicting questions (my chief one was how did Laszlo find work after the events immediately preceding the coda) and unnecessary because by this time, I didn’t care. And a final statement (from a new character) essentially negates all that went before (you’ll know the statement when you hear it.) In any case, in order to fully not appreciate The Brutalist, see it on the big screen. And by all means…use the intermission wisely.

A better choice for your film viewing time (and money) would be to see A Complete Unknown, starring the very busy Timothee Chalamet as Bob Dylan of the early-to-mid 1960s, when he was bursting upon the New York City folk music scene, doing covers, composing Blowin’ in the Wind, then marching to the beat of his own drummer—a beat that insists upon his being more experimental and daring than the folk environment (represented by Edward Norton’s paternal and protective Pete Seeger and Monica Maria Barbaro’s passionate Joan Baez) might be prepared for. (All this while juggling the attentions of both Baez and Elle Fanning’s Sylvie.)James Mangold’s script and direction beautifully recreate the bustling, frantic folk scene of 1960s New York, presenting Chalamet’s Dylan as a gifted artist who is awkward, innovative, unpredictable, uncompromising, and occasionally infuriating. Mangold also makes the choice of doing the songs (and there are many) live, and the performers do a uniformly fine job of capturing the essence of these performers in their prime. Chalamet is an excellent Dylan, whether as the reserved newcomer or in his no less awkward but more arrogant phase; however, the secret weapons here are Norton’s sincere and fiercely protective Seeger, and Barbaro’s committed and competitive Baez. Both performers enhance the film immeasurably, helping A Complete Unknown earn a rightful place among this year’s award-worthy films.

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A few weeks ago, I watched a few episodes of a one-season sitcom from the mid-1960s called My Living Doll. The premise is that lifelike robot Julie Newmar (Catwoman in the Batman series) has been left by her creator with bachelor Robert Cummings. At first Cummings is reluctant to keep her, until he decides he is going to turn this robot into the ‘ideal woman’: one who follows orders and keeps her mouth shut. Nicole Kidman’s current movie, Babygirl, is about a married CEO of a tech company who is dissatisfied with her sex life with husband Antonio Banderas. As a result (partially), she enters into a dangerous relationship with her intern (Harris Dickinson) who demands that she be submissive and docile (kind of like what Cummings expected of Newmar—only that was in a mediocre 60s sitcom and here the concept is being passed off as a daring work of art and…feminism?). The movie is being hailed as being funny, edgy, provocative—I felt like leaving around the time that Kidman’s character was willingly acting like a trained dog and licking milk from a saucer. 

Apparently, I’m in the minority because Babygirl has been getting some decent reviews and the actress herself has been nominated for a few awards (the Academy nominations were not announced as of “press time”). Hallina Reijn wrote and directed, but the film subjects Kidman to so many improbable and demeaning situations that I wonder what the reviews would have been if the writer/director had been a man. There are some good supporting performances and moments (courtesy of Banderas as the affectionate and bewildered husband, and Sophie Wilde as Kidman’s observant, ambitious assistant). However, the character of Kidman’s intern (Harris Dickinson) is ill-drawn and unsympathetic, so much of the time is spent wondering why Kidman’s character consents to all this—particularly as both he and she know that once this relationship begins, the intern may “have all the power.” This is (literally) an unbelievable film that wants to be taken very seriously, but lacks gravitas and coherence.” The big takeaway is (spoiler alert) if you have a troubled marriage and get into a relationship with someone who treats you like a dog, all it takes is one confrontation among the wife, husband, and lover for everything to turn out well—including an improved sex life with the hubby.

I liked Wicked (or Wicked: Part One). I wasn’t planning to, especially since I had heard that the movie was going to consist of an elongated, protracted Act One of the stage hit, and I feared that more would be too much. However, I was pleasantly surprised: Wicked, directed by John Chu is a very entertaining adaptation. By now, you know the plot provides the backstory/prequel for The Wizard of Oz, with Cynthia Erivo’s Elphaba (an outcast, especially because of her green skin) and Ariana Grande’s Glinda (lovely and calculating) vying for attention at Sorcery School—in a magical land where animals talk and interact with people until…There are lots of meanings and undercurrents here (some subtle, some not), and everyone wants to get to Oz to have an audience with the Wizard (Jeff Goldblum).  And sure, some of the numbers are even more elaborate (and allow for cameos from the original Broadway cast members Idina Menzel and Kristin Chenoweth), some backstories have been more fleshed out, and one or two songs have been added. But this Wicked, directed by John Chu is great to look at and listen to. The songs (by John Powell and Stephen Schwartz) are melodic and catchy, the screenplay is literate and funny—and the performances are top-notch. There has been a lot of (deserved) praise for Cynthia Erivo, and she is magnetic and powerful and funny—but Ariana Grande also deserves high praise, giving a lot of depth to someone who is presumably of shallow character. The scenes between the two are beautifully done, both the “straight” scenes and the musical performances. And though it was a trifle long, this viewer enjoyed the experience and will probably go back for Part Two (For Good) when it’s released this fall. (Although why they have to wait that long privately irks me, but thats another story.)

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Just in time for Christmas (and the inevitable holiday flights) comes the new Netflix movie Carry-On, a well-handled, well-acted thriller that packs enough suspense and twists into its under two-hour running time. It’s also the kind of movie where (if you want to) one can nitpick and play armchair quarterback about the main characters’ actions (I’m including both protagonist Taron Egerton and crafty antagonist Jason Bateman here) but it moves fast enough and is engaging enough to make one care about the outcome. It’s Christmas Eve at a busy LAX, and Egerton is an airline security guard whose failure, regarding the police academy, has damaged his psyche (to say nothing about his relationship with his more successful girlfriend, Sofia Carson). On this particular Christmas Eve, he has convinced his supervisor (Dean Norris) to let him manage a baggage lane—and it is on this night that he is contacted (via an earbud) by Jason Bateman’s mercenary terrorist, who wants Egerton to let a certain bag go through—or else he and his associates (who seem to have a limitless amount of technical acumen and access) will kill his girlfriend.

The first half is a compelling, close-up battle of wits between Egerton and the (largely) invisible Bateman, and both deliver the goods in terms of maintaining their end of the conversation. Bateman employs threats, cajoling, flattery, mockery, and convinces as the disembodied embodiment of evil, while Egerton is suitably intense and occasionally manic while searching for a way to wrest control. Carry-On is at its most intense in these early sections, but director Jaume Collet-Serra and writer T.J.  Fixman sustain interest as the stakes are raisedd and other characters are introduced, such as Danielle Deadwyler’s no-nonsense and perceptive LAPD detective, who sees what others don’t see—she also gets to take part in the film’s most imaginative action sequence. You may not want to see Carry-On while in the air, but at home (or in the theater), it packs a lot into its running time—and it reaches its destination in a satisfying manner.

Terrorism is also part of September 5, as it deals with the 1972 Munich Olympics, with ABC broadcasting the event, and the turmoil and fateful decisions that result after Palestinian terrorists make their way into the Olympic village and take members of the Israeli team hostage (after killing two members of the team). Much of the film is set in the control room from the perspective of the ABC Sports team, including exec Roone Arledge (Peter Sarsgaard) who wants to keep this breaking story in the hands of ABC News; producer Geoffrey Mason (an excellent John Magaro) who has to deal with fellow execs, the German police, and his own team (who have slightly different views on how the event should be portrayed); crew worker Marianne (Leonie Bensch), who becomes invaluable since she is German and the only one on the team who can interpret/translate, and operations manager Marvin Bader (a terrific Ben Chaplin), who, as a Jewish new Yorker, already harbors strong feelings as his family was affected by the Holocaust. What works about the film is that while it covers many issues and concerns, it feels lean and focused, as our view is necessarily limited to what the ABC crew has access to—we get as “inside” as they can. Yet the film is powerful and raises some questions about the role of the police, the personal struggles among a group of professionals harboring personal feelings, the rivalry among the networks and the little power plays that occur, and the power of the media to shape what we see—as well as to influence events based on the decisions they make. September 5, directed (and co-written) by Tim Feihbaum, is in limited release now but is worth seeing when it re-emerges in January. 

—

Mike Peros

José Ferrer: Success and Survival
Dan Duryea: Heel with a Heart

Published by University Press of Mississippi

Mike Peros | University Press of Mississippi (state.ms.us)

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Saorise Ronan and (screen son) Elliot Heffernan go to Hell and back in Steve McQueen’s ambitious Blitz, about the bombing of London in the early days of World War II—and of George (Heffernan) and his eventful journey to reunite with his mother, Rita (Ronan) after he, along with thousands of other children, were evacuated from London “for their own good.” While you might expect this to be a story about British courage, admirable behavior and “stiff upper lip” resolve in the face of unceasing calamity—McQueen (who wrote and directed) is telling a different tale. Because George is biracial and noticeably “different,’ his desire to return begins the minute he is forced to part from Rita. His fellow evacuees taunt and belittle him, which spurs him on to jump the train and head back to London to find his mother. For her part, Mom is working, volunteering to help, singing to boost morale (Hans Zimmer contributed the score and some “period’ songs). When she discovers that her son never made it to his destination, she becomes determined to find him, despite a marked lack of sympathy from coworkers and supervisors.

As the film progresses, the viewers are shown an England not too tolerant toward “outsiders,” and we are shown (in flashbacks) why the unpleasant, demeaning circumstances toward George’s father that made Ronan’s character a single mom. The “present” is none too compassionate either, and George’s journey leads him into some Dickensian difficulties, namely some thieves and looters who use him to help profit from the misery and the mounting death toll. Blitz does impress on a technical level, particularly an underground flooding, and its graphic depictions of the raids and their aftermath.  However, as visually impressive as it is, it is not as emotionally involving as it could be (though the performances are good); the end should wring from the viewer more than just relief, but it wasn’t the case with me. Your feelings may be different, so you may want to see it on a big screen (though it is currently on AppleTV+).

So there’s this Mexican drug cartel kingpin “Manitas” Del Monte who has it all: evil empire, beautiful wife, a few kids. The problem is…he wants to give it all up and become a woman. Therein lies the hook for Jacques Audiard’s Emilia Perez, a film unlike anything you’ll see this year. It’s a little bit musical (not the Wicked kind), crime drama, dysfunctional family drama, love story, and social commentary—not that it’s a particularly good or cohesive movie (tonally, it’s all over the place) but it does hold one’s interest. It has been getting a lot of attention, especially since the main character is played by transgender actor Karla Sofia Gascon, as both Manitas and as newly minted Emilia Perez. Gascon is fine in both incarnations, calmly exuding menace and regret as Manitas, as well as the sophistication and compassion as the new Emilia. Zoe Saldana is equally good as the disheartened, reluctant lawyer who helps Manitas/Emilia with both the gender change and her subsequent philanthropic efforts (as a way of making up for a very tarnished past. Selena Gomez is also good, exuding raw power as Manitas’ widow who is drawn back into Emilia’s orbit—not knowing Manitas is Emilia, she has her own plans for her future—one that leads to complications. There are some effective numbers, especially those featuring Zoe Saldana and Selena Gomez in which their emotions are laid bare, and Garcon is particularly powerful when the polish and veneer is stripped in the face of some (not unexpected) third-act developments. However, despite all the best efforts, the film doesn’t quite come off—aside from Zoe Saldana’s lawyer, it’s hard to care about what happens to any of the main characters, for whom happiness is elusive no matter where (and who) they are.

—

Mike Peros

José Ferrer: Success and Survival
Dan Duryea: Heel with a Heart
Published by University Press of Mississippi

Mike Peros | University Press of Mississippi (state.ms.us)

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As I was watching Conclave, from director Edward Berger (screenplay by Peter Straughan, based on Robert Harris’ novel), I couldn’t help but think of this as a Papal version of The Best Man (with a little Advise and Consent for good measure). Conclave, begins with the death of the current, liberal-leaning Pope, and Cardinal-Dean Thomas Lawrence (Ralph Fiennes) has the task of leading the papal conclave to elect the new Pope. The prime contenders appear to be two conservative Cardinals (John Lithgow, Lucian Msamati), one reactionary Cardinal (a dynamic and despicable Sergio Castellito), and a more liberal Cardinal (Stanley Tucci). And though many think Cardinal Lawrence to be a good candidate, he has some doubts, both about his ability and his own faith. In addition, Isabella Rossellini (looking like her famous mother) hovers on the sidelines as a watchful Sister, Carlos Diehz is a mysterious archbishop from Afghanistan, and Brian O’Byrne is a Monsignor who is Lawrence’s ally and his link to the outside world (during a Conclave, all Cardinals must remain secluded until the new Pope is chosen).

The well-paced and acted Conclave, veers between the predictable and the unexpected, as the various candidates jockey for position—with blackmail and bribery (you may learn a new word in this film, simony) on the menu, along with sumptuous meals (those Cardinals eat rather well). While it’s easy to pick out the cardinals you don’t want to win (You can spot Lithgow’s treacherous character right from the start, especially after he tells Ralph Fiennes’ Cardinal (and Pope confidant) that he withheld the news of the Pope’s death from him for an hour…so as not to disturb him), the more satisfying scenes are the exchanges among the more conflicted principals, especially those between the conflicted (a trifecta of resentment, resignation, and diligence) Ralph Fiennes and the ambitious but pragmatic Stanley Tucci (both at the top of their game here). The film is not only about differences among men but also the clash of values (conservatism vs. progress), as well as the notion of what it means to be a leader, as well as a good person. There is much to digest here, as well as a few interesting twists toward the end (even though you’ll probably pick the new Pope before the movie does). Conclave, is in theaters now, and it’s worth the trip, as it is one of the more intelligent and well-acted films I’ve seen this year.

Clint Eastwood’s latest (and perhaps last ) film Juror #2 is being dumped into a few theaters (before its release on Max) but it deserves better, as it is also among 2024’s better films (and I say this knowing there are some, shall we say, unlikely coincidences in the plot). Nicholas Hoult is a recovering alcoholic journalist (“puff” pieces) with a very pregnant wife (Zoey Deutsch) and he tries to use the “pregnant” card to get out of jury duty in order to stay by his wife. He is selected nonetheless and is more than a bit perturbed as the case that is being tried (involving a man who allegedly beat his girlfriend and threw her down a ravine) reminds him of his own actions on the same night—and the real possibility that he may have been responsible for the woman’s death. Courtroom scenes (among witnesses and the respective attorneys) are intercut with flashbacks from that night, which lead to Hoult’s character facing some tough choices, as in should he say something, or remain quiet so as to stay with his expectant wife. And once the trial is over, the film serves up its own twist on Twelve Angry Men.

https://youtu.be/EhkkBFhW-MM?si=gT95uDC1DMOwMqs2

While it’s Hoult’s choices and actions that drive the film, Eastwood and writer Jonathan Abrams don’t expect you to take Hoult’s side—though you may (or may not) sympathize with his plight early on, you may change your tune down the road. However, he isn’t the only character struggling, as Toni Collette’s prosecutor looks to parlay a quick conviction into the office of District Attorney, while Chris Messina’s public defender tries to convince Collette to be the truth-seeker she once was, as opposed to the headline hound she has become. And then there are the jurors, including J.K. Simmons as someone with a secret of his own, and Leslie Bibb as a veteran juror who just wants to be a good foreman. Juror #2 is extremely satisfying in that it doesn’t let the characters off easy nor does it provide tidy remedies. Good people can commit questionable acts, “bad” people can be misjudged, and redemption can be elusive. Give it a look in the theaters, or when it gets to Max. 

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The Holocaust and romance can make for uneasy cinematic bedfellows, but The White Bird, from director Marc Forster with a screenplay by Mark Bomback (based on a graphic novel by R.J. Palacio) does its best to make them compatible. And once we get to the setting of a small village in wartime France, it’s actually rather moving. However, there is a framing device wherein Helen Mirren’s French artist, looking dignified and regal, and nowhere near the 90-plus year old she’s supposed to be (was Leslie Caron not available?), sits her troubled grandson Julien (Bryce Gheisar) down to talk about how kindness can lead you out of the dark. It’s not the most inspired device, but you do get to see Helen Mirren (along with her role as narrator), and once you get to the actual main story, it’s pretty absorbing, as these movies go.

Arella Glaser plays Sara (Helen Mirren’s character in the flashback), who is a talented high school student in Nazi-occupied France, and who happens to be Jewish. Though Sara and her family live in the supposed “free zone,” it becomes clear that she and her family may be free no longer. She is spirited away during a roundup of Jews and is helped by her polio-afflicted classmate Julien (Orlando Schwerdt), while the fate of her parents is unknown to us…and her. Julien and his family (mother played by Gillian Anderson) hide Sara in their barn, away from the prying eyes of their suspected Nazi-sympathizer neighbors and a former crush of Sara’s (Jem Matthews) who has become a devout Nazi.

Sara and Julien’s growing closeness develops slowly but convincingly, thanks to some nicely layered work by Arella Glaser and Orlando Schwerdt. Gillian Anderson contributes some good work as the Mother, especially later in the film, as more Jews are being transported to “labor camps.” And though the film is generally involving, there is little that is surprising. One knows how these stories will proceed (beware moments of genuine joy, for they’re inevitably followed by moments that are not). And the framing device, while supplying perspective, does defuse some possible suspense, and is a rather flimsy peg to hang the more weighty aspects of the main tale.

So you can go to Saturday Night and lament that the actors playing John Belushi, Dan Ackroyd, Chevy Chase, etc are nothing like their real-life counterparts, and bemoan the fact they made changes to the factual story to make this movie—or you can enjoy, like I did, the fast-paced, almost dizzying recreation of that momentous first night in October 1975. Saturday Night does capture the chaos, the camaraderie, the conflicts, the clashes, the crashes, and even the comedy.  Directed by Jason Reitman, from a script by Reitman and Gil Kenan, the frantic and frenetic first half-hour does allow itself to be slightly more measured later, as it shows an increasingly beleaguered Lorne Michaels (Gabriel LaBelle) coping with the shortcomings of his lighting crew, the egos and insecurities of his budding stars (as well as host George Carlin), and some superiors who would like to can the whole enterprise and show Johnny Carson reruns. Though some of the performers (Laraine Newman, Gilda Radner…heck, all the female stars) get short shrift, all have their moments, and a few, like Cory Michael Smith’s Chevy Chase, Matt Wood’s John Belushi, and especially Lamorme Morris’ Garrett Morris, get ample opportunity to show why they were instrumental in the show’s success. In addition to the SNL cast, there are some good contributions from Willem Dafoe (as a threatening studio exec), Robert Wuhl, and especially, J.K. Simmons as Milton Berle. Though Berle was probably not at the studio for the big night (he did host SNL infamously, a few years later), Simmons’ depiction of Berle’s self-assurance and vanity seems spot-on, especially in his confrontation with Cory Michael Smith’s younger, talented–and more insecure—Chase.  It’s one of the film’s highlights…even though it might just have been an invention of the writers. Saturday Night captures the spirit and energy of an important night, and if it’s not 100% fact, it’s 95% entertainment.

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Ordinarily, a film with the star power of Brad Pitt and George Clooney would be a shoo-in for a theatrical release, but in this increasingly skittish theatrical landscape, you can find their latest film, Wolfs, on an Apple TV near you. While it doesn’t exhibit the stars in peak form—in fact, one might say they are coasting—they do it with some semblance of style. In Wolfs, directed and written by Jon Watts, the two leads are independent fixers: You know, the kind that can help clean up a messy situation, like an untimely death in an inconvenient place. In this case, it’s a hotel room where a male prostitute has just dropped in the company of prominent citizen Amy Ryan. She calls in her fixer (George Clooney) but soon after he arrives, another fixer (Brad Pitt) appears on the scene, making a messy situation messier. There are complications and conflicts, including whether or not to work together, who takes the lead, who’s losing his touch—and what to do about the $250,000 in drugs they discovered. Pitt and Clooney work well together, though their onscreen exchanges could use a bit more wit and variations; the action scenes are competent but not memorable, and there is a final twist for those who are longing for a sequel. In the end, it’s not their best work, but it is reasonably entertaining if you’re in the mood.

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