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The Strangers: Prey At Night Review

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If there’s one thing Johannes Roberts’ pre-screening introduction confirmed before The Strangers: Prey At Night, it’s that he *obsessively* respects the profoundness of John Carpenter’s genre contributions – to the point where the pic is a stalkerish mixtape of all the filmmaker’s favorite bits.

Subtle hints Hammer-to-the-head homages evoke Halloween’s “The Shape,” roll with The Fog and grind Christine’s gears in an atmospherically overt love-letter to Carpenter that Roberts signs in blood. Dash in a bit of The Texas Chain Saw Massacre for flavor and you wonder what individuality this Strangers “offshoot” presents – until Roberts’ execution pushes such thoughts out of your mind. He may be riffing off recognizable horrors staples, but the director’s devotion to royalty is vicious and respectfully realized. Right down to a score you’d believe Carpenter recorded himself.

Screenwriter Ben Ketai (who rewrote Bryan Bertino’s existing script) introduces us to a suburban family with two children and one problem. Mother Cindy (Christina Hendricks) and father Mike (Martin Henderson) decide their troublemaker daughter – punk rebel Kinsey (Bailee Madison) – should be shipped to a boarding school some weekend’s travel away. With son Luke (Lewis Pullman) along for the ride, the clan makes a pit stop at Gatlin Lake mobile home for overnight rest and relaxation. It’s offseason, streets are prophetically empty – but, alas, three masked boogeymen lurk the grounds. “Pin-Up Girl,” “Dollface,” and “Man In The Mask” start hunting the family for sport because…frankly…it’s a night that ends in “y.”

As far as slashers, hunt-at-night thrillers and other familiar stalker-slaughter flicks compare, The Strangers: Prey At Night is outlined from the get-go. Ben Ketai’s Bertino re-write breaks through cottage walls to expand search radii across a decent-sized trailer park. Landmarks include a main office general store, communal pool, outdoor recreational area – and barbed wire enclosure fencing. Gaudy neon lights saturate the gloss of liner-blue water reflections while windows read “hello” written in red over and over – isolation with an artful dread – to heighten the “game” afoot. Challenge accepted, as read by grinning villains.

On the flip side, The Strangers: Prey At Night is caustically familiar. Character arcs especially. Kinsey is painted as a lost cause by her frequent smoking habits, torn Ramones graphic tee and resting bitch face. Cindy – the all-American mother – is mistreated and accused of abandonment by Kinsey, heavily-accented Mike gets to play the “good guy” parent, and Luke’s only defining characteristic relates to playing baseball – hilariously red-blooded ‘Merica like a foreign sitcom or something. Things pick up when the “Strangers” get all stab-happy, but until then, Roberts is responsible for some hokey family bonding you might find surfing cable syndication.

Here’s the biggest question The Strangers: Prey At Night poses – at what point does an “homage” become blatant recycling? As marshy conditions continuously obscure moonlit fields and mute killers linger at far distances, we are reminded – so very obviously – of The Fog (gasp) and Halloween. As Kinsey tries to incinerate the masked man driving a beaten-up junker, he continues to drive forward while still aflame a la Christine. Roberts’ transformation of trailer park constructs into slick horror cinematography is notable – a keen eye for blanketed darkness brightened by warming hues – but it’s more Carpenter than if Carpenter himself Carpentered his Carpenteriest (down to the goshdang credits font). Translation: does retreading history breathe new cinematic life, or just feel like a repurposing of someone else’s signature?

In response, Roberts deeply respects horror history and works with cinematographer Ryan Samul to ensure this ten-years-later “not a sequel” exists with reason. The Strangers is a bit more rustic, where The Strangers: Prey At Night will be best known for an aqua-blue swimmer’s struggle with blood clouding more and more liquid space – songs like Kim Wilde’s techno-sleaze “Kids In America” distorting violent maulings. Roberts’ cinematic proficiencies capture the horrors of small-town USA by utilizing Carpenter’s greatest atmospheres, copied or not. Crisp, chaotic and positioned to show these “Strangers” as sociopathic devils whose prize is the chase itself.

To flip once again, character development is lost beyond immediate instincts. Christina Hendricks and Martin Henderson as devices to inspire their kin’s strength, Bailee Madison and Lewis Pullman as frantic children who tell stories like “remember the time with the tree, and I hurt my leg, and Mom was so mad.” Developmental familiarity sinks like a rock given characters who are practically nameless playthings, squared against predators who kill without any sport. Sound familiar? Just like every other home invasion redux we’ve winced or shrugged our way through.

Please excuse my back-and-forth, but you must understand – Johannes Roberts’ latest is a well-executed conundrum. The Strangers: Prey At Night dives into the world of John Carpenter with slippery immersion tactics that are both cleanly executed and wholly borrowed. By respecting legend, Johannes Roberts’ latest identity is borrowed from a man he respects enough to recreate scene after scene. Competently, mind you – but is more needed?

It’s such a strange quandary because, for me, this is a sinister “Most Dangerous Game” that gets away with “flattery” filmmaking (Tobe Hooper honored, too). For others, I expect Carpenter’s influence to be off-putting and reductive. Carpenter the master, Roberts a blushing – and accomplished – fanboy.


A Quiet Place Review [SXSW 2018]

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John Krasinski’s A Quiet Place bursts onto 2018’s horror scene as a skillfully-directed powder-keg that avoids succumbing to “gimmick only” redundancies. Lesser visions would have meant something more forgettable and indicative of a first-time genre filmmaker steadying his “sea legs,” but – as an act of mute-yet-mighty aggression – Krasinski succeeds in streamlining a nightmare-fueled genre onslaught that kicks the damn doors in something mean.

There’s shades of Signs and The Lost World: Jurassic Park (seriously) here, fiercely filtered through a lens that generates edge-of-your-seat terror equal to plucked heartstring chords. This movie might keep volume levels low, but audiences are going to be screaming loud and proud all through the night.

Krasinski stars as an outdoorsman protector who will do anything to keep his family safe from lurking forest creatures (some 400 days post-takeover). We don’t know what brought the beasties or why (aliens, maybe), but we *do* know they attack based on sound. You make a peep, you die.

Krasinski’s family – “Wife” played by Emily Blunt, “Son” Noah Jupe, “Daughter” Millicent Simmonds – communicate through sign language (already understood because of Simmonds’ character’s impairment), walk down paths of laid sand, and use other life hacks to stay undetected. But, alas, there are hiccups to every plan, and we watch as Krasinski’s clan fends for their lives when the monsters crash down on their location.

Writers Bryan Woods and Scott Beck gamble on initiating their screenplay in the throes of human eradication, but Krasinski’s ability to handle cryptic survival peril is unflinching – virtuoso at times. A Quiet Place is thrilling, features tremendous sound design and is genuinely frightening when payoffs are savored (often). Industrial Light & Magic painstakingly spliced insectoid features with Stranger Things’ Demogorgon, which is shown off time and time again in full camera view.

Heavy CGI reveals pulsating muscles and inner echolocation receptors that sheen a slimy, fanged grin (in comparison to typical mainstream pixel boredom), the creatures bullishly berserk when sprinting towards a victim whose only hope is a quick mercy kill. So fast, so primal, so ever-loving horrific.

It’s beneficial that Krasinski sees A Quiet Place as a family drama first, horror movie second – which is no knock. Emily Blunt turns in a nurturing, shotgun-mama performance as his *pregnant* lover, able to convey heavy emotions through nothing but facial expressions and signed compassion. Since she’s not allowed to vocalize development, over-emphasizing becomes an actor’s only tool – same for the whole cast.

Simmonds so tremendously establishes tension as a deaf girl unaware of looming danger (we hear her nothingness) just as Krasinski struggles to comprehend a life where he *can’t* protect his children (Jupe a timid boy who needs papa to build him up). Scares fly at you, but don’t be surprised by heartfelt feelings shared between this constantly-clicking cast – love in a time of intestine-spilling monsters.

True to form, noise cancellation makes for little dialogue or any kind of scenic accents except when something terrible is about to happen (or when Krasinski is muffled by a rushing river). If you hear something, it’s either a creature thrashing about or seconds before said creature thrashes about – noose-tight tension and crippling anxiety. Even the slightest misstep could mean death – hence felt Monopoly pieces, stripped walls, zero electronics, etc. – which you’d think to be formulaic, but is responsible for ten times more menace and consequence than expected.

A flooded basement nail-biter, corn kernel silo drop-in, the freakin’ repeated sight of one protruding staircase nail – all works of breathless exasperation. Many arms will be clenched as a result of this movie, which is a true testament to Krasinski’s ability to deliver on elements that many mainstream horror films of today miss – enjoyable atmospheric annihilation.

Not to ignore or nitpick, but those audiences looking for flaws will dwell on a few hang-ups if they (wrongfully) choose. Something as simple as pictures hanging on the wall – why? Krasinski’s sensibilities sound-proof his entire farmland from houses to barns to silos, except for decorative family portraits that could drop at any moment if a nail pops out? Or, assuming Blunt’s pregnancy was planned, why is birthing a 24/7 noise machine considered “smart” in this hushed age?

With no backstory, there’s a chance Blunt’s baby bump was 100% intended (and inspired by a previous event) that would make no sense for a veteran survivalist to permit. Why print newspapers on loud machines with headlines like “IT’S SOUND!” during the initial attack, why this, why that…WHERE DO THEY STEALTH POOP?! There are questions, but again, Krasinski’s meticulous execution overshadows so many otherwise curious points. It’s too easy to have fun and become lost in the sounds of silence – wards off the bad juju.

As a *frequent* watcher of horror, something like A Quiet Place makes my hair stand with chilly excitement. Praise any studio that greenlights a mainstream parental heartwarmer that plays against other-worldly creatures who viciously maul their prey, uses almost no dialogue and manipulates bursts of sound like sonic atom bombs. John Krasinski may not be a full-fledged genre advocate, but he can sure direct the hell out of crowd-pleasing, seat-clenching, holy-crap-that-ending popcorn punishment. This film is an assertively boisterous opening for this year’s South by Southwest festival, no doubt – one that’s going to terrorize public audiences in all the best scream-until-you’re-blue ways.

Blockers Review [SXSW 2018]

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You’ve all seen *that* Blockers TV spot where thick-thighed John Cena “butt chugs” against high schoolers, right? “I mean, looks dumb.” Hardly. Get ready to read about the proficient gender-swapped comedy that is Blockers – an infinitely more rewarding watch that doesn’t fit into a thirty-second ad.

While raunchy “parents gone wild” humor will surely tickle immature and crass tastes, Kay Cannon’s first of many directorial features is a uniquely female buddy-sex-comedy that’s infinitely richer as far as representational awakenings are concerned. For better and worse, the film’s trio of prom-night besties live a categorical night of debauchery more often reserved for male audiences (like, 99% of the time). It’s unfiltered, messy and vocally identifiable for females who’ve long watched comparable cinematic archetypes be used by machismo dude-bros as ditzy intercourse props or background love interests. No more.

As Bridesmaids and Rough Night once fought for, Blockers is another step in the right direction for female-created, female-led comedies with a hell of a lot more to say than the next retreaded boy’s night.

The scripted “mission” follows three parents as they try to void their daughters’ prom night sex pact (#SexPact2018). Lisa (Leslie Mann), Mitchell (John Cena) and Hunter (Ike Barinholtz) translate cryptic emoji messages to decipher a text group agreement – then it’s off to stop Julie (Kathryn Newton), Kayla (Geraldine Viswanathan) and Sam (Gideon Adlon) from their “life-ruining mistake.” How, you ask? By tailing the girls as they go from actual prom to parties to a final hotel overnight. All the while revealing intimate secrets and bumbling through thoughtless schemes that usually end with someone naked or abused.

At first, Blockers may appear to be any one of many Apatow-era comedies. We’re introduced to overzealous and yuck-worth characters with their own quirks – Dad-shorts Cena, fear-of-being-alone Mann, “cheater” Barinholtz – so don’t be thrown. They’re slightly likable and exaggerated – but that changes with the help of their offspring. Julie guides her mother through a heroically tear-filled bout of empty nest syndrome, Kayla reassures her father she’s been taught well, and Sam humanizes her man-child parent throughout the film’s deepest familial arc. It’s unexpected, but worth contrasting an onslaught of otherwise genital-forward gags.

Blockers

Alone, the trio of budding little women explore multiple lifestyles told through perspectives on various personal levels. Julie chases her Prince Charming night of romance, Kayla seems fine diving into meaningless sex (with a hipster weed chef), and then there’s Sam – who dates fedora-boy Chad (Jimmy Bellinger) but truly has eyes for Elvish cosplayer Angelica (Ramona Young). A heartfelt queer storyline massaged into mainstream storytelling that’s NOT overplayed or lauded as “different?” Nurtured as a natural romance (with capes)? These three girls share penial commentaries, drunken limo rides and diverse friendship bonds soaked in sincerity (and vomit) – the problem is, I just wish there was *more* of this.

Blockers backpedals only because Cannon is so good at handling womanhood in a young adult microcosm. Leslie Mann might be the funniest working Hollywood actress, but her on-screen mama’s ignorance of eggplant double-meanings and backdoor entry advice runs dry without Newton by her side. Same for Cena’s seething hatred of man-buns and Barinholtz’s odd-man-out routine without their sweet little angels.

You’ll laugh at Mann’s ninja-like tumbling, Cena’s mistaken thong ownership and Barinholtz’s dynamite Fast And Furious references (“This is slow and unfurious!”) – but small pockets sell a reduction in laughs when the teen crew disappears for too long. Not to denounce more mature issues – fears of not being able to “protect” your kin, or losing them to life itself – that’s just how enjoyable Viswanathan, Newton and Adlon are.

Fortunately, Blockers proves that mainstream comedies are anything but dead. Memorable interactions range from dicks being described as “not for looking at” to blindfolded intercourse spice-ups complete with a famous character actor’s full-frontal dangler; an Almond Joy reference to testicles being squeezed like stress balls. I know that doesn’t sound very ambitious, but it’s about who’s delivering such lines and in what context (high schoolers the observational heft, parents the nudity and punishment). Cafeteria girls banter just like boys do – a la Neighbors 2: Sorority Rising – making opposite-gender observations while flipping off decency. Who says boys get all the fun one-liners?

Blockers

Cannon’s no-bullshit stance against double-standards is not lost between exploding cars and anal intoxication. Mitchell’s wife Marcie (Sarayu Blue) chastises the no-sex squad for viewing a female’s “loss of innocence” differently than a man’s “sexual conquest” (why is it shameful for girls, but celebrated for men). Julie rails against her mother for insinuating she’s choosing UCLA over Chicago because of a boy and not her own merit. For a large portion of Blockers, three girls find themselves in the same scenario horny on-screen boys have for decades – and it spawns a ludacris rescue mission instead of high-fives. Quite the drastic flip, in and of itself a commentary on how sexual dynamics are so widely misunderstood between genders and identifications.

Blockers is an about-damn-time comedy that aims to embarrass subjects at the most influential juncture of their lives – but does much more. Kay Cannon’s directorial debut is anything but a rubber-fumbling, boy-crazy, sex-for-laughs surface romp. Somewhere at the crossroads of parental paranoia and childhood trailblazing is this balanced, at-times rallying watch that holds meaning for female audiences who’ve been craving such customized content – along with, you know, the awkwardness of adults injecting themselves into their child’s sex life. You’re going to laugh – a lot – and hopefully realize that comedy isn’t just a boy’s club. How’s *that* for your “it’s just a Cena butt-chug” comments?

Ready Player One Review [SXSW 2018]

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Steven Spielberg’s Ready Player One escapism is the *exact* earthly distraction social media users have been generalizing and “debating” since announcements first landed. Created *for* “geeks,” *about* “geeks” and *by* “geeks” – that’s not a dig, mind you. If you’ve been raving about a nostalgia-stuffed trailer with more references than an entire season of I Love The 80s, welcome to your nastiest virtual wet dream. If you’ve been gathering others to raise pitchforks in protest, this two-and-a-half hour CGI name-dropper isn’t for you. Simple as Simon. How’s that for a straightforward take?

Upon logging into Ready Player One, we’re introduced to Wade Watts (Tye Sheridan) aka Parzival – the latter name his gamertag in an expansive massively multiplayer realm known as the “Oasis.” The year is 2045 and no one wants to live their actual, crumby lives. They just want to level-up in James Donovan Halliday’s (Mark Rylance) simulation where dreams come true (outside of reality). You can Minecraft, compete in deathmatches on Doom – just don’t die because then all your loot and coins are depleted.

In any case, people become more connected to their pixelated avatars than human forms. Sounds…unhealthy – but that’s only where young Wade’s troubles begin.

Zak Penn’s adapted screenplay (novel by Ernest Cline) plops us into the middle of an online revolution. Halliday has passed and left his entire Gregarious fortune – along with the Oasis – as an Easter Egg for one worthy champion to find. Players dream of becoming the next Halliday, including Innovative Online Industries (IOI) executive Nolan Sorrento (Ben Mendelsohn). His consumerism mindset hopes to gain control of Halliday’s Oasis for monetization purposes, which is not appreciated by rebellion players like Art3mis (Olivia Cooke). You’d be right to assume things get messy when it’s Parzival who completes the first of three Halliday challenges – starting a war both in-game and in-life.

Remember, we’re talking about Steven Spielberg here. This basement full of collectibles is curated with care and a general love for medium, but will throw characters at you without even attempting to make them stick. If one was to list every cameo glimpsed, this review would run about 10,000 words. Battletoads, Batman, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Hello Kitty, Looney Tunes, Monty Python and the Holy Grail, Mortal Kombat, Alien, Sonic the Hedgehog, the Iron Giant, Star Wars, Star Trek, Mobile Suit Gundam, Overwatch, Back To The Future, Buckaroo Banzai, Terminator 2: Judgement Day – OVERLOAD. MALFUNCTION. Before my screening, Spielberg instructed the audience not to get distracted when looking “out the windows” (counting references). Unfortunately, that’s Ready Player One‘s most endearing quality.

The framework around Wade/Parzival’s “epic” quest benefits an anonymous admirer who’s made into a hero simply because of his unhealthy devotion to Halliday. “A fanboy knows a hater…” is the kind of toxic fandom stance that poisons and devolves what should be universal inclusivity. Ready Player One heralds Wade Watts’ limitless “power” while keeping someone like Cooke’s infinitely more endearing Samantha Cook – aka Art3mis – as background filler meant to service someone else’s story. Penn’s screenplay might toss around pop-culture nods like light reflections off a disco ball in a house of mirrors, but it’s also deafeningly one-note. That’s made abundantly clear when Wade and Samantha’s first meet-up immediately (and awkwardly) positions Samantha as his love interest – lucky Wade, her “only hope.”

Frankly, no aspect of Ready Player One invests in stakes. Monologues about taking back the Oasis and fighting against corporate greed feel no unifying rise; story mapping overburdened by exposition as a means to patch plot holes. Wade barely acknowledges the death of his Aunt (emotionally undersold), Halliday’s spectrum behavior is used as a device and advancement continually appears coincidental.

Spielberg’s direction is fluid and concise – re: Spielberg – but it also misreads the translation of impacts felt after major event completions. Like, say, how frequently Shoto (Philip Zhao) reminds us he’s an 11-year-old badass because we’d forget his “importance” otherwise. Savior moments are established, sacrifices made, but all for what? Importance is stressed on ape’ing Jurassic Park and King Kong as obstacles across a New York City Need For Speed style race, diluting characters with NPC personalities.

Yet as I sit here waxing on about how a 150-minute film fails to detail an uprising story without consequence, there’s an undeniable truth – the action is engaging enough to entertain. As a horror fan, my geek-outs hit hard. I mean I got Stripe, Chucky, Freddy Krueger, and Jason Voorhees all in the same movie so that’s…something? Plus, fans of The Shining – you’ll be treated to an *entire* challenge set in a reconstructed Overlook Hotel. The twins, the bathtub, the elevator doors, all of it. As popcorn entertainment sweetened by a glaze made from Crystal Pepsi, it’s messy but disgustingly addictive. Only in Oasis realms.

Ready Player One

Spielberg’s graphics team worked tirelessly to recreate characters who you’ve become accustomed to playing as for decades. From Duke Nukem to Master Chief, copyrights be damned. Sorrento’s barrel-chested CEO from Hell avatar looks like Bizarro Superman, only to be out-costumed by supergamer-for-hire i-R0k (T.J. Miller). Details are vibrant when they have to be (surfin’ waves on a vacation world) and FPS-gritty other times (the shell-casing covered Doom battleground). Coded extravagancies and animation get away with using the “but it’s a video game” excuse so realism doesn’t *have* to be 100%, which admittedly *can* work. Fast cars, loud guns, fantasy elements like levitated dance floors and zombie waltzes – it can be a thrilling experience if you’re willing to accept visual pleasures over dodgy themes.

Characters, in their human forms, are largely inconsequential and undefined. No one actor glitches the system, but their archetypes are thin holograms. Ben Mendelsohn a maniacal corporate thug who leaves his password (ending in “69”) on a post-it note for easy access. Lena Waithe, Win Morisaki and Philip Zhao – companions who appear after a smartphone text. Mark Rylance, Steve Jobs incarnate, is nothing but a cautionary tale about cutting yourself from society in favor of Oasis-like consumption (social disassociation that’s distracting and on-the-nose). Even Sheridan has little to work with besides forced clan rallying that chisels a leader from in-game checkpoints at too quick a pace.

How you can leave audiences wanting more detail after so much time is baffling – and no, I’m not talking about made-up words like “Gunter” (Egg hunter) and Oasis’ spectacle dimensions. You can’t define a guy beyond his favorite shooter being N64’s Goldeneye, mode “Slappers Only,” character Oddjob and expect me to truly care (or like the cheap sonofabitch).

To be perfectly honest, this review doesn’t matter. You will see exactly what you want to see – a white-male-savior story about the very fandom problems that plague our cultural landscape or an all-out gamer’s utopia that’d cause Super Smash Bros. to blush – both of which hold validity. In my humble opinion, Ready Player One isn’t slick enough a commentary worth getting riled up about or distracting enough to hide glaring structural issues underneath a barrage of “HEY I KNOW THEM!” cameos like dangling keys in front of a dog. Except the guy dangling them is Steven Spielberg, and goddammit he dangles them so good at times (“It’s fuckin’ Chucky!” did it for me).

Hereditary Review [SXSW 2018]

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How in Satan’s pitchfork-lined hellscape is Hereditary a debut feature? Ari Aster’s inheritance nightmare is abusively tense and traumatic even before an end-all third act crashes down with thunderous implications. Through my screening’s *entire* running length, two fellow critics flanking both my sides audibly gasped and ducked to ward off anxiety attacks – one dry-heaving at points when suspense become unmanageable. That’s what you’re in for. A seductively paced ancestral bone-quaker that’ll bind you, gut you, and laugh as you writhe in discomfort.

In other words, PRAISE BE THE GENRE OVERLORDS FOR I DO NOT NEED SLEEP NOR SANITY TO BE HAPPY.

Hereditary tells of the heartbreak and misfortune that haunts Annie Graham’s (Toni Collette) family. Husband Steve (Gabriel Byrne), son Peter (Alex Wolff) and daughter Charlie (Milly Shapiro) mourn their grandmother’s death with normality, and at first, Annie follows suit. She spends her days designing miniature home replicas – inside and out – for her latest gallery opening, until a fateful night that alters their collective lives forever. Cue another funeral, except this time the Grahams don’t rebuild themselves – they fall apart as Grandma might have intended.

Make no mistake, Toni Collette deserves an Oscar for what Aster turns her into. As a woman whose relatives share histories of mental illness – atop her own “sleepwalking” problems (that strain her relationship with Wolff’s Peter) – Collette commits to Hereditary’s ambiguity with sinful disorientation. Dementia demons could have forcefully taken control by this point, or it’s equally plausible she’s being tailed by demonic entities after a seance awakening – but either way, the game is constantly afoot.

Her dioramas begin mirroring the family’s earned tragedies, she begins waking up standing over Peter’s bed (again), and her erratic outbursts range from chattering hysterics to legitimately dangerous flexes of autopilot confusion. Collette reaches genre superstardom alongside Rosemary’s Baby, The Babadook and other top-tier horror mothers. She’s this year’s current actress to beat.

Hereditary-Sundance-Review

Aster himself is a master of tone, in that Hereditary relentlessly disallows us to draw even a single breath. Once Peter’s car veers jerkily to avoid highway roadkill, the film *never* releases audiences from its frozen constriction. First with a long-hold on crime scene gore that we beg to be removed, then as a shattered family attempts to grieve, and finally with cultist overtones that submerge an antique woodland home in piss-your-pants realities. Aster doesn’t just terrify his audience, he flirts with the devil to achieve transcendent levels of torment.

Sequences play an excruciatingly long game, always ending with a yell, or flail or jump behind some kind of optical barrier. There is a shot – that I will call *the* shot – worthy of top terror honors come any cinematic year (tied with 2018’s Pyewacket, based on similarity). A pitch black cold open, a hidden surprise for eyes once they fully adjust (bonus enjoyment if you catch said “treat” before other audience members like I did). And the last ten-or-so minutes? Start prepping now (wire usage, corpses, dangling accents, levitation, etc).

Of course, this isn’t just a haunted house ride. Much like A24’s other popular slow-burner The Witch, Aster goes “elevated genre” (lol, that phrase) by intertwining cinematography with Annie’s diorama architecture. Framing often starts on one of Annie’s scaled miniatures – say their own house – and will fixate closer until we’ve been transported into the actual room itself (seamless editing). It’s a clean, clever transition that also paints a picture of Annie’s sanity, recreating what pains and disables her to be displayed in an art gallery. Aster manipulates our perception to drive his own blurry narrative – how can we trust a troubled woman who exploits personal tragedy as “a neutral view of the accident?”

Hereditary

As odd as this is to say, Hereditary captures scenery with very Game Night similarities (dope cinematography, yo). As Game Night mimicks board game views from above (blurred surroundings, hard focus on center), Aster uses this same style to make buildings appear as Annie’s model replicas in addition to very boxy and room-full landscapes. Rarely does the camera cut empty space for character focus, choosing to hold wall-to-wall length views. Think blueprinted schematics, as the characters themselves are being observed by a larger force. Something that enjoys destruction on high-grade levels of namesake dissonance. A family unable to run or believe, generational plans set in motion like thorns on a family tree. Artistic, angst-kissed and stupidly malevolent.

The psychologically/supernaturally embattled Collette does not carry Hereditary alone. Without Gabriel Byrne’s quiet assistance (simmering concern) and Alex Wolff’s remorseful paranoia (fear at its purest), there wouldn’t be hints of the ordinary to compare against Collette’s frenzied breakdown. Without Milly Shapiro’s owned existence as a “curious” 13-year-old who scissors the heads off birds and builds junkyard toys, that pain of loss wouldn’t be so catastrophically stinging. As genealogy walls are broken down and clues uncovered, Wolff’s performance becomes a reflection of our own reactions – his scared, unsettled gaze so frightened by what could happen next (with earned reason). Such strength in acting, so much hurt thickened by a genre filter.

Remember when The Witch coasted on “scariest movie of your puny existence” hype? Unfortunately – at no fault to Robert Eggers and his team – “deceptive” marketing ran with a few choice quotes that warped expectations. Hereditary – on the other hand – is a rare case where hyperbole is required.

It’s a tonal masterclass that delves into ubiquitous genre-bending devastation with no allowable escape, plotted admirably and wound tightly with poison-laced barbed wire that taunts as it twists inward. Prepare to be turned-ghost pale by horrors of the mind, body and soul, unlike you’ve experienced in quite some time. This isn’t The Witch (exquisite period dread, little mainstream scares) or It Comes At Night (strong survivalist thrills scant on jumps). Ari Aster, look at what you’ve done (and burst with pride, ya mad genius).

A Vigilante Review [SXSW 2018]

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A Vigilante is one bitter taste of gender-fueled revenge that doesn’t immediately kick-you-in-the-teeth, yet still packs its punches in small but measured doses. I applaud the film Sarah Daggar-Nickson created versus the one preconceptions made me assume. Women protagonists in these positions are usually subjected to unspeakably demeaning atrocities (shown to viewers) – hence why “rape revenge” is an entire subgenre – but Nickson doesn’t require such instigation. Enter a grieving female forced into action, failed by systems and teachings ingrained in our societal constructs that make victims out of the innocent. You’ll get your revenge here, but more importantly, the message that comes along with it. Harrowingly doled out, bloody-knuckled and raw as hell.

This isn’t I Spit On Your Grave. Nickson’s “hero” survives a hauntingly attainable catalyst that leads to salvation for many more current and would-be casualties. Cinematography and direction stress what’s most important, which is anything but a cheap slasher flick with “feminist” misinterpretations.

Olivia Wilde stars as Sadie, who we meet as a protector of battered women. She tried going to group therapy after her own incident ended with traumatic results, but words could only do so much. Now she passes her information to females in similar situations – except she intervenes before anything worse can happen. Their husband/boyfriend – whoever is doing the abusing – comes home, is surprised by Sadie (Krav Maga/constant trainer/survivalist) and “convinced” to leave. The client always left with her house, money and promise of no retaliation, Sadie only requesting food and enough cash until the next job. A certifiable guardian of the unheard, until Sadie’s own past comes back with its own vengeance in mind.

As you’ve read, Sadie is not a murderer as far as her jobs go. She will kill – gladly, as she informs her marks – but targets are given ample opportunity to leave willingly. Evil men are put in their place and stripped of what they don’t deserve, Nickson not needing gross-out gore or outrageous death sequences to make a point. It’s a tragic yet emboldened reassurance for women who continually find themselves trapped by words like “love,” devoted to husbands or boyfriends who need control over them – not a relationship. Yet they stay, because of societal pressures or manipulative words or a lack of empathy. Sadie is, herself, hope in a time where women must depend on each other – and need to – which is only accentuated by the lack of torture-porn emphasis. Punishment delivered, message received.

This brings us to the embattled Wilde, who packs so much pain and suffering into a form that unleashes stone-dead savagery. Whether she’s beating the stuffing out of her punching bag or knocking the next bastard husband down with a swift throat chop, Wilde’s eyes blaze like infernos that can never be extinguished. Broken by her past, but not letting that stop her from expelling demons in “productive” ways. So much sorrow and anger and self-guilt bursting out of every scene, genuinely upset by her inability to complete “jobs” for free. Male counterparts in similar roles would sleepwalk and grit their way through such arcs, but Wilde’s complexities are far more engaging even without an obsessive devotion to action set pieces.

As A Vigilante pushes forward, we learn more about Sadie’s own tragedy and how her husband (Morgan Spector) forever extinguished her soulful flame (not to be spoiled). Sadie finds herself forced into captive scenarios, faced with an equal adversary in the man who taught her every survival technique she knows (the same camping trips on which he’d also cause her harm). It’s a chilly standoff, Nickson fully aware of deserved redemption but also what finality means and what’s necessary for closure – Sadie’s “peace of mind” (relative) or a slaughtery payoff where said asshole gets his balls chopped off and stuffed up his own ass (or something similarly vile)? Nickson’s restraint and focus in these moments make for a revenge watch that’s a cut above generic takes on infinitely more involved themes – so smart about what she does and doesn’t show.

A Vigilante will be remembered for what it says about female unification, domestic abuse and what every human deserves in life – not action, not bloody retribution. Death Wish is just the most recent attempt, but plenty of other films miss the point about what makes these scenarios so grave, so devastating (re: any of the I Spit On Your Grave sequels). A film so understated, silent for long stretches of time where Olivia Wilde works her body ragged just to burn even an ounce of rage that boils inside her. A woman mistreated, made to feel like she’s the issue, who weaponizes her own hatred – created by and representative of our times.

Looks like time’s up.

Blindspotting Review [SXSW 2018]

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Carlos López Estrada’s Blindspotting is the kind of cultural phenomenon that can render an audience silent, dead serious and crippled by oft-ignored realities mere seconds after striking wide-sweeping hysterics. Always reshaping, never shying from harsh realities. I lost my breath laughing, stared speechless at bleeding-raw depictions of societal fears and felt paralyzed (even ashamed) more than once – that is the power of Blindspotting. You sit down, you shut up and you listen.

Rafael Casal and Daveed Diggs spent nine years pitching and developing a screenplay that grew dishearteningly more relevant with each passing day. Almost a decade’s worth of time for correction, yet written dialogue has only sharpened its piercing sting. Casal and Diggs tumble down an incendiary rabbit hole of helplessness and unease that’s still effortlessly, invincibly “dope,” but far more vocally outraged than entertainment-driven. A sensational Ted-Talkin’ bombshell meant to obliterate comfort zones.

Estrada’s screenwriters are also his leading stars; Diggs the no-longer incarcerated Collin and Casal as Oakland white-boy thug Miles. Collin lives at a probation house and must stay out of trouble to regain his freedom, while Miles seems to find mischief around every corner. It’s hard out in Oakland for Collin, but he abides by curfews (or tries) and works a steady movers gig as instructed. Everything seems in order until Collin witnesses Officer Molina (Ethan Embry) gun down an African American perp (screaming “Don’t shoot!”) next to his truck. It’s a scene that Collin replays whether he be jogging (sees more “ghosts” above graves), passing police cruisers or just strolling the streets. Collin can either become another statistic or pursue a clean and clear path forward – if Oakland’s transforming landscape doesn’t leave him behind first.

The term “Blindspotting” comes from Collin’s ex-girlfriend/still crush Val (Janina Gavankar). It’s meant to suggest how we’re instinctually blind to what we “weren’t seeing” – Collin, for example, the Oakland native with dreads who’s trying to straighten his life out could otherwise be viewed as a career criminal. In reality, his best friend Miles is the more classic definition of a hood gangster with his new pistol and destructively short temper, while Collin abides by probation rules and drinks $10 juice blends each morning. That’s not what others see, though. That’s not what Officer Molina saw when he gunned down a man who could have easily been Collin. As Val remarks, who would lawmen shoot first if Collin and Miles were involved in some kind of altercation – the caucasian boy or his dark-skinned friend with an identifiable hairstyle?

Consider race a starting point, as Miles struggles with his own conflicts surrounding Oakland’s gentrifying neighborhoods. A tatted-up, grill-wearin’ tough guy who grew up on Oakland’s streets, now defined a “poser” by some transplant who knows not of what he speaks (Mile’s Oakland). Sensitivity gone numb, Miles now sharing the same geographical neck tattoo as some tech startup boss who “found himself” in this new idyllic city. Someone like Miles, as you expect, takes offense to his experience being belittled and ignored while privilege overtakes what used to be a full-out jungle – nothing but disrespect and ignorance shown towards those who suffered and fought first.

Casal and Diggs take everything into consideration with Blindspotting. This isn’t just some angsty plea for cheaper bottled drinks or a weak attempt to capitalize on national tragedies. By spotlighting gentrification, racism becomes part of the equation. When handling themes of disenfranchisement, poverty must be addressed. Collin and Miles, for example, are tasked with “cleaning out” a dilapidated shack previously owned by unwealthy tenants – literally throwing away their memories so wealthy realtors can erase “ugly” blemishes in favor of a marketable new prepster dream home. Scene to scene, Estrada oversees crisp transitioning between what’s taken for granted in a manner you can’t ignore. Foreign to those of us lucky enough to not quantify such change, degradation, and shackled paranoia, now openly shared.

That’s not to say entertainment is forgone. In the same way common folk sling humor to relieve stress, Blindspotting benefits from mile-a-minute jabbing between characters who do the same. A hilarious tone-setting probation violation serves as an introduction to the film’s lenient but serious tone, trapping Collin inside his bud’s pimped-out ride with six different firearms. Stakes absolutely real, attitudes sarcastic and comical. You better believe hipsters are mocked every chance Collin and Miles get – obnoxious bikes with novelty-sized wheels, Vegan burger joints, calling white bros everything from Topher Grace to Jason Biggs – and we’re allowed to snicker. Trust me. You’ll know when to burst out laughing just like you’ll be prompted to zip those lips and wake up – two elements that are extremely crucial to delivery.

Of course, you all know Daveed Diggs from Broadway’s Hamilton – and yes, he does lyricize. Casal himself an accomplished beat-poet who does the same. Maybe it’s just knockaround rhyming to kill time (“…hung up in the hood until I’m discarded…”) or maybe it’s a nightmare Collin has that turns his courtroom ruling into a red-and-blue lit music video where Miles drops bars like gunshots (astoundingly prolific). Messabout freestyling becomes the rhythmic pulse of Blindspotting, until Collin’s third act mic drop brings existence to a crashing halt. A moment so profound, so prophetically overtaking, so rooted in Def Jam’s heavyweight class, that it weaponizes song and drops a nuclear-sized truth like it’s another day at the office for Diggs. Straight fire.

Estrada’s vision is crucial when defining old-school Oakland and new-age hipsterville. Something as simple as an opening montage of side-by-side pictures that paint a comical before-and-after. Awkward dance club scenes versus local swagger, ridiculous biker dude spliced alongside an Oakland boy popping wheelies on his road cruiser. It’s the little things, but even Collin’s mama remarks about how she’s not leaving her neighborhood because “We just got good food!” Lots of Oakland Raiders and Golden State Warriors references, startup partiers flocking around a “rad” Uber ride for selfie opportunities – all from Collin and Miles’ perspective. The picture is painted clearly and satirically, without exaggeration. Zero deniability.

There’s no way around it – Casal and Diggs are superstars together. Casal the “entrepreneurial” grifter who can flip a run-down boat for $300 (amazing dealmaker scene) and also the immature family man who risks everything for “protection” (a frozen audience moment). Diggs the frustrated but positive-thinking ex-con with a violent past (an epic story when told by an excitable bar patron, horrifying from Val’s perspective), saved by unstoppable flows and classified by his surroundings. Both with the power to lighten up moods and drop a Spike Lee sized hammer with equal presence (their “n___” argument a standout). Supporting roles play their parts from wives (Jasmine Cephas Jones) to storytellers (Utkarsh Ambudkar), but Casal and Diggs’ explosive energies make Chernobyl look like a campfire. Chemistry class is in session.

Blindspotting is like a heavier Bodied – both tremendously unstoppable in their missions, but Casal and Diggs with more provocation. Somehow (you’ll understand after seeing Bodied). At the film’s most vulnerable, Miles looks at Collin and asks a simple, “You good?” A shaken Collin responds, “No.” Miles then cracks Collin’s juice, chokes down some nasty-ass green health sludge as a gesture of distraction, and they’re back to bantering about how the Raiders are moving to Las Vegas. Still shook, still unwell, but proceeding only as they can.

Knowing something has to change, both men looking forward and to society as a means of reform. This is, in large part, what Blindspotting means to me. How we all need to stop seeing what we want, to respect cultures and circumstance, to read surroundings and not assume unearned privilege. Goddamn if Blindspotting doesn’t drill that point home fierce and furious.

Unsane Review

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Steven Soderbergh’s Unsane sacrificially evaluates if Apple’s iPhone videography can sustain a traditional narrative feature (no joke, every single scene). It’s not the first time bulky cameras have been swapped for iPhone recorders – look at Hooked Up or numerous horror anthology entries – but Unsane differentiates itself by ignoring found footage confines. Soderbergh goes guerilla and brings to “life” a psych-ward paranoia thriller with unsettled stalker overtones via smartphone. Always rolling with his handheld device, never breaking from mission. It’s a gamble, and one that shakily opens like a YouTuber who discovered blue gel filters for the first time – never gaining momentum, but not always at the fault of cinematography.

Claire Foy stars as Sawyer Valentini, a bank employee settling into her Pennsylvania transfer ever since bailing on Boston because of a stalker. She tries to put the ordeal behind her, but still sees her pursuer – David Strine (Joshua Leonard) – everywhere she goes. This brings Sawyer to a psychiatrist where she reveals past suicidal thoughts, but instead of being released after her session, she’s involuntarily committed “for her own safety” to the hospital’s psych ward. Sawyer, scared for her life, tries everything to escape. Left alone with no answers she lashes out, but that’s only the beginning of her problems when Mr. Stalker shows up as an orderly – or so she believes.

To accept Jonathan Bernstein and James Greer’s romanceless nightmare, one has to suspend insurmountable depths of belief. Far beyond an institutional conspiracy behind caretaking facilities that lock away patients because of their healthcare payment premiums – nothing to do with illnesses. Sawyer doesn’t belong, her insurance coverage a mere business transaction. Crazy and provocative, right? Until you consider how many times Unsane could have been stopped by insider rats with the capability to slam down program-ending hammers, or incriminating text message pictures that are avoidably ignored (like, with effort), or a slew of outbursts that ignore *every* bit of advice uttered.

I get it – Unsane wants to play cuckoo’s nest game of is-she-or-isn’t-she insane. The problem is, Soderbergh has no command of tension or terror as Sawyer rants on about her improper lockup. She insistently does the opposite of what she’s told, gives nurses even more reason to think she’s bonkers and feeds an effortlessly consequential story with no surprises. Soderbergh a shell of his meticulously craftworthy director self.

Unsane

Some will not be bothered by restricting iPhone dimension limitations – although lens adapters *were* used – but even so, the static nature and abstract angles of Unsane do nothing to represent visual chaos. Rigs are presumably handheld gyrostabilizers that achieve steady-ish shots, even if zooms are forgone because of reduced resolution. Framework struggles to provide unique perspectives beyond single-set placements that hold on viewpoints for stretched takes (no dollies or carts). Padded rooms become boxy landscapes as someone squeezes into a corner crevasse to maximize wall-to-wall coverage. I do believe that in small doses and stuck to specific narrations, this new-age camerawork can shine tonally (dirtier, all focused, a bit distorted) – yet Unsane sees no benefit. It’s inconsequential cinematography for an otherwise terrifying human obsession piece.

Foy, as a strung-out object of unwanted affection, crumbles under the weight of her pursuer’s perverse courtship. Unsane is everything misconstrued by the proverbial “nice guy” syndrome seen time and time again. Warped and transformed into horror fodder nonetheless (“The Gift Of Fear”), and less subtle about delivery than a film like Nacho Vigalondo’s Colossal. Foy is wounded, paranoid, devastated – abused for pleasure and not supported by worthwhile storytelling. Sawyer is a victim whose emotional trauma is physicalized in radical fashion as she’s trapped, harmed and made the princess of someone else’s fantasy in quite an (intentionally) disgusting way – it’s just so, so much without a statement to make. The film pushes and prods, but in a predictably and vigorless way.

You may read Unsane as “cheap” and campy – according to fellow theatergoers – but my reading was a more dire, serious tone. Never does Soderbergh’s projection strike me as B-movieness or popcorn entertainment. His mix of arthouse iPhone Hollywood and downplayed character accentuation (by way of misrepresented screen shrinkage) makes for a thriller that fails to spike excitement via a villain who’s always right where he has to be. Leonard a truly disturbed creeper, but one who pulls every horror cliche in the book. Soderbergh has done more with – well, never less – but still, development leaves so much to be desired as Strine pops around the umpteenth corner just when we think he’s finally been duped.

Honestly, bless microbudget horror and bless Steven Soderbergh’s continued interest in producing challenge-first cinema. Visions are meant to be chased but in the case of Unsane, execution feels every bit as barebones and exhaustingly experimental as trailers/marketing materials have indicated. Actors like Jay Pharoah exist to mislead real threats versus diagnosed mental breakdowns, but never with convincing scripted structures to back this imprisoned “patients of profit” yarn. There’s a medical sector satire hidden somewhere behind stooge nurses who turn a blind eye to hard evidence, equally true of manipulative male possession mindsets and the collateral damage caused. Us robbed of its sadistic premise by a screen experience that walls audiences out – iPhone videos better left for social media.


Wildling Review [SXSW 2018]

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Fritz Böhm’s Wildling is a tooth-and-nail sensuality tale that’s endearingly genrefied upon first and second acts, but millimeters short of a howlin’ good finish. Woodland legends are told and beastly savages teased, all while coming-of-self complexities of the female experience run a strong thematic current. An adolescent girl who is left to fend for herself against aggressive teenage boys, departed parents and womanly welcomings that are otherwise treated as dangerously unleashed. So much to say while transformation hints are contained, relevant in a world of sheltered realities. Love in a time of hairballs – with much more to show, I promise.

Explorations center around Anna (Bel Powley), who is found heavily medicated and detached from reality. “Daddy” (Brad Dourif) kept her locked away from the world, feeding the child fables about “Wildlings” who’d come and eat her if she escaped into the thick wilderness. Doctors want to shove the scared, forlorn child into foster care, but Sheriff Ellen Cooper (Liv Tyler) volunteers to play caretaker until legal requirements state otherwise. It’s Ellen, her new wild-child and crush-worthy brother Ray (Collin Kelly-Sordelet) – a band of misfits unprepared to face the reality of Anna’s progressing condition.

Take note of how Wildling builds a well-trained first two acts before committing to an otherwise unquestioning finale. Anna’s sexual navigation gives womanhood a primal coating of feral fascination throughout Böhm’s more focused sequences. The “father” who injected chemical cocktails that prevented maturity, the schmucks who pursue her, the nice guy she favors – all until a very creature-feature third act cares more about barking at the moon. Never “bad,” but thematically stunted despite Anna’s parallels to “Wildling” folklore – or how the film defines connections, at least. Subtle dualities are abandoned for furry-faced attacks. Just an expected culmination that’s a little less thoughtful than inquisitive beginnings.

For me, late stumbles have something to do with Brad Dourif’s mountain-man act that he plays with reclusive and deceptive regard. Not the actor’s fault at all, more his second-half retribution arc. “Daddy’s” first on-screen moments are with a tot-sized Anna in her metal-barred “cage,” up until she’s freed by what should have been his last action. Instead, he’s kept on life support only to recover and realize the fault in his ways, turning Wildling from a lawful chase (Anna flees from judicial danger) into the mercenary roundup Böhm ends on. As is, it’s a case of having your emotionally-aware cake but also a second cake baked with blood, physical slashings and animalistic action – and devouring both. Indulgent, but a bit too filling.

Wildling

The make-or-break factor here is Bel Powley and her transformative performance from captive prisoner into blossomed rosebud. Anna forever will remember Daddy’s manipulative teachings and the life he robbed her of, which doubles as a metaphor for fatherly fears for their daughter’s sexual awakenings. Tyler’s female influence is the introduction into a new chapter for Powley’s wide-eyed curiosity; a sensory overload filled with cute boys and unquenchable hormonal thirsts. It’s such a careful becoming that Powley owns in all its dark mysticism, torn from folklore but with a human, untamed heart.

Also noted is Böhm’s commitment to visuals in Wildling – a slick creature-feature that shies not from bloody material. Be it torn flesh, pulled teeth or werewolf-to-be contortions, horrific designs are no secondary additives. “Daddy’s” Wildling hides not under midnight blankets – be it hallucination or legend in the skin – with presence worth framing. Cinematographer Toby Oliver (Get Out/Insidious: The Last Key) casts a grim shadow that accentuates severity over womanly feelings and monster makeup alike – which comes in handy given some minimal makeup work at times.

Wildling is a horror-fueled metamorphosis so rooted in parental fears and the freedoms we all deserve to experience. A young girl robbed of her innocence discovers puberty for the first time only to have tinges of The Howling become a reality. We’ve seen sex and horror blur primitive lines before – monsters whose attacks become vaguely erotic in nature – but there’s a sweetness Fritz Böhm hits on behind gnashing fangs. Themes that stretch farther than predatory assertions or comedic wolf(wo)man visions. Final minutes are a bit cop-out in my opinion, but that doesn’t distract from this prickly teenage nightmare that reels us in like bait on a line.

Blue My Mind Review [What The Fest!? 2018]

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There’s been a quite interesting subgenre outburst of late that draws parallel relationships between coming-of-age sexual awakenings and creature transformations. Werewolves, amphibious swimmers, forest beasties – films like Blue My Mind, about bodily explorations based on youthful changes that cannot be contained. Director Lisa Brühlmann focuses not on vicious animal attacks as Wildling or The Lure does, falling more in line with something heady like When Animals Dream. How perfect a metaphor? Straight forward soul-searching dramas of youth like Lady Bird and The Edge Of Seventeen are not without their own “monster moments” – genrefication just adds another uninhibited layer of depth and scaly intrigue.

Brühlmann’s muse is 15-year-old Mia (Luna Wedler), dropped into a new hometown after her parents’ recent move. This means finding new friends and avoiding “fresh meat” hazing at school, which she does by befriending posh cool-girl Gianna (Zoë Pastelle Holthuizen). After a few showings of good faith, Mia finds herself invited to boozy lakeside parties with plenty of boys and newfound temptations. She’s becoming a woman as so many have before, except with odder side effects like a thin film between her toes and general hunger for fishy proteins (alive or dead). Like navigating hormones and social status wasn’t hard enough without maybe possibly becoming a mermaid?

Brühlmann’s Swiss influences are so tartly European and whimsically suitable given Mia’s Animorphs journey. Both the primal and human mesh under circumstances that are not foreign to childhood experience, but acceptance makes the absurd appear normal. A girl whose appendages begin fusing together, legs discolored, eating habits ten grades beyond sushi – there is respected mystery about Mia’s condition, but never with distracting regard. A transformation is happening and, much like puberty, there’s no stopping it – a constant theme in all these hormonal changeling stories. Shock and awe substituted for natural progressions, rites of passage spun in unique ways.

Specific to Blue My Mind, Brühlmann opens and closes on foamy coastal shorelines that bookend a constant soundtrack of gurgling underwater rushes. Mia, unaware of her true heritage, forced to navigate her own becoming whilst also fighting inhibitions that rage like a seesaw caught in cyclone winds. Parents, sexual partners, friendships – every relationship Mia cultivates hangs in flux whether she wants it or not. There’s a commentary about control and perception here – the Mia alcohol allows versus the Mia curled up by her window – and it’s all very appropriate for the fumblings we attribute to teenage unawareness. If only a bit darker, unstoppable and so very gender-centric in hows boys vs. girls are allowed to explore new feelings.

Much of actress Luna Wedler’s sympathetic findings hinge on her ability to dance tumultuously between so many emotions. Popularity is easy to find upon the introduction of all-black wearing “alpha” classmates (Adidas clothing for days), thus instigating her sexual quest of tangled limbs and “bimbo” acts – but this is not all. Family arcs build drama at home while physical pain is inflicted as she performs self-surgery to prevent fishy qualities from advancing (some queasy body horror at play, albeit subdued). Wedler is so lost in her character’s body with expressive showings that range from dispiriting and tragic (taken advantage at a sex party) to poetically understated. It’d be a sunken arc without influence from booty-shakin’ friends or worrisome parentals, but Mia finds herself with no shortage of youthful representation.

Additionally, Blue My Mind looks crisply gorgeous. Cinematography is sharp and contrasting based on what’s happening in scene – amusement park Connyland sunkissed with innocence while basement fiestas are saturated with neon glows – in very composed and artfully indulgent ways. It’s a hypersensitive spotlight that displays volatility. Apartment scoldings all happen in drab modern blandness while loosened gallantry perks in location presence. It’s a flowing river of disrupted tranquility that ripples through each and every scene, water related sounds always proving the loudest audible cues. No one sense ever overpowered, cinema in synchrony.

Blue My Mind is a provocative Swiss origin story about sex, drugs and trials no person can possibly be prepared for. Whether Mia’s transformation is true or a ruse, the proposition of underwater DNA is only bested by Lisa Brühlmann’s execution. A story of one girl trying so desperately to escape her own self that she’ll try being anyone to force away her fate – scared, inquisitive, unable to comprehend the changes occurring. It is, without question, a wonderful metaphor that holds a mirror without ever making it obvious to audiences – mermaid folklore or not.

Deep Blue Sea 2 Review

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As Renny Harlin’s Deep Blue Sea continues to be eulogized as B-grade, feeding-frenzy excellence (now and forever), Darin Scott’s Deep Blue Sea 2 will be forgotten, ignored and seen only as malodorous sequel chum. How *dare* drug-doped supersharks be associated with such a nonsensically rudderless dive, as submerged survival “fun” is drained well before the dam breaks wide open. Restrained budgets are one thing, but a three-person writing team’s concocted solution around big-budget finback effects is a middle-finger to Harlin’s masterful underwater massacre (in comparison). Hell, even Shark Night 3D looks infallible next to this Open Water 3: Cage Dive of a franchise torpedo.

You know what – apologies. We’re going full-on spoilers for the rest of this review. Read at your own risk. Frustration is bubbling over at an aggressive rate that needs to be addresses through cathartic ranting. You’ve been warned, those who want a fresh (water) experience.

In this exact-f*#king-ripoff of Deep Blue Sea, Michael Beach plays a lunatic pharmaceutical company billionaire who’s using Bull sharks as test subjects. Why? Because Carl Durant (Beach) believes robots will eventually take over the world, so he’s hellbent on creating an intelligence enhancer that requires shark antibodies for optimal usage. In his mind, it’s the only way humanity can survive inevitable “Skynet” overtakings – keeping us one step ahead of the machines (no, for real, the doomsday subplot is a big deal). Of course nature cannot be tamed, and the likes of operations manager Trent Slater (Rob Mayes), species specialist Misty Calhoun (Danielle Savre), tech guru Aaron Ellroy (Nathan Lynn) – plus some others – find themselves swimming/wading/floating on mattresses away from genetically enhanced sharks.

Wait, hold on. Let me correct myself because the five full-sized, mean-as-hell, so-smart-they-dig-under-electric-fences adult sharks *never enter the breached facility.* Instead, pack leader “Bella” births a swarm of piranha-like baby sharkies who float through Akheilos Complex like a flesh-snapping Pac-Man game. The mass of swirling runts are mostly represented by goddamn air bubbles in the cheapest, least fulfilling way – a few times CGI jumpers resemble those gummy shark candies (which, of course, make a screen cameo). AND WHY CAN WE HEAR THEM SQUAWKING BELOW THE SURFACE?!  In other words, get ready to angrily curse out this bastard misrepresentation of the title “Deep Blue Sea.”

Where to even go from here? The entire film is a three-headed-beast that continues to tangle itself out of untamed stupidity. The more Durant talks about his technophobia and strikes epiphany “knowledge explosions” (chugs his prototype serum, then a blast of binary and elemental formulas flash on screen – for real), the worse his desire to kill everyone trapped inside Akheilos becomes. Not that characters need much help dying, except the ones who swim through open water only to find a curious lack of charging predators? Supporting Character #1 takes two flipper pumps into darkened seas and he’s tonight’s dinner – but Misty can out-freakin-swim a matured, angry pursuer?! By Atlantis, kill them all.

Deep Blue Sea 2 thinks it’s having fun. Splashing around in the kiddie pool, perhaps. Gruesome deaths layer on thick helpings of CGI gore (gross, but boo), Trent’s unfazed New Yorker machismo is C-level 80s hero and Aaron’s very existence proves that Scott’s screenwriters have *no* idea how genre tension works. “Sharks don’t like the taste of nerds!” NO. AARON SHOULDN’T BE ALIVE. AARON SHOULD BE SO F(#KING DEAD THAT THE ONLY THING LEFT ARE HIS BONES. For reference: Aaron’s dragged out of focus during a last-ditch swim to topside safety, disappears while Misty and Trent back-to-back flare gun Bella (or whatever shark) to death like a bad Charlie’s Angels episode, then Aaron pops back up with only a chewed sneaker – not horribly disfigured – after, like, literal minutes? The logic flaws in this film make Sharktopus Vs. Whalewolf look like it was written by Aaron Sorkin and Jacques Cousteau.

Flooded hallways are marked with three distinct colored light filters – red, green and blue – because Scott didn’t think we’d be able to differentiate between metallic corridors that all look the same. Actually, good move. It’s the only intriguing set design concept given how close-ups on scuba scenes do a poor job hiding dive pools. Otherwise Durant’s facility is a less spacious rehash of the original film’s submersed laboratory maze – like, 90% connecting tubes as per each survivor’s exploration. Just a bunch of walkways for baby sharks to zip down, sucking people underwater in the process (red clouding follows). Ah, nothing like a cop-out shark flick (even below-surface camera work is murky and unappealing).

Do we enjoy watching Mike (Adrian Collins) curse out Bella’s clan right before an homage kill to Samuel L. Jackson’s submersible pool monologue demise? Barely. Will you laugh when Scott cuts to a shark floating outside Durant’s HQ window like she’s spying on the mad scientist? Yes, and you should. Is it possible for Misty’s wetsuit to ever be closed past her cleavage, or are full zippers on women’s waterwear only for show? Not sure, ask Trent when he’s *not posing with power tools so Misty can check out his biceps.* Sweet Poseidon’s trident, next you’ll tell me there’s an entirely pointless sequence of Misty changing out of soaked clothing so we can score some sweet lingerie ogling – oh wait, I’M TELLING YOU THAT BECAUSE IT HAPPENS.

Deep Blue Sea 2 has all the excitement of a lazy river float, except even alcohol won’t make this capsized disaster any more tolerable. All man-eater talk and face-nibbler action. Don’t be distracted by sloppy intestinal drips or limbless torsos – this is *not* the B-stunner Deep Blue Sea is. It’s not even in the same Olympic sized swimming pool. Darin Scott’s unfortunate attempt at summer fun is a floundering aquatic sequel, flopping around on land where it’s gasping for air or wishing for death. It’s not even worth a trophy to any passing fishermen. My, how utterly joyless this film experience and review has left me. One can only hope The Meg swallows up any lingering memories (aka nightmares).

Avengers: Infinity War Review

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Avengers: Infinity War reviews, what are they good for? Let’s be honest – not much. Marvel’s cinematic branch has been steamrolling its way towards 2018’s inevitable roster shakedown since 2008’s Iron Man, nary a hiccup or roadblock to count (eh, The Incredible Hulk, Thor: The Dark World). Kevin Feige has effectively reshaped modern blockbuster culture for ten years (and counting), all signs pointing towards this interdimensional doomsday event teased by Thanos’ first post-credits cameo in 2012’s The Avengers. Mission accomplished, achievement unlocked, and now it’s time to see what new box office records Marvel can break. Could Black Panther be dethroned already? (I’m doubling-down on “No.”)

Right, you’ve clicked here for a reason – who am I to deny some early hot-off-the-presses buzz?

“Was it all worth it? The origins, sequels, and spinoffs? Did Marvel answer our prayers?” Yes(ish). No mincing of words. Avengers: Infinity War could have been an easy victim of expectations and brand loyalty, but – especially for “Cosmic Marvel” fans (Guardians/Doctor Strange/Thor) – Joe and Anthony Russo wrestle with franchise-defining stakes like Olympic athletes. At just South of three hours, the movie boogies from start to finish (only to take momentary breathers so Star-Lord and Tony Stark can bicker like infantile man-children vying to prove whose is bigger). *Hard* sci-fi fans are in for a swirling galactic planet-hopper rotating around Thanos’ mighty gravitational pull, torn from the very pages of Marvel’s comic storylines.

Alas, if only it all felt a bit less “Part I-y” – but we’ll get there.

The premise is simple – Thanos (Josh Brolin) embarks on a mission with his Black Order squadron to collect all six Infinity Stones. With a specially-forged golden gauntlet, the Stones’ power could wipe out half of Earth’s population if Thanos were to simply snap his fingers. Looks like it’s Avengers time! Captain America (Chris Evans) is back (with beard), Bruce Banner (Mark Ruffalo) gets beamed home, Tony Stark (Robert Downey Jr.) and Spider-Man (Tom Holland) continue their mentor-mentee relationship – I could be here all day listing every Marvel hero who joins the fight. Thor (Chris Hemsworth), Winter Soldier (Sebastian Stan), the Guardians…it’s everyone versus Thanos. All hands on deck.

Marvel’s wunderkind Russo brothers – in addition to screenwriters Christopher Markus and Stephen McFeely – faced a Hulk-sized task of not only ushering doom unto the Avengers’ doorstep, but honoring the singular developments of too many superheroes who have all benefited from hand-picked groomers (origin creators). Your Black Panther (Chadwick Boseman) and Gamora (Zoe Saldana) types. Wholly different characters signified not only by personality but surroundings as well (James Gunn’s cartoonish Looney Tunes galaxy, Coogler’s African Wakanda representation). A veritable MCU melting pot – pulled off with more seamlessness than expected.

It’s not *all* perfection, though.

For how tremendous Okoye’s (Danai Gurira) comments are when calling out the Avengers’ bullshit (my heart, be still), there’s a struggle to maintain Star-Lord’s maverick roguishness and inappropriate sense of humor (lookin’ at your “grenade testicles” joke, striving to be ”Gunny” but missing the mark). Drax (Dave Bautista) and Mantis (Pom Klementieff) continue to cement their place as the MCU’s unsung comedic relief, Doctor Strange (Benedict Cumberbatch) proves to be a far-superior supporting hero versus singular protagonist, but other arcs jumble together with *so* many heroes on screen. Mainly how almost every white male hero is driven by some form of ego. Not Ego, the Living Planet FYI. Tony, Star-Lord, Strange, Thor – the obvious offenders. Kudos to Avengers: Infinity War for staying away from *too* much head-butting between these similarly driven arcs…save for one anticlimactic act of selfishness.

Without mentioning spoilers but touching on problem areas, Thanos’ presence erases some wonderful character building that James Gunn established between Star-Lord and Gamora. We all know the latter is the daughter of the Mad Titan, and their relationship *had* to be addressed through interaction – but not this way. Guardians Of The Galaxy and its sequel work so well to balance Star-Lord and Gamora as equal players (Gamora the stronger, even). In Avengers: Infinity War, though, Gamora – one of the MCU’s forefront female warriors – is relegated to the status of “girlfriend pawn.” Star-Lord pushed frontwards when they should be treated side-by-side. This is quite possibly the worst look of the entire film; a black eye that mishandles two of my favorite Marvel heroes.

A true treat for fans will be the meet-ups and eventual team-ups – my favorite being a side-adventure featuring Thor, Rocket (Bradley Cooper) and Groot (Vin Diesel). Tony’s frustration with Drax’s blunt nature is good for chuckles, too, but a talking raccoon, a Norse legend and sentient tree walk into a floating space forgery. What’s not to love? The novelty of characters colliding is not lost on this critic: Drax’s comparison of Thor (a “man”) to Star-Lord (a “dude) instills lasting insecurity, Tony and Strange’s mental jabbing evolves beyond brainiac outshines, and chills shot up my spine when Cap’s crew (Anthony Mackie’s Falcon, Scarlett Johansson’s Black Widow) fly into Wakanda for the first time. We’ve been waiting *years* for such cross-hatching – and the Russos don’t squander the opportunity (see Spider-Man, Iron Man and Doctor Strange’s cape pulling off an escape plan based on a famous Sigourney Weaver film).

Let me make this next point very clear: Avengers: Infinity War should still be called Avengers Infinity War: Part I. Expect half a movie, plenty of cliffhangers, and winks towards the camera too preoccupied with what comes next. For instance, Banner – another unfortunate casualty of too much content and too little time (even at almost three hours) – repeatedly reminds us that his Hulk “performance issue” won’t be figured out until the next film.

Furthermore, at such a daunting length, plot movement is still driven by the most coincidence-first storytelling that disassembles with a projected warning (Thanos’ mercy is…suspect). Don’t get me wrong, pacing is on-point and can be described as a full-on sprint from start to finish, but it’s still disappointingly formulaic. Stakes are high, but are they *sincerely* capitalized on?

What’s funny is how I started writing this thinking “Gee, how am I going to review Avengers: Infinity War based on how almost everything could be a spoiler?” Guess it’s not that hard after all, but I promise, I’m wrapping up shortly.

Let’s talk action next, because you’re here for a Marvel movie. The Avengers leveled New York City when fending off Loki and Thanos’ Chitauri army, Age Of Ultron lifted Sokovia into the air and crashed it down *hard,* so how would Avengers: Infinity War compare? Frantically, furiously and without care for structural integrity.

For how much genocide Thanos commits offscreen (Xandar eliminated, Asgardians slaughtered), there’s still *plenty* of warfare to enact. The Black Order spar with Avengers intermittently as the hunt for Infinity Stones presses on, but you’re here for Wakanda’s border defense in terms of all-out war. M’Baku (Winston Duke) by his king’s side, Bucky brandishing his vibranium arm, Cap’s task force ready to beat the snot out of charging Outriders who spill from Thanos’ transport ships – jarring chaos, but enough CGI baddy-bashing for defensive hold-the-line intensity. Shout out to the ladies of Marvel as well, who once again shine brightest, as Scarlet Witch (Elizabeth Olsen), Black Widow and Okoye face off against Proxima Midnight (Carrie Coon) – my favorite flash of fight choreography in Avengers: Infinity War. Violence is a little less pose-heavy, too, with smiles and laughs replaced by stern grimaces.

I’ve gone this far without dissecting Thanos, but fret not, for it’s not out of spite. Josh Brolin’s monstrous supervillain brings to Marvel not only a fear-of-God adversary, but tonal darkness that inches closer to direness than ever before. Tony’s sarcasm or Bruce’s stammering wits may strike a few laughs, but when Thanos stomps into frame, a hush falls upon crowds and saviors alike.

His motivations are warped by self-righteousness – Thanos travels to overpopulated planets and eradicates half the civilization – because he believes he’s keeping natural order. Look no further than his grin upon telling Gamora her homeworld is now thriving, and civilians have full bellies. Brolin is on the verge of making us sympathize with the heartless warmonger, but brings about an evilness rooted in humanity and cultism. Not a walking supercomputer, no incredible shrinking man – just a self-anointed deity who could, like that *snaps,* wipe out everything we know and love about the MCU.

Can you feel my confliction permeating your [insert device] screen? This madness must end. Marvelites, enjoy Avengers: Infinity War. Soak in a more artistically-inclined adventure that I liken to Star Wars: The Last Jedi in terms of comparative cinematics when pitted against inter-franchise entries. Roll with a flurry of punches that come million-dollar-baby fast, appreciate the universe-building and sweat a few beads at the thought of Thanos crushing your favorite Avengers’ skull – just don’t expect a standalone feature.

Expect questions, some incidental plotting and Bruce Banner just kind of pointing out exposition that the film briskly glances over. This is without a doubt the movie “event” of the summer. But “movie” of the summer? That’ll be up for debate.

Tremors: A Cold Day in Hell Review

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Before you ask, yes – we still don’t have a sequel to [insert favorite one-off movie], but we *do* have five Tremors continuations. Each iteration pits survivalist Burt Gummer against advanced Graboid mythology in some way, including 2018’s latest Canadian basecamp defense. Where oh where could Don Michael Paul’s frosty Tremors: A Cold Day In Hell *possibly* tunnel to next? Exactly where the title suggests. A cold day in “Hell” (otherwise known as Canada).

How…inventive?

To be fair, what’s sacrificed by not introducing a new childishly-named Graboid evolution is swapped for Burt Gummer’s (Michael Gross) PTSD freakouts and viral side effects from his digestive escape in Tremors. He’s called up North to the Nunavut province when Graboids attack ice-drilling researchers – and it’s here where he’s diagnosed with a (possibly) life-threatening affliction.

Good thing “wingman” Travis B. Welker (Jamie Kennedy) is there to impart his “father’s” wisdom and heroics unto another collection of unprepared Graboid hunters, one of whom is the nerd-out-prone daughter of Valentine McKee (Kevin Bacon from the original). Her name is Valerie McKee (Jamie-Lee Money), just in case you miss all the “dad” references. She wears Graboid-skin boots, too.

Produced by Universal’s home video branch Universal 1440 Entertainment, A Cold Day In Hell is spinning many of the same gears with a lot less grease. Scenes are slathered in orangeade-colored Graboid blood, but action itself is rather lackluster due to the film’s heavy usage of CGI and off-camera yanks. In all fairness, there is one practical Graboid that Travis gets disgustingly friendly with – only it’s sedated and non-threatening. This is, to a fault, the same Tremors formula of victims being forced to play “the ground is lava” while demo squibs blow dirt sky high to replicate Graboid movement. For the sixth, running-on-fumes time.

To be frank, animated tentacles and prickly tundra Graboids leave a lot to be optically desired. Larger Graboids stick out against reality backdrops despite their details and barbed armor being smoothed out, while mini-mouths are a bit of a pixelated eyesore. Characters flail around like circus tamers trying to predict where their foe’s dangerous post-added “arms” might be, the wavy appendages lacking rendered quality in a way that doesn’t even make them seem attached to their practical Graboid host. Practicality exists in the same way lots of thick, sludgy monster goo covers anyone within a mile radius – but expect way more lackluster CGI inserts a la straight-to-video budget saving.

In terms of tonality, A Cold Day In Hell is the peak of chucklefuckery. Laughs overtake any sense of danger; Don Michael Paul is never able to establish serious stakes even though characters like Dr. Charles Freezze (Francesco Nassimbeni) die horrible deaths (which you wouldn’t know, given they happen out of sight). Most characters suffer under this joke-first mentality, but Kennedy’s most guilty of warranting exhausted eye-rolls whether it be nonsense jabbering about if a girl is cute or shouting macho one-liners like “That’ll close the carpool lane!” Michael Gross is still the Burt Gummer we love – talking about how he’s fine like your momma on a Friday night or resilient like the boil on his ass – but supporting characters are flimsier than ever.

Complaints generally tie back to the “humor” on display, considering how we’re never presented Graboids to be feared. Imagine some machinehead named Swackhammer (Rob van Vuuren) stating he’ll “honeybadger the shit” out of a Graboid, or mutter something about dropping turds in a punch bowl – then he dance-distracts a charging Graboid while chucking dynamite in wide-open terrain. This redneck lunatic jiving to a generic cover of “Mustang Sally,” tossing explosives that apparently keep the film’s titular beast bouncing back-and-forth like a pinball. Surely he can’t survive, right? WRONG. He’s safe, and worse is how the film doesn’t even address escape possibilities. Cue a cutaway to characters bounding back inside a “safe” research facility, Swackhammer none the worse.

tremors cold day

You’re not watching Tremors for logical plotting – I get that. BUT, a little more than lined-up deaths would be nice. For instance, this poor nurse gets hooked by a Graboid reaching through some window opening and we watch as Burt and Travis attempt to pull her free (drawn out for at least 30-seconds). Everyone else just stands there, forcing concerned faces. No one grabs for a sharp object. It’s the worst tug-of-war imaginable followed by an eventual death that ends with Ms. Medical Lady snapped up as an afternoon snack. Shocked glances read as “we did all we could do,” but, like, did you really?

All this rambling for a subterranean scourge that’s growing weaker by the entry – to my disappointment – doesn’t feel worthwhile. Would I like to love a Tremors film that pays homage to Jaws’ opening? Naturally, if – after six films – characters still didn’t ignore Burt’s initial warnings and scamper to their deaths by running over Graboid turf. If *every* *single* *death* didn’t capture bodies being dragged off camera or even less (a quick cutaway the minute things get nasty). If “wackiness” didn’t overcompensate for a lack of genuine thrills. Sans a few tossed limbs (did a Graboid spit them out?) and one Assblaster, Tremors: A Cold Day In Hell is a constant worm-tease that never fulfills its promise of carnage, terror, and rifle-round wisdom.

Please, I beg you to stop before we have another Hellraiser spiral into sequel oblivion on our hands.

Deadpool 2 Review

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It’s been two anxious years since Tim Miller’s Deadpool became one of my go-to superhero favorites. Two years after Ryan Reynolds re-entered Hollywood’s spandex fray with an upturned middle finger to *every* comic book movie preconception. David Leitch’s Deadpool 2 had some massive Crocs to fill in terms of time passed and anticipation stored, which – if you’ve been reading early buzz on social media – seems to be mission accomplished. “Funnier, actionier, and more in-your-face referential,” waxed Tweeters who simultaneously issued disclaimers like “As someone who didn’t enjoy Deadpool…” – an interesting assertion, in my opinion. Why? Because as someone who *massively* enjoyed Deadpool, the sequel stands as a still-raucous step backward.

To be fair, though, can you really improve on near-perfection?

Deadpool 2 is less an exploration of the Merc himself and more an excuse to make fun of Marvel’s MCU, WB’s DCEU, Fox’s X-Men and just about any other pop culture reference caught in between. This is not ”Game Over,” mind you. You’re getting a positive Deadpool 2 review. Hooray for surprises outside trailer bait that’d make Tony Stark blush and Steve Rogers puke. Yakuza thugs get hacked apart, DP ups his regeneration ante and he’s even got X-Force friends! It’s just – sigh – there’s so much detail in the prologue alone that I want to discuss given how a *major* Deadpool motivation is peddled back on for dramatic effect (which won’t be revealed, because #spoilers).

Get used to the fact that Wade Wilson wants to die. Oh so very badly. And not only because Logan had to balls to kill off Wolverine and show Deadpool up. Ryan Reynolds gets in touch with Wade’s innermost anguish thanks to the events that transpire throughout the film. Whether it’s sharing intimate John Hughes moments with metal-bunned Colossus or attempting to save abused teen mutant Russell (Julian Dennison), Deadpool’s humor evokes a bleaker death-proof purgatory. And you know what? It looks good on Reynolds. Even if the method of unlocking such pain is a major cop-out in my book.

Of course, you’re hyped for Deapool’s antics (not tongue-in-cheek Oscar drama). How many chimichanga references, what’s the gore level, how heroic is Peter – questions of this nature. Does Deadpool 2 ride sarcasm into the sunset, or whiff on nostalgic mockery dolled without restraint? The answer is the former, thanks to maximum effort.

Deadpool 2’s needle-droppin’ music licensing budget appears to be the size of three indie productions. Every action scene scores at least one emotional ballad atop otherwise vicious katana slicing, while slow-mo hip-hop jams reuse the same cool-guys-strut-together album cover staging. Deadpool’s workin’ “9 to 5” with a little help from Dolly Parton and comparing Frozen to Yentl – hell, there’s even a Bond homage (and yes, opening credit names are goofs again).

Music department choices freely skewer dire circumstances, but go a bit overboard by turning once-in-a-while surprises into habitual beats. It’s not enough to ruin the mood, but we certainly get the point three times over (except more Run The Jewels – always include more Run The Jewels).

Humor picks up exactly where Deadpool‘s foul-mouthed, mile-a-minute sarcasm left off. You’ll never see a better Basic Instinct reference, nor post-credits scene, nor cameo (cameos, even). Wade pokes fun at everyone from the Avengers to Patrick Stewart (Professor Xavier), but like with the needle drops, name bragging can cause momentary fatigue when rattled off like a snare drum roll.

Punchlines are explained beyond necessity (we get it, it’s a Basic Instinct nod) and nostalgic or geek-out burns assert focal priority. Drawn out segments pass with nary a giggle despite Cable (Josh Brolin) canonically shitting on EDM, as some jokes feel out of place even in Deadpool’s world. Mind the gaps while the Merc roasts millennials and capes alike – smaller gaps, mind you, so as not to suggest that Deadpool 2 is anything but ball-busting hilarity.

Noteworthy additions to the supporting mutant roster only bolster an already strong side crew. Zazie Beetz rocks the most unflinching poker face as Domino in contrast to Deadpool’s disbelief in “luck,” while Brolin’s time-traveling super-soldier grimaces sourly as if the titular anti-hero’s very existence is a source of volcanic agita.

Their chemistry feeds into the obnoxiously confident and ready-for-afterlife DP, alternatively to how Dennison’s “Firefist” misfit is a clashing catalyst who acts to save Deadpool from himself. I wasn’t a fan of the easy fat-shaming jokes at the expense of a “plus sized” hero in Russell, but it’s a Deadpool movie, so it’s par for the course. Other treatments make up for the standard physical jabs, too.

Then you’ve got the newly minted X-Force. Bill Skarsgård as Zeitgeist, Terry Crews as Bedlam, Lewis Tan as Shatterstar, Rob Delaney as Peter, the aforementioned Domino, and the invisible “Vanisher” (if he/she even exists). All you need to know is this could be the start of something *big* depending on how their future treatment is handled. Sweet, tender Peter – the dad-bod hero of our generation (and as funny as the trailers provide).

As Deadpool breaks the fourth wall and ridicules Rhett Reese and Paul Wernick’s script for “lazy writing,” it’s hard *not* to agree with certain microscopic dissections. Motivations are largely formulaic and reductive in comparison to 2016’s tightly-wound, lean-as-hell “origin” story. Where that film benefitted from Reynolds’ performance and a few unlikely friends (Brianna Hildebrand’s Negasonic Teenage Warhead/Stefan Kapicic’s Colossus), Deadpool 2 sacrifices evolution for in-jokes, out-jokes and any other joke Wade can verbally spew.

Cram Deadpool 2 full of new characters, turn his narcissism and Cable’s mega-blaster up to 11 and watch the fireworks explode – all while a story plays out that seems secondhand at best. It’s an overstuffed cinematic burrito that impressively holds together (XXL sized), but requires a diner’s hunched-over eating pose (re: Guy Fieri) as some forgotten morsels fall to the wayside with each hearty bite (Negasonic Teenage Warhead’s “added for substance” lesbian relationship with Yoiki, for example).

But hey, that’s small potatoes as far as most will be concerned, and like I said, lots of people are *loving* this movie. Sounds like if you really “didn’t care for” the first (a nice way of summarizing all the nasty Deadpool comments previously uttered), sequelitis won’t hit too hard. Or at all.

Alright, time to stick the landing.

Deadpool 2 will leave you in stitches from both brutal wounds and a no-fucks attitude that reign nacho supreme once again. David Leitch’s John Wick experience lends itself to a bullet-pumped opening and dangerous Act II loaded with beatdowns (camera rotations become a signature style point), while Ryan Reynolds bares it all as the Merc With A Mouth just as we’d hope.

Expect more guffaws (unfortunately this means a few more misses), more gifable pranks, and plenty of cocksure superhero berating that doesn’t care about playing “nice” in Hollywood’s sandbox – who *doesn’t* want to see Deadpool as a frustrated X-Men “Trainee?” Welcome your new recruits and embrace the Deadpoolishness we’re gifted once again. You’re still in good hands this second time around, even if the Merc’s persona is viewed more as a gimmick.

Solo: A Star Wars Story Review

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Phil Lord and Chris Miller’s Ron Howard’s Solo: A Star Wars Story fulfills advertised requirements with a workman’s attitude. You’ll meet young Han Solo, and it’s most certainly a Star Wars movie. That’s made abundantly clear by every wink-wink, nudge-nudge towards the future escapades of Lucasfilm’s famously roguish smuggler. But past that generic withstanding? You won’t find much. Mainly because Howard’s murky and uninteresting visual “spectacle” suffers the unfortunate fate of following Rian Johnson’s cosmically picturesque The Last Jedi. It’s not even fair to compare the two on cinematic appeal, but such is the precarious position Star Wars has stuck viewers in.

Nevertheless, Solo ushers in Alden Ehrenreich’s reign as interplanetary grifter Han “I Shot First” Solo. You’ll breeze through his time spent as an Empire pilot/footsoldier, cherish Chewbacca’s (Joonas Suotamo) first reveal, witness the infamous 12 (or 14) parsec Kessel Run – it’s all here. You’ll also reunite with old friends in Lando Calrissian (Donald Glover) or strike new allegiances with Crimson Dawn’s Lt. Qi’ra (Emilia Clarke) and mentor thief Tobias Beckett (Woody Harrelson). Before the carbonite, before Leia, it all starts with a crazy romantic’s plan and a dangling pair of gold dice.

You know, just in case you forget the “Solo” refers to Han Solo. He’s the pistolero with the golden Sabacc mirror ornament. The Millennium Falcon guy! You didn’t forget, right? Here’s a shot of the dice one more time just in case.

If my infantile sarcasm wasn’t enough of a tell, consider Solo one assertively nostalgic stroll down memory lane. Scripted advancement hinges on events we already foresee – Lando’s meetup, the Millennium Falcon’s breakout, Chewy’s intro – and never with more than bromance establishment on the mind. Solo’s Empire servitude doesn’t matter past learning flyboy techniques (before getting kicked out of the program) and that’s good enough for Beckett’s recruitment. You get what you pay for, which is Star Wars’ continuing saga by way of heist-themed reintroductions. You’re right to think it could be worse, *far* worse, even if we’re talking about what’s little more than a blaster-ready passage of time.

Solo is the play-it-safe, predictable “honor amongst thieves” beginner’s class to Rebel desires we knew Ron Howard could deliver. Descriptors all walk a tame line of “crowd-pleasing” and “gets the job done,” which hardly makes for an aspiring Star Wars chapter. Writers Lawrence and Jonathan Kasdan serve up a wonkily paced “adventure” with timid ambitions and awkward commitment to Wookiee dialogue, which Howard isn’t able to hyperspeed through.

Thandie Newton’s Val and Jon Favreau’s Rio are but inconsequential pawns leading towards Han’s eventual Kessel Run, exemplifying the way new additions bare no comparison to fabled legends. It’s nice to avoid burdensome “Force” talk for once in the Star Wars world, but Howard’s vision lacks the balance of Jedi masters – it’s just too tedious for a movie about space cowboys (not Clint Eastwood’s Space Cowboys, either).

That’s not to say Solo is total Bantha dookie. Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s L3-37 droid canonically confirms robot/human sex is a Star Wars universe happening, is the only character who can pace Lando’s screen domination and fights an existential battle for mechanical equality with total success. We can also now count Clint Howard as part of the Star Wars family, which *had* to be expected. Brother Ron Howard’s best work is of Kessel’s Spice Mine liberation, Han and Lando’s Sabacc duel, inclusive usage of countless alien races and a third act that finally sees Bradford Young’s cinematography breathe some kind of colorful vitality. These are all glimpses of the high-stakes Solo that fandom dreams are built on.

My major complaint returns to the aforementioned cinematography of Bradford Young, whether it was his choice or not. Specifically, the film’s color palette, which is a dull shade of shadowy grey. All the burnt siennas and bursting yellows found on Solo posters seem to have sucked the presence off theater screens, as Acts I and II hide under dimmed 80s basement lights. With all the personality of a boiled ham, some scenes are dark to the point where character faces are barely visible. It’s a strange visual style to adapt that lumps right back into the generic cookie-cutter mold of *most* Star Wars films to date, if only worse. Bless Lando’s cape closet and a sandy Coaxium stabilizing plant, then, for injecting *some* festiveness into an otherwise monochromatic pastiche.

Ehrenreich’s Han Solo may be the titular hero, but he’s outmatched by more charismatic players in Glover (smooth-as-butta Lando) and Harrelson (career lawbreaker Beckett). Han’s dynamic with Chewbacca is sometimes offbeat and Ehrenreich’s Harrison Ford “interpretation” misses slight nuances – he’s a more stone-faced, traditional hero type where Harrison cut a bit of a sharper edge. Clarke constantly steals scenes away from Ehrenreich (gotta love bladesmanship), too, and she’s far from the only one. Should this happen when your film – titled Solo – prominently originates one of Star Wars’ biggest sellers? Even Suotamo’s intergalactic Sasquatch manages an overshadowed moment or two (why does the camera focus on Chewbacca while Han and Beckett are chatting, for example).

My final verdict? An unenthusiastic but approving “¯\_(ツ)_/¯.” Solo: A Star Wars Story is just zany enough to get by on surprises like Dungeness crime lord worms and oddly framed Wookiee monologues (what’s he even saying!), yet phaser-to-head, there’s little content worth recalling. A Kessel Run Lovecraft space octopus? I’ve seen Altitude. More metallic exteriors on cloudy days under hazy color desaturation? Sounds…familiar. A story of love lost, evil scar-faced Paul Bettany bosses found and one “terrible” man learning what it takes to be “good?” That’s the Han Solo we (or I, at least) love, who still shines through in the end – it’s just a shame how this Wild West stagecoach refitting barely benefits from outer space aesthetics.


Jurassic World: Fallen Kingdom Review

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The more I reflect on Jurassic World: Fallen Kingdom – J.A. Bayona’s rambunctious mashup of Cretaceous panic humor and gothic houses on dino-haunted hills – the more I respect a film that doesn’t care a lick about conformity and safety nets. I’m sorry, did you think 2015’s Jurassic World jumped the proverbial Mosasaurus? Well, strap the *hell* in. Colin Trevorrow and Derek Connolly’s screenplay is A-STOUND-ING-LY ludicrous. Remember when Jurassic Park couldn’t get zanier than a child gymnast twirl-kicking a velociraptor or the Indominus Rex getting triple teamed by other combat-ready dinosaurs? Fallen Kingdom makes the talking raptor dream sequence in Jurassic Park III look pedestrian by comparison.

Some of you will downright *despise* the dizzying storyboard jolts of this off-the-rails subgenre royal rumble. Others will laugh while enhanced velociraptors catapult away from ignited fireballs like those cool dudes who never look at explosions. If you’re already smirking at the thought of the latter, congratulations. Jurassic World: Fallen Kingdom is a brazenly batty evolution of genetic mythos that delves even deeper into the question of feral domestication and biomedically enhanced DNA cooking. Far closer to that report of a “militarized hybrid dino-soldiers” spec script than you think.

Despite two very distinctive halves, Bayona splices together tried-and-true island scampering with midnight-dark horror aesthetics. First comes a traditional dino roundup with big game hunters (led by Ted Levine’s gruff Ken Wheatley) while a volcano devours island boundaries. Then it’s to Lockwood estate’s massive penitentiary/museum/laboratory in California, where the captured beasts are auctioned off to the highest bidder until inevitable escape.

Oh, and did I mention Claire Dearing (Bryce Dallas Howard) has organized a PETA-like activism group that fights for dinosaur rights? Protests in Washington, congressional hearings and all. We also meet John Hammond’s ex-partner Benjamin Lockwood (James Cromwell) who helped him extract extinct DNA and father the science behind 1993’s Jurassic Park. And that’s not even the wackiest development.

Seriously. No hyperbole. Jurassic World: Fallen Kingdom is 2018’s most stark-raving-delirious man vs. nature sandbox smashup Frankensteined from a formula of “WTFs” and philosophical doombringing. The apocalypse is nigh, and it’s scalier than predicted.

Scenes on Isla Nublar are ferocity in the sun, dewy from rainforest washings and unchained as Mother Earth intended. Claire, brawny Owen Grady (Chris Pratt), tech-wiz anxiety ball Franklin (Justice Smith) and dino veterinarian Zia (Daniella Pineda) are hired by ailing Lockwood’s estate manager Eli Mills (Rafe Spall) because of their previous experience – and failures – on the landmass (re: Jurassic World). The team arrives, Nublar’s Vesuvius already churns a healthy black smoke, and it’s right to “rescue time.”

Shots are nostalgically reminiscent of all the previous franchise entries – Zia gazing upon a necky Brachiosaurus for the first time – and flooding excitement draws on rediscovering God-like rushes of egotism…err…I mean living dinosaurs…once again. Then the lava starts flowing and the entire expedition crew races to escape with their “assets” secured before Nublar is swallowed whole – which is where Mr. Wheatley attempts to leave Owen, Claire and Franklin. For dead.

Right off the bat – well, after a few picket signs reading hilarious sentiments like “T-REXS ARE PEOPLE TOO!” – Bayona hits us with adventure, greed and man’s greatest folly. It’s obvious that the poacher with leathery skin and his hit-squad commandos probably don’t intend to move Stegosauruses or carnivores to a magical sanctuary miles away. Filming never hides that. Audiences watch for the stampedes and more of Blue’s mutual bond with Owen, and that’s what we immediately get. Purity in sun-soaked warmth and destruction.

When orange molten goop starts sliding downhill, pandemonium erupts so catastrophically. Owen – after sedation by Wheatley – wakes up with a triceratops licking his face, still paralyzed. Only his bottom half functions, so he goes all “quaaludes scene” from The Wolf Of Wall Street to escape being melted to the bone in a fit of physical comedy. This is while Franklin and Claire face off against a demonic meat eater who enters their locked control room via connecting pipe – framed by Bayona’s wonderful sense of monster-in-the-closet paranoia – as magma drips through ceiling grates. It’s frantic, eeks a few laughs thanks to Smith’s high-pitched squeals, and all culminates with underwater/speeding-down-a-collapsing-dock Temple Run escapism. Very much my kind of blockbuster content.

From here, it’s to Lockwood’s massive mansion grounds, with Eli operating an entire illegal import and sale of ‘effing dinosaurs under his bedridden employer’s nose (magnificent caged marvels wheeled out with reminiscent King Kong grandeur). Pint-sized Gunnar Eversol (Toby Jones) enters with the instantly despicable entrepreneurial swagger of Donald Trump – hairpiece and all – and the open mystique of Jurassic World becomes bottled inside an affluent man’s manor. Fallen Kingdom’s freshly baked hybrid killing machine – the Indoraptor – is let loose to stalk the grounds and everyone inside. From Lockwood’s diorama gallery (full Natural History aesthetic) to modern castle archways where Owen and his new little accomplice Maisie (Isabella Sermon) – Lockwood’s granddaughter – flee from their next-level super-predator pursuer. It’s the Jurassic World Bayona was hired to make. Throbbingly tense, deliciously chilling and soaked in fang-gnashing dread.

It’s the closest thing I’ve got to a damn Dino Crisis movie. Leave me alone.

Bayona’s signatures also favor “the dramatic” amidst an oddball blend of corny one-liners (like, the cheesiest creamed corn) and rainstorm terror. Repeated silhouettes portrait dinosaurs as they make life-altering decisions or fall victim to a volcano’s damning excretion. Humanization of Jurassic World’s great wonders pushes beyond intelligence. As Dr. Grant once recognized a raptor working out how to use a door handle, we’re now light years ahead. To the point where humans are tricked by “napping” adversaries or newfound Pachycephalosaurus homies wink directly into the camera. Bayona takes these creatures and gives them personality, helped by the inclusion of baby herbivores and raptors alike (d’awwww). For how forced and choppy Owen’s relationship with Claire may be, we’ve never been allowed to feel for Jurassic attractions like this before.

Concerning those pesky humans, expect the same attention to detail into hero dynamics as Jurassic World. If you winced at Claire’s now-famous “running from a T-Rex in heels” scene, don’t expect revamped gender politics. Pratt’s Owen is *never* allowed to emote past laughing in death’s face, while Claire’s agape (see: petrified) mouth is a permanent fixture. Romantic tension bubbles, villains are as outlandish as they are delusional, and a calmness permeates character actions despite Jurassic World: Fallen Kingdom being the zaniest amalgamation of genre beats ever assembled. Spall’s wherewithal of a second-rate Bond villain satisfyingly teeters on the edge of madness and economic adaptation, while Toby Jones embodies a true-to-form sleaze-bag as only Toby Jones can. Levine grunts, Smith cowers and Pineda walks away my favorite new addition to Jurassic World’s universe – but are you really here for them anyway?

The movie is called Jurassic World, and all eyes are on the “Jurassic” portion of that. Once animatronic products of Stan Winston craftsmanship have become digital reimaginings. I’d love to rail against CGI – as a practical effects lover does – but it’s not distractingly noticeable (sans one chomped arm or hyper-close pan). A return to puppeteering and scale models balances the pixelation domination from the new trilogy’s first venture, leaving us to focus on more enriching details like how an opening submersible mission shades traumatizing judgment over Jurassic World’s most family-friendly, Sea World amusement note. The old left in ruins; trained tricks traded for savage inhibitions.

Jurassic World: Fallen Kingdom is boggled insanity of the highest and most enthralling sci-fi order. As exciting and wondrous a summer blockbuster audiences could ask for. You must suspend reality (EVEN FURTHER) and enter a world where dinosaurs have existed for years in order to attain circumstantial nirvana, but if done correctly, an absolute wealth of ceremonious riches await.

Developed bonds between man and monster, afraid-of-the-dark nightmare chases, downright slapstick rich-get-headbutted anarchy – this movie plays into its own admission of insanity and never wavers. The park is gone, and with it any rationale or somewhat plausible structure. And you know what? We might just be better off for it. Jurassic World: War For The Planet Of The Dinosaurs (or whatever the sequel will be called) – BRING IT ON.

Ant-Man And The Wasp Review

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As Marvel transitions from the “traumatic” finale of Avengers: Infinity War, Peyton Reed’s Ant-Man And The Wasp turns insectoid puns into a charming doom-and-gloom antidote. Why layer on the stakes? 2015’s Ant-Man felt negligible and outlying, and 2018’s quantum sidestory once again wrestles no hefty beast. You won’t get James Gunn’s heartfelt depth or the Russos’ action sensibilities, but you will be effortlessly entertained by a breezy “heist” sequel that never takes itself too seriously. It’s novelty size-shifting when we need it most, and more ant names (Antonio!), more sarcasm and more Luis isn’t exactly a *bad* thing.

Thanks to his previous “heroism,” Scott Lang (Paul Rudd) finds himself under house arrest after the events of Captain America: Civil War. Dr. Hank Pym (Michael Douglas) and his daughter Hope Van Dyne (Evangeline Lilly) are on the run from similar prosecution. Neither parties have spoken in some time, but that’s until Scott dreams he’s inside Janet Van Dyne’s (Michelle Pfeiffer) body – aka Hank’s long-lost-to-the-Quantum Realm wife.

Cue a tense reunion even though Scott still has three days left until his ankle bracelet’s removed and the introduction of a new plan. Use Hank’s quantum gateway to rescue Janet! That is, if they can thwart black market dealer Sonny (Walton Goggins) from stealing their tech, if federal agent Jimmy Woo (Randall Park) doesn’t catch Scott outside and if Ava (Hannah John-Kamen) aka Ghost doesn’t glitch her way to stealing Janet’s essence for her own healing purpose.

So many plot points, so little time (well, over two hours). Good ol’ Marvel.

Ant-Man And The Wasp is too well-natured to fault. One can argue how plotting doesn’t really benefit the wider Marvel universe sans two or three moments (post-credits included), but Reed’s five-man writing crew slyly maneuvers around a never-ending pit of “Why?” questions. Rudd’s square-off between “hero” and “father” paints a human element that Abby Ryder Fortson milks as young Cassie. His online magician’s training and constant back-and-forth with yucked-up Randall Park introduces some delightfully dimwitted banter, which makes for a nice respite considering how other heroes are beholden to mystic history or Neil deGrasse Tyson language.

In emphasizing Ant-Man’s average Joe superheroism, Reed’s production sandboxes memorable sight gags and audible goofs. A gigantic Hello Kitty Pez dispenser tumbles down Californian streets and mini-Scott splashes into bay waters with the dullest *ploop* instead of a man-sized *sploosh.* Comedy holds tighter, more in focus and without confliction by offsetting evils. Actors like Michael Peña take full advantage, who hyper-babbles under “truth serum” influence and brings honor back to the Hot Wheels name as far as superhero appearances go (Green Lantern, lol). Most characters find jokester success at least once – poor David Dastmalchian and his Baba Yaga fear – but Peña’s that one-line jukebox who keeps cranking out the hits. May every movie feature his mini-voice shrieking with excitement.

Walton Goggins’ opportunistic kingpin Sonny doesn’t reach farther than paying thugs to drive his gold-grilled SUV and complete nefarious deeds, and Goggins does what Goggins does best. Hannah John-Kamen’s Ghost, meanwhile, stays one step ahead as Marvel’s Vanellope von Schweetz, always in constant pain thanks to her father’s quantum lab accident that now allows her to pass through matter. Goggins brokers shady deals, but Ava outshines in her matte white armor that S.H.I.E.L.D once fitted.

Laurence Fishburne’s role as Dr. Bill Foster – Ava’s father figure – also shows there’s more to the girl than a thirst for blood. It’s nice to see opposition motivated by resounding grief and not just a plan for world domination or ego-fueled crusader beefing (also love the relationship between Ana and Dr. Foster).

Give credit to the effects teams behind Ant-Man And The Wasp too, because Hank’s six-legged followers don’t skimp out on their presence. From assembling scientific lab equipment to jamming on electric drum kits to playing bodyguard, the bugged-out animations are stimulatingly detailed. One part even reminds me of Gremlin personalities as they faintly cackled at the thought of their dominance. If “ant” is in your title, you better deliver on colonization. Not saying you’d want to keep these crawlers as pets, but effects are tighter than, say, something that struggled with Marvel digitization like Black Panther.

Frankly, this goes for most portions of the film. As technology increases, so does Hollywood’s ability to superimpose the faces of Douglas, Pfeiffer and Fishburne in flashback ages – which Marvel fashions nicely. Then you’ve got Scott and Hope’s constant ballooning or deflating, which never feels out of place in a visual sense. Cinematography doesn’t exactly break the mold, but it keeps us anchored in worlds of varying magnitudes even in Quantum Realm psychedelics. Honey, I Shrunk The Kids would be proud. Gigantic tomatoes, refrigerator-sized salt shakers, miniaturization scales of otherwise regular sized products and all.

To touch on Paul Rudd’s return as Cap’s friend acquaintance, his character’s relationship with Hope and overall comedy schtick, Reed doesn’t let snark go out of style. Evangeline Lilly, meanwhile, is gracefully allowed more likability this time as a daughter in search of parental rescue, frustrated by her (ex?) boyfriend’s boneheaded Sokovia Accords backlash and constant ability to muck things up. There’s more to appreciate between romantic tension and more to root for.

As Scott explains to Cassie that Hope’s his partner in the field, we get a warm balance of fatherhood and chemistry that even Cassie can detect (and melt). Scott’s made better by the women in his life, who are never overshadowed. And that’s never more evident than when a tied-up Scott makes Dr. Foster answer and prop-up his daughter’s video call because it’s an “emergency” (punctuated by a Bobby Cannavale hug, to perfection).

Is Ant-Man And The Wasp the kind of Marvel movie that can solve interdimensional conflicts with write-off evolution powers? Sure. It’s also endearingly earnest, positively punderful and ant-tastic from start-to-finish. Ant-Man has always been a tremendous supporting character, and that’s exactly what this origin sequel lets Scott Lang do best. Fold into a relatively robust cast who lifts the pressure off a top-notch father, name-dropping Avenger sub-in and all-around funnyman who loves belting effusive karaoke sets when no one else is home. Did I mention how we didn’t *need* this Marvel placeholder? Maybe, but I’m sure glad we got it anyway.

The First Purge Review

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After Eli Roth’s Death Wish, I didn’t think 2018 could deliver less subtle cinematic commentary – enter Gerard McMurray’s The First Purge. Remember those mock MAGA hat posters and how on-the-nose they were? Consider said “satire” understated in comparison to the shoot-em-up cleansing illustrated in-full.

Civilians are fed up. They – we – have every right to be. If you weren’t sure about previous Purge film intentions (SOMEHOW), let there be no mistake. McMurray is coming for Donald Trump, he’s coming for alt-right Nazis and he’s coming for the America we’ve become numbingly accustomed to. I know this because it’s spelled out in every scene with neon subtitles, blatant tragedies and a billion different references that tie *directly* to real life. Unfiltered anger erupts without warning, but it takes precedence over storytelling, continuity and other filmmaking aspects. Think of it as ariticism by way of the gun.

After years of watching “The Purge” evolve, James DeMonaco’s latest script brings us back to the beginning. New Founding Fathers of America have been voted into office, and their first act is to subject Staten Island to something called “The Experiment.” Or – as not-so-cheekily name-dropped in the first seconds of dialogue – what some begin to call a “purge.”

Dr. Updale (Marisa Tomei) works with NFFA Chief of Staff Arlo Sabian (Patch Darragh) to unleash her pet project, which might solve nationwide overpopulation problems if expansion is granted. It *has* to work. This means nothing but trouble for those low-income inhabitants who are monetarily incentivized to stay locked on Staten Island. Activist Nya (Lex Scott Davis), drug kingpin Dmitri (Y’lan Noel) – “The Purge” may be rigged, but these Islanders aren’t going down without a fight against NFFA interference.

As if these *clearly stated* intentions by caucasian NFFA devils in snappy suits weren’t pointed enough, McMurray favors impossible-to-mistake imagery and spoken accompaniments. “Gangs” are introduced, denoted by full-hooded Klu Klux Klan mercenaries or a nightstick-swinging police motorcycle troop shown beating an African American to death in a baseball stadium. When Nya gets groped by a sewer pervert, she screams back a line about the no-good “pussy grabber.”

You’ll get white separatists shooting up a church, Luna Lauren Velez crying over the thought of her young Latino companion’s future in America, masks mimicking blackface, a high-ranking mercenary officer dressed head-to-toe in leather Nazi SS gear – every detail is political. Every action a depiction of glorious and violent retribution. Every “metaphorical” middle finger more Django Unchained and less Get Out. This is a message spelled in gasoline meant for the White House lawn – which, in part, highlights the film’s biggest hangup.

The Purge started this franchise on its scariest note and has worked towards Escape From New York ever since, with The First Purge going full action hero. No Frank Grillo necessary. Dmitri bunkers down to ride out the night atop his product stash, surrounded by security, but soon finds himself gunning down “purgers” left and right. Aryan soldiers with tactical assault equipment, training and objective intent.

McMurray is fighting back via military-grade squadron eliminations, never to feign conspiracy suspense. Catharsis via gruesome violence conflicts the exact lessons that The First Purge is trying to teach. Be prepared for the most *gruesome* purgeification yet, only because murder plays as gratuitous reparations and nothing more. Race cards aren’t just dropped, they define the sides. “Fight the power” has never been so literal.

Most frustratingly, The First Purge feels cobbled together around slow-mo shots of Dmitri’s gang sauntering into battle with little attention paid to world-sustaining. Green screen crowds background poorly framed newscaster interview shots and effects look sloppy. I get it, what dystopian slaughterhouse is complete without a flaming civilian – but don’t leave the safety goop visible, like a magician revealing their trick. Crisp cinematography flips to graininess without hesitation when close-ups squish inward, and *of course* lensing is clearest when distortion could have hidden obvious stuntman appearances. For these reasons alone, it’s hard to stay invested in anything but Dmitri’s warpath. Continuity included, since characters like Melonie Diaz’s Juani are introduced and *never heard from again.* Frustration explodes with a short attention span, and franchise growth takes a massive hit.

There are – from a pure stance of entertainment – moments where Y’lan Noel flashes the 80s exploitation superstar he could have been. Bulging muscles, seething expressions of vengeance, an almost robotic dedication to headshotting nationalists in khakis and alabaster polos. Dmitri’s redemptive arc from pimpin’ underground superstar to savior of the projects is representative of the whole “no other way to succeed” argument. From street justice to NFFA payback, you’re here for relative newcomer Y’lan Noel. He’s easy to root for, even if a thirst for bloodshed amplifies some messy politics.

Rotimi Paul as “The Purge’s” inaugural killer “Skeletor” embraces a criminal insanity that his needle-taped Wolverine hand and facial modifications only spotlight. Skeletor is patient zero, and Paul disappears into a maniac who cannot differentiate between bloodlust and reality. Prime horror content? Well, unfortunately, the film’s terror functions on a one-note level. McMurray’s dread-soaked setups are amateurishly expected. Whenever a hidden purger (re: Skeletor) is about to pounce, the camera pulls in tight on a character’s face so no other angles are shown. Horror 101 kind of stuff, blackened by a night where legal crime provides a soundtrack of gunshots and looting (when booty-shakin’ “Purge Parties” wind down).

Skeletor’s entrances provide fake-out horror based on the above expectancies, which spells doom for remaining deviants because he’s the only characterized “Purge” personality given even half a presence. The two old ladies who rig stuffed animals with detonating cell phones? Don’t even get me started. No, they’re not characterized by a quick cutscene about their suggested desire to kill. It’s all riot-destruction flare and no reason. Even the recording device contact lenses that illuminate participant’s eyes are a demonic halo of neon, because how did technology somehow get *better* even though this prequel goes back in time?

To me, The First Purge is an ugly excuse for spilled guts in the name of social injustice. James DeMonaco’s story has devolved to a point of ignored suggestion, all supercharged anti-establishment demonstration. With movies like Sorry To Bother You and Blindspotting taking similar but far more poignant stances this very summer, The First Purge feels like a step in the wrong direction. A “purge” itself of monstrous ideals, oblivious to its own warnings. One that wastes a trumpeting blast of resisting vitriol through all the wrong methods. The best kind of art imitates life and there are obvious issues to tackle in current times – but without nuance, you’re just creating an echo chamber of hatred. It’s Carpenter without the poised commentary. A message in a bottle rigged with explosives. Just a whole lot of spewed rage from *both* sides…and a poop “bowel purge” joke for good measure, of course.

Mission: Impossible – Fallout Review

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Christopher McQuarrie’s Mission: Impossible – Fallout boils down to two defining takeaways. One: Ethan Hunt’s latest probably-not-literally-impossible assignment feels *every second* of its nearly 150-minute runtime. Two: action sequences hit harder than Thanos’ Infinity Gauntlet haymaker. That cocked-and-locked forearms gif of Henry Cavill y’all have been virally enjoying *still* doesn’t adequately sell the big-stick-swingin’ attitude of this mile-a-minute espionage heart-racer. Planning gets complicated and scripted twists ball a knot of complexity, but you’d have to be a corpse not to enjoy the film’s “impossible” adrenaline rush. Which, I can only assume, is second to the giddiness Tom Cruise experiences when risking his life for another unforgettable stunt.

Ethan Hunt’s (Tom Cruise) latest objective, which he chooses to accept, is simple – recover three plutonium orbs before Solomon Lane’s (Sean Harris) remaining soldiers (referred to as The Apostles) can carry out their weaponized destruction. Things go according to plan for all of five minutes, then Hunt chooses to save partners Luther (Ving Rhames) and Benji (Simon Pegg) over securing his radioactive payload. IMF’s highly-combustible bounty vanishes into the night, so Secretary Alan Hunley (Alec Baldwin) sends the team back into action…with a babysitter. CIA hardass Erica Sloan (Angela Bassett) demands her most qualified fixer – August Walker (Henry Cavill) – tag along for insurance. Then MI6 agent Ilsa Faust (Rebecca Ferguson) resurfaces. And there’s an underground broker codenamed White Widow (Vanessa Kirby)? Plus, how can you tell who’s who with IMF’s rubberized “Halloween” mask obsession?

Take a deep breath, abandon desires to dissect, and get ready for Mission: Impossible – Fallout to bring the motherflippin’ THUNDER. That’s why you’re here, and McQuarrie makes good by cranking “kickass” dials to 13 only to have Cavill punch ‘em all into oblivion.

Fallout’s chronology (surprisingly) picks up right where Rogue Nation left off. Lane’s syndicate – while he’s passed around in custody – has evolved into extreme radicalism and Hunt’s past relationships (Ilsa especially) come roaring back. Fallout is a ripple effect that spreads from Hunt’s decision to keep Lane alive, which McQuarrie uses to muster further hero development. Ethan Hunt keeps the world safe first and foremost, which is why once-wife/forever love Julia (Michelle Monaghan) had to leave. In this respect, Hunt’s shown as more than the laser-dodging, airplane-door-riding maniac who just “figures it out.” Human attributes crack his hardened outline, prodding a “softer” side by ensuring teammates live through ambushes unlike Cavill’s “leave no trace” professionalism. We see more of Hunt than normal, but it’s at a price.

Mission: Impossible – Fallout throws [insert exaggerated number] possible endpoints at audiences and elongates already inflated tactical designs with roadblocks galore. At minutes shy of two-and-a-half-hours, progression seems to be in a constant state of flux where double-crosses or three-steps-ahead admissions balk at “seeing is believing.” Everyone quietly stashes contingency breakdowns, along with last-ditch contingencies when the primary contingencies implode – and I get it. These are government-issue superspies who’d rather eat a bullet than fail. But McQuarrie’s incessant swerving forms a circular logic that cycles in repetitive motions. Admittedly, it’s easy enough to just give up and enjoy high-stakes beatdowns, but the unexpected becomes ordinary to the point of being stuck in a teasing bullets-and-interrogations purgatory.

Once you stop trying to guess who’s in on what, McQuarrie’s orchestrated overload of dodge-and-weave awesomeness is easy to appreciate. Camerawork may be fixated on Tom Cruise’s profile to remind the 50+-year-old does all his own crackpot stunts, but he’s not stealing any scenes. Henry Cavill is Cruise’s superior in every way, with his springy hair coils bouncing as Walker bodyslams targets through European nightclub mirrors. Rebecca Ferguson dodges traffic like Frogger 10.0 while motorcycling and gets some serious acrobatic air when forcing opponents to submit (aka choke out). And even Vanessa Kirby draws attention when she whips out a butterfly knife and instantly reminds us of Elizabeth Debicki as “White Widow” helps Hunt fight out of a crowded lounge bar jam-packed with greedy contract killers.

One shot where Ferguson, Cruise, Cavill and Kirby all exit a room after having just front-kicked and stabbed their way through danger – disheveled but still effortlessly polished – skipped my heart three beats. That superteam, sauntering unfazed and in unison, had me *begging* for more of their buddy-system assassinations. Bless Benji and Luther, but me-oh-my these four could topple entire monarchies if they wanted to.

Alas, here’s my biggest issue: pitting Cavill and Cruise as frenemies who *might* tussle (yes, they do) is a wee bit far-fetched. Cruise puts other mid-50s actioners to shame, but Cavill is an Adonis. Brawn, scruff and unmovable body mass. In no way do I see them as direct competition, but let’s just say Mission: Impossible – Fallout takes laughable liberties.

Kirby pining over Cruise as she gets her kicks while they practically dance their way through action choreography? I buy it – their electric chemistry could power Chernobyl. All the witnessless rooms and pedestrian free walkways? Why not. But a worn-down Cruise going toe-to-toe with Superman for Krypton’s sake? No comparison. Cruise proves impressively capable be it tempting deadlier and deadlier stuntman fates or *still* saving the world in tight-black clothing, but Cavill’s casting is a step too far. He’s perfect for damn sure as an American cleaner with zero eraser protocol hesitation, just not believable for Cruise’s arch-whatever.

That said, Cavill’s go-time performance is handsomely glorious. Doubling down with Cruise to shatter bathroom stalls while trying to incapacitate a particularly feisty mark. Fighting on the side of a goshdang cliff after his helicopter goes all Jurassic Park by dropping down rock formations like Tim’s Explorer. Deadlocking his eyes, calculating morbid costs, or even cracking a joke after *almost dying* thanks to his own HALO jump stupidity. Angela Bassett thinks she can control her loyal pet, but Cavill’s heavy-gun-holder owns Mission: Impossible – Fallout.

Tom Cruise isn’t the Ethan Hunt he once was, but that doesn’t stop…well, anything. Mission: Impossible – Fallout is still a decibel-shattering seismic burst of punch-into-gear entertainment from sophisticated brawling to speedster vehicle chases around such landmarks as France’s Arc de Triomphe. Cruise surrounds himself with a marketable supporting crew ready for however many lumps and bruises it takes, and that’s what Christopher McQuarrie should be most thankful for. Those who can tangle with Cruise and find common ground, even when physical imposition declares otherwise.

Might the franchise’s star be a bit long in the tooth for Ethan Hunt at this point? Given how worn-down and overmatched Mr. Impossible looks at times (while *still* pleasing crowds), I’d say he’s earned some relaxation and rights to produce a rebooted cast. For a last hurrah, Mission: Impossible – Fallout would be a notoriously noble bow.

Unfriended: Dark Web Review

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Stephen Susco’s Unfriended: Dark Web – quite spectacularly – clears its cache of any historical connections to Leo Gabriadze’s original Unfriended. Gone is Laura Barns, swapped out for Dark Web “realities” and glitch mob superhackers who emerge from the world wide web’s seediest reaches. Once again Skype brings people together, and once again they’re hunted one by one while their webcams record it all. Familiar? Yes. Executed with equal menace? Not for a millisecond. Ghost Barns’ revenge is blindly ignored and doubled-back on, as this keyboard Game Night abomination can’t even hold a candle to the Blumhouse films of 2018 – the same year Truth Or Dare was released.

Our main voyeuristic focus is Matias (Colin Woodell), a frustrated boyfriend who “finds” his new laptop in a lost and found bin. He’s simultaneously trying to win back girlfriend Amaya (Stephanie Nogueras) and enjoy an online hang session with geographically spaced friends, but then an unknown user interrupts their party. Turns out the laptop’s owner tracked Matias’ digital footprint, can override security permissions and will not stop until his property is returned. So what does Matias do? He snoops farther and clicks into a folder of video clips never meant to exposed, which is when the *real* fun begins. Welcome to the Dark Web.

From inception to finality, Unfriended: Dark Web opts for choke-out conspiracy tampering over vindictive cyberbully commentaries. Laura Barns’ rampage couldn’t be rationalized because of her very dead (and tragic) circumstance, but the scourge of Charon replicants that Susco unleashes logs an undefined protocol. Their mastery of loaded encryptions could hack nuclear mainframe codes if needed, yet they can also *physically* stealth around, distort camera feeds whenever on-screen and display inhuman attributes? Even though they’re very much (twisted, out of control) at-home users? Unfriended: Dark Web tries to have its cake and eat it, too – mastermind digital technicians who come and go as ghouls – but offers a much weaker “demon” worth fearing this time around. Strike one.

In Unfriended, high school teens fall victim to their own careless social media devices – but Unfriended: Dark Web goes an older route with vastly less enjoyable results. As onlookers nervously play Cards Against Humanity while Matias attempts to beat “Charon” at his/her own game, concerned faces and justice seekers drain a sense of fear. Connor Del Rio’s YouTube personality schtick is the kind of aggressive caricature that Unfriended didn’t need, although Betty Gabriel as Nari still proves herself to be a Blumhouse workhorse who can massage magnificent character work no matter the character.

Unfriended: Dark Web

But worst of all? Woodell – playing the boyfriend who develops an ASL app for the love of his life instead of learning himself – prototypes the frustrating brand of “protagonist” who we generate no sympathy for, nor does the film want us to. I understand that. Too bad it makes for a tuned-out watch where mustering even half a lick of care for the innocents on-screen never happens.

What Susco aims to achieve is vile, on-the-nose internet commentary that overturns stones so many still stay ignorant to. Matias and his gang catch glimpses of distressing trends caused by mass media consumption and zero boundaries. Moral abominations people pay money for. Violence and murder and torture through a dirty lens with intent hellbent on screaming helplessly towards society’s screenwashed masses.

Is such frustration achieved? Soullessly so, which sinks “entertainment value” or messaging that we’re supposed to absorb. Where Unfriended invites audiences to participate in supernatural doom-bringing on a techno-horror level, Unfriended: Dark Web never reaches its audience by breaking through the screen. It’s punishment without purpose. At least in this reviewer’s case (some of you may love this narcissistic video chat nightmare).

Frankly, I shouldn’t compare Unfriended and Unfriended: Dark Web. The first film took social media horror and blended it with knock-down scares and devious schoolyard games turned sadistic (plus ground hand meat). It was engaging, hyper-energized and effortlessly creepy – everything Unfriended: Dark Web fails to be. Steven Susco’s seedy binary tumble straight past even the most despicable extent of subreddit culture never challenges genre thinking beyond “isn’t the internet evil?” After Unfriended, Unfriended: Dark Web is a monumental disappointment on every comparable front (if you ask me and not multiple colleagues who raved about the very issues described here, in fairness).

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