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3 stars

Twilight (1998 film) - Wikipedia
Still of The Night: Amazon.fr: Meryl Streep, Roy Scheider, Jessica Tandy,  Joe Grifasi, Sara Botsford, Richmond Hoxie, Rikke Borge, Josef Sommer,  Irving Metzman, Larry Joshua, Randy Jurgenson, Robert Benton, Meryl Streep,  Roy

Robert Benton was no slouch (Kramer v. Kramer, Places in the Heart). Indeed, he wrote and directed one of my favorite films (Nobody’s Fool), and I could watch Paul Newman sell Tang. Throw in Susan Sarandon, Gene Hackman and James Garner (and super young Reese Witherspoon and Liev Schreiber) in a noir-ish tale of an old Hollywood murder and it seems can’t miss. But miss Twilight does. Sarandon is too young for the role of the former grand dame and the love story between her and Newman is unconvincing. Worse, the mystery is just not that intriguing. Still, the picture has Newman, who is wry and world-weary in that Newman way. Hackman is fantastic, as always, and Garner is just the right mix of folksy and sinister.

As for Still of the Night, it alternates between psychological thriller and moody, smoldering romance. It is terrible at both and badly cast as well. Roy Scheider is best caustic and as a man of action, a terrible choice for a quiet, introverted psychologist. Meryl Streep as a breathy young ingenue wrapped up in a murder is all wrong. She’s many things, almost all good, but carnal and smoldering ain’t in her bag of tricks. Her performance nears a Saturday Night Live character.

The film is drab and clunky. It has aspirations to be Hitchcockian, but it lacks all of the care.  The romance is preposterous, and the score is sickly sweet. And as a whodunit, the killer can really only be one person.

Both on Amazon Prime.

What a strange find on Amazon Prime. A 1970s black comedy with John Huston playing the Joseph Kennedy character and Jeff Bridges playing Bobby, if Bobby was sweet tempered and had no political ambitions after the death of his brother. Of course, this is not the Kennedys, but the Kegans, and little brother Bridges is swept up into a re-investigation of his half brother’s assassination after a lone gunman has been fingered by the equivalent of the Warren Commission. In essence, Bridges goes on a dangerous wild goose chase (egged on by his father, who hopes this will propel the son into heroism and political fortune) to find the real powers behind the killing, after a second shooter confesses.

The film is absurdist, and doesn’t really work as either a comedy or a thriller. But uneven as it is, you have to be somewhat in awe of its ambition. The rumor is that the Kennedy family was none too pleased with the feature back when it had the power to squelch it, but the film is so uneven, it likely didn’t need any opposition from the dynasty. Bridges is winning, and Huston is a gas as the corrupt, sybarite of a patriarch, and the whole thing is best when it is trippy.  Worth the time.  

Amazon.com: California Split POSTER (11" x 17"): Posters & Prints

Robert Altman directed this film after his three masterpieces – M*A*S*H, McCabe and Mrs. Miller, and The Long Goodbye – and directly before his next one, Nashville. It has all the hallmarks of an Altman film . . . overlapping dialogue, a leisurely almost poetic pace, and a complete disregard for traditional narrative.

The film is essentially about two degenerate gamblers – George Segal and Eilliot Gould – who haunt the poker rooms, casinos and race tracks of California and Nevada in search of the juice. While Gould is carefree and seemingly happily stuck in the mire, Segal has one foot in the straight world and one foot in the dens of iniquity. He owes, he craves, and he can’t wait for the next shot at a pot, so much so that when Gould leave him for a week, he feels as if he’s being ripped off, that somehow, his partner is keeping a score away from him.

Unlike some of Altman’s better films, there’s no real character development here.  Segal and Gould simply happen upon each other at a poker room and start hanging out and kibbitzing, often with two working girls who live with Gould.  Altman is so intrigued by the machinations of the lowlife, he forgets that we are only here to see what happens to these addicts.  And, until the end, not much does happen to them.

Ultimately, Segal comes to a fork in the road, but it is a bolt from the blue.  We don’t know much about him and Altman doesn’t really let us in.  So, when he takes one road over another, it is of no real moment.

Still, it’s a fascinating picture with a real affinity for the disreputable denizens of the 70’s cocktail bar, race track and casino.  Altman doesn’t glorify but he does offer a vivid portrait of the world.

 

Fighting With My Family (DVD) - Walmart.com - Walmart.com

Cute, funny, and sweet paint-by-numbers comedy about a British wresting family (headed by a hilarious Nick Frost and an unrecognizable Lena Headey/Cersei Lannister) whose daughter (Florence Pugh) gets her shot at the big league – the WWE.  While she goes to Miami to train under the tutelage of an uncompromising Vince Vaughan, her brother and wrestling partner is left behind, sparking an emotional crisis.  Apparently, this is a true story.  The Pugh character is none other than this sex tape queen (not covered in this light-hearted film).

Written and directed by Stephen Merchant (the Gestapo chief in Jo Jo Rabbit).

There is nothing new here, but it’s crisp and has its moments, and the characters are winning.  On Hulu.

Richard Jewell (film) - Wikipedia

The good: Clint Eastwood makes the decision to keep the story focused almost exclusively on Richard Jewell (Paul Walter Hauser), a simple and decent man unjustly accused of the Olympic Park bombing when, in fact, his vigilance saved lives. Eastwood makes us privy to Jewell’s desires (to be in law enforcement, to be respected, to be “the man”) and then dramatizes how those desires are perverted to indict him.  Jewell is vilified by the press and the government as a wannabe hero, a fat, dumb rent-a-cop who naturally, would plant the bomb he “discovered” as a short-cut to his dreams of glory.  As Jewell is maligned, he is physically encircled, unable even to walk his dog, work or see his friends, such is the suffocating press of the media and the FBI.  And his loving relationship with his mother (Kathy Bates) is cast as yet another pathetic failure, a mama’s boy living at home in his 30s. Oh the fun Jay Leno had.

But Eastwood doesn’t give us a polemic or a martyr, just a character study of a man whose presumptions about what is right and wrong are peeled from him in the small apartment he shares with his mother, the place that eventually becomes their cage, and after the inevitable search warrant, a bare, claustrophobic and violated cage at that.

The performances are stellar.  Hauser is so earnest, raw and authentic that I almost suspected Eastwood had cast a skilled non-actor, to better effect than in The 15:17 to Paris. Bates is everybody’s mother, and her torment as she endures the destruction of her baby boy is heart-rending. Sam Rockwell, as the outraged but seemingly in-over-his head local yokel attorney, stands in for the audience, shaking his head as his client is pilloried.

The not-so-good: The villains are the FBI (represented here in the form of a composite FBI agent played by John Hamm) and the media (spearheaded by a tough talking, ambitious and unethical Atlanta Journal Constitution reporter played by Olivia Wilde). Hamm and his team jump to conclusions after failing to find other viable suspects, and in a case of confirmation bias, settle on Jewell as the bomber without a shred of physical or corroborating evidence.  Wilde fucks Hamm to get the scoop and then outs Jewell, after which the rest of her profession piles on.

Eastwood unnecessarily stacks the deck.  It’s not outrageous, like Sully’s portrayal of the NTSB, and the FBI and the press did act egregiously (if you have any doubt about that, read this). But their excesses do not require the filmic equivalent of blood dripping from their lips. I won’t go so far as to say that the Hamm character twirls his mustache, but he is so simplistically certain it strains credulity. The Wilde character is even more cartoonish, and worse, her performance is outlandishly unconvincing.

There was some controversy over her portrayal, given that the film clearly shows Wilde trading sex for the information, which appears to be conjecture at best.  Normally, I would not hold such an assumption against the movie, but this is a picture about defamation of character, so it should have been more scrupulous.

That said, if Eastwood had not included the sex-for-scoop scene, we would have been denied Wilde’s cringy watusi (boiled down, she declares it is sexist to criticize her character for giving up her body to Hamm when no one is criticizing the Hamm character for taking it and anyways, script be damned, the characters had a pre-existing sexual relationship!) Wilde’s post-film performance is a hell of a lot better than the one she gave on screen.

This is a good, flawed picture.

 

 

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I’ve heard this film is essentially Taxi Driver meets a Christopher Nolan Batman, but its roots also lie in Martin Scorsese ‘s King of Comedy and even in Death Wish.  Not bad company and it shows. Todd Phillips’ vision is fully realized, there is a consistent and compelling narrative, and you can’t take your eyes off of Joaquin Phoenix.  The movie also alternates between Joker’s madness and his reality, which keeps you off balance without being gimmicky while expertly recalibrating the Joker-Batman origin story.

But the movie is also dull in stretches, thoroughly depressing, a little more politically elemental than it perhaps knows, and ultimately, chooses shock over sustenance.  Perhaps most problematic, it’s really hard to give a shit about a protagonist who, when all is said and done, is just a loon with a crazy giggle off his meds. How much fun is that?

Implicit in that last criticism is the presumption of an old fogie that even super hero villain stories should have some level of joy or whimsy. But if the future is Lex Luthor kicking a meth habit, Thanos having been molded by the cruelties of urban foster care, or Venom’s molestation at the hands of her uncle, so be it. The film has made over $1 billion globally and it leads all pictures in Oscar nominations.  Who am I to thwart progress?

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It’s fine. There is no need to see it in the theater, but this story of former driver and automobile designer Carroll Shelby (Matt Damon) and driver Ken Miles (Christian Bale) being subcontracted by Ford to take on Ferrari at LeMans is entertaining and fast-paced. Besides, Damon and Bale would be easy enough to watch grilling hot dogs, and Tracy Letts as Henry Ford II steals the picture in one scene.

That said, the movie is a tad too formulaic and cute and it has some thematic and structural problems. Bale’s overly precious relationship with his wife (Caitriona Balfe) is plagued by money woes and that seems to be the source of any dissension in theri union.  But then, all of a sudden, she goes bats because he apparently isn’t communicative enough, which comes out of nowhere (up until this point in the film, Bale is presented as aCockney loudmouth who can’t keep his trap shut about anything). Additionally, the relationship between Damon and Bale is unsupported, and we actually know little about either of them before their joint endeavor begins.  Some background, other than stoic and abrasive, respectively, would have helped.

But most problematic is the depiction of the Ford company, a corporate behemoth we are asked to loathe and root for at the same time.  The whiz kid who comes up with the idea of taking on Ferrari is Lee Iacocca, and as played by Jon Bernthal, he barely registers. Worse, as Ford’s no. 2, Josh Lucas is just this side of twirling a mustache. His treachery is over-the-top ridiculous.

The race footage is exciting and when you see this when it streams, you’ll be pleased, though Ron Howard’s Rush is a better racing film.

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Very, very long (6 hours in total for the two films), but not altogether terrible and without giving anything away, at least they put some bodies on the block, thus limiting later franchise movies solely to origin stories.  Quippy, and visually much more satisfying than a lot of these movies.  Also, Thor in a fat suit is pretty funny, and melding The Hulk and Bruce Banner (now, he can wear the right size pants all the time)?  Inspired.

Still, when all is said and done, the whole things turns on Superman reverse circling the earth to go back in time.  They just couldn’t use him because he’s not a Marvel character.  Also, the concept for the second film is the same as HBO’s The Leftovers.

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The first half of this Tarantinoesque Key Largo is pretty good.  Four strangers (Jon Hamm, Jeff Bridges, Cynthia Erivo and Dakota Johnson) show up at a past-its-prime, resort hotel in the Nevada/California mountains, the kind of place where Sammy, Judy and Frank might have swung back in the day.  They all have a story, which we learn in flashbacks, some of which are more compelling than others.  Their destinies collide explosively.

I was worried the film would be too kitschy and cool, too mannered, but it manages to keep a lid on it for long enough to be engaging.  Other problems keep it from being unequivocally good.  For one, Dakota Johnson barely even registers.  She’s undeniably attractive but as a shotgun-toting Alabaman on the run from her better looking Charles Manson (Chris Hemsworth), she’s as convincing as Melania Trump.   Worse, Hemsworth tries to chew scenery, but the best he can do is ape Val Kilmer in The Doors (I guess all Svengalis from the late 60s had that lizard lope).  To cement his powers of persuasion, we get a flashback to Hemsworth preaching to his hippie flock, and let’s just say, he’s more Jim Nabors than Jones or Morrison.

Erivo is very good, but she’s a singer as a character and in real life.  Writer-director Drew Goddard (The Cabin in the Woods) feels compelled to have her perpetually employing the pipes, an unnecessary distraction.

On HBO.  Fine if you got nothing else going on.

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The subject of free soloing (climbing sheer face of rock with no rope) is compelling, more so for me because I didn’t even know it was a thing until I saw this movie.  You travel with Alex Sonnold as he attempts the greatest climb of his life, the 900 meter El Capitan in Yellowstone, which seems particularly reckless in that he’s just weeks off a sprained ankle.

The climb is gripping. The psychological portrait of the climber less so. He appears to be a bit disassociative, almost numb, which lessens your investment in him.  For example, he has the cutest damn girlfriend you’ve ever seen, and she’s clearly crazy about him. As such, his risks in the face of such riches would seem casually cruel if he weren’t a bit of a deadened weirdo.

Indeed, the film is about Alex doing something that may well kill him (free soloists die pretty regularly) and voluntarily having it filmed.   The pre-bout navel-gazing (his family never hugged or used the word “love”) and awkward, searching exchanges with his documentarians feel like artificial injections to elicit empathy. They are only so effective.

Would this be tolerable if he was more human, more flesh and bone?  Should that matter?  Should I feel bad that the movie feels long when it has offered me a “he lives or he dies” finale?

My ethical quandaries aside,  watch this on the biggest TV you have.  The visuals are stunning and the achievement monumental.