"Emilia Pérez"

  ☆☆☆☆☆ 

The best way to see the Spanish-language, French-produced rock-opera crime thriller Emilia Pérez is on the big screen, but it is a depressing fact that we live in a largely post-cinema world, when streaming services have replaced the communal act of moviegoing.

What will people watching this genre-defying, hyperactive, unpredictable musical at home make of it? Judging by some of the viewer comments I've seen, Emilia Pérez loses something on the small(er) screen—and movie lovers lost something when deep-pocketed Netflix bought the film after its rapturous response at the Cannes Film Festival. Though it got released on a handful of movie screens (I was fortunate to see it one of the few cinemas screening it a month after it opened), this movie, which took no fewer than 15 funding sources to bring it to life, is going to be seen at home.

Emilia Pérez isn't easy enough for today's watch-while-doing-a-dozen-other-things audiences, but in the cinema, it is a wonder to behold, a movie that casts a spell and never lets it be broken, even if it loses some of its musical razzle-dazzle in its second half, when it veers more toward pure, adrenaline-fueled over-the-top melodrama.

The less you know about Emilia Pérez going into it, the better. The general outline of the story follows Rita Mora, an overworked, under-appreciated attorney in Mexico City, who finds herself recruited by the leader of a powerful cartel and its biggest, baddest boss, Manitas del Monte. Manitas has a secret: He wants to become a woman, and hires Rita to take care of all of the details — not just arranging his surgery, but ensuring the world, including his family, knows of his death.

Manitas becomes Emilia Pérez, who sets about changing everything in her life. As Emilia discovers who she is, she develops an astonishing sense of destiny, though the movie, which is based on an unproduced opera libretto that, in turn, was inspired by a novel, has a lot of ideas about fate and destiny and the ways the past gets invited to intrude on the present.

As Emilia Pérez races toward a climax entirely in keeping with its operatic sensibilities, it's anchored by two excellent performances—Zoe Saldaña as Rita and Selena Gomez as Manitas' wife, Jessi. But the film belongs to Karla Sofía Gascón, an actress who brings Emilia to life in a way that thrills and delights. She commands the screen with no effort at all, finding a bold and unexpected heart at the core of a woman who thinks she knows enough to outwit her past.

Every moment of Emilia Pérez worked for me, even the most outrageous ones, though after seeing it I read some downright scathing criticism of the film from trans writers who believe the film is an inaccurate representation of the trans experience. I imagine they might have a point if the film were seeking—like, say, Hedwig and the Angry Inch—to portray some sense of realism about its subject.

But Emilia Pérez has no interest in depicting a real world; its vision is one of stylization, of embracing the sensibilities of a Mexican telenovéla, albeit one very much made for the big screen. What a shame, then, that this mesmerizing film will almost entirely be experienced on the small screen, watched by audiences primed to press the "back" button when they are less than entranced. Emilia Pérez is a big, glorious movie, unashamed to revel in its drama, aware that sometimes life is filled with feelings so overwhelming, so complicated, so robust that the only way to express them is by singing, dancing, and just letting it all wash over you.

Viewed December 21, 2024 — Landmark Sunset

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"Queer"

 ☆☆ 

Queer is Luca Guadagnino's second film this year, and it almost everything that made his first 2024 film, Challengers, thrilling, exciting and compelling. More crucially, it lacks the urgency and vibrancy of Guadagnino's earlier Call Me By Your Name, which is curious for many reasons — not the least of which is that Queer is about a gay junkie but doesn't seem able to come up with anything interesting to say about being gay or being a junkie.

Everything in Queer has been done before and been done better. That's something Guadagnino seems to understand, because Queer cribs from a long history of better movies. There are the stylized settings and saturated hues of Querelle and One from the Heart. There are the wild-eyed moments of lust and horror from Reflections in a Golden Eye and Suddenly, Last Summer. There is the languid, lurid, boozy lecherousness of Death in Venice and Touch of Evil. There is the main credit sequence lifted from Call Me By Your Name.

What, then, is Queer trying to do, except maybe liberate Daniel Craig from the legacy of James Bond in a way none of his acting predecessors ever tried to do with as much definitiveness. This is the second gay character Craig has played, after detective Benoit Blanc, and we get it: He is not defined by his macho screen persona. Fair. But we're not five minutes into Queer when Craig is (as discreetly as this can be done) pretending at gay oral sex.

The rest of the time, he's a walking stereotype of desperate, middle-aged gay swishiness. The film's rambling screenplay makes sure he says the word "queer"—in self-mocking reference, as an adjective, as a noun, as an epithet, as a pejorative—as often and as campily as possible.

There isn't a moment of actual recognizable humanity on display anywhere in Queer, which takes its time—oh, does it take its time—finding a story within the descriptive novella by William S. Burroughs. This is a meandering, plodding affair, enlivened by the eye candy provided by Drew Starkey, his well-built and often unclothed body, and his affected Southern drawl.

Craig's character, an itinerant loner living in Mexico named William Lee, becomes obsessed with Starkey's Eugene Allerton. Why? No real reason, other than the boy looks good (and he does look good, Guadagnino makes sure everyone in the audience, no matter their sexual orientation, thinks so). They sweat, they have sex, they do it all over again, and eventually—after a long, long while—we learn that Lee is an addict, and that he wants to go further south to find a legendary hallucinogen. He takes Eugene with him. They have more sex. They sweat some more. Lee has withdrawals. They go to the jungle. They meet an American hermit (Lesley Manville, proving that even the best actors are not capable of breathing life into ridiculous characters). They take the drug. They get really, really high.

Then there's some more weirdness. The movie takes on some of Burroughs' phantasmagoric imagery, but ... why? How did a movie called Queer end up stoned in the jungle?

Then it ends.

Critics seem divided. Audiences less so. I talked with the nonplussed couple next to me, self-professed "Luca" fans. This didn't do it for them. Will Queer do it for anyone? Time will tell. At the very least, you won't only see Daniel Craig as James Bond from this point on; you'll also see him as a straight actor who will go gay for pay.

Queer doesn't just star a prominent heterosexual, it's written by one, too: Justin Kuritzkes, who also wrote Challengers, a movie that teased at its gay themes. Queer isn't meant to be a tease. It shouldn't be a tease. And I suppose—I'll concur with a heavy sigh—that it shouldn't matter whether an actor or a screenwriter is gay. They're getting at a human experience, right?

In Queer, they're supposed to be getting at a queer experience, but it doesn't work. The movie seems clueless about its central theme. It's strange to see Guadagnino flail so badly with this material, despite his visual flair. It leaves me wondering if the reason Call Me By Your Name succeeded so fully is that it was written by James Ivory, a gay man who understood the central emotional conundrum inherent in that film. A perspective like his is what's so desperately, glaringly missing from Queer. 

Viewed December 13, 2024 — AMC Universal

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"Wicked"

 ☆☆☆☆½ 

It's possible that your response to Wicked will depend on your knowledge and appreciation of the theatrical juggernaut on which it's based, a musical that transcends even the meaning of that word — Wicked is less a musical than a commercial and pop-culture phenomenon. A lot of massive musical sensations have been adapted into films in recent yers, including Les Miserables, The Phantom of the Opera, Dear Evan Hansen, Rent and, yes, Cats. Largely, they have not been good.

Wicked is good. Wicked is very, very good.

That's the best possible news, given that it has taken more than two decades for Universal Pictures, which produced the show on stage, to get it to the screen. On one hand, it's easy to look at the stage show and think, "What could go wrong?" Then again, look at those other movies. They've all been varying degrees of pretty bad, even the Oscar-nominated Les Miserables, which was, despite all the hype, not good.

So, to quote a song from Wicked itself: Thank goodness. Director John M. Chu and screenwriters Winnie Holzman (who wrote the sometimes-maligned book of the stage show) and Dana Fox have taken the show more or less intact but managed to expand on it, deepen it, enhance it. This is a deep fantasy, a movie that depends at the bare minimum on having familiarity with The Wizard of Oz, and ideally with knowing something about Wicked itself.

The show was based on a 1995 novel by Gregory Maguire that sought to re-evaluate the character of the Wicked Witch of the West in L. Frank Baum's novel and the 1939 MGM musical. It's an early example of deep deconstruction of existing pop culture, something that seems to happen on a daily basis today, as movies and TV shows are endlessly taken apart, re-examined, and put back together. But Wicked seemed new as a novel, and newer still as a musical, though it doesn't seem nearly as new as a movie.

Those who know the mythology best are likely to fall madly in love with Wicked. The filmmaking team has satisfied that audience entirely, as evidenced by the ecstatic response of the woman wearing a witch's hat in our audience. But that familiarity could also work against it, so the filmmakers have done two important things: They've created an eye-popping spectacle that incorporates a lot of CGI but also feels impressively physical and real; and they've made two extraordinary casting decisions.

As perky, popular Galinda (soon to be "Glinda") Upland, Ariana Grande-Butera is a dazzling, charming revelation who captures the bubble-headed airiness of the role but finds, astonishingly, a way to make it her own. Since I'm of a certain age, I was unfamiliar with Grande-Butera as a singer or performer, and came away from this film a pink-dyed-in-the-wool fan: She's a mesmerizing screen presence.

I was more familiar with Cynthia Erivo, though as a dramatic performer from her Oscar-nominated performance in Harriet. She's got the dramatic chops — and the role of Elphaba Thropp, otherwise known as the Wicked Witch of the West, demands them. It's her story, after all, and Wicked makes a pretty compelling case that what happened in Oz wasn't really related to Dorothy Gale of Kansas, in any case.

Rather, it's Elphaba Thropp, born with skin of a different color that branded her as an outsider, a young woman with a hard-won and well-developed sense of justice and morality who also has a deep longing to live up to her own sense of potential. Elphaba has one of the best showstopper numbers in Broadway history with "Defying Gravity," but an earlier number called "The Wizard and I" is the distillation of every "I want" song in Broadway history. In just a few minutes, through her powerful singing voice and her fine sense of drama, Erivo helps us understand everything that moves Elphaba throughout the movie.

That proves to be crucial, because the final 30 minutes or so of Wicked is a little muddled — a problem the musical also had. It's strange how completely the film has failed to fix the problems of the musical, which begins to flag around the time Elphaba and Galinda, who are the very definition of "frenemies," get to the Emerald City to see the Wizard of Oz. Questions of who wants what and why become more urgent even as the answers get a little murkier, and Wicked delves a little uncomfortably into issues of politics and power.

This film of Wicked ends exactly where the stage musical deposits audiences into intermission, except instead of 15 minutes we'll have a year to wait. Erivo, Grande-Butera and "Defying Gravity" make it a satisfying place to stop — Chu has turned the number into a grand, emotionally fulfilling spectacle, ending Wicked at a literal high point.

What happens next will be interesting to see. Act 2 of Wicked has never been as fulfilling. It lacks some dramatic thrust and musical chops, and its ideologies have often seemed a little weak and unconvincing on stage. Whether the second part of Wicked the film can fix those flaws is something we won't know for a year. All we know now is that we have Part 1 of Wicked ... and as a whole it's quite wonderful to behold.

Viewed November 24, 2024 — AMC Topanga

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"Small Things Like These

  ☆☆½ 

Small Things Like These begins and ends quietly. It is quiet in the middle. It is quiet when it needs to be quiet, and it is quiet when it needs to be loud. It is made by filmmakers who must believe that much is said in the spaces between words. I surmise they believe that, because they've made a movie that is nothing but the spaces between words.

What sparse dialogue these is in Small Things Like These is largely whispered, or spoken in hushed grunts, in the tones saved for words that struggle to convey the meaning they intend.

Your appreciation of Small Things Like These will, then, depend on your patience for listening, carefully, to bits of dialogue, to watching long, wordless passages, and determining for yourself what is happening. There is a plot in the film, but it is non-linear, it is hinted at rather than conveyed, and it's filled with missing pieces of information that the filmmakers leave for us to determine.

Is that a flaw in the film? I found it so, but other critics have been more kind. They call it intense and understated. It certainly is the latter, so much so that there are times it can't be bothered with trivialities like exposition and character development. The movie reminded me of film courses I took in college, in which the professor told us that plot was an unnecessary device, that everything in cinema is conveyed through the mise-en-scène, the way the images are put together, the way the film flows.

I'm not sure I bought that theory then, and I'm not sure I buy it now. And yet, it's all the movie really gives us to go on. Cillian Murphy plays Bill Furlong, a stoic man of few words, a Catholic "coal man" who makes the rounds every day before going home to his wife and his five daughters. He cleans the grime off of him. He tries his best to make a living.

One of the places he delivers coal is the convent. It's a place where girls live—the kind of girls we used to call "wayward." Bill suspects some things about the place. Or sort of suspects. Maybe. We're not sure. He doesn't let on much. His wife suggests that whatever he might or might not think, some things are better left ignored. The Mother Superior at the convent is played by Emily Watson, and she's a woman with a lot to hide. One scene between Bill and the Mother Superior could have been an incendiary showdown between his suspicions and her defenses, but here, as everywhere else in the film, we're meant to pay attention to the quiet moments between the words. The glances. The half-smiles.

There's another story being told in Small Things Like These, which after some initial confusion we learn is the story of Bill himself growing up as a little boy.

What are we to make of these scenes with young Bill? That's impossible to know for sure. The movie presents them, then moves on. Even if you try to look between the spaces in these scenes, no answers are going to come your way—not even about what we see on the screen. How do these memories impact Bill as an adult? We're left to figure that out on our own.

Small Things Like These is not going to offer easy answers. It's not going to offer many answers at all. It's a glum story about a glum man who discovers something shocking—except it's not really about that, at all. The novel on which it's based is, I've read, about kindness and compassion, and it's been billed as the "anti-Christmas Carol." The movie is not successful in translating any of those ideas to the screen.

It isn't a failure, though. Small Things Like These does have good performances, leads us (with the final title card) to want to research what Bill finds on our own, and, once we have, to go and watch one of the documentaries made about this period of time. The topic is distressing, sordid and interesting. Small Things Like These is none of those things. As it moves from moment to moment, scene to scene, it's calm and intriguing, and after a while there's a clear sense it's building to something significant in its final moments.

But it doesn't. This movie isn't about that. It's about the meaning between the spaces of those final moments. It's about subtext. And it turns out that subtext isn't a particularly interesting idea for a movie.

Viewed November 16, 2024 — AMC Universal 16

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"Heretic"

  ☆☆☆½ 

There's so much right about Heretic, the new horror movie that doesn't cast Hugh Grant against type as much as it casts him against all good judgment — yet it's just one of the many, many things that work in this unique movie that comes dangerously close to redefining the concept of a psychological thriller.

But Heretic pulls its punches, setting us up for a final act that will blow our minds but delivering a final act that gets bloody and gory and ultra-violent and, at times, ultra-stupid. And yet, because the first two thirds are so terrific, and because that third act contains at least one cinematic trick that is among the best trick shots in movie history (yes, I know that's a big, big statement — it's a big, big shot), I want to be lenient with this film.

It's essentially a claustrophobic three-person exercise in tension that continually feels the need to open up the action. In a pretty ironic twist for a movie about the meanings of faith, Heretic doubts itself once too often. That's a shame, since confidence is its primary strength.

The setup is remarkably simple and no-frills: Two Mormon missionaries, Sister Barnes (Sophie Thatcher) and Sister Paxton (Chloe East), follow up on leads as they try to preach their gospel, and visit the secluded (is there any other kind?) house owned by one Mr. Reed, an affable fellow who carries the embarrassed, halting charm of Hugh Grant. Good thing he's played by Hugh Grant.

He invites them in. They accept. Bad move.

Nothing feels right from the moment they step into the living room and smell the blueberry pie that Mr. Reed insists Mrs. Reed is baking in the kitchen. In fact, he says, the pie will be ready soon—so, while they wait, they should sit and talk.

Turns out Mr. Reed knowns a thing or two about the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. More, it seems, than Sister Barnes or Sister Paxton. A lot more. About other religions, too. Just as things start getting really uncomfortable, the Sisters decide maybe it's time to leave. Mr. Barnes says he won't stop them. Needless to say, he's lying.

Tense, claustrophobic, uncomfortable and awkward, the first act of Heretic is nothing more than a setup, and it moves to a riveting half-hour stretch in which Grant takes center stage and takes Heretic into wild and fascinating directions. A long diatribe filled with histories of religion, pop music, board games and the very nature of belief is delivered with remarkable effect: In the midst of a horror film, the audience begins to think. (Or, I imagine, begins to get awfully antsy that nothing seems to be happening.) Heretic marks the first time I've come out of a horror film desperate to know more about music history.

Then, just when the movie has us in its thrall and can lead us down any path it chooses ... writer-directors Scott Beck and Bryan Woods take it to an ultra-bloody, violent place that doesn't let the interest flag even as it feels like a letdown. It also opens up some gaping plot holes and some flimsy narrative logic that never quite fits. After watching Heretic, I read one of those "the ending explained" articles, and it couldn't explain the ending. Or most of the last 20 minutes. I've worked it around and around in my head, and I can't quite make sense of some key questions about Heretic, though I won't give anything away by suggesting what they are.

It's worth seeing for yourself. Heretic is very much worth watching, even if the rabbit hole it promises viewers turns out to be pretty shallow and not nearly as topsy-turvy as might be hoped. Heretic tries a lot and achieves a lot ... just not quite enough.

Viewed November 10, 2024 — AMC Topanga

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"Juror #2"

 ☆☆☆☆½ 

Director Clint Eastwood's 42nd film may well be his last, and if that proves to be the case the 94-year-old filmmaker has saved one of his best for last—Juror #2 is a crackling legal thriller, one that could well be so familiar on the surface that Warner Bros. is barely releasing the film in theaters, eager to send it straight to streaming.

Missing this film in a theater would mean missing out on one of moviegoing's true pleasures: Watching a film with an appreciative audience. In recent months, we've had The Substance, Conclave and Speak No Evil has movies that rile up moviegoers. Sitting there in the dark, they become absorbed by the story, and in this case by the flawless filmmaking, and can't help themselves when the surprise twists come.

They do come in Juror #2, and in the packed auditorium the night I saw it, the audience gasped during a couple of key moments, laughed appreciatively at a couple of others, and it's that sort of audience participation (as opposed to the talking-and-texting kind) that helps clarify just why moviegoing is never, ever going to disappear.

Nicholas Hoult, who has long since moved past being "the kid from About a Boy" and grown into a compelling, Hitchcockian sort of "every man," plays a Savannah man named Justin Kemp, who obeys his summons for jury duty. His truthful answers to the stern judge (Amy Aquino) presiding over a murder trial make him the "perfect" person to serve on the jury. Or so everyone thinks. It turns out, Justin might well be the reason the victim in the case died.

That may seem like a spoiler, but it's revealed within the first 15 minutes or so of this tense courtroom drama, which also turns out to have a not-so-hidden deeper side.

Justin is married, with a baby on the way. He's a good man with a difficult past, and he really is unaware of his connection to the case when he is empaneled. As soon as he makes the connection, though, he's stuck: If he comes clean, he could be facing 30 or more years in prison. If he stays silent, he could condemn a man to murder even though that man is innocent — and he may be the actual culprit. 

And, of course, he can't tell a soul.

One of the people he can't tell is the local DA, played by Toni Collette — who, in a neat twist, played Hoult's troubled mother in About a Boy. Here, she represents the worst part of the criminal justice system, and Juror #2 isn't shy about its beliefs that it's a flawed and broken system. Sending a message is on the movie's mind, and the message is a bitter and angry one, but it's not the primary motivation. It wants, more than anything, to tell a good story—and it does.

The more Justin learns about the case, the more he realizes he's in the hottest of water. Not many people care if he gets burned—they need to make sure the state gets its man. It all leaves Justin in one of the most tortured legal quagmires since Paul Newman in The Verdict, yet Juror #2 is not a heavy drama. It's a fast-moving, engrossing thriller that also has quite a lot to say about the jury system and about the way conscience can weigh you down even when you try to clear your mind.

Eastwood has never shied away from infusing his films with deep, sometimes difficult (and sometimes juvenile) messages. This time, he gets it just right.

Warner Bros., for reasons that are entirely unfathomable, has determined Juror #2 will play best on TV, so it's giving the film only a very limited release to qualify for voting. If you can see Juror #2 in a movie theater, you won't regret it. Based on the effectiveness of this film, Warner Bros. owes one of its biggest directors a huge apology for botching what may be his last work. Whether it is or isn't, it's surely one of his best.

Viewed Nov. 2, 2024 — AMC Burbank 16

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"Conclave"

  ☆☆☆☆½ 

The movies used to be filled with gems like Conclave, a terrific thriller with what they used to tout as an "all-star cast." It's a movie that assumes the audience possesses a certain level of intelligence, and while I'm tempted to say Conclave is "sophisticated," that might make it sound like something it's not — this isn't a dull, ponderous examination of politics in the church, it's a corker of a movie, a fun an unpredictable bit of entertainment.

Let's get something out of the way first: Conclave is about the process of picking a pope. I know, that doesn't sound too promising, at least as far as thrillers go, and because I went into the movie armed with absolutely no foreknowledge, I made a strange assumption it was going to be one of those overwrought Catholic horror movies. It's not, thank God.

Ralph Fiennes stars as Cardinal Lawrence, whose unenviable task is to manage the process of picking a pope when the current head of the Catholic church dies. A couple of hundred cardinals are flown in from around the world, ready to be sequestered for as long as it takes. They include ambitious American clerics played by John Lithgow and Stanley Tucci, an equally ambitious Nigerian cardinal played by Lucian Msmati, a deeply conservative Italian (Sergio Castellito), and a surprise last-minute addition: a previously unknown cardinal secretly appointed by the late pope, played by newcomer Carlos Diehz. He's been serving in Kabul, and his liberal views align with the cardinal played by Tucci, threatening to upend the process.

Or, at the very least, to make an already difficult process even more difficult, because Conclave is eager to show that this is a process filled with politicking, backbiting, campaigning and name-calling. You know, all the good stuff.

A group of nuns supports the priests. They're led by Isabella Rossellini, and if she seems to be awfully quiet in the background, rest assured movie producers don't hire Isabella Rossellini for nothing.

She's very good, in one key moment earning an appreciative cheer without saying a word. All the performers in Conclave are uniformly strong, and while it's easy to single out Fiennes for a fine, serious and often deep performance, no member of the cast makes a wrong move.

That's critical in a movie like this, which starts out as an earnest drama before making moves, small at first, into thriller territory. By the end, it does thrill indeed, particularly as the outside world — unknown to the sequestered cardinals — boils over as vote after vote fails to yield results. It's all compulsively watchable, even in the moment or two it veers a little too closely to silliness, though the deft work of a cast like this and of director Edward Berger, working with screenwriter Peter Straughan to adapt the novel by Robert Harris.

Big credit goes to Focus Features for bringing Conclave to the big screen rather than releasing it straight to streaming, as happened with Berger's last film, All Quiet on the Western Front. It's thoughtful, compelling, exciting and best enjoyed in the dark, with some popcorn and an appreciative audience that laughs and gasps and even cheers at all the right moments — the gasps are the best part, and there are a lot of them.

Viewed October 27, 2024 — AMC Topanga 12

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