"Everything is as it should be."

                                                                                  - Benjamin Purcell Morris

 

 

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Follow me on Twitter: Michael McCaffrey @MPMActingCo

Looking California and Feeling Minnesota: Ep. 115 - Oscar Nominee Killers of the Flower Moon

In the coming weeks Barry and I will examine the Best Picture nominees for this year’s Oscars. First up is Martin Scorsese’s epic Killers of the Flower Moon starring Leonardo DiCaprio. Topics discussed include the strengths and weaknesses of DiCaprio, Scorsese’s late career filmography and the pain of missed opportunities.

Looking California and Feeling Minnesota: Ep. 115 - Oscar Nominee Killers of the Flower Moon

Thanks for listening!

©2024

American Fiction: A Review - My Pafology Lives in Da Ghetto

****THIS IS A SPOILER FREE REVIEW!! THIS REVIEW CONTAINS ZERO SPOILERS!!***

My Rating: 3.5 out of 5 stars

My Recommendation: SEE IT. A clever and insightful comedy about racial pandering and virtue signaling that winks and nods as it panders and signals its own virtue.

American Fiction, written and directed by Cord Jefferson, tells the story of Thelonious “Monk” Ellison, a struggling black author who out of frustration with the publishing industry, writes an absurdly stereotypical “black” book which becomes an instant best-seller.

American Fiction, which is based on the book Erasure by Percival Everett, is one of those multi-layered movies that is sneaky good. On its surface, which features a curmudgeonly yet charming performance from Jeffrey Wright, it is an entertaining, if a bit scattered, movie that just about anybody could watch and enjoy. But just beneath the film’s friendly surface it seethes with an undeniably dynamic cultural political message.

The film follows the travails of Wright’s character “Monk” Ellison, who is a professor in Los Angeles and an author. His high-minded books don’t sell well and his latest is passed over by publishers. The literary world is enamored with books about racial issues and Monk’s book is deemed not “black enough” by the white people running the business.

A dejected Monk then takes a sabbatical from teaching in order to visit his family in Massachusetts. His mother is elderly and suffering from dementia, his newly divorced sister Lisa is frustrated and sad and his long-lost brother Cliff is divorced and newly gay.

It is as Monk navigates this chaotic family drama that he writes his undeniably “black” book My Pafology, under the pseudonym Stag R. Leigh, about growing up in the hood and being in and out of prison - things that are the polar opposite to Monk’s actual life. Monk’s agent submits the book and publishers absolutely love it and it becomes a million-dollar sensation.

That whole story is engaging and entertaining enough. Yes, the film can be a bit too unfocused and run a bit too long, but anytime you get to spend a few hours with Jeffrey Wright it is usually worthwhile, and American Fiction is no exception.

The curious, and most interesting thing about American Fiction though is not its surface but its subtext. It is a movie about white liberal pandering on race issues that itself shamelessly panders on cultural issues.

For example, Monk’s brother Cliff is a blatant and bad caricature of a gay man and his entire story is at best superfluous, but he, and his gay friends, conveniently check a lot of feel-good diversity boxes.

Another example is Monk’s sister Lisa, who is a doctor. But she’s not just any doctor, she’s an abortion doctor, who must have armed guards at her clinic…again…the movie is signaling its virtue and declaring its bona fides to its target audience of liberals, who will probably be blissfully unaware of both the pandering in plain sight and the fact that that they are the target of the film’s meta-joke.

The movie rightfully makes fun of the pathetic white liberals in the publishing industry to great effect, but the deeper laughs, whether intentionally or not, come from the comedy hiding in plain sight in the form of the film’s own pandering.

I mean, making a movie about cultural pandering, which features a movie within a movie, both of which relentlessly pander, is brilliant. Maybe all of that is not intentional, maybe it’s just a giant blind spot by filmmaker Cord Jefferson…but I’d like to credit him for his brilliance than assume it was all by accident.

That said, the film does avoid the much deeper, and pardon the pun, darker issues regarding the negative stereotypes perpetuated and celebrated in American culture. Yes, powerful white people certainly do push certain harmful types of entertainment that denigrate black people - but which black people also embrace. But it’s a very specific type of “white person”, the type who has the controls to the machinery to spread that message and make it culturally universal and celebrated.

Also avoided is the fact that the intelligence community in the U.S., most notably the CIA, have for decades been funding psy-ops that elevate the negative and violent stereotypes of blacks through mass media - which in turns feeds violence in black neighborhoods and communities. For example, the CIA were heavily involved in the birth and dissemination of rap music, most notably gangsta rap. Combined with the intelligence community flooding majority black inner city neighborhoods with drugs and guns (see the late Gary Webb’s reporting on this issue, and the late Michael Ruppert’s claims as well), this makes it quite obvious that it isn’t just pandering, virtue signaling white liberals who want to perpetuate the stereotypes of the violent “black experience”, but it is rather powerful people much higher on the food chain who have very nefarious intentions. Regardless, none of these topics are broached in American Fiction, which is not surprising, but is worth noting.

As for what is in the movie, the very best thing about American Fiction is Jeffrey Wright. Wright is a subtle and skilled actor who never does too much or forces you to watch how much he is acting. As Monk, Wright is funny and ferocious, while never falling into caricature…except when he is expressly trying to be a caricature.

Sterling K. Brown gives an energetic performance as Monk’s brother Cliff. The character doesn’t seem like an actual human being, but to Brown’s credit he sinks his teeth into the role and mines it for some quality laughs.

Both Wright and Brown are nominated for Academy Awards, for Best Actor and Best Supporting Actor respectively, their first ever nominations. I didn’t think Brown’s work was worthy of such recognition, but Wright’s most certainly is, as his performance is masterfully rendered.

Director Cord Jefferson, who is also nominated by the Academy Awards for Best Adapted Screenplay, comes from a writing background, as he’s been working in television for the last decade as a writer.

American Fiction is Jefferson’s first feature film and directorial debut. He obviously has an incisive and insightful sense of humor which works well on many levels in the film. That said, American Fiction is visually as rudimentary as it gets and it looks pretty flat, just like a generic tv show.

The bottom line regarding American Fiction is that it is definitely well worth watching. It has the entertaining surface of a funny HBO tv show combined with a sub-text bursting with cutting social commentary. Throw in a winning Jeffrey Wright performance and you really can’t go wrong choosing American Fiction.

American Fiction is currently only available in theatres, and I’m not sure when it’ll be coming to streaming. If you want to have a fun night out then you could do worse than see American Fiction in theatres, although due to its rather basic cinematography, it is not essential to see it on the big screen. My recommendation is that you can wait until it hits streaming but when it does you should definitely check it out because it’s a smart, funny and entertaining piece of work.

Follow me on Twitter: @MPMActingCo

©2024  

Poor Things: A Review - A Funny and Fantastic Feminist Frankenstein

****THIS IS A SPOILER FREE REVIEW!!! THIS REVIEW CONTAINS ZERO SPOILERS!!****

My Rating: 4.5 out of 5 stars

My Recommendation: SEE IT. An original and brilliantly eviscerating black comedy that features the best performance by an actress in recent memory.

Poor Things, the new film from director Yorgos Lanthimos and writer Tony McNamara, is a bizarre and beautiful, weird and wonderful, gruesome and glorious piece of cinema, and is among the very best movies of the year.

The film is a surreal, absurdist, feminist take on the Frankenstein myth, which stars Emma Stone as Bella, a beautiful and horny Frankenstein monster who is raised by her creator God (short for Godfrey – played by Willem Dafoe), and then goes on an odyssey of personal, sexual and ideological discovery when adolescence hits.

On her journey Bella is armed with a powerful naivete, an aggressive resistance to social customs, a sharp scientific mind and an insatiable sexual appetite…all of which lead to a plethora of comedy.

Director Yorgos Lanthimos’ films are definitely an acquired taste…and I have certainly acquired it. The first Lanthimos film I saw was 2015’s The Lobster, which starred Colin Farrell and Rachel Weisz. The film is an absurdist romantic black comedy, a true arthouse gem, and I adored it. But when I talked it over with friends of mine, they hated it with a visceral passion. I guess they didn’t get it…or worse they did get it.

Lanthimos’ follow-up film, 2017’s The Killing of a Sacred Deer, was another strange arthouse psychological thriller starring Colin Farrell and Nicole Kidman, but which I thoroughly enjoyed. I’ve yet to meet anyone else who saw the film never mind felt the same way.

Lanthimos’ next film, 2018’s The Favourite, was a period black comedy which starred Emma Stone, Rachel Weisz and Olivia Colman, and garnered a lot of attention and Oscar nominations. This was easily Lanthimos’ most mainstream and successful film, it too was funny but also very, very dark. Not surprisingly, I loved it.

Poor Things is more in line with The Favourite than with The Lobster, as it’s a bitter and black comedy, but it’s also broad enough to appeal to slightly wider audiences than just the arthouse…although to be clear, at its heart the movie is an oddball arthouse affair.

What is so interesting about Poor Things coming out this year is that it is an elegant and searing indictment against this summer’s blockbuster event Barbie, and is the coup de grace in the case against the overwrought argument that Barbie is quality cinema.

Poor Things is everything the banal Barbie and its simpleton sycophants claim it to be but isn’t. Poor Things is original, funny, smart, clever and unabashedly and undeniably subversive. Where Barbie is insipid, Poor Things is inspired. Where Barbie is trite, Poor Things is treacherous.

Like Barbie, Poor Things is fueled by feminism but it isn’t the insipid, Human Resources approved, freshman year gender studies feminism of Greta Gerwig’s billion-dollar, two-hour Mattel commercial.

Barbie’s feminism was nothing more than a blunt instrument used to bash men and raise a self-pitying pink flag of victimhood for women. Poor Things’ feminism is a pitiless, merciless wildfire that scorches everything in its path, be it men or women, capitalism or socialism.  

Everything about Poor Things is superior to Barbie, from the directing to the writing to the cinematography to the acting.

The script, written by Tony McNamara, is razor sharp, cutting and insightful. McNamara, who also wrote The Favourite and is the creator of the fantastic tv series The Great, writes with a wonderfully incisive wit and maintains a consistent pace and tone.

The beneficiaries of McNamara’s phenomenal script are the cast.

Emma Stone gives the greatest performance by an actress seen this century. Stone, who already has a Best Actress Oscar for La La Land, is far and away the best actress in movies (or anywhere else) this year…this of course doesn’t mean she’ll win the Academy Award again, just that she should.

Stone dives into the Bella character with copious amounts of bravado and skill. She bares her body and devours scenes with equal aplomb. Watching Stone expertly act like a toddler, then like a horny teenager and then a wide-eyed whore, is glorious to behold.

As cliché as it is to say, Emma Stone gives a masterclass in acting in this film without ever making you feel like you’re watching her act. The dance scene alone is worth the price of admission.

Willem Dafoe too does extraordinary work as the mutilated mutilator Godfrey. Dafoe, beneath a bevy of prosthetics, gives Godfrey a humanity – in all its glories and failures, that never rings hollow.

The few missteps in the cast come from Mark Ruffalo, who plays Duncan Wedderburn, a cad who becomes enamored with Bella, and Jerrod Carmicheal as harry, an intellectual.

Ruffalo is miscast, and gives a very mannered performance that is at times uncomfortable to watch. Ruffalo is trying to be funny and it is this desire that suffocates the humor of his character.

Ruffalo also tries to speak in a very specific way and his mouth seems unwilling or incapable of cooperating with his brain’s instructions. The result is a muddled, mush-mouth performance that the film must fight to overcome…and thankfully, successfully does.

Carmichael, who is a comedian by trade, just seems to be a bad actor as he loiters in every scene he barely inhabits. He never adequately grasps the dialogue he is tasked with speaking and feels entirely out of place in the film.

Poor Things is, unlike its summertime counterpart Barbie, beautifully shot. Cinematographer Robbie Ryan is given a lot to play with and he makes the most of it. His use of black and white, and then a glorious cornucopia and dream like colors, is exquisite, and is substantially better than the flat visuals of Barbieland.

The production design, costume design and hair and make-up are all also extraordinarily well-done, and Robbie Ryan’s photography only accentuates the brilliance of the artists who created all of it.  

Poor Things is nominated for 11 Academy Awards, including Best Picture, Best Director, Best Adapted Screenplay (McNamara), Best Actress (Stone), Best Supporting Actor (Ruffalo) and Best Cinematographer (Ryan). How many, if any, it will win remains to be seen but I will say this, if it wins them all I certainly won’t be angry about it.

That said, Poor Things is not for everyone. It’s a decidedly dark comedy and it features a plethora of nudity and sex…so if you have a puritan or Victorian taste and those things make you uncomfortable then I recommend you stay away. But if you have a cynical sense of humor and you can at least tolerate the nudity and sex and the arthouse weirdness of it all, then Poor Things is definitely worth a try as it’s an exquisite piece of cinema.

Follow me on Twitter: MPMActingCo

©2024

Revisiting Killers of the Flower Moon - Thoughts on a Second Viewing

****THIS ARTICLE CONTAINS ZERO SPOILERS!!*** THIS IS A SPOILER FREE ARTICLE!!!****

As you may or may not remember, I wrote a review of Martin Scorsese’s latest film, Killers of the Flower Moon, back in November after having watched it in the theatre.

I found the film to be pretty middling and said as much in my review - I gave it 2.5 stars out of 5, but with a giant caveat. The caveat was this…the theatre in which I saw the film, an RC theatre here in flyover country, is just dreadful. The digital projectors are awful, the sound muddled and for some inane reason they refuse to turn the lights all the way off, which makes it seem like you’re watching a movie at a drive-in during the day.

In my review, I said I’d have to hold off with my final evaluation until I saw the film in a better environment, namely at home. Well…Killers of the Flower Moon is now available to stream on Apple TV+, and I watched it again, this time in darkness with decent sound.

Here are a few things that jump out at me upon further review.

First…I liked Leonardo DiCaprio’s performance much more the second time around than the first. I still don’t think it’s award worthy or great, just that it isn’t as mannered and empty as I found it to be on my initial watch.

In contrast, I was less impressed by Lily Gladstone’s performance. I don’t think she’s bad at all, it’s just a bit less impressive on second watch. The most notable thing about her performance is that she is able to unflinchingly share the screen with DiCaprio…which is no small thing…but beyond that the performance thins substantially the more you see it.

On the other hand, Robert DeNiro’s performance is even more impressive on second viewing. As William “King” Hale, DeNiro gives a remarkably skillful performance. It is invigorating to see this acting icon bring his formidable, yet subtle, “A” game, something which has been sorely lacking in the last few decades of his career, to the film. It is no surprise that it's his old collaborator Scorsese that is the director who has coaxed the two very best DeNiro performances of the latter stage of his career with The Irishman and Killers of the Flower Moon.

As for Killers of the Flower Moon in totality, I still, unfortunately, found it to be greatly lacking.

A second viewing should make the sprawling narrative more coherent since you know the players and the story arc, but it still feels very unfocused and discombobulated.

The length isn’t a problem (at least for me), but the lack of narrative and dramatic focus is. There’s an emotional and theatrical incoherence to the film that, much to my chagrin, does not disappear upon second viewing.

I’ve watched The Irishman, Scorsese’s previous film, which also ran well over three hours, numerous times in the past few years, but The Irishman, despite its long run time, is a taut piece of filmmaking that never loses its drive or its focus.

The truth is that Killers of the Flower Moon doesn’t lose its narrative drive and dramatic focus either, but that’s only because it never has them to begin with.

While I am disappointed in Killers of the Flower Moon, the movie is now on Apple TV +, so if you have the streaming service and haven’t seen the movie, why not give it a watch and decide for yourself? It’ll only cost you three-and-a-half hours and the usual Apple TV+ subscription rate.

If you don’t have Apple TV+ but want to give Killers of the Flower Moon a shot, here’s my advice. Sign up for a month or try and get a free month…but wait until February to do so. Then you can watch both Scorsese’s Killers of the Flower Moon and Ridley Scott’s Napoleon, which should be available for free on the service mid-February. I’ve not seen Napoleon yet so I’m not recommending it, just that if you’re going to dip your toe into the Apple TV + pool, might as well get as much as you can out of it, because frankly, there’s not a whole lot over there that’s worthwhile.

As for Killers of the Flower Moon, I really wished I liked it, as its subject matter is near and dear to my heart and Martin Scorsese is among my Mount Rushmore of filmmakers. But unfortunately, the film just doesn’t work, and feels like a missed opportunity.

 Follow me on Twitter: @MPMActingCo

©2024

Anatomy of a Fall: A Review - Unnerving Legal Drama Hits Dizzying Heights

****THIS IS A SPOILER FREE REVIEW!! THIS REVIEW CONTAINS ZERO SPOILERS!!****

My Rating: 4 out of 5 stars

My Recommendation: SEE IT. A well-made and well-acted legal/family drama that succeeds by leaving you with more questions than answers.

Anatomy of a Fall, which is currently available on Video on Demand (I paid $6.99), is one of those movies that lingers with you, tormenting and teasing you for days after you watch it.

The film, directed and co-written by Justine Triet, chronicles the investigation and trial of a woman whose husband falls to his death while renovating their isolated mountain chalet.

On its surface, Anatomy of a Fall is a standard court room procedural and family/relationship drama, but it percolates with a dramatic intensity and genuine humanity that is exquisite and rare in the genre and which elevates it into a superb cinematic experience.  

The film, which is in English and French (with English Subtitles), stars a mesmerizing Sandra Huller as Sandra Voyter, a successful writer living in a remote location in the French Alps with her husband and young son Daniel, who is blind.

Sandra’s life is turned upside down when her husband Samuel dies and the legal authorities aggressively examine his death and pick apart every minute detail of Sandra’s life - including the state of her relationship with Samuel.

What is so unnerving about Anatomy of a Fall is that it lays bare the notion that anyone’s life, examined closely enough, could reveal them as being capable of, not so much of a crime, but of being found guilty of a crime…whether they committed one or not.

In a way Anatomy of a Fall feels like some sort of horror film, with the legal system playing the role of the insatiable monster relentlessly chasing their wide-eyed prey.

What makes the film so intriguing is that at no point, even days after viewing, are you certain, one way or the other, as to whether Sandra is innocent or guilty of murdering Samuel.

And yet, while we can be swayed by the case against Sandra, we also are drawn in, through Huller’s exquisite performance, into sympathizing and empathizing with her. She may be a criminal, but unlike the vicious prosecutor unleashed upon her, she is also all too human. She is fragile, vulnerable and flawed, which makes her an easy target for the machinery of the legal system, and also someone easy to relate to for viewers.

Huller’s Sandra is a character thoroughly lived-in. She is a normal middle-aged woman, tired and worn down from the grind of her life raising her son, working (she’s a writer), and maintaining her marriage…the usual stuff.  Huller’s Sandra is barely able to keep herself, and her family, together amidst the carnage of the accusations against her. Huller has Sandra in a constant state of unraveling through the ordeal of her dizzying descent into the labyrinthian legal system, but never chooses to have her unravel all at once, and it is captivating to behold.

Also captivating is Mile Machado Graner as Sandra’s blind son Daniel. Without giving anything away I will say that Daniel is caught in the middle of the legal battle and Graner plays this torment expertly. Like Huller, Graner never falls into the trap of over-acting, or over-reacting, and simply embodies his character and imbues it with a humanity that is both touching and terrifying in context.

Director Justine Triet, who co-wrote the script with her husband Arthur Harari, is a calm, cool and steady hand behind the camera. She never falls prey to the usual traps associated with legal dramas, namely choosing a side and revealing sympathies.

Triet also never lets her film turn cold and into a stale procedural. Instead, Triet populates her film with genuine, real people, and shows them, flaws and all, being stripped emotionally bare and subjected to the grueling meat grinder that is the legal system.

One can’t help but wonder if an American filmmaker would have the confidence, and maybe more importantly, the studio acceptance, to make such a subtle yet dramatically complex legal drama.  

Which also brings up the question as to whether American audiences can get on board with Anatomy of a Fall. At first glance I would think that most American viewers, raised on the exceedingly vapid, insipid and seemingly inexhaustible tv franchises Law and Order and CSI, would struggle to get on board with a story as subtle, nuanced and dramatically complex as Anatomy of a Fall.

But then as the film lingered with me in the days after my watching it, I began to think that it was exactly those Law and Order and CSI audiences that could potentially get the most out of Anatomy of a Fall, as it would, with its deft and cinematically skilled touch, shake them out of their comfort zone by subverting their expectations.

Add in the high-quality acting and I think that Anatomy of a Fall could resonate with wider audiences here in America. That’s not to say wide audiences, it is a French film with subtitles after all, just slightly wider audiences than usual for such arthouse fare.

Anatomy of a Fall is currently available on VOD, and I’m not sure when it’ll come to a streaming service here in the U.S., but I think it will get a Best Picture nomination at the Academy Awards this year, so that will generate interest to see it and a streaming service will no doubt soon follow.

My recommendation is to fork over the money and see it on VOD for $6.99. If not, then wait for it to hit a streaming service in the coming months. Regardless of how you see it, you should see it. You won’t regret it, and you’ll be mulling it over in your head for days after your viewing…just like me.

Follow me on Twitter: @MPMActingCo

©2024

Maestro: A Review - Lifeless Leonard Bernstein Biopic is Out of Tune

****THIS IS REVIEW CONTAINS MINOR SPOILERS ABOUT LEONARD BERNSTEIN’S LIFE!! THIS IS TECHNICALLY NOT A SPOILER FREE REVIEW!!***

My Rating: 2.5 out of 5 stars

My Recommendation: SKIP IT/SEE IT. This movie just doesn’t work for a variety of reasons. But it’s on Netflix so if you’re so inclined watch it and see for yourself.

Maestro, the new Netflix biopic directed by and starring Bradley Cooper, chronicles the life of renowned musical genius Leonard Bernstein.

I readily admit that prior to seeing Maestro I knew little about Leonard Bernstein, the iconic conductor and composer who dominated the classical music scene in America for nearly fifty years in the 20th Century. After watching Bradley Cooper’s two-hour and nine-minute dramatization of Bernstein’s life I still know next to nothing about the man.

The film is essentially about Bernstein’s relationship with his wife Felicia (Carey Mulligan). The decision to focus on this aspect of Bernstein’s life is a poor one as the marriage is a dramatically flaccid affair. To boil it down, the plot of the film is that Leonard Bernstein, a gay man, marries Felicia, who knows full-well he is gay and readily accepts it…but then later on she gets mad that he’s gay for some reason. Not exactly compelling stuff, which is why it’s such an odd choice to focus on Bernstein’s marriage and not his music.

Even the most grotesque of philistines, like me, knows that Leonard Bernstein was a once in a lifetime type of talent, of that there is no doubt, but unfortunately Maestro is just a run of the mill movie devoid of even the most remote of insights into the great man it depicts.

Bernstein was an iconic public figure, but Cooper is incapable, as an actor and as a director, to get beyond the façade of Bernstein’s public persona and reveal the actual human being beneath it all.

Cooper’s great failings on Maestro are that he is overly ambitious while being relentlessly safe, and also egregiously indulgent.

His ambition as a director vastly exceeds his talent and skill, and so the massive scope and scale of Bernstein’s epic life, as well as his artistry and humanity, is unconscionably diminished.

Cooper the director uses a plethora of filmmaking tricks to try and make a compelling drama, for example, in the first act of the film he often transitions from one scene to the next with a time and space jump but without a cut, but these techniques ring hollow because the drama they surround is so shallow.

Cooper’s ambition as an actor is, on some level, admirable, but there too he is well out of his depth. His mimicry of Bernstein is consistent and, at times, impressive (and in the character’s later years aided by Kazu Hiro’s superb prosthetics), as he’s obviously closely studied the man’s mannerisms and voice. But Cooper’s portrayal ultimately misses the mark because, despite its showiness – or maybe because of it, it never rises to anything more than genuflection in the form of imitation.

Cooper’s indulgence as both director and actor is another albatross around the neck of the film. He directs the movie like an actor, reflexively indulging the worst of actor’s impulses. For example, he consistently holds scenes for a few beats too long – no doubt in the hope of some magic appearing, at the cost of scuttled dramatic tempo and pace.

Another example is that the acting style across the board in the film is incessantly ‘actory’ – meaning indulgent to actor’s narcissistic whims. The acting on display is all style and no substance. No characters come across as actual human beings and no scenes feel grounded, genuine or real. This is most evident in Carey Mulligan’s portrayal of Felicia, Bernstein’s wife, an awful Sarah Silverman as Shirley, Bernstein’s sister, and in Cooper himself playing Bernstein.

The only moment in the film that feels grounded, and as a result is moving, is a scene where Bernstein introduces his new girlfriend, Felicia, to David, a man with whom he has had a long running sexual relationship. David is played by Matt Bomer, and he absolutely crushes this scene. Bomer expresses David’s cavalcade of emotions with a simple and subtle series of looks. Cooper and Mulligan and the rest never approach this level of simplicity and mastery at any point in the picture.

Ironically, as ambitious as Cooper is as a director, the reality is that he has made a suffocatingly safe film. According to reports, the Bernstein family cooperated with the film and fully supported it, and it shows. Cooper’s movie never dares to challenge the Bernstein myth, but instead hews closer to hagiography, a common pitfall for films about real people with interested parties deeply invested in maintaining an image looking over the filmmaker’s shoulder.

Cooper also plays it safe himself. Yes, he is playing a gay man, but twenty years after Brokeback Mountain feels a bit less brave than it used to. But he plays it safe even there, as we never actually see Cooper’s Bernstein kiss another man…it is only implied or shown from the back and at a distance. It seems Cooper wanted to be a “brave” actor by playing a gay man but at the same time didn’t want to tarnish his movie star brand…and brand management won out.

There’s another oddity about the homosexual angle of Bernstein’s story that is mishandled, and that occurs during a scene on the street in New York City in the 1950s. Bernstein and David, his lover/former lover, walk down Central Park West and then stop and have a tender moment together in broad daylight. David caresses Bernstein’s face and kisses him on the forehead. These two men are obviously in love with each other and showing it….and no one says anything. Neither David nor Bernstein is afraid. Extras walk past them and don’t do a double take or express outrage. Bernstein says that people across the street recognize him…but he isn’t worried that they’ll see he’s gay, just that he’s famous.

This entire sequence is bizarre beyond belief. First off, just as a matter of fact, being openly gay in New York City (or just about anywhere) in the 1950s wasn’t just frowned upon…it was illegal. So, Leonard Bernstein, ambitious conductor and composer, would be scared to death to be outed because he would not only lose his job but be arrested and potentially go to jail.

Secondly, removing the stigma from Bernstein’s homosexuality, removes an obstacle for the character which existed in real life. Obstacles create drama…think of Brokeback Mountain…the two gay cowboys in that movie knew they had to hide their love because if it got-out they could be killed. Now that’s an obstacle.

An easy, and subtle, way to express this obstacle and show how constricting the culture was to a gay man like Bernstein in the 1950s, would have been to have those extras who walked by look back in disgust and horror at the two men being affectionate. And Bernstein could have struggled to hide himself or end the interaction in order to avoid detection and thus exposing himself, and his career, to peril. But no, we get none of that and all of that potential drama is neutered.

Making a movie about an artistic genius is difficult. Making one about an artistic genius who for the most part is conjuring up brilliance in his mind, is even more difficult…which is why movies about writers are notoriously hard to pull off.

Bernstein’s brilliance is both in writing and in performing – as a conductor…but we only get a scant few scenes of seeing him display his genius in front of an orchestra. The one scene that stands out as the most dynamic in the film is when Bernstein conducts an orchestra in a legendary performance in England in the early 1970s. Cooper is very good in this scene, as both an actor and director, but the success of this magnetic scene only accentuates the lifelessness of the rest of the movie.

As an actor and also as a director, Bradley Cooper is, above all else, exceedingly desperate to be good. He often reeks of desperation to such a degree, especially come award season, that it is uncomfortable to witness. But as is often the case, his level of desperation is inversely proportionate to his level of talent and skill.

Cooper’s first foray into directing was in 2018 with the fourth version of A Star is Born to hit the big screens. I found this film, which starred Lady Gaga opposite Cooper, to be cloying and mawkish, but it did have an impressive box office run and garnered a bevy of Oscar nominations but came up short in all the major categories.

I’ll say this about Maestro, I think it is much better than A Star is Born, and I think it is a much more worthy and meaningful cinematic attempt, even if it does end in failure, than Cooper’s directorial debut.

I’ll also say this…if Maestro were made twenty-five years ago, the Oscars would go bananas for it and throw every award it could grab at it because it would be considered epic yet also edgy and brave. But it’s not twenty-five years ago…and Maestro isn’t edgy and brave…it’s really rather blasé. So, I don’t think the Oscars, or anyone else, is going to be bestowing awards upon this movie.

Ultimately, Maestro as a cinematic and dramatic venture just doesn’t work, and its failure can be chalked up to Bradley Cooper’s directorial and acting ambitions being bigger than his limited talent and skill.

Tar (2022), another ambitious movie about an icon in the classical music world (albeit a fictional one), was a flawed film too but featured superior acting (it starred Cate Blanchett) and direction (directed by Todd Field) than Maestro. Neither film worked, but both are somewhat noble and worthy attempts to make a serious, adult drama with a somewhat moderate budget. We need as many of these types of films as we can get, so, while I didn’t like Maestro, I do like that this movie exists, I just wish it were much better made.

At the end of the day, I cannot recommend Maestro, but since it’s streaming on Netflix, I feel it’s appropriate to tell people to check it out for themselves and see if they like it. If you do, good for you. If you don’t, that’s okay too, because I didn’t either.

 Follow me on Twitter: @MPMActingCo

©2024

Looking California and Feeling Minnesota: Episode 113 - Saltburn

On this episode, Barry and I pour ourselves some bathwater cocktails and dance around our mansion in the nude as we discuss Emerald Fennell's new controversial film Saltburn. Topics discussed include the weirdness of Barry Keoghan, Emerald Fennell's major third act issues, and the cinematic skill of Linus Sandgren.

Looking California and Feeling Minnesota: Episode 113 - Saltburn

Thanks for listening!

©2024

The Holdovers: A Review - A Happy Humbug for the Holidays

****THIS IS A SPOILER FREE REVIEW!!THIS REVIEW CONTAINS ZERO SPOILERS!!****

My Rating: 3 out of 5 stars

My Recommendation: SEE IT. Not a great film, but a good enough one. It’s an exceedingly safe movie that boasts quality performances from a terrific cast.

The Holdovers, directed by Alexander Payne and starring Paul Giamatti, tells the story of a teacher, student and cook who are stuck together at a tony New England prep school over the Christmas holiday break in 1970.

I consider myself a marginal fan of director Alexander Payne. I’ve loved some of his movies, like About Schmidt and Nebraska. I’ve liked some of his movies, like Sideways and Election. And I’ve loathed some of his movies, like Downsizing and The Descendants.

The Holdovers, Payne’s first film since the box office and critical bomb Downsizing in 2017, was in theatres at the end of October and is now streaming on Peacock.

The film, set at the fictional prep school Barton, tells the story of Paul Hunham (Paul Giamatti), a stern and curmudgeonly academic who attended the school in his youth and has taught there for the vast majority of his adulthood.

Hunham is just like Robin Williams’ iconic character John Keating in Dead Poets Society…if Keating had a wall-eye, bad body odor and was despised by both students and colleagues alike. Hunham’s students would only stand and recite “O Captain! My Captain!” if they were about to frag him.

Hunham is, much to his chagrin, tasked with taking care of a rag tag group of students who, for a variety of reasons, have nowhere to go over the Christmas break. One of these students, Angus Tully (Dominic Sessa), is abandoned at the lasty minute by his mother and step-father for the holidays.

After a twist and turn of events, the only people left at Barton for holiday break are the sad-sack trio of Hunham, Tully, and the school’s head chef Mary Lamb (DaVine Joy Randolph). The one thing these three all have in common though is that they’re all in various stages of grief, such as denial, anger and depression.

The tone throughout The Holdovers is one of melancholy mixed with a cloying sentimentality. Yes, there are some amusing bits and sequences, and Giamatti’s Harvard educated Hunham has a quick, erudite and eviscerating wit, but for the most part this is a straight forward, throw-back, adult dramedy.

The Holdovers is a return to scale if not entirely to form for Alexander Payne. I thought the film was…fine. It isn’t great. But it is good…enough. It is proficiently made, well-acted, and entertaining. But what it lacks is…well…some sense of profundity, as it is incessantly safe above all else.

This is the type of film that would be perfect to sit down with extended family during the holidays and watch without anyone getting offended or upset or even all that excited. It is, as I said, above all else - safe…but it’s also entertaining and kept me captivated for its full two-hour-and-thirteen-minute running time.

The performances from the three main characters are all noteworthy. Giamatti, one of our better actors, is terrific as Hunham. The dialogue for Hunham is very well-written by screenwriter David Hemingson and is expertly delivered by Giamatti. Giamatti is very comfortable in the discomfort felt by the irascible egghead with the literal googly-eyes who smells like fish. He trudges through Hunham’s dramatic odyssey with his usual aplomb.

Dominic Sessa is a discovery as Angus Tully. This is Sessa’s first movie and while he is a bit rough-around-the-edges he brings a vitality and adolescent angst that is impossible to fake.

The big revelation though is Da’Vine Joy Randolph as Mary Lamb. Randolph’s character Mary is the least well-written, but she fills the spaces with a weight that speaks volumes. What impressed me the most about Randolph though is that she absolutely, but subtly, nails her Boston accent, which is something that such luminaries as Tom Hanks, Jack Nicholson and Julianne Moore have embarrassingly butchered (Hanks on multiple occasions).

When I have loved Alexander Payne’s films, like About Schmidt and Nebraska, it’s because they have had an acerbic and wickedly cutting and subversive nature to them. It also helps that those films star Jack Nicholson and Bruce Dern respectively, giving some of the best performances of their careers.

When Payne loses me is when sentimentality and shtick come to the fore, like in The Descendants and Downsizing. (I also thought George Clooney and Matt Damon, respectively, were actively awful in both of those movies)

The Holdovers has a mix of both the best and the worst of Payne. It’s filled with sentimentality, but also features a great actor, Giamatti, swimming in a thick sea of acerbity (much like he did in Sideways).

It also has some shticky moments that disappoint and irritate. Like when Hunham chases Tully through the school, which was very reminiscent of a dreadfully bad sequence in The Descendants where George Clooney goofily runs up and down a long winding road.

But despite those contrived moments and disappointing bits, I found myself buying in to The Holdovers almost entirely because this type of movie – a smart, adult dramedy, which used to be so common in the 1970’s, is so rare nowadays.

Well-written, well-acted small comedy-dramas made by quality directors featuring skilled performers, are unfortunately few and far between in today’s Hollywood. Which is maybe why The Holdovers is being so well-received by critics and audiences alike.

If you have Peacock, I definitely recommend you watch The Holdovers, and if you don’t have Peacock, they’re always having one-week free trials so sign up for a free week and watch the movie and then cancel.

Ultimately, I enjoyed The Holdovers despite its various shortcomings and lack of artistic ambition, and frankly, I think you will too. It’s a safe movie and it definitely won’t change your life…but it also won’t disappoint.

 Follow me on twitter: @MPMActingCo

©2024

Looking California and Feeling Minnesota: Episode 112 - Rebel Moon Part One

On this episode, Barry and I enter the Star Wars adjacent Snyder-verse of the new Netflix science-fiction movie Rebel Moon directed by Zack Snyder...and want to escape that hellhole as quickly as possible. Topics discussed include the plague of unoriginal thinking, how truly dreadful everything about this movie is, and cinematic guilty pleasures. 

Looking California and Feeling Minnesota: Episode 112 - Rebel Moon Part One

Thanks for listening.

©2024

Saltburn: A Review - This Shit Sandwich Needs More Salt, Less Burn

****THIS IS A SPOILER FREE REVIEW!! THIS REVIEW CONTAINS ZERO SPOILERS!!****

My Rating: 0 out of 5 stars

My Recommendation: SKIP IT. Just an abomination. This movie is the cinematic equivalent of a lobotomy.

In the week between Christmas and New Year’s Day I had the great misfortune of having watched Saltburn, the new movie from filmmaker Emerald Fennell, which is currently streaming on Amazon Prime.

I decided not to write my review of Saltburn until after the New Year so as to not leave 2023, or enter 2024, with such a vile taste in my mouth, and to not subject you, my dear readers, to such potent negativity during what I hope was a joyous holiday season.

Well, now that I’ve officially published a positive review to open 2024 (of Michael Mann’s Ferrari), it’s time to get back and do the dirty work of sifting through the mountains of excrement that Hollywood shats upon us. At the bottom of that shit pile is the rancid turd known as Saltburn.

Saltburn is written and directed by Emerald Fennell. This is her second feature film as writer/director, the first being 2020’s Promising Young Woman, for which she won an Oscar for Best Original Screenplay.

Promising Young Woman was a movie about rape and fighting the patriarchy created during the height of the #MeToo mania and released in the wake of the 2020 election.

It was one of those movies that critics were afraid to criticize because its politics were “righteous”, namely that it was made by a woman and was a polemic against the patriarchy. Much to my embarrassment, even I succumbed to the moment and was muted in my criticisms of the film, and even went so far as to consider Promising Young Woman to be the first film for a promising young director (or not so young as the case may be).

To be clear, I liked the performances of Carey Mulligan and Bo Burnham in Promising Young Woman, but I did find the film’s third act to be so egregiously amateurish as to be catastrophic.

Upon rewatching Promising Young Woman in anticipation of seeing Saltburn, I came to clearly see that Fennell as a filmmaker is deeply, deeply flawed, and the trajectory of her career would only become clear once I’d seen her second feature.

And then I watched her second feature Saltburn

Saltburn is the worst movie I’ve seen in maybe the last decade or more. It’s not satire, or parody, it’s simply an inane and inept attempt at drama, and it fails so miserably as to be astonishing, and frankly, embarrassing.

Saltburn is so bad I’ve been sorely tempted to encourage people to watch it just so I can commiserate with them about how awful it is.

The basics of Saltburn are thus…the film tells the tale of Oliver Quick (Barry Keoghan), a poor boy thrown to the uber-wealthy wolves at Oxford University in the Fall of 2006. Oliver is smart but a social outcast. He becomes infatuated with an impossibly handsome classmate, Felix (Jacob Elordi), who happens to be the member of an affluent and influential family.

Oliver then goes to great lengths to ingratiate himself into Felix’s life, and succeeds as he gets invited to Felix’s expansive family estate, Saltburn, for the Summer. Oliver then has to navigate the perilous minefield which is Felix’s wealthy family and friends.

I will stop there in describing the plot so as to avoid any spoilers in case you really, really hate yourself enough to want to watch this piece of shit.

All I’ll say is that the twists and turns in the plot are so ham-fisted it feels like it was written by a self-loathing, spoiled-rich, thirteen-year-old girl pouting in her mansion as she plays with Barbies, who is writing a story to try and stroke her fragile ego and to distract herself from the dull, pulsating pain and emotional roller-coaster of her first menstruation.

The film features some of the more ludicrous and repugnant “sex” type scenes you’ll ever see, one of which involves the previously mentioned menstruation…oh…and it also features enough shots of Barry Keoghan’s floppy phallus to last a lifetime.

The acting in Saltburn is rather rudimentary. Barry Keoghan, a talented actor, gives a rather rote performance as the creepy little weird guy, something he has played far too often in his short career.

Jacob Elordi is impossibly handsome as…the impossibly handsome Felix, but beyond that there’s not much going on there.

The only performance of note is Rosamund Pike as Felix’s mother, Elspeth. Pike sinks her teeth so deep into the bone of this painfully thin caricature, and is able, through sheer force of will and talent, to find life deep, deep in the marrow. Pike’s performance is so razor sharp it makes me wish she got a chance to play this role in a different, and much better, movie.

Just as with Promising Young Woman, the third act of Saltburn is apocalyptically awful. The film veers so far off the rails in the last forty-five minutes it is hard to even remotely comprehend the scope and scale of its failure.

Also difficult to comprehend is how anyone, be it producers, executives or actors, could read this script from start to finish and think, “yeah, this is a great idea!” The characters are all caricatures, the plot is absurd beyond belief, and the political/cultural sub-text is so tone-deaf and brain-dead it should be euthanized, or at a bare minimum, institutionalized.

The thing that became excruciatingly clear while watching the grueling two-hour-and-ten-minute Saltburn, particularly its egregious third act, is that Emerald Fennell is, like so many of the actresses-turned-directors who’ve been given a leg up in Hollywood in recent years - like Olivia Wilde and Elizabeth Banks, absolute fool’s gold.

Fennell has no idea what she is doing. She is an unserious, unskilled and untalented filmmaker, and no amount of wishful thinking or affirmative action Academy Awards will ever change that fact.

After watching Saltburn the trajectory of Emerald Fennell’s career has become exceedingly clear…odds are, simply because Hollywood is desperate for female directors, she’ll get another shot or two at a feature film, but in five years or so she’ll only be directing television…and in ten years she’ll only be directing commercials…and in fifteen years, she’ll be lucky to be directing traffic.

In conclusion, Saltburn is an absolute and utter mess of a movie. I watched this piece of shit so you don’t have to…and trust me when I tell, you really don’t have to.

 Follow me on Twitter: @MPMActingCo

©2024

Ferrari: A Review - Despite a Bad Driver, Ferrari Wins the Race

****THIS IS A SPOILER FREE REVIEW!! THIS REVIEW CONTAINS ZERO SPOILERS!!****

My Rating: 3.5 out of 5 stars

My Recommendation: SEE IT. A solid biopic that features some subpar acting but also some fantastic racing sequences.

Ferrari, directed by Michael Mann and starring Adam Driver, is a biopic that tells the story of iconic Italian industrialist and race car manufacturer, Enzo Ferrari, as he navigates a series of tumultuous business and personal events in 1957.

Ferrari, which is written by Troy Kennedy Martin and is based on the book Enzo Ferrari: The Man, the Cars, the Races, the Machine by Brock Yates, is a strange film. The reason for this strangeness is that sometimes the sum of a film is never as good as the quality of its parts, but that is not the case in regards to Ferrari, which is somehow able to be considerably better than the individual pieces that make up its whole.

For example, you’d think for a biopic about a hard-charging, iconic Italian race car impresario you’d have to have a strong performance from the lead actor in the title role in order for the film to work. In the case of Ferrari, which stars Adam Driver as Enzo Ferrari, the film works despite its lead actor, not because of him.

Driver is a mysterious actor in that it is an utter mystery to me why this insipid clod ever gets work, never mind works with great directors like Michael Mann and Martin Scorsese. As Enzo, a man juggling essentially two families, one with his wife and one with his girlfriend, and who is aggressively trying to have the greatest racing team in the world and maintain his auto business, the empty Driver feels like a kid playing dress up in his grandfather’s much too big suits. His ungodly awful, clownish Italian accent comes and goes like an engine missing the requisite sparkplugs, just like it did when Driver stumbled through the embarrassing Ridley Scott soap opera House of Gucci as another Italian titan of industry…Maurizio Gucci. Considering Driver’s artistic vacuity and acting vapidity, as well as his wandering parmesan cheese of an accent, and his insidiously shallow interpretations of characters, it seems to me the only iconic Italian he should ever be allowed to play is Chef Boyardee.

Another acting issue is Shailene Woodley, who is egregiously miscast as Lina Lardi, who is less Enzo’s gumar than she is his second wife and mother to his bastard son. Woodley gives a distractingly stilted and ineffective performance as Lina as she feels like she belongs in Malibu and not Molena.

The one saving grace regarding the acting is Penelope Cruz, who is absolutely brilliant as Enzo’s wife and business partner, Laura. There’s a scene early in the film where Laura visits her son’s grave and in the span of maybe thirty seconds Cruz, in close up, tells a wondrous and expansive story without saying a word. It’s a captivating and powerful piece of acting, and one that is heightened because Driver’s Enzo has a similar scene just prior to it that is nothing but verbosity filled with vacant histrionics.

Cruz is an actress that I rarely, if ever, think of, but her performance in Ferrari is yet another reminder for absent-minded dopes like me that she is among the most talented and skilled actresses in the world today.

Despite two of the three main performances being subpar, Ferrari pulls off the minor miracle of managing to be not just watchable but relentlessly compelling. A major reason for this is that the racing and driving scenes alone are worth the price of admission. Every racing scene is visceral, vital and undeniably electrifying. Mann and his cinematographer Erik Messerschmidt shoot the racing from innumerable ingenious angles with energetic camera movements that capture the dynamic thrill of the sport, and master editor Pietro Scalia splices it all together for the absolute maximum potency and power.

That said, some of the racing sequences can be a bit confusing, as the racing teams from Ferrari and Maserati have similar looks and coloring. But beyond that the racing is superb, and contrary to some reports I’ve read, I did not find the CGI to be distracting or second rate at all.

Michael Mann is an often-overlooked filmmaker who boasts a robust filmography which features a bevy of good and sometimes great movies. In recent years Mann’s output has slowed and diminished in quality, with Ferrari being his first film since 2015’s dismal Blackhat.

Mann’s films are inhabited by a particular type of tormented masculinity, where the protagonist is insatiably driven and must overcome the numerous obstacles placed in front of him as well as the internal burdens which haunt him .

Thief, Manhunter, The Last of the Mohicans, The Insider and Collateral are all top notch pieces of cinema that capture Mann’s storytelling and slick visual style across different genres….. but it is his 1995 masterpiece, Heat, which is the absolute apex of his filmmaking career. Heat is one of the best films of the last thirty years as it features the greatest bank robbery and shootout scene captured in the history of cinema, which is an astonishing accomplishment.

Ferrari is nowhere near the level of film as Heat, but it does represent a somewhat more mature piece of storytelling from Mann, that is not to say that Mann’s earlier work was adolescent, but to say that Ferrari captures a man (and Mann) growing old and dealing with the precipitous burdens of his age and station.

 It must also be said that Ferrari is also not as good as James Mangold’s brilliant 2019 film Ford v Ferrari, which Michael Mann Executive Produced. Ford v Ferrari is a better film across the board and features better racing sequences, but Ferrari is no slouch and is a quality piece of cinema in its own right. In fact, Ferrari would make a perfect companion piece to Mangold’s auto-racing masterpiece.

The bottom-line regarding Ferrari is that I was very pleasantly surprised to find it a thoroughly solid, utterly compelling, if flawed, piece of cinema despite the often-lackluster acting. I wholly encourage you to check it out in the theatre if possible, or on streaming when the time comes.

 Follow me on Twitter: @MPMActingCo

©2024

Looking California and Feeling Minnesota: Episode 111 - Godzilla Minus One

On this rip-roaring episode, Barry and I don kimonos and talk all things Godzilla Minus One, the fantastic new Godzilla movie from Toho Studios. Topics discussed include Godzilla Minus One as companion piece to Oppenheimer, Jaws and other influences, and the skill and craftsmanship evident in the film that are sorely lacking in Hollywood. Bonus content - Barry and I have a hilarious discussion about the worst Christmas specials they've ever endured.

Looking California and Feeling Minnesota: Episode 111 - Godzilla Minus One

Thanks for listening!

©2023

May December (Netflix): A Review - A Comedy Wrapped in a Social Commentary Inside a Melodrama

****THIS IS A SPOILER FREE REVIEW!! THIS REVIEW CONTAINS ZERO SPOILERS!!****

My Rating: 3 out of 5 stars

My Recommendation: SEE IT/SKIP IT. This movie, like its subject, is elusive, but if you look at it through the proper lens, it often becomes fascinating.

May December, starring Julianne Moore and Natalie Portman, is a dramatic reimagining of the salacious story of Mary Kay Letourneau, a school teacher who fell in love with her 13-year-old student back in the 1990s causing a huge scandal.

The film, which premiered on Netflix December 1st, is directed by esteemed auteur Todd Haynes and written by Samy Burch.

May December follows the story of Elizabeth (Natalie Portman), a famous actress cast to star in a tv movie as Gracie, the woman who had a scandalous affair with her 13-year-old student Joe. Gracie went to prison for the rape/sexual misconduct with a minor, but when released resumed her relationship with the then-of-age Joe and later married him and had two children with him.

Elizabeth comes to Savannah, Georgia and integrates herself into Gracie’s life in order to better understand the character she will be playing in the tv movie. She observes Gracie and her family and community, and each night goes back to her hotel room and tries to capture Gracie’s essence by mimicking and imitating her.

But as time goes on the truth about Gracie and Joe, and even about Elizabeth, becomes more and more murky, and more and more elusive.

Director Todd Haynes is a unique filmmaker. I remember the first film of his that I ever saw was Safe (1995), which also starred Julianne Moore. That film was a very tense, deliberate, psycho-drama that was masterfully assembled.

Since then, I’ve found myself less enamored with Haynes’ work. His acclaimed films Far from Heaven and Carol felt decidedly flaccid and his more off-kilter attempts, like Velvet Goldmine and I’m Not There fell flat.

May December though feels a bit different in that as a straight drama, it’s a colossal misfire, but as a sneaky comedy, melodramatic parody/satire, it works incredibly well. The question, of course, is whether Haynes is intentionally trying to be funny or if all of the comedy is purely unintentional.

One hint that Haynes is shooting for comedy is the recurring, and hilariously bad, music cues. The soundtrack for this movie is laugh out loud awful…and absolutely perfect for a cheesy, exploitationist, made-for-tv movie…just like the one Elizabeth is making regarding Gracie’s fall from grace.

There’s a scene in May December where Gracie’s adult son from her first marriage, Georgie, who is an absolute trainwreck of a human being, attempts to blackmail Elizabeth into getting him the job of “music supervisor” on the tv movie she’s making about his mother. How that resolves itself is never entirely clear but by the awful sound of the music in May December, I think if Georgie didn’t get the gig on Elizabeth’s film, he definitely got it on May December.

Haynes also treats us to some immaculately crafted, cheesy as hell zoom shots, and tightly choreographed scenes that are epically hilarious in the most subtle of ways.

The funniest part of the film though is that both Julianne Moore and Natalie Portman, seem to be completely unaware that this is a comedy and entirely locked in to melodrama mode…and are both pretty awful at it.

Moore sports a grating and completely contrived lisp that is the height of distraction, and Portman is so mannered as to be a mannequin. Both of them are constantly acting, which is exactly what both of their characters are doing as well. It’s like they’re in a hall of mirrors and the real people, Gracie and Elizabeth, are impossible to differentiate from the spate of reflections upon reflections.

Speaking of mirrors, that’s not to say that there isn’t magic between these two acting icons. On numerous occasions Moore and Portman share a small space in the film and despite the lisps and the over-acting, the scenes crackle with life. These scenes are often shot, masterfully, in mirrored spaces, like bathrooms or changing rooms, and watching Moore and Portman work their instinctual magic through a camera and through a mirror or multiple mirrors, is absolutely mesmerizing.

Also mesmerizing, is Charles Melton, who plays Gracie’s victim and now husband, Joe. Melton gives the most layered, nuanced and finely crafted performance imaginable, and one of the best performances of the year. Melton, who is best known for starring in the CW series Riverdale (which I’ve never seen), is so present, genuine, grounded and exceptional as Joe it’s like he’s in a different movie altogether.

Another standout performance is by D.W. Moffet, who plays Gracie’s first husband Tom. Moffet has essentially one scene in the movie, and it’s a conversation between Tom and Elizabeth - who is asking him about the experience of being on the wrong end of Gracie’s infamous affair with an underage boy. Moffet is extraordinary in this compact scene. In lesser hand this scene is just an exposition dump and some mugging for the camera, but Moffet turns it into a profound and deeply moving drama all its own.

As the film unfolds, viewers can either accept it as a piece of heightened parody and camp, or can resist it and be extremely disappointed in it as a straight drama that gets lost in a swamp of melodrama.

I chose to enjoy the comedy of it all, and laughed out loud on numerous occasions…like when Natalie Portman’s Elizabeth does a skin-care commercial that is just like a real-life Natalie Portman skin-care commercial. I don’t know why I found that so funny…but I burst out laughing nonetheless.

If you’re looking for a smart, sly, sneaky and subtle comedy about predatory relationship power dynamics, the exploitative nature of our culture and the venality of fame, then May December is for you.

If you’re looking for a high-intensity, prestige drama that will move you deeply, then May December is not for you.

I chose the former and thought May December was a worthwhile cinematic venture. I think if you go into it with the proper, finely-tuned expectations, you’ll end up appreciating it and be glad you watched.

 Follow me on Twitter: @MPMActingCo

©2023

Leave the World Behind (Netflix): A Review - It's the End of the World as We Know It...and Obama Feels Fine

****THIS IS A SPOILER FREE REVIEW!! THIS REVIEW CONTAINS ZERO SPOILERS!!****

My Rating: 2.5 out of 5 stars

My Recommendation: SKIP IT/SEE IT. This film never lives up to its potential but it does feature some impressive cinematography and a tantalizing and unnerving narrative. It isn’t a great movie but it does make for a good conversation/thought piece.

Leave the World Behind, written and directed by Sam Esmail, is a dystopian, apocalyptic, psychological thriller produced by Barrack and Michelle Obama now streaming on Netflix.

The film, which stars Julia Roberts, Ethan Hawke and Mahershala Ali, is based on the novel of the same name by Ruuman Alam, and it tells the story of the Sanford and Scott families as they navigate an unfolding cataclysm across the U.S. from a tony neighborhood on Long Island.

The Sanford’s, a white family from Park Slope-adjacent Brooklyn, made up of the ornery Amanda (Julia Roberts), her easy-going husband Clay (Ethan Hawke), and their teenage children Archie (Charlie Evans), who is obsessed with girls, and Rose (Farrah McKenzie), who is obsessed with 90s pop culture – like Friends and The West Wing, rent a beautiful home at the beach on Long Island for a week.

In the middle of their first night, there’s a knock at the door, and two black people, G.H. (Mahershala Ali) and Ruth (Myha’la), appear. The story between the Sanfords and the Scotts go from there but I won’t get any more in-depth on it in order to avoid spoilers.

The rest of the plot revolves around mysterious events that are happening in the U.S., specifically in relation to the Sanfords and Scotts, in New York City.

Technology, such as cell phones, the internet and cable television, stop working, leaving the protagonists in an information and communication blackout, which allows chaos and paranoia to flourish.

Once again, in order to avoid spoilers, I will refrain from delving much deeper into the plot than that.

The film’s director, Sam Esmail, is best known for creating the tv series Mr. Robot, but this is just his second feature film, and despite some very bright spots, at times it shows.

To Esmail’s great credit, he creates some very vivid and stunning images in Leave the World Behind, that rattle viewers to the core. Visually the film never fails to unnerve with one apocalyptic nightmare visual after another, like luxurious paintings hanging in a dystopian art gallery.

Esmail and cinematographer Tod Campbell use an often swirling, spinning, panning, zooming and rotating camera to make the viewer just as discombobulated and disoriented as the characters portrayed on-screen. All this camera movement isn’t just directorial masturbation, but instead is very cinematically effective and done with an admirable amount of precision and creative dexterity. As the character’s go through their strange journey, Esmail’s camera leaves viewers in a world where up is down, and left is right…literally.

The same is true of the camera framing, as things are often shot from odd angles, and despite the visuals being crisp and amid razor-sharp straight lines, everything is framed off-kilter and off-center, to great affect.

Unfortunately, as much as I loved the look of the film, the story it shows and the drama it reveals are often sorely lacking.

The biggest issue with Leave the World Behind is that it is bursting with a cavalcade of dramatic potential, but is never able to fully realize it.

The greatest obstacle to the film’s dramatic success is that it gives us one-dimensional, unreal characters, places them in an extreme yet compelling and entirely believable situation, and then has them behave in the most inane, counter-intuitive and annoying ways imaginable.

I can’t give too much away in regards to specifics, but things happen, and characters behave, in ways, both big and small, that are just ridiculous beyond belief and it frankly ruins the film as the tension and drama are undermined by these egregious plot and character improbabilities and decisions.

There’s a bit at the end which is meant to be poignant, and could have been really terrific, but is ultimately neutered by a failure of Esmail to thoroughly impress upon the audience, through repetition or targeted intensity, the crucial pieces involved. (Again, I am being intentionally vague to avoid spoilers.)

As for the cast, they do the best they can with the rather shallow characters they’ve been given.

Julia Roberts’ Amanda is basically an upper-middle class, left-of-center Karen, exercising her mid-life crisis muscles by being an irritable bitch for reasons she will never even try to understand. Roberts is a steady screen presence but she has never brought much of interest to the table and Leave the World Behind is no exception.

Ethan Hawke has matured into a solid actor and his good-natured Clay is a passable and likable attempt at an everyman – if ‘everyman’ were a college professor of English and Media Studies. It’s the character of Clay that is much more troubling than the actor portraying him, as Clay is the clueless, sack-less white man incapable of not only defending himself but of mustering the courage to even attempt it.

Charlie Evans and Farrah Mackenzie play the teens Archie and Rose respectively, and there isn’t much to the characters or the actor’s performances. Neither of them jumps off the screen or generates the least bit of magnetism.

Mahershala Ali is, as always, a strong presence on-screen, but his character G.H., is an absurd stand-in for the film’s producer Barrack Obama. G.H. is impeccable. He is unfailingly good, smarter than everyone and entirely incapable of cowardice. He is principled, moral, ethical, noble, brave and above all…correct. Yawn. The truth is that there were twists and turns that could’ve occurred with G.H. to make him more interesting, but they never happen and so we are left with little more than a cardboard cutout of the man that Barrack Obama, and his slavish sycophants, thinks he is - paging Dr. Freud…narcissism alert!

Myha’la as Ruth Scott is fine, I guess, but again, she doesn’t have much with which to work. Ruth is, like G.H., better than everyone else…I suppose simply because of her immutable characteristics…namely that she is black and a woman. Like Roberts’ Amanda, Ruth is an incorrigible bitch but it’s ok because she’s just speaking her truth…or something like that.

The genuine drama between Ruth and G.H., and between the Sanfords and the Scotts, is eschewed in favor of a rather tepid, embarrassingly trite, middle-of-the-road, decidedly elitist and liberal, high school freshman level identity/race politics that feels forced and obscenely phony, which is very unfortunate.

Speaking of politics, the fact that the Obamas produced this movie, the first non-documentary film they’ve produced, is both telling and, frankly, quite unnerving.

The apocalyptic, dystopian, and totally believable plot of Leave the World Behind, and Obama’s insider status among the power elite, makes it feel like this movie isn’t a piece of fiction but rather a piece of predictive programming…or enlightened prophecy, as to what awaits us.

That may sound irrational, or like “conspiratorial thinking” – something that is lambasted in the film as being unserious despite it being proven correct in the story (and more and more often in real life), but whether conscious or unconscious, artists and art often have a way of showing us the catastrophe that is right around the corner. 9/11 is a recent example of this.

The film is marinated in an establishment politics that is entirely rigid, center-left and upper-class. This elitist, left-liberal orthodoxy is so deeply ingrained in the movie that most-mainstream, establishment indoctrinated viewers won’t even recognize, and if they did they wouldn’t see it as political.

I’ll write a much more in-depth, political, psychological analysis of the film in the coming days, but will state here only that this movie is riddled with as much insidious propaganda as anything I’ve seen in any feature film in recent times.

Whether it be subtle, or not-so-subtle, attacks on libertarians, right-wingers, white people, conspiracies, and even Elon Musk, or anything else that isn’t establishment approved, the film never fails to be in complete lockstep with mainstream orthodoxy as designed by the aristocracy and oligarchy.

In this way the film, despite its attempt to present itself as edgy and politically avant-garde/revolutionary, is, at its heart, an intellectually and dramatically flaccid but ideologically faithful homage to the status quo….just like the former President who produced it.

In conclusion, Leave the World Behind is chock full of dramatic potential but is never able to fully realize it. Despite some compelling visuals and sequences, the film’s dramatic and narrative failures ultimately leave it an unsatisfying viewing experience.

Follow me on Twitter: @MPMActingCo

©2023

The Boy and the Heron: A Review - The Master Miyazaki Returns

****THIS IS A SPOILER FREE REVIEW!! THIS REVIEW CONTAINS ZERO SPOILERS!!****

My Rating: 4 out of 5 stars

My Recommendation: SEE IT.

Hiyao Miyazaki is arguably the greatest director of animated film in cinema history. His filmography, which includes such classics as My Neighbor Totoro, Spirited Away, Princess Mononoke, Spirited Away, Howl’s Moving Castle, and Ponyo, is a cornucopia of the weird and wonderful.

Miyazaki, who is 82-years-old, hasn’t made a feature film in a decade (The Wind Rises), and it was believed that he was finished making movies. But fortunately for us, Miyazaki is back with a new film, The Boy and the Heron, which premiered in theatres this past weekend.

The Boy and the Heron follows the travails of Mahito, a twelve-year-old boy living in Tokyo during World War II. Despite Mahito’s valiant efforts, his mother, Hisako, is killed when her hospital burns to the ground one night.

Mahito and his industrialist father Shoichi, then move to the countryside to live in the estate Hisako grew up on. Shoichi remarries with Hisako’s look-a-like younger sister, Natsuko – who becomes pregnant.

Things get typically weird from there as Mahito is pestered by an aggressive heron, and stumbles onto a hidden tower which leads him on a dark yet magical journey in the hopes of seeing his mother again and saving his step-mother from peril.

The Boy and the Heron, like so many of Miyazaki’s movies, deals with very deeply profound philosophical, psychological and existential issues. For example, grief and the meaning of life are the two pillars around which the film is constructed.  

Many of Miyazaki’s movies seem like dreams that often veer into nightmares, or like something cobbled together from the Tibetan Book of the Dead, and The Boy and the Heron is no exception. There are shapeshifting demons/angels and giant, carnivorous warrior parakeets, and adorable pre/post life souls that float like balloons, and aggressive hordes of pelicans.

Through it all Miyazaki keeps his protagonist Mahito focused on finding his pregnant step-mother Natsuko and the dream of seeing his long-lost mother again, and it is that fragile humanity and gut-wrenching emotion that gives the film not only its meaning but its purpose.

As always with Miyazaki, the animation is glorious and gloriously weird. Things in Miyazaki’s world look ever-so-abnormal to the point of nightmarish. For instance, the heron is at first gorgeous, but then over time becomes grotesque. The old women, as is custom in Miyazaki films, are charming yet gruesome, witch-like characters.

The film is available in many theatres here in the U.S. either in Japanese with English subtitles or dubbed in English. I saw the film with my young son and subtitles move too fast for him to read, so we saw the dubbed version and it works well for the most part.

The cast are a collection of solid, well-known actors, such as Christian Bale, Florence Pugh, Willem Dafoe and Robert Pattinson. Most of them are perfectly fine, with Pattinson in particular giving a quite remarkable performance that is unrecognizable.

Christian Bale, an actor I usually like, stands out though for a rather poor performance, as his work as Mahito’s father Shoichi is bizarre. At different times Bale gives Shoichi a New York accent that often stumbles into a Boston accent. All of Bale’s voice work here seems to be out of place and out of step.

Beyond that there isn’t much to complain about…it’s a Miyazaki movie after all, but it must be said that despite this being allegedly one of Miyazaki’s most personal stories, it is not among his best films. That is not to say the movie is bad, it’s just to say that in light of Miyazaki’s masterpieces, of which there are many, The Boy and the Heron somewhat pales in comparison.

I thoroughly enjoyed seeing The Boy and the Heron and was thrilled that my son, who wasn’t even born when Miyazaki’s last film came out, got to see his work on a big screen. My son and I have watched all of Miyazaki’s movies in recent years and he is as big a fan as I am. It brings me endless amounts of joy watching my son watch Miyazaki movies, as he just loves everything about them.

We’ve yet to see a Miyazaki movie we’ve disliked. My son’s favorites are my favorites too, starting with My Neighbor Totoro. After that it’s Spirited Away, Princess Mononoke, Howl’s Moving Castle, Ponyo, Porco Rosso, Kiki’s Delivery Service, Castle in the Sky and The Wind Rises. I would rate The Boy and the Heron below My Neighbor Totoro, Spirited Away, Princess Mononoke, Howl’s Moving Castle and Ponyo, but right up there with any of Miyazaki’s other work. And it is most definitely better than any of the garbage Disney and Pixar have churned out in recent years.  

It was heartening to me to see that The Boy and the Heron was number one at the U.S. box office this weekend, which is something I never thought could happen. That both The Boy and the Heron and Godzilla Minus One, two Japanese films, would be so well received by U.S. audiences in back-to-back weeks is a glimmer of hope in an often-times dark and depressing popular culture landscape.

If you haven’t seen Miyazaki’s earlier films, you should go to the streaming service Max – and click on the Studio Ghibli portal, as it has all of Miyazaki’s films available to stream. Miyazaki’s movies are unique because they’re for both adults and children (I’d say kids 7 and up but your mileage may vary in terms of proper age to start). For kids I recommend you begin with My Neighbor Totoro and Ponyo, and for adults you can start with those or with Spirited Away and Princess Mononoke, and go from there…you won’t be disappointed, and it’ll whet your appetite to see The Boy in the Heron in theatres.

In conclusion, I thoroughly recommend you see The Boy and the Heron in the theatre, and appreciate Hiyao Miyazaki while we have him on earth and still making movies.

 Follow me on Twitter: @MPMActingCo

©2023

Godzilla Minus One: A Review - The Glories and Horror of the God Encounter

****THIS IS A SPOILER FREE REVIEW!! THIS REVIEW CONTAINS ZERO SPOILERS!!****

My rating: 4.25 out of 5 stars

My Recommendation: SEE IT. As good as it gets in terms of Godzilla moviemaking. Not just a great Godzilla movie, but a really fantastic film all its own.

Language: Japanese with English Subtitles.

Godzilla Minus One, written and directed by Takashi Yamazaki, is the 37th film in the Godzilla franchise, and the 33rd film produced by Japan’s Toho Studio, the place where Godzilla got his start back in 1954.

That original Godzilla movie, aptly titled Godzilla, wasn’t just the birth of the great kaiju film in modern cinema, it was also a truly fantastic piece of cinema. Every Godzilla movie since has paled in comparison, even the good ones, and there have been plenty of good ones…at least from Toho.

Godzilla Minus One is a reboot of the franchise and a remake of sorts of the first Godzilla movie. It tells the origin story of Godzilla and his first foray into his favorite sport…destroying Japanese cities.

The film is set at the tail end of World War II and in the early post-war years and it follows its protagonist, Koichi Shikishima (Ryunosuke Kamiki), as he tries to integrate back into civilian life after a deeply traumatic war experience.

Shikishima is a failed kamikaze pilot who ditched his suicide mission on the pretense that his plane malfunctioned. He ends up on a small Pacific Island used for airplane maintenance by the Japanese. It is here that Shikishima is confronted by not only his cowardice, but by a youthful and spry, mysterious sea monster the locals call Godzilla.

After the war, Shikishima is haunted by his shameful wartime cowardice, which he wears like a scarlet letter. He tries to build a life in the ruins of Japan and his mental state, and becomes a step-father and de facto husband to a young woman, Noriko (Minami Hamabe) and the infant child she rescued during the war. He also gets a job aboard a ship that must destroy mines in the Pacific left over from the war.

While working this job, you’ll never guess who he runs into…his old foe Godzilla. But this time Godzilla is bigger and badder than ever thanks to the testing nuclear weapons in the Pacific by the U.S., which triggered Godzilla to grow bigger and stronger and angrier.

What makes Godzilla such a compelling movie monster is that he is, as Jungian psychology would describe him, the “God encounter”. Godzilla is, to quote the Bhagavad Gita and Robert Oppenheimer, father of the atomic bomb, quoting the Bhagavad Gita, “death, destroyer of worlds.” Godzilla is the void. He is both the immovable object and the irresistible force. One cannot help but feel insignificant and helpless in the face of such astonishing, horrifying destructive power.

In terms of the mythology of Godzilla, the foundation of it is that Godzilla is born both as a symbol of the dangers of the atomic age as well as the manifestation of Japan’s guilt and divine punishment for their aggression. In other words, he is God’s revenge on mankind for deploying nuclear weapons on earth, and hubris for Japan’s imperial ambition and heinous war time behavior.

The original Godzilla film resonated because it understood this mythology. As the Godzilla franchise has moved along over the decades, that mythology has been watered down if not entirely neutered, turning Godzilla into some sort of cuddly friend, or fierce environmental warrior.

Godzilla Minus One makes no such error. Here, Godzilla is not cute and cuddly, or friendly in the least. He is a dead-eyed and destructive killing machine that cannot be reasoned with, only endured.

The politics of Godzilla Minus One show a Japanese people exhausted by war and the malignant government that got it into one, and the incompetent government that survives after war. In this vulnerable state, the people of Japan are forced to do for themselves in the battle against Godzilla.

I won’t go into too much detail in order to avoid spoilers, but I will say that Godzilla Minus One is easily the second-best Godzilla movie ever made, behind the original – which is only the best in this instance because it is the original.

The sequences where we see Godzilla in action are spectacular, and considering the film had a budget of a measly $15 million, which is just 10% of what the most recent American Godzilla movie cost to make, is remarkable.

But this is exactly how you make a monster movie. You give people what they want…namely Godzilla wreaking havoc, and doing it in a realistic setting, with real-world consequences, inhabited by complex yet compelling characters. In other words, take the Godzilla subject matter seriously, something the recent spate…hell…ALL OF, the American Godzilla movies have failed to do.

Ironically enough, while reading the news this morning I read that the Christopher Nolan film Oppenheimer will finally be released in Japan after months of controversy. Oppenheimer, the father of the atomic bomb, is not exactly a hero in Japan, where his handiwork slaughtered roughly 225,000 Japanese in Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

Oppenheimer famously does not show the bombings in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, nor does it show their gruesome aftermath. When Godzilla comes to shore in Godzilla Minus One and makes his way through a Japanese city, what happens, and its aftermath, are undeniably evocative of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and the hell on Earth that Oppenheimer’s genius unleashed.

Accordingly, I think, as odd as this sounds, that Oppenheimer and Godzilla Minus One would make for a splendid double feature, as the former sets the stage for the death and destruction in the latter.

Take away the psychological musings, and as a pure piece of entertainment, Godzilla Minus One still works incredibly well. I went to the film with my wife and young son, who is too young to read the subtitles quickly enough – but he saw the trailer and wanted to see the film. My son had a few questions about the plot throughout, but not that many, and he could understand what was happening for the most part without reading the subtitles. He absolutely loved the film…for the same reason I grew up loving Godzilla…because Godzilla is awesome in the truest sense of that word.

Watching Godzilla unleash his destructive powers and fury onto the world is both horrifying and highly entertaining, and the fact that it is treated seriously and that characters you care about are in great peril when Godzilla rampages, makes that rampage all the more compelling.

In terms of the filmmaking, Yamazaki does a stupendous job directing this film. Godzilla Minus One pays homage to the original Godzilla in numerous ways, and does the same with a diverse array of films, from Jaws to Dunkirk.

The cast are terrific, without a bad note among them. And the special effects are better than anything I’ve seen in recent years from any of the American studios.

If, like me, you’re a huge fan of Godzilla movies, Godzilla Minus One is a dream come true, as it’s not only a great Godzilla movie, it’s a fantastic film in its own right.

If, like my wife, you couldn’t care less about Godzilla, you should still see this movie, as she didn’t just endure Godzilla Minus One, she actually enjoyed it.

At a time when blockbuster filmmaking from American Studios is at an all-time, ghetto-dwelling, nadir, Toho’s Godzilla Minus One is a glorious, shining city on a hill. Of course, that city is shining because Godzilla just stomped all over it and set it on fire with his atomic breath.

Godzilla’s back, baby!!!

 Follow me on Twitter: @MPMActingCo

©2023

Killers of the Flower Moon: A Review

****THIS IS A SPOILER FREE REVIEW!!! THIS REVIEW CONTAINS ZERO SPOILERS!!****

My Rating: 2.5 out of 5 stars

My Recommendation: SKIP IT/SEE IT. Disappointing (with caveats elucidated below). Wait to watch it when it hits streaming.

To say I was excited to see Killers of the Flower Moon, the new film from iconic director Martin Scorsese, would be a terrible understatement. Scorsese is, along with Stanley Kubrick and Akira Kurosawa, among the most pivotal filmmakers in developing my incurable cinephilia, and when a film of his is released, it’s a major event in my life.

As a teenager, when I discovered Scorsese’s masterpieces Taxi Driver and Raging Bull (years after they were initially released) it was a holy experience that converted me into a true believer in the church of cinema.

Ever since that time I’ve been an ardent admirer and devout fan of Scorsese. That doesn’t mean I’ve loved all of his films…because I haven’t, but it does mean that I’ve always taken them very seriously and treated them with the deep respect they deserve having come from a master filmmaker.

Killers of the Flower Moon, which is directed and co-written by Scorsese and is based on the non-fiction book of the same name by David Grann, premiered in theaters on October 20th. Unfortunately, due to circumstances well beyond my control, I was unable to see the film until this past weekend. My nearly month long wait to see the film was excruciating as I had to quarantine myself and avoid any and all mentions of the film in the media/internet in order to stay clear of reviews and opinions. See, I don’t care what anyone else thinks of Scorsese’s films, I only care what I think.

I finally trekked out to the cineplex here in flyover country to see the three-and-a-half-hour-long film on Sunday, and the context of my viewing is a crucial caveat to my opinion on the movie.

Here in flyover country the local RC Theater is a fucking shithole, but it’s the only fucking shithole theater in town. The theater has shitty digital projectors, egregiously awful sound, refuses to turn the lights all the way off in the theater, and doesn’t have screens big enough to accommodate certain aspect ratios. So, I watched Killers of the Flower Moon with a projector that froze seven times, sound that rendered much dialogue inaudible and ambient sound injuriously loud, a condensed screen that cut off heads and compressed expansive vistas, staff members talking loudly in the projector room, and lights on at the top and sides of the theater that made it feel like I was watching a movie at an old drive-in during an especially sunny day.

Besides that, how was the play Mrs. Lincoln? To be fair, I’m not sure how, or even if, me or Mrs. Lincoln can answer that question.

The reality is that upon viewing the film under these frustrating and infuriating circumstances, I thought Killers of the Flower Moon simply didn’t work, but I feel like I need to see it again under better circumstances before I can truly say. It is quite an indictment of our theater system that I will need to wait until the movie becomes available to stream at home before I can properly view and review it.

With that context in place, let’s dive into my thoughts on Scorsese’s 26th feature film Killers of the Flower Moon.

The film, which stars Leonardo DiCaprio, Robert DeNiro and Lily Gladstone, tells the story of a vast criminal conspiracy perpetrated by Whites against the Native American population living on the Osage Indian reservation in Oklahoma in the 1920s. I will avoid any more in-depth discussion of the plot in order to avoid spoilers.

I have not read the book so the plot was a mystery to me before seeing the movie. The story is unquestionably an important one, but the film lacks a cohesive storytelling approach and the narrative is at times barely coherent.

I am someone who actually prefers long movies (hell…I thought The Gangs of New York and Silence should have been LONGER), and Killers of the Flower Moon runs a daunting two hundred and six minutes long, but unfortunately it doesn’t earn that arduous run time. Despite so much screen time with which to work, the characters are under developed, the plot muddled and the drama neutered.

A major issue with the film is that its star, Leonardo DiCaprio, is horribly miscast. DiCaprio plays the dim-witted Ernest Burkhart, who sports an atrocious haircut, a perpetual frown and some fake, 1920’s idiot teeth. DiCaprio’s Ernest looks like he is the long-lost uncle of Sling Blade and the surly twin brother of Ben Stiller’s retarded character Simple Jack from Tropic Thunder.

Yes, there are the usual DiCaprio histrionics in Killers of the Flower Moon, as he weeps and wails and rends his garments like a toddler in a tantrum, but it all seems terribly vacant and dramatically ridiculous.

DiCaprio’s standing as the “greatest actor of his generation” has always felt slightly unearned to me as he often gives performances that are sub-par but which are filled with enough hyper-emoting to convince the uninitiated into believing he’s some great artiste. He’s much more an unabashed movie star than he is a great actor. That’s not to say he hasn’t given good and even great performances, because he certainly has (and these are all of them…What’s Eating Gilbert Grape, Catch Me If You Can, Inception, Django Unchained, The Wolf of Wall Street, Once Upon a Time in Hollywood), but often times, especially with Scorsese, he doesn’t.

This is DiCaprio’s sixth film with Scorsese and in most of them he has been at the very least outshined by his cast mates, and in some of them actively awful.

For example, in Gangs of New York, DiCaprio gives a relentlessly hollow performance and is absolutely blown off the screen by Daniel Day Lewis doing Daniel Day Lewis things. In The Aviator he seems like a little kid playing dress up as Howard Hughes. In The Departed, he gives a solid performance, but which at times feels forced and is definitely overshadowed by Matt Damon. Shutter Island is a mess of a movie and his performance is middling at best. The one exception is The Wolf of Wall Street, where Leo brings all of his star power and acting ability to bear and hits it out of the park.

I was hoping DiCaprio brought that Wolf of Wall Street level of acting to Killers of the Flower Moon…but he doesn’t. He is simply too bright-eyed to play such a dead-eyed dolt like Ernest, and his attempts to energize his performance with dramatic histrionics rings horribly hollow.

Robert DeNiro does very solid work as William King Hale, the local leader of questionable intent. DeNiro’s last two outings with Scorsese, this and The Irishman, have been the best work of the last two decades, and it’s nice to see him flex his considerable acting muscles once again.

Lily Gladstone, who plays Mollie, Ernest’s Osage wife, eclipses her more famous co-star DiCaprio by giving a simple and subtle performance that radiates with charisma. Gladstone speaks volumes with a simple look and never over emotes or feels the need to press like DiCaprio does. She lets her compelling (and gorgeous) face tell the story.

The supporting cast features some truly dreadful performances, most notably, and unfortunately, by the Native American actresses. I will not name names but will say that there are some super cringy moments where a certain actress gives such an amateurish performance that it actually hurts to watch.  

Rodrigo Prieto is the cinematographer on the film and while there are some notable sequences, such as a burning farm sequence, the rest seems very ordinary. To be fair, as explained earlier my viewing experience was not ideal so maybe I was just not able to appreciate Prieto’s genius (and he is undoubtedly a fantastic cinematographer), but what I did see underwhelmed. For instance, early in the film there is a bunch of black and white Newsreel footage that gives the history of the setting and story that looks like a cheap flashback sequence in a bad tv show.

Then there is the ending, which I will refrain from giving specifics, only to say that this coda is, in the context of my viewing, gut-punchingly bad, especially when combined with the film opening with Scorsese reading a statement to camera that looks like a hostage video and sounds like it was written by the terrorists in the human resources department at Apple Corp.

Overall, I found Killers of the Flower Moon to be a terrible disappointment because my expectations were so high. It isn’t a great movie, but it isn’t awful either. That said, I really do reserve the right to change my opinion once I get to see it at home under better technical circumstances. I hope the film gets better upon my second viewing (which according to reports will probably be in late December or early January) because the story it tells is a vitally important one, and the director telling it is among the greatest to ever make a movie. But for now, it pains me to say that Killers of the Flower Moon is simply not worth seeing the theater…which may have more to do with how awful the theater experience has become than it does with the film…we’ll see.

Follow me on Twitter: @MPMActingCo

©2023

The Killer (Netflix): A Review - The King of Cold-Blooded Cinema

****THIS IS A SPOILER FREE REVIEW!! THIS REVIEW CONTAINS ZERO SPOILERS!!****

My Rating: 4 out of 5 stars

My recommendation: SEE IT. A quintessentially Fincher film in every way. Coldly cinematic, diabolically dehumanized and darkly comedic, this movie’s icy embrace is undeniably compelling.

The Killer, director David Fincher’s new film about a fastidious assassin for hire starring Michael Fassbender, premiered on Netflix this past Friday, November 10.

David Fincher is one of the great auteurs of his generation, and his filmography, which, including The Killer, is twelve films deep, reveals a craftsman of such obsessive precision that it borders on the maniacal.

The Killer is the first Fincher film in his impressive filmography though that seems to unflinchingly reflect the artist himself, as the protagonist, an unnamed assassin, is every bit as meticulous and obsessed with process as the filmmaker telling his story.

The Killer seems to inhabit the same cold, nearly inhuman universe as previous Fincher films like Seven, The Game, Fight Club, Zodiac and even The Social Network. In a very real sense, The Killer feels like a thematic and tonal sequel to those films in the Fincher Cinematic Universe, just told from a different perspective.

Speaking of perspective, The Killer is told, with one notable exception, entirely from the assassin’s subjective perspective, and it is informed by the protagonist’s inner monologue as he goes about his ruthless business. This subjective approach is brilliant as it immediately connects us to the killer (Michael Fassbender) and in doing so compromises the viewer’s moral and ethical standing. We are so immersed into the mindset of this killer-for-hire that we simply accept his profession and ultimately root for him to succeed.

A nearly complete subjective approach to cinematic storytelling is not an easy thing to accomplish, and the proof of that is that other filmmakers rarely ever even attempt it. The God-like urge to show the audience something beyond the protagonist’s limited perspective is just too tempting and so directors succumb, which ends up watering down the audience’s experience.

In The Killer, Fincher and his cinematographer Eric Messerschmidt are, as always, masters of cold, yet deliriously crisp, visuals. Fincher’s signature, Carravaggio-esque, darkened, muted color scheme and use of forbidding shadows make for a glorious visual experience. As does Messerschmidt’s seemingly effortless camera movement and exquisite framing.

Adding to the perverse joy and humor of The Killer is Fincher’s use of the music of 1980’s British alternative band The Smiths. The assassin’s personal playlist on his ipod nano is chock full of The Smiths and their iconic and ironic anthems. Fincher matches his visuals to The Smiths soundtrack and it injects dark comedic irony into many scenes and elevates the film to an enormous degree.

In another rarity, the assassin’s voice-over, which reveals his inner monologue, also elevates and propels the film. Voice-overs are usually the sign of a director flailing, but in this instance the voice-over draws the viewer in to the unreliable narrator’s state of mind.

Fassbender’s killer is like Fight Club’s protagonist, but instead of saying to himself, “I am Jack’s complete lack of surprise”, he says things like “trust no one”, “anticipate don’t improvise” and “skepticism often gets confused for cynicism”.

That the killer is often saying these things to himself while he is actually doing the exact opposite makes for an amusing and revealing trend.

As for Fassbender as the unnamed killer, he is perfectly cast. Fassbender is capable of saying everything while not speaking a word. His lithe frame and steely eyes are all the performance he needs and it fits masterfully with Fincher’s diabolically frigid cinematic style.

Tilda Swinton and Charles Parnell both have very brief, but extremely well done, supporting turns in The Killer, but besides that there is nothing but Fassbender and his delightfully dead pan voice-over.

The Killer, like much of Fincher’s work, seems to me to be a commentary on man’s struggle with his fast-fading humanity in a dehumanizing world.

Fassbender’s killer character seemingly wants to make himself mechanical, like some impervious, emotion-less Terminator. In order to do so he repeats his emotionless mantras like an inhumane prayer or playbook and wears an Apple watch to control his sleeping patterns and even his heartbeat (and maybe, just maybe, deep down to remind himself that he is indeed a human being with a heart).

Yet, despite this nearly mechanical meticulousness, the killer’s failures and mis-judgements, which are numerous, prove him to be all too human despite his best efforts.

The Killer also makes clear that maintaining one’s humanity isn’t just a struggle in the blackened human heart, it is an even more elusive goal in the grim outer world as well. In the world of The Killer, and in the real world, everything is corporate controlled and mechanized/digitized. You don’t use your hands to pick a lock in this modern world, you use your phone or a device to hack it. You don’t use your hands to hotwire a car, you use a fake credit card to rent it. You clean your filthy human body in an anti-septic shower in a soulless airport lounge for corporate customers with frequent flyer miles, like it’s an automated car wash. You don’t wear disguises to conceal your human face, but instead have multiple digital identities named after 70’s sitcom characters that were mere approximations of real people – and whom empty modern people devoid of, and detached from, their cultural history will never recognize.

The mechanized/digitized world, dehumanizes and isolates everyone who touches it, which enables Fassbender’s assassin to swim effortlessly through this icy, corporate-controlled pseudo-simulation of life like a shark through the frigid waters of the Atlantic.

Fassbender’s assassin, for all his inhuman mantras about “don’t trust anyone” and “forbid empathy”, is oddly inspired on his bloody spree by the most human of all emotional states…revenge. In this way, the killer fails miserably at his mechanical/digital ideology while only succeeding in deluding himself.

The somewhat anti-climactic conclusion of The Killer may leave some viewers unsatisfied, but I found it inspired and delightfully diabolical (and without giving away spoilers – it is insightful because it savagely exposes the deeply ingrained power dynamics of class in America, and rightfully eviscerates the proletariat for its flaccid weakness).

The truth is that Fassbender’s killer, for good and for ill, is every single one of us whether we want to believe it or not. Our culture has left all of us just as dehumanized and dead inside as the killer, and just as ultimately incompetent and impotent despite our instinctual desire to be just as demonically depraved.

Fincher masterfully lures us in with his gorgeous and entertaining filmmaking style, and convinces us to identify with, and root for, a committed serial killer. It’s an ugly business, but Fincher makes it look beautiful…and we are ultimately just as guilty as the man pulling the trigger.

I really love David Fincher as a filmmaker, although admittedly, I don’t like all of his films. Some of them, like The Curious Case of Benjamin Button and Gone Girl (yes, I know, I am decidedly in the minority in that I hate Gone Girl with a passion), are truly awful. Some of them, like Zodiac and The Social Network are magnificent masterpieces. The Killer is not as great as Zodiac and The Social Network, but it is definitely among the better films in Fincher’s filmography.

If you like Fincher films you will, not surprisingly, love The Killer, as it is quintessential Fincher. If you find Fincher films to be hit or miss, I would recommend you at least give The Killer a shot. It’s on Netflix so it doesn’t cost you anything…so why not?

The reality is that in our current culture of mediocrity there’s a desperate dearth of quality films from truly great directors, so you need to enjoy superior artistry when given the chance, and The Killer is definitely your chance.

 Follow Me on Twitter: @MPMActingCo

©2023

Nyad (Netflix): A Review - Sports Drama Drowns in Shallow Waters

****WARNING – THIS REVIEW CONTAINS CLEARLY MARKED SPOILERS!! THIS IS NOT A SPOILER FREE REVIEW!!****

My Rating: 2 out of 5 stars

My Recommendation: SKIP IT. Typical sports movie nonsense that avoids any genuine human drama in favor of generic hagiography.

Nyad, starring Annette Bening and Jodie Foster, is a sports biopic/docu-drama that chronicles famed long distance swimmer Diana Nyad’s attempt to swim from Cuba to Florida as a 60-year-old.

The film, which is a Netflix original, is directed by Academy Award winning documentarians Elizabeth Chai Vasarhelyi and Jimmy Chin (Free Solo) and is written by Julia Cox.

I vaguely remember Diana Nyad as a sports commentator on ABC’s Wide World of Sports back when I was a kid, but beyond that I knew absolutely nothing about her prior to seeing Nyad. Her feats of swimming endurance, such as crossing the English Channel and her attempt, as chronicled in Nyad, to swim from Cuba to Florida, were unknown to me.

Not knowing anything about Diana Nyad or her accomplishments helps to make the film Nyad somewhat compelling in the most rudimentary way as viewers will fall into the comfortable position of just being intrigued if she will or won’t make it on her perilous journey from Cuba to Florida.

The downside though is that if you know nothing about Diana Nyad before watching this film, you still won’t really know anything of substance about her when it’s over.

Nyad is as generic and cliché-ridden a sports drama as you’ll find, and it spends all of its time treading in painfully shallow water and avoiding diving into any noteworthy depths.

The reasons for the film’s tepid dramatic tone are numerous but obvious. The first of which is that Diana Nyad, and many of the real people portrayed in this movie, are still alive and were actively involved in the making of the film. It’s tough to tell a revealing, warts and all story about someone when you’ve actually met them and may run into them at the premiere. This is a major pitfall for all biopics and in our current age of documentary as self-produced marketing venture, in the documentary genre as well. A perfect example of this was The Last Dance, the Emmy award winning Michael Jordan documentary series that was executive produced by…Michael Jordan. Not surprisingly Jordan comes across as a god, who’s only flaw is that he was too committed to winning.

Biopics and documentaries made about or by people who are involved in the process, seem like job interviews where the applicant is asked what their weaknesses are and the answer is “I work too hard and care too much!” Nyad is no exception as Diana Nyad’s greatest failing is revealed to be she is too driven to greatness. Yawn.

Another reason why Nyad was so forgettable was that the directors Elizabeth Chai Vasarhelyi and Jimmy Chin simply aren’t very talented or skilled filmmakers when it comes to feature films. Their documentary Free Solo was an astonishing piece of work about a remarkable man and his deadly sport, but feature films are a different animal from documentaries and Nyad is evidence that these two directors were out of their depth.

Screenwriters Julia Cox is equally to blame for the film’s soft-pedaled approach and allergy to genuine drama, as the story she focuses on, Diana Nyad’s attempted swim from Cuba to Florida, is actually not the most interesting, or dramatic, tale to tell about Diana Nyad…but more on that in a bit.

The performances in Nyad are as shallow as the story. Annette Bening’s Nyad is an ornery, tenacious narcissist…and is as one note as it gets. Gruff and determined appear to be the only emotions that Diana Nyad has ever felt, at least according to this movie.

Bening brings plenty of bluster to Nyad but never any genuine humanity. It all feels like an actress avoiding the uncomfortable emotional truth of her character and instead wallowing in frivolous play-acting.  

Jodie Foster is at least likable as the beleaguered yet loyal assistant/coach Bonnie Stoll, who bends over backwards to keep Nyad content and focused. Unfortunately, Foster is reduced to being little more than a collection of soft smiles and worried and concerned looks. The character of Bonnie is the ultimate supporting role since all she does is support.

Rhys Ifans plays John Bartlett and while he looks like the real-life Bartlett, he seems terribly miscast as the grizzled navigator with the heart of gold. His somewhat stilted American accent is a major cause for that failing.

After watching Nyad I went to Wikipedia to read about Diana Nyad’s life. What I discovered there was quite fascinating, especially considering little of it made it into the film.

***************SPOILER ALERT*******************

The most important thing I learned is that Diana Nyad’s remarkable swim from Cuba to Florida, which is the centerpiece of the film, is decidedly in question. Both the Guinness Book of World Records and the World Open Water Swimming Association (WOWSA) have declined to ratify or acknowledge the accomplishment due to “lack of independent observers and incomplete records”.

This was quite a revelation to me as the film goes to extraordinary lengths to point out that Nyad followed all the stringent protocols in order to make her swim legitimate.  

According to articles written in conjunction with the film’s release, Nyad’s swim from Cuba to Florida isn’t the only thing that may not be totally on the up and up, as some have claimed she is a serial fabulist.

I have no personal opinion on Diana Nyad as a fabulist or whether she did or did not cheat while swimming from Cuba to Florida, but as a cinephile I do have an opinion.

Frankly…the more compelling, dramatic and interesting story to tell wouldn’t be the black and white sports drama of Nyad, but rather the tale of Diana Nyad being so obsessed with making this historic swim and fulfilling her destiny that she cuts corners and cheats. That is a story that would be much more profound, insightful and dramatic, especially in our current age of self-assured righteousness where if you believe your cause is noble and your intentions pure then any wrongs you commit are actually right.

Diana Nyad as a self-obsessed, self-absorbed, virulent narcissist who commits fraud in order to convince the world she is great out of a need to cover the grievous wound from her childhood that aggressively haunts her, is the stuff of dramatic gold. But the makers of Nyad, including Diana Nyad herself, are incapable of that kind of honesty, only hagiography.

In this way, Nyad reminds me of The Imitation Game, the 2014 Academy Award Best Picture nominee starring Benedict Cumberbatch. The film chronicles the travails of Alan Turing, a brilliant British mathematician and computer scientist who creates a codebreaking machine that in essence helps the allies win World War II.

Turing was a closeted homosexual at a time when that was a crime. The film dramatizes his struggles with his secret sexuality while he helps the Allies win the war…and then the movie ends.

I found the film to be, like Nyad, rather generic fare and decidedly underwhelming. After the final frame though a scroll ran which informed viewers that less than a decade after the war, Turing was persecuted and prosecuted for his homosexuality and eventually submitted to chemical castration as part of a plea deal. Then, a few years later, he killed himself.

After reading that I sat in stunned silence…I mean…my God…that is absolutely and utterly horrific. I then wondered why I just watched a two-hour movie about Alan Turing which ended before the true drama of Alan Turing’s life had even begun. Turing helping to beat the Nazis should’ve been the first half hour of the film, and his crucifixion at the hands of the British government, which he had just helped save, should have been the majority of the story.

The same is true of Nyad. Diana Nyad is a fascinating character, but she is much more fascinating, and illuminating, if she cheated on her historic swim than if she actually did it. And the fact that the movie Nyad simply wants to avoid that controversy and make Diana Nyad out to be an uncomplicated, if disagreeable, hero, is why the film fails.

***********END SPOILERS****************

If as a filmmaker you want to take the safe, generic path then you shouldn’t be making films, you should be directing corporate commercials. Go get a job at a public relations and marketing firm and leave the art of cinema to artists who don’t mind getting their hands, and their idols, decidedly dirty.

If you like movies that stay in the shallow end of the pool, then Nyad is for you. But if, like me, you like films to dive into the dark depths of the raging sea in order to find the truth, and in so doing, the drama and humanity of it all, then Nyad is most definitely not for you.

 Follow me on Twitter: @MPMActingCo

©2023

Pain Hustlers (Netflix): A Review - Phony and Forgettable

****THIS IS A SPOILER FREE REVIEW!! THIS REVIEW CONTAINS ZERO SPOILERS!!****

My Rating: 1.5 out of 5 stars

My Recommendation: SKIP IT. A remarkably empty cinematic exercise that is neither insightful nor entertaining.

Pain Hustlers, starring Emily Blunt and Chris Evans, in the new Netflix movie that tells the tale of Eliza Drake, a stripper in Florida who becomes a highly successful pharmaceutical saleswoman of fentanyl who gets caught up in a corporate criminal conspiracy.

The film, directed by David Yates and written by Wells Tower, is based on the book of the same name by Evan Hughes and is a true story.

I had heard little about Pain Hustlers before checking it out on Netflix. All I knew was that it was in some way about the pharmaceutical industry and the opioid epidemic, and that is starred Emily Blunt. I am all too familiar with the opioid epidemic and its devastating effects, and I like Emily Blunt, so I thought I’d give the movie a shot.

I regret that decision.

Pain Hustlers is one of those movies, which are all too common in the streaming era, that is instantaneously forgettable. The images and story pass before your eyes and evaporate into the ether before you can even register their existence. This film is so forgettable it feels like I never actually watched it…even though I know I did because I wish I hadn’t.

The story at the heart of the film is interesting enough I suppose, as Eliza Drake’s rise from poverty and fall from grace have great dramatic potential, but everything about the film, its writing, its direction, the acting…is poor.

Let’s start with the casting. I think Emily Blunt is a terrific actress. I just rewatched Sicario and she is phenomenal in that great movie. She’s also outstanding in The Devil Wears Prada and A Quiet Place. But in Pain Hustlers she is painfully miscast as a white trash Florida woman who’ll do just about anything to make ends meet. Emliy Blunt is as an actress is, and can be, many things…Florida white trash isn’t one of them.

Blunt is simply too beautiful, too classy and too put together to ever be white trash. Put her in sweatpants and she doesn’t look cheap she looks like an elegant and chic woman in sweatpants. It’s not her fault…it’s just the way things are.

Due to Blunt’s natural grace and style her Eliza never seems too down and out for us to think she or her daughter are in true peril. And when Eliza climbs the ladder of the two-bit corporation that hires her to sell pain medication, it isn’t all that compelling because Blunt makes Eliza seem like she’s well above the low-rent operation anyway.

Chris Evans plays Pete Brenner, the hard-charging pharma salesman who brings Eliza into the fold. Chris Evans is a truly terrible actor and always has been…but just when you think he couldn’t get any worse as an actor, he gives us Pete in Pain Hustlers. Evans puts on an absolute clinic in awful acting in this movie.

Evans, a native of Massachusetts, is remarkable in that he often times as Pete – but not always, attempts a Boston accent, and yet still butchers it. That the accent comes in and out is forgivable only because, like a toddler trying to play drums, it’s so awful you’re glad he occasionally stops trying.

Evans is one of those atrocious actors who thinks he’s really, really good. Like you can see it in his eyes that he thinks this performance as Pete is definitely Best Supporting Actor ground he’s confidently marching across. This level of irrational confidence no doubt helps Chris get the ladies in real life, but the camera is a bullshit detector and it sees right through a dimwit charlatan like Chris Evans.

The always entertaining Catherin O’Hara plays Eliza’s white trash mom Jackie and somehow manages to not be entertaining at all. O’Hara’s Jackie is nothing but a walking caricature and never manifests as a human being, just an annoyance. If she played this character in this way in a three-minute comedy sketch you’d still think it was shallow.

Andy Garcia plays Dr. Neel, the founder of the pharma company in question, and his performance, which he seems to think is fantastic, is instead flaccid. Garcia huffs and puffs and crazies his way through the role but it all feels like a put on and not an actual performance emulating a real person.

Besides the casting and acting, the direction is as second rate as it gets. David Yates, whose claim to fame is having directed 7 of the Harry Potter/Fantastic Beasts films, tries to turn Pain Hustlers into a combination of Wolf of Wall Street and Goodfellas set in the strip-mall pharma world in Florida, but wildly misses the mark.

Yates interjects black and white interview segments into the film to make it all seem “real”, but these segments are legitimately bad as everything comes across as ultra-phony. It doesn’t help that the performances in those black and white interview segments are particularly bad.

Yates also uses a voice-over (Goodfellas style) that doesn’t propel the narrative but just feels like a cheap way to cover over the glaring flaws in the cinematic storytelling. As my film school editing professor once told me, “voice-overs are bad…unless your Scorsese…and nobody is Scorsese.” David Yates is certainly not Scorsese.

The film is consistently visually stale, the performances are relentlessly uneven and remarkably dull, and the story lacks a compelling or dramatically satisfying arc. What is left is a big budget after school special film that comes and goes without the least bit of notice. That stars like Emily Blunt and Chris Evans are in this film only makes it all the more perplexing as to how this got made…and why.

Pain Hustlers is set in 2011, in the wake of the first wave of the opioid epidemic when a chill had gone through the pain management industry thanks to America’s waking up to Purdue Pharma’s rapacious greed and criminality. The drug at the center of this movie though is not oxycontin, but rather fentanyl, an opioid even more powerful, and deadly, than oxycontin.

The film tries to walk along a straight razor as it argues that fentanyl is a great drug, but that corporate greed is what causes it to become problematic due to over prescribing. It presents charming rogue pharma salespeople as the real working-class heroes who get screwed (sometimes literally) by the corporate big wigs who ruin the fentanyl utopia these hard-working, hustling salespeople created.

That is a very complicated moral and ethical argument to make, and maybe it’s a worthwhile one, but Pain Hustlers and its director Yates are too low rent artistically (and intellectually) to ever clearly make this argument, or any argument regarding the opioid crisis coherently. Which is a shame as nuance is welcome artistically even in the most seemingly Manichean of circumstances.

In recent years there have been numerous opioid epidemic projects based on non-fiction books that have made it to streaming services. In 2021 there was the miniseries Dopesick on Hulu, and in August of this year the miniseries Painkiller premiered on Netflix. While Dopesick wasn’t great, it was decent enough…but now with Pain Hustlers, Netflix has churned out two straight, similarly titled, really bad opioid themed projects based on books in the span of three months. Not good.

As much as I proselytize and evangelize regarding the horrors of the opioid crisis (which is still ravaging the country) and the villainy of the pharmaceutical industry and the corruption of our government, I simply cannot recommend Pain Hustlers as it isn’t informative, insightful or entertaining.

The truth is that Pain Hustlers is completely and entirely forgettable, so don’t waste your time watching it. I’ve not read the book Pain Hustlers by Evan Hughes, but I can only hope that it is better than the movie…so go read that. Or better yet, go read the books Dopesick by Beth Macy, Painkiller by Barry Meier, American Overdose by Chris McGreal and Dreamland by Sam Quinones. What you discover in those books about our country and the moral and ethical corruption of our vile ruling class, will change the way you look at our world and help you to understand that those who rule and own us, passionately despise us and actively want to do us great harm.

 Follow me on Twitter: @MPMActingCo

©2023