A favorite of our family’s, and one of those movies that we can watch practically anytime, it’s that smooth and stylish. Watching it this time, however, I was a bit more bothered by how Julia Roberts’ character is essentially window dressing, a pawn in the game between two men. But the film’s focus is obviously on the heist, and there it shines, as a star-studded cast — including George Clooney, Brad Pitt, Matt Damon, Don Cheadle, Carl Reiner, and Elliott Gould — develop an increasingly complex plan to knock over three casinos in one night. As with all heist films, it doesn’t all become clear until the very last minute. In the hands of a lesser director, the film’s “how they did it” sequence might be cheesy, even insulting to our intelligence. In the hands of Steven Soderbergh, however, they feel like a delightful surprise regardless of how many times you’ve see them.
My Cultural Diet
The term “deconstruction” has become something of a four-letter word in some Christian circles, tantamount to heresy and apostasy as people reject or reinterpret the beliefs of their youth. But after watching Amazon’s Shiny Happy People, a four-part documentary on the Duggar family (of 19 Kids and Counting fame), I don’t really blame anyone who wants to deconstruct that sort of background. The series begins with the Duggars’ rise as unlikely reality TV stars as well as the bombshell that the oldest Duggar child, Josh, had sexually molested his sisters years before his family became a TV sensation. (Also discussed is father Jim Bob’s efforts to cover up Josh’s abuse.) From there, the series delves into the Institute in Basic Life Principles (IBLP), a Christian organization for which the Duggars, because of their fame, soon became chief ambassadors. Founded by Bill Gothard in the ’60s and accused of being a cult, the IBLP teaches extremely patriarchal views concerning the family and parenting — and has become embroiled in its own sex scandals. Shiny Happy People covers a lot (e.g., the Duggars’ family life, Josh Duggar’s case, the pitfalls of reality TV, IBLP’s teachings, Gothard’s own abusive behavior) and doesn’t always juggle its various themes successfully. But the extensive interviews with Duggar family members and friends, as well as former IBLP members, combined with archival IBLP footage, makes for a very compelling, and at times, horrifying watch — especially if, like my wife and I, you grew up in a conservative Christian environment. (Neither of us grew up with IBLP teachings. Nevertheless, we heard a lot of familiar language and ideas in the series’ four episodes.)
The Saturday morning before the Fourth of July seemed like the perfect time to watch the G.I. Joe movie, and in my pajamas natch. (All I was missing was a bowl or two of Lucky Charms.) As with any nostalgia-inspired viewing, the mileage definitely varies. A lot of the movie’s pretty awful, even beyond the spotty animation (e.g., the various “ethnic” accents and racial stereotypes, the emphasis on completely forgettable new characters). And the revelation that an ancient reptilian civilization called Cobra-La was — surprise! — the force behind Cobra all along is absolutely ridiculous. But also kind of awesome, albeit in a “I still remember what ’80s Saturday morning cartoons were like” sort of way, and I wonder how kids back then reacted to the movie’s Lovecraftian biological monstrosities. (My son was a bit incredulous that my parents would’ve let me watch this when I was his age.) I’m under no illusions, however: if I didn’t have any ongoing interested in the G.I. Joe franchise (thanks, in large part, to the various comics), I never would’ve watched this. That said, it’s still way more entertaining than all of the live-action G.I. Joe movies combined.
Given its premise — an interracial couple tries to repair the malfunctioning robotic child that they bought to help their adopted daughter connect with her Chinese heritage — After Yang could have easily been a maudlin, overly-dramatic “issues” film. It does touch on big issues: the challenges of transracial adoption, the fleeting nature of memory, the responsibility humans have to their technology. (Believe it or not, that last one brought to mind Ghost in the Shell.) But “subdued” and “muted” are the operative words for After Yang; there are no big cathartic “Hollywood” moments when a character (and by extension, the audience) has a big moral epiphany. At times, the film is almost too subdued, from the performances and sparse dialog to the languid pacing. (It is, however, uniformly gorgeous to watch, thanks to Benjamin Loeb’s cinematography and some luminous visual effects.) But that allows After Yang to develop a deeper emotional resonance that took me by surprise at times, and forces the viewer to really consider what happened. Back in the day, I used to run a film discussion group at my church; After Yang would be a perfect film for such a group to watch, discuss, and reflect upon.
You’d think watching Nazis get dispatched in gory, ignominious ways would be its own cinematic reward. But Sisu is very much a case of diminishing returns. It starts out strong, with our grizzled protagonist mining for gold in the wilds of Lapland amidst the chaos of World War II’s final days. The cinematography in these early scenes is striking, with a dark beauty that adds to the movie’s apocalyptic tone. Soon enough, however, Nazis are getting stabbed, shot, blown up by landmines, and crushed by tanks because — surprise! — our boy’s an infamous ex-commando. But that’s when it gets… dare I say… boring. Sisu clearly wants to be fun in a B-movie sort of way as Nazis get picked off one by one in increasingly bloody ways. But it could’ve been a more interesting movie had it stayed gritty and grounded (literally). By the time its final act begins, though, Sisu has devolved into the kind of soulless, CGI-enhanced antics typically associated with the MCU.
I watched this on VHS almost 25 years ago, and something about it stuck with me over the years. So I was disappointed when it didn’t quite live up to my memories. Visually, Haruki Kadokawa’s Heaven and Earth is often stunning and even feels like the platonic ideal of a samurai movie, be it the quieter scenes when characters are framed against falling cherry blossoms or wandering through a snowy forest, or during massive battle scenes employing thousands of extras and hundreds of horses. (The film was released in 1990, so no CGI here. The battles were filmed in Canada, though, so it’s a little weird knowing those are the Rockies looming behind all those samurai.) Story-wise, however, this retelling of the historic conflict between two Japanese warlords (Nagao Kagetora and Takeda Shingen) falls flat. There’s potential for interesting arcs — Kagetora renounces all earthly pleasures, including love, to achieve his goals, only to later abandon his throne in fear of what the war is doing to him, spiritually — but the movie never really develops them. As a result, it’s hard to get too emotionally involved in the movie’s storyline; it’s very remote and detached. That, combined with the running narration and captions, makes Heaven and Earth feel more like a made-for-TV documentary than an epic samurai film à la Akira Kurosawa or Masaki Kobayashi.
More than 20 years have passed since my last viewing of Dark City, but I was obsessed with it when it came out in theaters back in 1998 and it was one of the first DVDs that I ever bought — after The Matrix, of course. (Fun bit of trivia: The Matrix, which came out in 1999, actually reused some of Dark City’s sets.) Dark City is all about atmosphere in a way that I wish more genre movies were. (See also: Blade Runner.) Director Alex Proyas dials up the atmosphere to ridiculous levels, from the persistently nocturnal setting to the vintage 1950s aesthetic to the ominous, expressionistic production design — and I love it. (I’m currently reading a collection of Mister X comics, and I have to think that it was an influence alongside Terry Gilliam, Fritz Lang, and Katsuhiro Otomo.) This was my first time watching Proyas’ director’s cut, which thankfully removed the spoiler-ridden opening narration and includes some new scenes that further elaborate on our protagonist’s strange new abilities. Proyas is apparently in the process of developing a Dark City series, which I’m unsure about. This movie existing as a strange, singular gem from the late ’90s is part of what makes it so special. To delve more deeply into its fantastical world might break the spell.
Most people probably know Chris Hemsworth as cinema’s most beloved “himbo” courtesy of the Thor movies, but I much prefer his Tyler Rake, the seemingly un-killable mercenary who can rescue anyone from even the worst situations. (In this case, it’s a gangster’s family from a brutal prison in the country of Georgia.) There’s a sorrow behind his deadly actions, and Extraction 2 is best when it presses into that; it gives the film a certain haunted quality in the midst of the mayhem. Of course, you don’t watch this sort of movie for a deep character study; you watch it for the mayhem, to see how much punishment Rake can dish out and take in return. One scene, where he rips a guy’s hand apart, had me cringing in a way I don’t often experience. Then later, I practically cheered at the ridiculous awesomeness when he started punching guys with his fist on fire. Like the first Extraction movie, the sequel’s got an epic single-take sequence that stretches for over 20 minutes and ends with our hero shooting down helicopters from a moving train. Like all single takes, it does get a little tedious and artificial, but you have to admire the chutzpah and chops it takes to pull it off. One quibble about the film’s execution: As with Netflix’s FUBAR, the CGI explosions look surprisingly chintzy at times. Hopefully, they’ll get that sorted out for the recently announced Extraction 3, which is set up by a quasi-cliffhanger involving an enigmatic Idris Elba.
This was actually my second viewing; my first was plagued by poor sound issues that made it difficult to engage with the film. Everyone lauds the Spider-Verse movies for their visuals, and rightfully so, but these movies are also a feast for the ears, and not being able to fully enjoy that aspect was a real killjoy. I think the sound issues were fixed this time around; I could finally hear Gwen Stacy’s opening monologue, anyway. Across the Spider-Verse is her film as much as it is Miles Morales’ film, exploring her own tragic arc as a Spider-Person. Visually, this film pushes way beyond its predecessor (e.g., the gorgeous abstraction of Gwen’s scenes with her father, Hobie Brown’s anarchic style, the beautiful fluttering of the plastic sheets over the Alchemax ruins, Miles and Gwen’s upside-down heart-to-heart high above New York), and it’s a testament to the animators that everything remains so fluid and coherent. Across the Spider-Verse doesn’t pack quite the same emotional heft as Into the Spider-Verse (how could it?), though I definitely teared up during Rio Morales’ speech to Miles. Nevertheless, it’s a wonderful middle film and I’m beyond anxious to see Beyond the Spider-Verse next March. (Sidenote: The most enjoyable thing about this particular viewing was hearing all of the protests at the cliffhanger ending from audience members who obviously didn’t know that a third film’s coming. My own kids were pretty gobsmacked, as was the lady sitting behind us. It was glorious.)
I confess: I expected Let Me Have My Son to be in the same vein as some inspirational “Lifetime Original” movie. There are moments when the film — which was inspired by writer/director Cristóbal Krusen’s experiences with his son’s schizophrenia — does venture into that territory, replete with swelling music, light-suffused cinematography, and Krusen (who also stars) even reading Scripture directly to the audience. But when Krusen’s character begins to navigate the Kafka-esque hospital halls and bureaucracy to retrieve his son, the film develops a nightmarish weirdness that feels more akin to David Lynch. The key to understanding and appreciating the film at its most bizarre, I think, lies in Krusen’s opening narration: “A good bit of what you’re about to see is true as it happened. More is true, though, as to how it felt.” I’ve never experienced an immediate family member struggling with mental illness, but I can only imagine the stress, fear, and anxiety that it would hold for someone who does — and I think that subjective experience is what Krusen is ultimately trying to convey. Let Me Have My Son is by no means subtle, but it is earnest and honest, and its willingness to get weird combined with the obviously personal storyline keeps it from sinking into treacle.
Shortly after finishing Arrival, I started talking about Denis Villeneuve’s films with my oldest, who’s a huge fan of Dune. I mentioned that Villeneuve also directed Blade Runner 2049, the sequel to one of my favorite films of all time: Blade Runner. And so the night ended up being a sci-fi double feature as we pulled up Ridley Scott’s sci-fi masterpiece. Specifically, we watched 2007’s “Final Cut,” i.e., the definitive director’s edition. I have some minor quibbles with some of Scott’s choices for his director’s cut, but I have no such issues with the film’s visuals. Already iconic, the “Final Cut”’s digital remastering makes the film’s visuals all the more stunning. Modern visual effects, which rely so heavily on CGI, can never hope to contain the richness and depth that’s on display in every single one of Blade Runner’s scenes. Despite being released over forty years ago, Scott’s film looks more futuristic than any modern film, and I suspect that’ll be the case for more decades to come. We always talk about suspending disbelief when watching movies, especially genre titles, but that term — “suspension of disbelief” — doesn’t feel quite right when talking about Blade Runner. Thanks to its production design, practical effects, and haunting soundtrack (courtesy of Vangelis), I can’t help believing that Blade Runner’s noir-ish, rain-soaked world actually exists.
When is an alien invasion movie not an alien invasion movie? When that movie is Arrival. Sure it features aliens arriving on Earth, their plans and schemes a mystery. Are they a threat? What are their plans for humanity? But the movie is primarily about attempts to communicate with the aliens and understand their bizarre language, attempts that lead to some surprising results. I watched the first 15 minutes or so the other night, and was instantly entranced. Denis Villeneuve’s directing is masterful and assured, elements necessary for a movie that’s essentially about translating a (very) foreign language. The scene where our main characters first see the massive alien vessel in person, as they fly over a massive crowd, then an abandoned road, and then the fog-enshrouded plain where the vessel stands — all the while accompanied by Jóhann Jóhannsson’s (RIP) otherworldly score — is one of my favorites. I watched this with my kids, and it was fun asking my 15-year-old what he thought of the film’s overarching themes concerning death, existence, and free will. These are heady topics, but Arrival handles them with grace and poignancy.
We watched this in preparation for Across the Spider-Verse. Into the Spider-Verse is perfect, and its perfection becomes clearer with each subsequent viewing. There is, of course, the stunningly vibrant artwork and animation, which pushes the medium forward by drawing inspiration from the classic styles of the past. (I love the climactic battle, in part, because it has Kirby Dots for days.) But that visual panache is also matched by the most heartfelt storytelling. As a father, the “spark” speech that Miles’ dad gives never fails to move because it’s precisely the sort of thing I always want my kids to hear from me. Miles’ “Uncle Ben” moment is appropriately heartbreaking; Stan Lee’s cameo is delightful as is the mentee/mentor dynamic between Miles and Peter B. Parker (voiced perfectly by New Girl’s Jake Johnson); I stan Spider-Man Noir; the moment when Miles finally comes into his own as Spider-Man is one of cinema’s most satisfying and triumphant scenes; the hip-hop soundtrack totally slaps… I could go on but you get the idea. Like I said, perfect.
As you might’ve guessed by now, I’m a bit of a sucker for cheesy Japanese sci-fi movies from the late ’80s and early ’90s (e.g., Mechanical Violator Hakaider, Zeiram). Gunhed is one such movie that I’ve been wanting to see for almost thirty years now, ever since I stumbled across the manga back in high school. (It’s funny how such things can remain lodged in your subconscious for decades.) Of course, I wasn’t expecting it to be good when I finally did see it. I mainly wanted to see Gunhed for its visual effects, model work, and cyberpunk designs — which are pretty dated but also possess a certain charm when compared to today’s CGI fests. But Gunhed also possesses an overly convoluted plot about bandits trying to scavenge technology on a forbidden industrial island that cribs an awful lot from James Cameron. What’s more, the editing is often to the point of incoherence (which sadly, obscures the giant mecha combat that’s a main selling point for a film like this) and it has an annoying kid character (one of my biggest movie pet peeves).
My family watched this Disney+ original film on a whim and suffice to say, I was very pleasantly surprised. On its surface, Crater is a sci-fi coming-of-age story about a group of precocious teens who go on one last hurrah — a lunar roadtrip to visit a distant crater — before one of their number is sent off to another planet. And if that’s all that Crater was, it’d be fine enough… probably. But mix in some resonant themes about grief and family trauma; some subtext about greed and worker exploitation; an appropriately bittersweet ending; and finally, uniformly strong performances from its young cast. Suddenly, Crater becomes something quite a bit more than it might seem at first glance. You’ll have to overlook some flawed science (e.g., the variable gravity levels) and some clunky editing, but if you can do that, you might just be as pleasantly surprised as I was.
This was a real “meh” movie for me. Some of the CGI visuals were impressive and the voice acting was enjoyable enough. (Nobody else but Jack Black could be Bowser, and after seeing the hate that Chris Pratt received, I though his Mario was fine.) But overall, The Super Mario Bros. Movie left me feeling, well, meh. I caught many of the references — e.g., the callbacks to Koji Kondo’s classic soundtrack, Jumpman, Diddy Kong — but that’s really all it was, a series of references. There was nothing bad about the movie, per se, but it felt very safe and by-the-numbers, as if its only concern was checking everything on the “Fans Will Be Pissed Off If They Don’t See This” checklist, and nothing else. (Compare that to the first Sonic the Hedgehog movie, which possessed an irreverent zaniness that made it better than it honestly had any right to be.)
Sure, Nobody is filled with over-the-top action sequences, including a long, violent standoff in a machine shop, and a dark sense of humor. But we’ve seen all that before. Nobody really only succeeds because of one thing: Bob Odenkirk’s performance. Odenkirk is perfect as a sadsack middle-aged suburbanite named Hutch who clearly has some repressed issues. But Nobody wisely takes its time, settling us into the doldrums and dreary rhythms of Hutch’s life, be it forgetting to take out the garbage every week or his family’s constant looks of disappointment. Thus, when the truth is inevitably revealed — that Hutch used to be an elite government assassin who gave it all up for the domestic life, and now must “reawaken” those deadly skills to defend his family from Russian gangsters — it’s as much a catharsis for the audience as it is for Hutch. I certainly didn’t have Bob Odenkirk on my “action star” bingo card, but that incongruity only makes the film more fun and interesting, especially in the first big fight scene where Hutch takes on a bunch of punks on a bus. A sequel’s been announced, but I’m not sure how enjoyable it will be given that we now know Hutch’s big secret.
I went into this film anticipating a paranoid thriller along the same lines as The Parallax View or Three Days of the Condor. What I got was a muddled mess made all the more disappointing by the fact that it was directed by Sam Peckinpah (his final film, in fact), stars Rutger Hauer and John Hurt, and has a Lalo Schifrin score. The Osterman Weekend works really hard to make you think that it’s smarter than it actually is, but its tangle of storylines (which include Russian secret agents, government corruption, and fears about surveillance and media manipulation) combined with jumbled editing and unlikable characters will just leave you scratching your head the entire time. A director’s cut was released in 2022 — the 1983 theatrical release was edited by the producers themselves after they fired Peckinpah — but the film is so random and slapdash that I have a hard believing that a director’s cut would be any more enjoyable or insightful.
I loved Versus when I first saw it back in the early ’00s — its zombie/martial arts/gangster storyline had “cult hit” written all over it — but it’d been at least 15 years since my last viewing. Watching it now, the film’s flaws are more apparent. Specifically, Ryûhei Kitamura’s debut feature is about 30 minutes too long, what with all of the whip pans, dolly zooms, slow-motion, and shaky cam. And parts that I once found hilarious are not quite so much anymore. Still, its blend of Sam Raimi-influenced camerawork, Matrix-esque action, zombie gore, and yakuza flair is entertaining and even inspiring at times. Versus was reportedly shot for $10,000, which makes what you actually see all the more impressive. Kitamura and his cast and crew fully embraced their limitations, which forced them to get clever with, well, everything you see, from the practical effects and martial arts choreography to the film’s depiction of the supernatural through clever cinematography. In other words, Versus is proof that when it comes to making memorable films, imagination and creativity can trump a big budget.
Had I seen Willow when I was twelve, I’m sure it would’ve become one of my favorite films right alongside Flight of the Navigator. Unlike my wife, however, I wasn’t allowed to see Willow as a child, so I have zero nostalgic attachments to this classic ’80s fantasy film from Ron Howard and George Lucas. (By contrast, I have all the nostalgic attachments for Flight of the Navigator.) Which was not to Willow’s advantage. It’s not without its charms — e.g., Warwick Davis’ earnest performance, the Welsh and New Zealand scenery, some of the vintage effects (it was refreshing to see a CGI-less fantasy film) — but overall, Willow is a slog without nostalgia’s rose-colored glasses. Val Kilmer’s clownish-yet-dashing swordsman is far more clownish than dashing (which makes both his battle prowess and his eventual romance with the villain’s warrior daughter all the more eyeroll-inducing) and the less said about Kevin Pollak and Rick Overton’s annoying brownie duo, the better. On a sidenote, I had little interest in watching Disney+‘s Willow series, and now I have zero interest.