Who done it? Who didn’t do it?! Colonel Mustard? Professor Plum? Mrs. Peacock? Oops, that’s not right. It is right and not a spoiler to say it’s with a dagger in the victim’s study, multi-millionaire mystery author and patriarch Harlan Trombley (Christopher Plummer) on his 85th birthday. You’ll learn that in the first five minutes. The rest of the film draws dotted guilt lines to every dysfunctional member of Trombley’s family—until they are all tied up in maladjusted knots of inheritance entitlement. Knives Out is a ton of vampy and campy fun. Do not leave the theater though—not for a popcorn refill or candy fix or trip to the restroom—you will miss a critical clue. I guarantee it. If you can piece the maybe murder mystery puzzle together before film’s end, you are a better detective than I! Go for it.
Immersed for two and a half hours in the ugly Dark Waters world of institutional corruption and human greed, I left the theater and drove directly to Safeway to pick up a few last minute items for Thanksgiving. Studying canned fruit options, I started reliving teenage memories of mixing Dole fruit cocktail with newly invented Kraft Cool Whip, proudly declaring it a centerpiece holiday salad. Completely lost in daydreams of Thanksgivings past, I turned around and there staring at me was a display of nonstick frying pans! C8 alert! Corporate greed, government sellouts, Wall Street espionage, stacked court decisions, arson, Mad Cow disease, birth defects, cancer—all traced back to PFOA or C8, chemical talk for toxic fluorocarbons, aka Teflon! Doomsday in the canned fruit aisle!
Dark Waters is an environmental drama based on the true David and Goliath story of Cincinnati corporate attorney Robert Bilott (Mark Ruffalo) who goes up against DuPont, a mega machine of greed. The story starts in 1989 with Bilott pulled from a partner meeting to be confronted by West Virginia cattle farmer, Wilbur Tennant (Bill Camp), who suspects DuPont of contaminating his Appalachian farm’s water supply, killing off his cattle. Tennnant, referred by Bilott’s grandmother, is outraged, agonizing over his bovine “like family” die-off, burying each cow in individual graves until the deaths are too numerous to keep up.
Robert Bilott and Mark Ruffalo
In a flash of costuming brilliance, “Black Suits meet Bib Overalls,” the Blue Collar vs. Corporate America showdown is set for the rest of the film. Thus begins a lengthy eco-crusade—that is still playing out to this day. If there is a way, legal or not, for DuPont execs to avoid, defer, bury, squash, squelch, threaten and delay justice, they do it and with impunity. But once Bilott is made a believer—after wading through a dusty box of Tennant’s VHS evidence tapes and a frightening up close and personal mad cow encounter—he doggedly stalks and sues DuPont in perpetuity. Currently, Bilott is bringing a major class action lawsuit against eight different chemical companies, on behalf of everyone in the United States.
Dark Waters reinforces so much of the sad state of affairs we face in our country, brace yourself for your own reality check. Mine was Teflon in Safeway. Yours could be pretty much anywhere given the pervasive use of toxic chemicals. Choose your poison. On top of a bleak glimpse at the squalid underbelly of capitalism, the movie plods along dragging us through a visual timeline that starts in 1975 and phases out at 2015. I found myself calculating how many dreary years were left. If you’re hoping for an Erin Brockovich happy ending, best stay home. Dark Waters is a depressing commentary on the staggering power of corporate greed. PFOA, a chemical compound engineered to create fabulously successful Teflon is now used in everything from raincoats to pizza boxes, infiltrating 99% of human life. DuPont wields so much influence at the highest levels of government that the conglomerate can freely produce this chemical poison, still completely unregulated, without so much as a personal injury shrug. DuPont even ran and then concealed their own studies that conclusively linked PFOA to employee illnesses and birth defects. Now we all know about it. Yet, nothing changes. Surely, for the sake of public health we can do better! Sadly, it doesn’t appear to be a matter of can’t so much as won’t.
A Nov. 19 letter written by 17 West Virginia Republicans to the U.S House of Representatives Committee on Oversight and Reform, which had a hearing earlier that day, “Toxic, Forever Chemicals: A Call for Immediate Federal Action on PFAS,” had very little to say about the hearings, but did come out swinging at the film, “We ask that you be aware that the PFAS-centered film ‘Dark Waters’ irresponsibly uses tired stereotypes about the people of West Virginia. The film’s portrayal does not reflect reality and can do real damage to our economy…So either the filmmakers are fabricating science or they are relying on vulgar stereotypes to sell movie tickets. Neither is acceptable to us. An irresponsible film like ‘Dark Waters’ puts tourism jobs at risk based on a lie.”
I’m at a distinct disadvantage when it comes to Mister Rogers, never once watching his television show which ran for years and years,1968 to 2001. I grew up on Captain Kangaroo and his sidekick Mr. Green Jeans. My two sons were Sesame Street kids. My first born, at about age two, snatched a small stuffed Big Bird off a Sears toy shelf and concealed it in his stroller until we made it back to the car. By then a return to Sears was too far, too late, too new-mom-tired to consider. Big Bird lived a long and happy stuffed animal life in our family.
For me, A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood falls somewhere between harmless and intriguing, and by the end of the movie’s 107 minutes my sliding opinion scale stopped at “Interesting.” Before any Mister Rogers’ devotees sling skeins of red sweater yarn at me, remember this movie represents my only exposure to Mister Rogers. Watching Tom Hanks channel his sixth cousin Fred Rogers, here are my impressions: Fred, gentle, gracious and humble, moves slowly but talks even more slowwwwwwwly, with a sing-song lilt framed by a crooked smile. He swims laps, plays the piano, prays nightly on his knees, won’t eat anything with a mother, adores his wonderful wife, Joanne (Maryann Plunkett), weathered bumpy rides with two sons, connects deeply with people and takes ‘love thy neighbor’ to a new level.
The unique plot twist that bumps the film from ho-hum to hmmmm is the intersection of NYC journalist Lloyd Vogel (Matthew Rhys) and Fred Rogers. Lloyd is a grim young man who, through aggressive investigative reporting, expertly manages to aggravate and alienate every single one of his Esquire Magazine subjects. As a result no celebrities can be found who are willing to undergo a Lloyd hit piece except one, Mister Rogers. Accepting this “puff” assignment under protest, Lloyd fully expects to expose the “true” Mister Rogers as a fraud, triggering Lloyd’s wonderful and supportive wife, Andrea (Beth from This Is Us, Susan Kelechi Watson) to plead, “Please don’t ruin my childhood.” This film is not so much about Mister Rogers as it is about Mister Rogers, a catalyst of grace, playing the supporting role in reshaping Lloyd’s life.
Before flying off to Pittsburgh for the interview, Lloyd, Susan and newborn Gavin attend the wedding of Lloyd’s sister, Lorraine (Tammy Blanchard). To Lloyd’s bitter dismay, Dad Jerry Vogel (Chris Cooper) walks Lorraine down the aisle. A little later, post-toasts, Dad and Lloyd wind up throwing haymakers at each other over the punch bowl. Seems drinking and carousing and cheating Jerry abandoned the family when his wife, mother of Lloyd and Lorraine, took ill, leaving the kids alone to deal with her gruesome death. Forgiveness is not an option.
As cynical Lloyd meets Mister Roger’s Peaceable Kingdom Neighborhood of insightful puppets, simple melodies, cathartic harmonies, deep listening and straightforward speaking, their professional engagement quickly evolves to personal. When it begins to dawn on Lloyd that Mister Roger’s professional, fictional world is in fact identical to Fred’s personal, real life world, a bewildered Lloyd’s transformation begins. We witness the tempering and resolving of Lloyd’s deep seated, seething resentment and hostility, the healing of underlying negativity that has chipped away at his self-confidence and eroded his hopes of being the father he never had. We watch gratefully as Lloyd’s emotional load is lightened.
The film ends on a paradoxical note. Lloyd’s bittersweet family reconciliation and victorious journalistic cover story is paired with a scene of Fred at home exorcising anger by banging on the family piano. What do we take away from this? Life is a balance of ups and downs? Finding peace in a cemetery or rage at home are simply natural to the human condition so deal with it? The word mystifying sums up the puzzling ending along with one prolonged scene where Lloyd hallucinates and faints, only to wake up snug and safe in bed at the home of piano playing duet, talented Mister and Mrs. Rogers. Was that real or imaginary? I’ve heard Tom Hanks mentioned for an Oscar and to that I start looking for a piano to bang. I’m sticking with “Interesting” as my overall impression of this film. It’s worth seeing, especially if you enjoy reliving a nostalgic romp with Mister Rogers. We need more nice, warm-fuzzy, character-building movies in this day and age of stress and division so I wish you and yours a beautiful day in the neighborhood.
When it comes to WW2, I’m far more familiar with the European Theater than the Pacific because my father flew missions over Europe as a B17 Tail Gunner in the 8th Air Force under the command of Jimmy Doolittle. When Midway previews starting showing, I could hardly wait! It was my chance to learn more about the Battle of Midway, fought six months after Pearl Harbor and considered the most decisive battle in the history of naval warfare sending a knockout blow to the Empire of Japan. Plus the film had a storyline about Jimmy Doolittle! What could go wrong?!
Everything. What a colossal disappointment. The action ricocheted all over the globe, kind of a WW2 Where’s Waldo mishmash. I needed a clipboard, map, colored highlighters and a sharpened pencil to keep track. Or better, just stop the movie, turn up the lights and bring in an expert to lecture. Not a single character stood out, not even Jimmy Doolittle and his Raiders. Admiral William Halsey’s shingles got more screen time than Doolittle’s daring attack on Tokyo. Will somebody please slather some calamine lotion on the admiral’s rash and stop the bitching and itching? Medic!
The entire ensemble cast—and it was a cast of thousands—created no attachment, no affection, no interest, no nothing. It’s a war story so lots of people died, I wasn’t moved. Lots lived. I didn’t celebrate. I didn’t bond with anyone. Someone please tell German director Roland Emmerich that when every character is equally significant, the result is that every character becomes equally insignificant. And apparently speaking with either a Southern drawl or Brooklyn brogue was required to serve in the Navy. I guess Midwesterners were assigned to the Army. At least curiosity about whether I’d eventually discern a different accent helped dull the impact of a ridiculously contrived dialogue. Banal, inane, corny clichés infiltrated every exchange. I groaned more at the absurd chitchat than the combat.
Uniformed men zipped in and out of ships and subs, planes and parachutes, looking quite fierce and heroic but with the feel of a Sony Playstation video game, definitely not sophisticated Hollywood special effects. I needed a gamepad handy so I could join in the carnage and I don’t even like video games. But, please, let there be something, anything to keep me engaged.
From all appearances every American fighter jet was shot down in the heat of the battle—but then like magic the pilots and wingmen would safely land, reassemble and get right back to trading platitudes, sarcasm and needling. “Gotcha,” the all American military pastime. A Japanese destroyer retrieved two downed Americans from their raft and when interrogated the US pilot growled, “You killed a lot of my friends at Pearl Harbor so go f’’k yourself.” What happened to name, rank and serial number? When the Japanese commander ordered an anchor tied to the pilot’s leg and shoved overboard, Captain Cool spit his cigarette out, shrugged, sneered and sunk to his watery death. Knowing the terror of war through my dad’s experience, I find it hard to believe that every single sailor and pilot dodging bombs and bullets would find so much to joke, wink and laugh about while careening from one doomsday battle to the next or plunging to their death.
And, just how did the women of WW2 fare? We only saw officer’s wives and at one point, when they gathered to weather the raging sea battle together, a fashionably dressed Donna Reed lookalike arrived to hear that her husband may be a casualty. She tearfully excused herself, “I’m so sorry, I need to powder my nose.” Well, bless your heart honey, you go right ahead. Besides furrowed brows, PG-13 embraces and Clairol moments, women were absolutely invisible.
Summing it up: dreadful dialogue, nameless characters, boring acting, confusing plot and lackluster cinematography. If this weren’t enough, I gritted my teeth when the dedication scrolled after the credits—perhaps Emmerich hoped no one stuck around to read, “This film is dedicated to the Americans and Japanese who fought at Midway. The sea remembers its own.” The film starts out with the Japanese surprise attack on Pearl Harbor and the sinking of the Arizona, killing 1,177 sailors and marines, 1,102 still entombed. At the Battle of Midway, the U.S. lost the aircraft carrier Yorktown, the destroyer USS Hammann, 145 aircraft, and suffered 307 casualties. You can not respectfully conclude with a dedication acknowledging the aggressors and the Americans equally. At least not on my watch.
Let me just say that 40 years is a long time to wait for a sequel! To amp up for Stephen King’s Dr. Sleep, I dropped $3.99 and rented Stanley Kubrick’s 1980 adaptation of The Shining. In memory of my money forever lost to Amazon Prime coffers, I’m coining a new film category, “Horrible Horror.” The Shining was flat ridiculous. Silly. Absurdly laughable. Who gets terrified by a little red-headed tyke wandering around hoarsely repeating red rum, red rum? He sounds like he has the croup. I pulled up list after list of “Scariest Movies Ever” and I’ll be damned, The Shining tops every list. Go figure. Anyway, unimpressed by Shining #1, I skeptically reported to Shining #2, Dr. Sleep.
The movie is admittedly a bloody cut above it’s predecessor. How much a “cut above” you ask? Not much. Creepier than the screen action was being completely alone in the theater for the 2 1/2 hour runtime, a solitary first. With just me and all those empty seats, the sound had a definite reverb. I kept nervously glancing around, hearing disembodied creaking and rustling echoing from every direction. I couldn’t stop myself. Embarrassing.
All grown up Red Rum Danny boy, Dan Torrance (Ewan McGregor) has regrettably turned to alcohol, cocaine and naked lady romps to blot out that one unfortunate childhood winter at the Overlook Hotel. Understandably, being chased around a haunted hotel by your axe-wielding, deranged dad (Jack Nicholson) tends to have a lasting PTSD effect. After one too many bar fights and alcohol induced blackouts, Dan moves to a small New Hampshire town where he is immediately befriended by benevolent and intuitive, Billy Freeman (Cliff Curtis), joins AA, sobers up and lands a hospice job attending to the dying. He’s assisted by lap cat, feline fatale Azzie who apparently channels Dan’s clairvoyance, taking a shine to the next person to die, Azzie plops on their bed for a cat nap. If you hear purring, start praying. Azzie the psychic cat helps Dan earn the moniker Dr. Sleep.
After eight uneventful New England years, Dan is jolted back to his paranormal shadow side when middle schooler, Abra Stone (Kyliegh Curran), psychically surfaces and makes a metaphysical connection. Teenage Abra is a super duper shiner, far more perceptive and powerful than middle aged Dan, but she urgently needs a co-shiner and Dan will do. Through Abra’s inter-dimensional, x-ray vision, she’s discovered a roaming cult of vampire-like, RV traveling hippies, The True Knot. This morbid gang of quasi-immortals kidnap, torture, kill and consume the dying breaths of psychically gifted children—just like her. They must be stopped. On two occasions we watch the ghoulish gang lure children of the shine to their deaths, a prolonged ritual of grisly mutilation and unspeakable torture led by psychopathic cult leader Rose The Hat (Rebecca Ferguson). Rose explains to her young victims how it works: the greater the terror and more intense the pain, the more nutritious and satisfying the ghoul’s sadistic feast. Through a rite of hellacious suffering, the child’s dying life force is released as visible “steam” sending the barbaric freaks into a macabre cannibalistic orgy. The graphic, nightmarish torture of a 9-year old little leaguer was a disturbing, degenerate scene, beyond monstrous, that took the film to a place it didn’t need to go. I can’t think of many—make that any—friends of mine who would sit through it.
When the action retreads to the snowy Colorado Rockies and the long abandoned Overlook Hotel, I perked up at the possible inventive intersections between Shine, the original and Sleep, the sequel. I even dreamed up my own fabulous ending that offered creative redemption to the denouement. Nope, this film powered down and, dare I say, ran out of steam. I was recently asked if I’d ever been to a movie that afterwards I wished I could unsee. I couldn’t think of any. New answer: Dr. Sleep. Horrible Horror.
Ian McKellen plays Londoner Roy Courtnay and Helen Mirren widowed suburbanite Betty McLeish in this serpentine, convoluted thriller/drama that packages all requisite elements for a solid entertainment experience: outstanding lead acting, talented ensemble cast and audience-gasping screen surprises! The plot starts out pretty simple. Using an on-line dating service, two senior Brits, suave Roy and sophisticated Betty, meet for a blind date. Over dinner both swear superlative allegiance to honesty but by dessert each confesses to adopting a profile alias. Estelle and Brian please meet Betty and Roy. Let the lies fly! We watch Roy and Betty fill out their dating profiles. Roy checks the “non-smoker” box while puffing on a cigarette. Betty checks the “non-drinker” box while sipping a martini. It goes fictitiously on and on from there. Dear Roy we learn is a scam artist who specializes in elaborate, high stakes real estate boondoggles. Here a scam, there a sting. Nor does he mind dabbling in mere fraud or embezzlement if there is a victim to be conned. Wealth is not Roy’s primary motivation, it’s the thrill of the hunt and Roy is exceptional at putting away his prey. Sweet, unassuming Betty, Roy sniffs out, is worth a fortune. Captivated by the sheer beauty of bilking, he sets in motion a seductive scheme to steal her every…single…pound. Hold on though. Unpretentious Betty may appear an easy mark but in fact is a retired Oxford scholar, perceptive, brilliant and accomplished. Has Roy finally met his match?
Soon after leaving the theater, a friend asked for my opinion and I said, “It was twisted.” Correction! It was full of twists. Well, there were a couple of twisted characters in the mix. This is true. One is Roy’s longtime conspiracy partner, Vincent, who is none other than the world’s most identifiable butler, Mr. Carson (Jim Carter) of Downton Abbey fame! I admit it hurt me to see Mr. Carson, aka Vincent, go to the dark side. If you are less into character development and more into mayhem, never fear, there is a fair share of blood splatter, pulverized hands and faces, murders and muggings. Something for everyone. History too. Just don’t get lulled into accepting the silvered haired couple’s spontaneous trip to Berlin is really about visiting the Brandenburg Gate. And think twice before swallowing that Betty’s supremely suspicious and overly protective grandson Steven (Russell Tovey) is researching WW2 for his Ph.D. dissertation. Maybe yes but probably no. Take nothing on face value. The plot will undoubtedly catch you smugly predicting a twist or two but the “big reveal” I dare say, you will not see it coming.
The best part of this film is seeing ageless, epic stars Sir Ian McKellen and Dame Helen Mirren performing together, a marvelous, wonderful acting first. With 40 years of these two British icons appearing on stage and screen, movie and television, how did we get so lucky to watch their dazzling duet debut? Go see The Good Liar and add your name to the lucky list, but here’s a tip: use a fake name. Wink. Wink. 😉
Satire and hellacious historical events don’t easily mix for me. From seeing the trailer of Jojo Rabbit over and over in previews, I adversely sized it up as an ill-conceived parody on Adolph Hitler and a young boy’s induction into the Nazi party’s Hitler Youth organization. I instantly disliked it, in fact when I sat down in the theater with friends, I threw down the gauntlet, “I am prepared to hate this film.” By the time the movie ended, my mind was changed. Much to my surprise, JoJo Rabbit won me over.
Played by gifted, quirky New Zealand director Taika Waititi, the role of Hitler is depicted as a flim-flam, sputtering imaginary friend to ten-year old neighborhood misfit Jojo Betzler, brilliantly played by 11-year old British actor Roman Griffin Davis. The Hitler/Jojo absurdity runs continuously throughout the film, however in an effective storyline strategy, the film’s satiric overtones decrease as the Third Reich realities of 1945 Berlin increase. In doing so, we witness the maturation of Jojo, evolving from Hitler flattery to mockery, Nazi indoctrination to renunciation. As a brazen exclamation point, Jojo, former Führer fanatic, stands up to the caricature of evil and with a furious drop kick boots the buffoon through Jojo’s second story bedroom window. We cheer! We’ve been rooting for Jojo since he refused to kill the sacrificial rabbit on the first day of Hitler Youth Camp. Victory!
Two relationships influence Jojo’s transformation, his mother Rosie (Scarlett Johansson) and the admiration and love he has for her; and a teenage Jewish girl, Elsa (Thomasin McKenzie) who Rosie is secretly hiding in a hidden nook of the apartment. Jojo discovers this dangerous secret, but keeps silent to protect his family’s safety. Also unknown to Jojo, Rosie is supporting the resistance, her underground work frequently taking her away from home. While his mom is out, Jojo cautiously engages with Elsa, creating a stick figure illustrated manual on the “nature of Jewishness” that he is certain will contribute to the war effort. However, along the way, Jojo’s preadolescent curiosity grows, replacing propaganda prejudices with sincere concern and authentic affection for Elsa. His beliefs are challenged by friendship, truths inspired by relationship. The inhumane horror show of the Nazi regime receives no humorous treatment. Jojo weathers an unspeakable family atrocity, yet the film doesn’t focus on the murderous terror, choosing to focus instead on the irony of how the gruesome can backfire, softening rather than hardening a young boy’s bias.
With Jojo Rabbit it is best to suspend judgment and trust the film’s deployment of zany, crazy hyperbole and irreverent black humor to see the world through Jojo’s eyes. For it is through his eyes that we are given occasional glimpses into promising possibilities rather than fatalistic eventualities —forgiveness over vengeance, understanding and empathy over hostility and indifference, love and compassion over hatred and callousness. And where there is even so much as a peek, a glimmer of hope, we can raise our flag over the universe and claim the smallest seeds of victory. The epigraph for this film—lines from Rainier Maria Rilke’s poem, “Go to the Limits of Your Longing,” leaves us pondering the heart and soul of life and our personal obligation to scatter those seeds. Take a chance on Jojo Rabbit.
The definition of “idyllic” is spending childhood summers in the 1950s and 60s at a small Sierra Nevada logging town in the remote outskirts of Fresno County. Unless I wanted to spend three months swimming, fishing, building forts and roasting marshmallows by myself, whoever emerged from the cabins scattered around the mill were my new best friends. And those best friends were all boys from Central Valley towns where car racing reigned supreme, mostly NASCAR but formula, drag, off-road, touring, sports—if it involved four wheels, it commanded attention. Add in stacks of Motor Sports magazines and raging Ford vs Chevy arguments while passing greasy wrenches back and forth, tinkering with a Willys Jeep and you have a good flavor of mill life.
Watching Ford v Ferrari was a throwback to those times. I could practically feel the grease and smell the burnt rubber! A life lesson on power and the powerful unfolds as we sit, students of history watching two international titans clash, America’s proud yet ruthless Henry Ford (Tracy Letts) taking on Italy’s regal yet derisive Enzo Ferrari (Remo Girone). Two renown automakers stake their brand and their reputation on winning Le Mans, a 24 hour contest for man and machine, the “Grand Prix of Endurance and Efficiency.” In 1966 it becomes the ultimate match race between perennial winner Ferrari and upstart competitor Ford. Loyalty and brotherhood, treachery and deceit, it’s all there. Win. Just win.
Shifting Team Ford into high gear is talented, passionate, straight-shooting expert car designer Carroll Shelby (Matt Damon) always strutting around in his black cowboy hat, matched with cocky, hotheaded, confident, driver par excellence Ken Miles (Christian Bale), forming an entrepreneurial and fearless duet who, curiously enough, are making their first paired film debut in this rip-roaring true story. The Shelby/Miles bromance works perfectly in ratcheting up drama interspersed with comedic exchanges including a hilarious fistfight that so amuses Ken’s wife Mollie (Caitriona Balfe) that she unfolds a chair to better watch them roll around on the lawn, until she graciously fetches them cold sodas while they catch their breath lying side by side in the yard.
The chemistry between Damon and Bale hold the movie together from the starting gun through the checkered flag. Their on screen relationship, although tumultuous at times, is deeply defined by mutual respect. Two mere mortals, one Brit, one American, share rare membership in the elite “perfect lap” club, who understand 7,000 RPMS as a spiritual experience.
“There’s a point at 7,000 RPMs where everything fades. The machine becomes weightless. It disappears. All that’s left, a body moving through space, and time. At 7,000 RPM, that’s where you meet it. That’s where it waits for you.”
The film runs long at 2 1/2 hours and could have been shortened while not losing a beat by cutting out Mollie and Ken’s young son, Peter (Noah Jupe). Their roles are undeveloped and unnecessary to plot development. Carroll and Ken offer enough of the family feel. Ford Company executives Lee Iacocca (Jon Bernthal) and Leo Beebe (Josh Lucas) try to muscle in between Carroll and Miles to no avail. The Iacocca role holds up as an insider ally to Carroll but Beebe as the story’s contemptuous villain is a loss leader to nowhere. He can go. Men dominate the screen at least 98% of the time reflecting the industry and era. Probably still holds true. The racing sequences drop you directly into the drivers seat at track level with thundering decibels and breathtaking speeds. When I drove away from the theater I revved my 4 cylinder Honda into high gear and blew right past a Toyota! The thrill of victory and all that heady stuff.
Ford v Ferrari is an instant classic. If you are a racing fan, you’ll love the energy of this film. If you are a connoisseur of cinematography, you’ll enjoy the technical savvy. If you are an observer of human behavior, you’ll appreciate the intuitive depth. Ford v Ferrari may be the racing movie equivalent of the perfect lap. As Ken Miles asks, “Do you see it?” Seeing this movie may be the closest way of answering yes.
Last Christmas is a film that critics either loathe or love. In a near Rotten Tomatoes tie, 51% of reviewers came out swinging and clobbered this film as a ridiculous waste of talent while 49% cheered it on as a charming crowd pleaser. I am ready to cast my vote! Drum roll please…..Thumbs Up! While Last Christmas will not displace It’s a Wonderful Life or Home Alone, it’s a sweet, endearing story that grew on me like mistletoe throughout its 102 minutes, leaving me with a warm, feel-good seasonal smile.
Kate (Emilia Clarke), in a definite demotion from GoT Dragon Queen, unhappily labors as a year-round elf in a London Christmas shop, relegated to dusting ornaments and dodging grinchy insults hurled by store owner “Santa” (Michelle Yeoh) who finds Kate’s work ethic sorely lacking. Surprisingly, Santa puts up with Kate’s retail malaise even after she carelessly fails to lock up the shop and vandals trash it. Not just Kate’s employer, but friends and family bend over backwards tolerating Kate’s outrageous, ill mannered behavior. It seems there has been a 180° shift from positive, people person Kate to a dislikable, disagreeable permutation after a terrifying brush with death, her life dramatically saved by a donor heart transplant. Physically Kate healed but psychologically she was painfully reduced to someone unrecognizable by her circle of care.
Then, just in the nick of Saint Nicholas time we perk up with a yule tide whiff of a Christmas miracle when swarthy, dashing stranger Tom (Crazy Rich Asians Henry Golding) smoothly rides into the story on his bike and wins Kate’s heart, yes, her new one. Tom is as irrepressible as Kate is irresponsible. Tom is the sun to Kate’s gloom. Optimism meets fatalism. A match made in heaven. Indeed. Swept up in true romance, our lovestruck duo light up London. Tom picks a lock and introduces Kate to a rooftop ice rink, teaching her to skate while laughing, a December dream. Channeling Gene Kelly, he dances Kate to a fairytale secret garden for a tender first kiss. Tom tends to mysteriously disappear so we have stretches of time rooting on solo Kate as she emerges full of contagious high spirits from her dark place, making peace with herself and the people in her world. It’s fun to watch her patch together broken relationships with a sleigh load of random acts of kindness and a veritable jukebox of George Michael tunes that Kate sings all along the holiday way home.
As a point of interest, Last Christmas was nearly a decade in the making as an artistic collaboration between writer Emma Thompson—who also plays Kate’s distressed and depressed Yugoslavian movie mother Petra—and the late singer songwriter George Michael. With Michael’s untimely death in 2016, the project was respectfully shelved and only revived when Michael’s family gave their blessing.
Christmas movies are best when they stir our emotions, inspire hope and cultivate gratitude and kindness. And of course there is the necessary weep factor gift wrapped and tucked under the tree. We get that and more as we witness Kate’s transformation from lost soul to loving soulmate. Forgiveness. Reconciliation. Rebirth. Joy. The stuff of enduring Christmas traditions. All with a mystical, magical twist you will not soon forget. Thank you George Michael, this Christmas you gave us your heart.
Just when I’d relax and settle into a genre comfort zone, this Korean film would change gears until by the final shift into overdrive I was convinced I’d exit the theater with whiplash. Caught in the wildly unpredictable intersection of two South Korean families, we flow, over 132 roller coaster minutes, from slice of life satire to laugh out loud comedy to murder mystery to thriller to horror. We first meet the Kim family: former Olympian medalist, no-nonsense mom, philosophic dad and their twenty-something children, a clever, jaded daughter and a cagey, articulate son. Together they live in a cramped subbasement with a single window opening to an alley frequented by urinating drunks. Cobbling together pay-as-you-go jobs, the destitute family of four assemble pizza boxes and post advertisement fliers but still can’t stretch their collective earnings to prevent cellphone shutdown. I was instantly empathetic as they doggedly scramble about their tiny, cluttered basement quarters looking for an unprotected neighborhood wireless signal to hijack. Who amongst us can’t identify with the duress and agitation of no internet? I remember wandering around my backyard one blustery night during a power outage holding up my open laptop searching for a signal and happily tucking myself in the corner woodpile to draft off a neighbor’s service. We are won over by these Kims, a likable and resourceful pack, resigned to underclass status, not from lack of will or skill, but as victims of ravaging unemployment. Marked by a distinct working class odor from subway travel and basement travails, let’s call them “down but not out.”
Next up, their polar economic opposites, the Park family: fashionable, fretting mom, high tech dad, preening adolescent daughter and hyperkinetic young son. This family of four live in 1% luxury, their home a gated modern mansion of renown architectural pedigree, tended by a chirpy Brady Bunch Alice-type maid and chauffeured in a top of the line classic black Mercedes-Benz. We common folk cruise along voyeur-like momentarily drinking in the fascinating lifestyle of fame and fortune. As most of us are interlopers to the decadence spawned by riches, the Park family are never in danger of generating empathy, but neither do they stir antipathy. A family of nouveau wealth, deemed “of course” entitled to servants, they deflect lurking presumptions of elitism by pointing out that they pay their staff more than the market rate. Call them “nice.”
From the introductory phase of meet the Kims, greet the Parks, the plot flirts with a quasi Prince and Pauper remix, here a twist, there a turn, here a sting, there a caper. Out with the old (the Park support staff), in with the new (the Kim conniving crew). We enjoy the antics of the two families bizarrely blended by means and needs, schemes and scams. It’s a fun frolic! Then ominous storm clouds roll in, thunder booming as the Park’s original merry maid stages a dramatic return, throwing a lighting bolt of double dealing deception causing the walls of hoax and trickery to come a-tumbling down. It’s not fun anymore. It’s frightening and vicious. The once comedic clash between social classes turns into a literal flood of ugly, cruel, vindictive and murderous rage. Suddenly, I’m watching a cinematic detonation, the black comedy explodes into thriller, then slasher, splaying the complex social, cultural and economic layers wide open, leveling the playing field of the haves and the have nots in an astonishing, jaw-dropping finalé. Don’t let anyone persuade you that Parasite represents a societal showdown between good and evil. This film noses around in all the nuanced gray areas, exploring and ultimately unleashing the pent up human dynamics of hope and despair, greed and want, power and pain. This creative, complicated, masterfully orchestrated film will be a hands down Oscar contender—and, if Academy voters can look past subtitles, Parasite will rack up recognition well beyond the Foreign Language category. It may not stick around very long so best see it soon. It’s (wink, wink) a peach!!
