Gambling on sports is nothing I understand. Over, under, even, lines, parlay. Uncut Jewels offers no mercy to those unschooled in betting. Actually Uncut Jewels offers no mercy to those schooled (in pretty much anything). Period. The film’s dialogue was reduced to strings of profanity, expletives and f-bomb obscenities. 95% of the film’s dialogue can be boiled down to some variation of you mother F@#$&*%$ piece of @#$& sucking @#$&! The other 5% were exchanges between a team of gastroenterologistsconducting a colonoscopy. Sigmoid colon, polyps, diverticula. Riveting.
The film’s 135 minutes were continual, nonstop, unrelenting turbulence, like being thrashed about by storm whipped waves—slammed,tossed, smashed—one gulp and gasp short of drowning. Agitating. Draining. Exhausting. And so much yelling. Men, women, children, the audition criteria for this movie was measured in decibels. I scream you scream. We all scream and yell and curse and shout and shriek at everyone around. And that’s us the audience! Crushed into frenetic, raving oblivion by an ingratiating, asinine tale of addiction and adrenaline, characters incessantly clamoring and talking over each other, we suffered a collective audience anxiety attack. Look that up in the DSM-5 and file an insurance claim.
The hoard of lowlife characters are dislikable, distasteful dimwits. The leading dunderhead, New York Diamond District jeweler Howard Ratner (Adam Sadler) is an unscrupulous, lying scumbag, whose con artist life is a treacherous pyramid scheme of stupidity, sellouts and screwups. He owes debts upon bets. He pawns things borrowed and sells things loaned. There is not a single endearing quality enough to salvage his soul when the inevitable day of doom descends. His wife Dinah (Idina Menzel) dishes it out the best, “I think you are the most annoying person on the planet.” Agreed. Too bad the writers couldn’t figure out a slant where Grammy, Oscar and Tony feted Menzel could have belted out a song or two. She might have redeemed this ill-conceived, crude, moronic @#$&*+% movie. Take the money and run. No diamonds in the rough to be had, just a bad lot.
My mom wasn’t much of a reader but her favorite book was Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women. I grew up a voracious reader and never read it. Go figure. Over the 150 years since it’s 1868/9 publication, Little Women has been made into multiple movies, stage plays, television series and even an opera. How can this uber familiar story possibly be told again? We all know the plot, the characters and the raison d’être. Little Women was this year’s choice for our family’s going-to-a-movie-every-Christmas-Day tradition. Entertain me. Educate me. Encourage me. Please.
And it did! The scenery gorgeous, characters delightful, story irresistible. I can understand why Little Women offered a now tame, but in the day a groundbreaking invitation for young ladies to envision and expand their life possibilities. At the same time, a woman’s traditional, domestic lifestyle, challenged by feisty, brilliant Jo was preserved by beautiful, bright Meg. The revolutionary notion introduced by Alcott is choice.
The film follows the March family –conventional Meg (Emma Watson), writer Jo (Saoirse Ronan), pianist Beth (Eliza Scanlen), artist Amy (Florence Pugh) and doting mother Marmee (Laura Dern) as they come to maturity during and after the Civil War. Rounding out the central figures are lad Laurie (Timothee Chalamet) a wealthy, orphaned neighbor who becomes a de facto family member and prosperous, spinster Aunt March (Meryl Streep), the self-appointed guardian of social pedigree, looking for at least one niece who will marry well, salvage the family name and keep the “Family March” afloat.
The flashback, nonlinear way the story is told caused me some confusion but I finally came up with my own cues to alert me to time shifts and guide my tracking. It’s no fun to be left behind, stuck in the past when the action jumps to the future. Hey, where’d everybody go! The film is full of romance, unrequited and realized, tragedy and comedy, poignant moments and outrageous indiscretions. Little Women was the perfect Christmas Day movie. For the record, the theater was sold out and sitting next to me was an elderly Jewish woman with whom I enjoyed a festive chat waiting for the movie to start. As the lights went down I wished her a Happy Holiday and she wished me a Merry Christmas. And it truly was.
Proceeding with caution do I offer observations on this Black film that writer Lena Waithe calls “protest art,” the film’s title representing Black people in America, not the names of the two lead characters. We don’t even hear their “real” names, Ernest and Angela, until a tv news broadcast at the end of the movie. Two young African-Americans, Jesus-fearing Ernest (Daniel Kaluuya – Get Out, Black Panther) and criminal defense attorney Angela (Jodie Turner-Smith – first lead role in a feature film) meet in a modest diner for a computer match date. They don’t really hit it off but with dramatic irony will wind up spending the rest of their lives together. Leaving the cafe they are pulled over by a White cop for a minor infraction. We learn later that this officer has a publicly known history of violence towards Blacks. The seemingly innocent traffic stop predictably ends deadly, Angela grazed in the leg, shot by the officer and then Ernest, in an act of self defense and a genre turnaround, kills the officer. The worst blind date in history turns into an Ohio to Macon to New Orleans to Miami road trip, the young couple ducking and dodging a nationally televised cop killer man hunt. Their faces are splashed all over the media elevating them to hero status in Black communities. Their journey to safety, an impromptu plan to get to Cuba, evolves into a contemporary Underground Railroad where Blacks and a smattering of Whites informally pull together to provide them safe passage. There are hints of Romeo and Juliette, Bonnie and Clyde, Thelma and Louise and Harriett in the film’s 132 minute runtime so do invest in a quick review of this classic/instant classic filmography before you go. There is also an excellent article in Oprah Magazine worth reading, https://www.oprahmag.com/entertainment/tv-movies/a29953547/who-is-jodie-turner-smith/
The young couple’s odyssey across the countryside, at first filled with hostility and blame towards each other, grows into a budding romance culminating in a steamy sex scene in the front seat of their car. Their lengthy lovemaking is intersected with scenes of a violent local protest—about their plight—where a Black Officer in riot gear is shot point blank in the head by a Black teen who earlier met and instantly idolized the couple as the teen’s reluctant car mechanic father repaired the couple’s blown radiator. A fallen Black officer killed at the hands of an enraged Black youth represents, to me, how Black Lives Matter injustices infiltrate and corrupt the actions of all, spreading hatred and anger across and within races.
Queen and Slim is a tough movie to watch, especially as a White person whose race is the target of this Black J’Accuse. Guaranteed, the film is disturbing and will cause discomfort, but art often speaks to the heart where other mediums fail. Having it’s world premiere at the American Film Institute’s annual celebration of artistic excellence, a showcase for the best festival films of the year, Queen & Slim is a daring story full of cultural symbolism, metaphor, allusion and allegory. There is the exciting physical escape and there is a compelling parallel psyche escape filled with wonderful scenes of the couple shedding invisible societal chains, daring to live their lives without apology or fear, as simple as dancing in a homegrown Black nightclub, jumping a fence and riding an elegant white horse, or hanging out the window of their moving car, carefree faces turned joyfully into the wind. Their final declaration of freedom will break you. For these reasons alone, I’d encourage you to see this film, going in with an open mind and hopefully coming out with an open heart.
Until the Golden Globe nominations were announced I hadn’t even heard of Marriage Story. But, there it was: Best Actor Drama, Best Actress Drama, Best Supporting Actress, Best Drama, Best Screenplay and Best Original Score. Good grief! I haven’t exactly been hiding under a rock when it comes to movies! Fully chagrined I clicked on Netflix and settled in, expecting to be overwhelmingly impressed. I wasn’t but that’s not an indictment by any means. The film was really good just not over the top Bravo! The storyline is actually quite common, one many of us have lived: marriage adrift, divorce, child custody, division of property….“let’s keep this fair and civil, do what’s best for the kids.” If we’re lucky, amicable works. If not, our lives grind to a brutal, angry halt while attorneys screw everything up and money rolls downhill so their kids can relax about college tuition while our kids start applying for financial aid. Watching Marriage Story is like sitting through 136 minutes of bad lawyer jokes springing to life. The horror.
Charlie (Adam Driver), a director of cutting-edge, avant-garde theater, positioned to take his latest work to Broadway, is married to Nicole (Scarlett Johansson), an actress fading from NYC stage renown but still popular in Hollywood. The couple have grown apart, recognizing, despite deeply caring for each other, the point of departure has arrived. Divorce is discussed. Their young son Henry (Azhy Robertson) is the beloved prize and both parents start out determined his interests be top priority. Then a wrinkle emerges. Nicole accepts a career revival offer to film a pilot in Los Angeles. She takes Henry with her to California, moving in with her Charlie-adoring mom (Julie Hagerty). On one of Charlie’s frequent coast-to-coast trips to spend time with his family, Nicole bullies her reluctant Charlie-adoring sister Cassie (Merritt Wever) to serve him with divorce papers, smuggled under a pecan pie, then hires Nora Fanshaw (Larua Dern) as her attorney, a bulldog lawyer who approaches divorce in a “there will be blood” crusade. Nora relishes in threatening Charlie with loss of all earthly possessions and any hint of custody. Charlie is forced to retaliate. Enter divorce Death Star Jay Marotta (Ray Liotta). At this point we strap in for a gut-wrenching saga of two legal vipers squaring off to pound the other side to pulp, not caring a whit that “sides” are flesh and blood people, parents at a starting line of good intentions. Charlie and Nicole recoil, shatterIng under scathing legal posturing and purposeful courtroom annihilation. Even Henry is a won/lost tally at times, the wretched center flag of a parental tug-of-war, Charlie pulling one arm, Nicole the other. Everyone is expendable as collateral damage, Charlie literally bleeding out on his rented California apartment floor in one grueling black humor kitchen scene. Lord, have mercy.
What materializes below the waves of the legal hurricane are two decent people, Charlie and Nicole, trying—mostly futilely—but trying nevertheless to resist succumbing to emotional cruelty. Predictably, tirades of fury and fear simmer, seethe and eventually explode. Human combustion. As the vitriol flies, you regret on their behalf what they’re unleashing— hateful, damning words that can never be taken back, that will echo forever no matter how hard they may wish differently. We’ve all been there. The film taps our jagged relational regrets, remorse and repentance, making “I’m sorry,” a communal mantra of misery. You want to jump up and shout at the screen, “Stop! Don’t say it! Just stop, please.”
Adam Driver is not a favorite of mine, he’s so Keanu Reeves with a distinctive monotone delivery, but he did stretch his dramatic persona for this role, perhaps his best performance to date. Petty question #1: how did 6’2” Driver gets cast with 5’3” Scarlett Johansson? He towered over her. Maybe it was to serve as a visual metaphor for their professional director/actress relationship. Truthfully, Johansson failed to win me over, I never warmed up to Nicole. I was rooting for Charlie, put off by Nicole and annoyed by Henry. Petty question #2: isn’t Henry way too big for a car seat? Cassie, Nicole’s witty sister, was my favorite of all the characters. For the record I am a total Merritt Wever groupie, my enthusiasm for her in Nurse Jackie morphed to sheer hero worship in Netflix’s Godless, the last scene I can watch over and over and over until I’m the last person awake in the household.
There were enough funny exchanges in this film, comedy infusion, that thankfully lightened the heavy laden angst. While the attorneys square off, family members rise and fall in their humanness. It’s like taking a selfie of our worst selves against a background of laughter, kindness, and thoughtfulness. If the goal is to showcase the competing dualism of the human spirit then Marriage Story charges ahead of the 2019 drama pack. It didn’t win my vote but maybe because it hit too close to home, taking me on a walk down memory lane of my own awful, demolition derby divorce, fomented by two condescending attorneys who pitted us against each other in a hostile custody battle over our two young sons. 35 years later I still hate the shameful things I said and did. Marriage Story’s “Join the crowd” is small comfort. I’ll leave it at that. The 77th Golden Globe Awards will be held aired live January 5, 2020 by NBC, 8 EST/5 PST.
I did not know that Shia LaBeouf was a Disney channel child star. I did not know he starred in the first three Transformers movies. I didn’t even know Shia played Tyler in Peanut Butter Falcon and I just saw it…twice! I thought wow, whoever played Tyler in PBF and James in Honey Boy sure have the same mannerisms! Duh. I had no clue Shia LaBeouf, during a court-ordered rehab alternative to jail, wrote Honey Boy, an autobiographical screen play about a tumultuous relationship with his abusive and alcoholic dad. But, now I do and so do you. And just why are fathers and sons always such a big thing? They get Fences, Field of Dreams, It’s a Beautiful Life, Dear Zachery, Lion King, Boyhood, Frequency, Dr. Sleep and Finding Nemo, etc, etc, etc. Mothers and daughters have Lady Bird and I,Tonya, not exactly a gender draw.
“Honey Boy” is what James (Shia LeBeouf) calls his son Otis (Noah Jupe as 12-year old and Lucas Hedges as 22-year old Otis). Having LeBeouf not only write the story but then turn around and play the role of his PTSD-afflicted father added a unique theatrical and therapeutic dimension. After the film’s Sundance world premier Shia commented, “It is strange to fetishize your pain and make a product out of it and feel guilty about that. It felt very selfish. This whole thing felt very selfish. I never went into this thinking, ‘Oh, I am going to fucking help people.’ That wasn’t my goal. I was falling apart.“
Shia and real father Jeffery
The story is based at a seedy, unsavory motel in 1995 where wildly eccentric James, former rodeo clown, military veteran, registered sex offender and recovering alcoholic coaches Otis on the art of mime and slapstick. Otis learns well, adds his own comedic shtick and is on the rise as a popular child actor “hiring” James as his chaperone/agent so unemployable dad can make a living. Apparently given the flea bag hotel, surrounded by hookers and dealers, it’s not a boatload of money. When a sinister-looking water snake wriggles across the pool I seriously cringe. Mom telephones now and then, she and James shriek at each other about who’s the lamest loser parent. Otis jumps in and mediates. Otis assumes proxy parent status early on. The film jumps back and forth between young Otis and young man Otis. We witness the outrageous behavior that manic James afflicts on his adolescent son and ten years later, 2005, the ramifications on 22-year old Otis, a tortured soul, serving a court-ordered rehab stint, at first dodging, but ultimately confronting the demons of his childhood.
The acting across the board is terrific. The relationship between James and Otis develops with depth and complexity. Dad is not a monster. We learn at an AA meeting gut wrenching disclosure that James is a product of his own father’s abuse. Victim becomes victimizer. A sad, predictable cycle.The scathing criticism heaped by James on Otis is palatable to a degree, deflected by the sublime creativity and remarkable maturity of young Otis. Shia LaBeouf’s acting interpretation of his father is raw, desperate and draws an unexpected empathetic response. Noah Jupe and Lucas Hedges own this film with their gutty, hard scrabble performances as survivors. Coming in at a sparing 93 minutes, Honey Boy is an intriguing, soulful, cathartic cinematic immersion. I foresee Academy nominations in its future if the Academy can look past LaBeouf’s real life antics and the film being an Amazon release. We can hope.
Full disclosure, when I spotted the 3 1/2 hour runtime, I elected to watch The Irishman on Netflix from the comfort of my reclining LazyBoy within ten paces of my personal snack bar known best as “the kitchen.” I couldn’t think of tucking into a theater seat for that long without needing help to get up. I envisioned pushing the concession order button and facing this humiliating exchange,“What may I get you?” “Up.” Plus I could refill my personal, perfect-for-this-movie beverage cup as often as I wished!
Martin Scorsese’s gangster epic stars Joe Pesci as mob boss Russell Bufalino, Robert De Niro as Mafia hit man Frank Sheeran and Al Pacino as Teamster Union leader Jimmy Hoffa. Three Hollywood Hall of Fame actors and one iconic director unite to craft an extraordinary saga that covers decades of true-to-life intersections between organized labor and organized crime, a legacy story of friendship and loyalty, brutality and reckoning. People power wielded by powerful people. Don’t expect any warm fuzzies though. No kumbaya moments from the Pesci/DeNiro/Pacino Trio. I held my breath during baptism scenes. Friendship falters at the foot of power. Always. Jimmy Hoffa should have seen Frank Sheeran coming. Et tu, Brute? Securing and defending power and position trumps any mobster code of conduct. Underscore, there is no honor among thieves. The carnage grinds along, but setting a decidedly unique tone from the typical gangster genre, violence was casual, matter-of-fact, ho hum. Sheeran strolls up behind some poor upstart schmuck, shoots him twice in the head, walks away, tosses his gun over a bridge (there is a very funny scene about the gun graveyard) and heads home for supper. The message is clear, “Nothing to get worked up over. {shrug} Just another day painting houses. Pass the spaghetti please.” To keep the same actors and shrug consistency—even as their stories bounce around through the decades—computerized de-aging digital technology was used. Oh, Santa, please leave a sample of that Fountain of Youth in my Christmas stocking.
Maybe because the film relied on its trio of septuagenarian stars, senior citizen gangstas prevailed. There is no youth movement or secession planning. In general, Mafia men share a similar fate as marine life where 95% of all sea creatures will be eaten by bigger, badder sea creatures. Could be where we get the well known gangland cliché, “Swimming with the fishes.” Death is simply an occupational hazard. By taking out their competitors ad infinitum and ad nauseam, the 5% claiming the top of the mobster food chain survive into their golden years. There is a downside though. As mobsters age, it gives the feds time to catch up, the “old” turn “elderly,” still competing for #1 to the bitter end, but now confined to wheelchairs or pushing walkers around federal prison yards playing bocce ball. The non-incarcerated alternative is even worse. The film opens with narrator Sheeran abandoned to a lonely nursing home vigil, wrapped in a warm shawl, waiting for family that never appear, a phone that never rings, a letter that never arrives. But at least aged Frank has the means to select the most magnificent coffin featured in the funeral home coffin showroom! Pitiless, brutal emptiness.
The Irishman is not The Godfather and La Cosa Nostra. Jimmy Hoffa is German-Irish, Frank Sheeran, Swedish-Irish and Russell Bufalino, the sole Sicilian. Organized crime embraces diversity and fans out from New York to Philly to Detroit to Vegas. It’s a grand tale. And it’s not over yet. Francesco “Franky Boy” Cali, leader of the Gambino crime family was gunned down last March outside his Staten Island home, the first murder of a mob boss since 1985. The FBI estimate 3,000 Italian-American mafia members continue operating gambling, loan-sharking, extortion, human trafficking, and drug-running (mostly heroin) enterprises. Meanwhile, Russia, Africa, Latin America, and Asia, studying the American model, flexed their international mob muscle and organized a global web of illicit and illegal productivity. Fodder for an endless stream of crime films. The Russian. The Colombian. While you wait for these spin-offs or a Godfather IV, watch The Irishman. You’re not afraid of tough guys, are you?
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.
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.
