Bring Back That Lovin' Feeling: "Top Gun: Maverick" Review

★★★★★ (5/5)

Watching a 59-year-old Tom Cruise headline another death-defying action movie is similar to watching combat sports. In boxing and MMA, it’s inevitable that the greatest fighters will age. And unless they take an early retirement, they will almost certainly live to find defeat at the hands of a younger athlete. Decorated as they may be, Father Time is undefeated in martial arts.

Cruise, however, is an anomaly; over the course of his 41-year career, he’s built lore as an ageless movie star who refuses to throw in his towel. His industry leverage and tenacity in making movies that thrive on spectacle have given him longevity that can honestly be described as ‘legendary’. We’ve seen him fly fighter jets, dangle from skyscrapers in Dubai, perform a real-life HALO jump, and hang off the edge of a rock wall in Moab, just to name a few.

Top Gun: Maverick is the thrilling sequel to Tony Scott’s 1986 film that reminds us of a time in cinema when you didn’t need superheroes to enjoy the spectacle, though you could argue that its protagonist Pete “Maverick” Mitchell has always been a man of superhuman capabilities. The latest installment, which earned a record-breaking $156 million over Memorial Day weekend helps cement Cruise’s legacy as a performer with unwavering commitment in everything he does. It’s a unanimous victory and a resounding statement to the public at large: Tom Cruise isn’t hitting the eject button anytime soon.

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Joseph Kosinski (Oblivion, 2013) re-teams with Cruise to take audiences back to sun-bleached Miramar amidst present-day advancements in drone technology that threaten to render fighter pilots obsolete. When Maverick is summoned back to help a young cohort of hot-shots prepare for a deadly mission, he must prove to the bureaucrats calling for extinction that aviators are still a force to be reckoned with.

The sequel finds Cruise matched with a new assortment of faces, including Jon Hamm as the disapproving commander “Cyclone” Simpson, Jennifer Connelly as the radiant love interest Penny Benjamin, Glen Powell as cocky pilot “Hangman”, and Miles Teller as Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw, the headstrong son of Maverick’s perished partner Goose in the original film. His hostility towards Maverick is a central plot device that provides a link to the original while highlighting the late-stage stance of Tom Cruise.

Jay Ellis, Lewis Pullman, Monica Barbaro, and Danny Ramirez are called in to pump fresh new blood into the mix of Top Gun: Maverick. As elite pilots in the nation’s most prestigious flight school, their presence provides an improvement over the original by including side characters who feel like young people that play an actual part in its greater mission.

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“If you sign up for a Tom Cruise movie, as an actor or department head, you better be in. He does not half-ass it, therefore you cannot half-ass it. And that’s what I think makes him truly incredible.”

Glen Powell | The Wrap

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The highly functional script follows closely to its predecessor, featuring similar story elements while improving its relevance to the present day. Co-written by Ehren Kruger, Eric Singer, and Tom Cruise’s frequent collaborator Chris McQuarrie, the story finds favor in familiarity. But with Cruise in his late 50s, the roles are now inverted with Maverick as the battle-worn mentor who must prove his knowledge to stubborn millennials, which lends itself to several comedic moments throughout.

Top Gun: Maverick’s appeal as an early fan favorite is built around its reputation as a throwback action movie. To be “produced by Jerry Bruckheimer” is a sigil that is worn proudly by movies with maximum excitement and little to no filler. The film operates as a loving homage to the full-throttle excess of 1980s cinema. In a world where so many movies are equipped to profess some sort of stance on the direction of our culture, it feels good to sit back in a cacophonous auditorium and watch an aerial ballet unfold at neck-breaking speed.

Even the dialogue seems pulled from a bygone time. From the intimate moments of melodrama to the quippy one-liners that balance humor and heroism better than Marvel Studios’ movies, everything works in perfect throwback harmony. And while there are many instances of fan service that are sure to please fans of the original, it isn’t crucial to the viewing experience—and yes, there is a shirtless beach scene, in case you were wondering.

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In order to compete with the blockbusters of today, Tom Cruise and Jerry Bruckheimer knew that authenticity was vital to success for a sequel 36 years in the making. That’s why Tom Cruise felt it necessary to create a flight school to help teach his co-stars how to fly for real—and he himself designed the curriculum. Yeah, he’s actually qualified to do that.

Needless to say, the aerial training made for a massive payoff, as the movie is built around its stunning flight sequences. Each pilot’s jet was equipped with mounted cameras that could capture each grimace, every labored grunt as they twist and maneuver their massive aircraft with pinpoint precision at Mach Speeds that speaks to the grueling physicality of flying.

What makes this movie such a cut above contemporary hits like Avengers: Endgame, is its notable lack of CG intervention. Every hairpin turn, every inverted flip, every coordinated maneuver that we see is entirely real. The viewing experience is exponentially enhanced in larger format theaters, so if you thought you’d wait until this movie landed on streaming, you’d be doing yourself a huge disservice.

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“On the last flight, he came back to the debrief room. I could tell he was exhausted and he just sat down on the chair and he put his black Ray-Bans from Risky Business on. I was like, 'How did it go?' And he said, ''We crushed it.'”

Joseph Kosinski | The Ringer

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It’s been almost 40 years since the release of Tony Scott’s Top Gun, but there appears to be no sign of slowing as its sequel blazes into its second weekend atop the domestic box office. It’s exceedingly fun, quotable, and emotionally satisfying as a new staple of pop culture and an instant classic that’ll transport you right back to the danger zone. Although shooting complications and the arrival of COVID held up its release by almost three years, Top Gun: Maverick is a solid platinum follow-up that is well worth the wait.

The Wildest Ride in Town: 'Ambulance' Review

★★★ (3/5)

You probably know his name; Michael Bay is an L.A. native whose reputation as a filmmaker has loomed over Hollywood for almost three decades. As we’ve learned over the course of his wildly successful career through a body of work that includes Armageddon, Bad Boys, and the Transformers franchise, Bay doesn’t make movies that aspire toward subtlety. Instead, his movies are tailor-made for excitement in excess, with total disregard for physics or logic. It’s not high art—but that’s not to say he lacks artistry.

Finding his start in the mid-90s, a golden age for action movies, Michael Bay co-opted a style that allows him to prioritize adrenaline over depth. So much so that his movies are often stereotyped by their high-octane depictions of destruction: bullets whizzing, cars exploding, and buildings leveled in a mushroom cloud of glass and rubble. His one-dimensional plots can usually be explained in a single sentence and they almost never make sense—but in Bay’s playground, we don’t ask questions. The signature quality he’s cultivated is referred to endearingly as ‘Bayhem’, a style whose influence has bled into the fabric of action movies today.

From F9 to Red Notice, many recent titles take inspiration from Bay’s previous work; after all, he is the fourth highest-grossing director of all time. His latest film Ambulance follows two adoptive brothers with opposing morals, played by Yahya Abdul-Mateen II and Jake Gyllenhaal, who execute a high-stakes bank heist in Los Angeles. When their getaway plans are foiled, they’re forced to hijack an ambulance with an EMT and an injured cop in tow. Though Ambulance only earned $8.6 million in its opening weekend, many believe it to be a return to form for Bay, Hollywood’s resident merchant of madness.

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“There’s a special sauce for explosions. It’s like a recipe. I see some directors do it, and they look cheesy, or it won’t have a shockwave. There are certain ways with explosions where you’re mixing different things, and different types of explosions to make it look more realistic. It’s like making a Caesar salad.”

Michael Bay | Empire

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Ambulance is a textbook popcorn movie that functions on two levels: one as a heist film, and two as a car chase movie. As the former, it lacks the procedural insight of crime classics like Heat or The Town. Regardless, we still find the experience worthwhile because of its fundamental lack of self-seriousness. Compared to the rest, Ambulance is Michael Bay’s most self-effacing work, almost to the point of parody. At one point, a character quotes Sean Connery’s ‘prom queen’ line from The Rock which delivers a humorous jolt of self-awareness that differs from his more grounded work like 13 Hours or Pearl Harbor.

When the narrative shifts gears and transitions to a sprawling car chase, Bay’s hallmark tendencies come alive in spectacular fashion; the ambulance roars around Los Angeles for nearly two hours, blazing through red lights and Farmers’ Markets with LAPD in hot pursuit. The movie is indebted to Speed in more ways than one, but especially in terms of its sheer vehicular destruction. As we’ve come to expect in Bayhem, patrol vehicles are playthings—plunged into buildings, blasted by grenade launchers, and engulfed in fireballs, evoking imagery out of Grand Theft Auto.

Despite the primitive excitement we feel while watching a car launched three stories high, Ambulance was made for only $40 million: a mere fifth of the budget for Transformers in 2007. The mark of a skilled director isn’t always what you see on the surface, it’s how they’ve allocated the bankroll they’ve been given. With almost 30 years of directing experience, Bay has proven himself resourceful on the tightest of budgets. In Ambulance, stunts are executed practically with minimal use of computer graphics. Bay also had to adapt to the additional challenge of shooting high-wire action in the midst of a pandemic, which presents a unique set of benefits for shooting a car chase through the empty streets of LA.

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When it comes to lead performances, Michael Bay loves working with top-tier talent, even though he doesn’t usually specialize in thoughtful character development. Take Armageddon for example; Ben Affleck and Bruce Willis are oil drillers who are deployed to outer space to destroy a Texas-sized asteroid—in exchange for lifetime tax pardons. If that sounds nonsensical, it’s because his movies usually are.

As an audience, we tend to overlook Bay’s compulsions because there’s a voluntary suspension of logic in movies with such fierce commitment to spectacle. Because of this, we need energetic characters we can latch onto. Ambulance is a wild ride that relies heavily on the strength of its two leads, Yahya Abdul-Mateen II and Jake Gyllenhaal. Their motivations aren’t always clear, but their adversarial dynamic provides a means for Bay to move the story forward and create makeshift tension along the way.

Out of step with his recent trend of losing himself in a series of dark and subdued roles, Jake Gyllenhaal delivers a rockstar performance as Danny Sharp, the charismatic outlaw whose devilish allure and unstable rage push the stakes to extreme heights. Gyllenhaal plays Danny with an unhinged bravado, blasting rifles and screaming lines of dialogue in a performance reminiscent of vintage Nic Cage.

His counterpart in Yahya Abdul-Mateen II stands out as the moral compass of Ambulance. In need of operation money for his ailing wife, Will Sharp resorts to desperate measures against his best judgment. Though led astray by his devious brother, Will is an ex-marine who is guided by principle. And compared to the psychopathic Danny, his role requires more nuance and empathy—redeemable qualities that become clearer as the saga unfolds.

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Despite his lack of thematic complexity, Bay’s competence as a blockbuster moviemaker goes unquestioned. He embellishes Ambulance with such relentless pacing that hardly gives room to breathe, thanks to some savvy editing by Pietro Scalia, the two-time Academy Award-winning editor of Black Hawk Down and JFK.

While the movie slightly suffers from its lengthy runtime—as all Michael Bay movies generally do—it doesn’t hamper the sensory spectacle of its action sequences. Ambulance is a movie that works best on the largest screen possible in a packed auditorium so you can gauge the collective reaction. But given its underwhelming box office turnout, there’s an unavoidable quandary as we enter our second year of COVID-19: can a middle-tier non-franchise action movie ever find success again? Or has the Michael Bay formula officially overstayed its welcome with mainstream audiences?

Death, Drugs, and Dirty Movies: 'X' Review

★★★★ (4/5)

The year is 1979; a particularly horny group of kids stumble upon a Texas farmhouse and soon discover its terrifying, gruesome secret. If that’s all you’ve heard about Ti West’s latest horror film X, there’s a huge chance you’ll think you know the story, but allow me to provide some reassurance: you really, really don’t.

Since the late 2000s, Ti West has made a name for himself as a cult filmmaker who isn’t shy about his love for classic genre movies. His breakout feature The House of the Devil was a grotesque play on the “babysitter in peril” trope; for the next seven years, he’d put together an eclectic body of work that subverts some of the most beloved genre conventions—from his haunted house movie in The Innkeepers to his found footage occult thriller The Sacrament, West has established notoriety as one of the more prolific indie filmmakers in modern moviegoing.

After a six-year stint in episodic television, West teamed with A24 to produce X, a retro splatter film that balances smart storytelling, thoughtful character development, and unrestrained madness in what is likely to be remembered as his best, most batshit film to date. While many speculated it to be a reimagining of Tobe Hooper’s pulp classic The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, the writer/director approaches X from a creative angle that upends expectations and pushes the boundaries for taboo in film.

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“I wanted to take the trope of sex and violence that is typically lowbrow and try to do something crafty with it. Having never made a slasher movie, which are mostly people getting murdered, I wanted to do something a little unexpected that isn’t just people getting killed.”

Ti West | IndieWire

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Sexual promiscuity and bloodshed are the two driving forces of X; since the advent of motion pictures, no subject matter has sparked more controversy than portrayals of sex and violence onscreen. The dynamic of these two fringe topics is at the forefront of the film and reflected through each character from their behaviors to their motivations. The movie takes breaks in building tension to explore themes of artistic expression, sexual independence, and the effects of prolonged repression that bring a surprising amount of depth to this grindhouse tale of depravity.

By pinning the narrative to a group of young, sexually liberated characters shooting porn in a radically conservative setting, Ti West succeeds at making a slasher film with complexity that makes use of the two most scrutinized taboos. “We turn folks on. And that scares them” asserts Bobby-Lynne, played convincingly by Brittany Snow, in a line that accents the self-awareness behind X’s appeal factor.

In an effort to rebel against the stereotype, West employs smart, patient filmmaking that builds tension slowly and cascades to a blood-splattered climax, which imbues the film with an artistry that feels intentionally contrasted to its pulp, low-brow narrative. X is enlivened by great cinematography that transcends any preconceptions of its smut-adjacent subject matter, from its crawling dolly shots that peer into paint-chipped rooms to a stunning crane shot of a character swimming in gator-infested waters.

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As our crack bunch of protagonists embark to shoot their meta-porn flick entitled The Farmer’s Daughter, it becomes clear that X’s casting is easily one of its biggest strengths. Each character is fleshed out brilliantly with archetypes that help us identify with their individual personas. A bulk of its commercial awareness surrounds rap mogul Scott Mescudi, who thrives in his role as Jackson Hole, the ex-marine-turned-adult-film-star, which—judging by his name—you can probably guess what much of his role entails.

The newly appointed scream queen Jenna Ortega makes a noteworthy appearance as Lorraine, the quiet girlfriend of the film’s in-world director RJ, played by Owen Campbell. As a couple, RJ and Lorraine represent two different schools of thought when it comes to making pornography: one being a self-serious director who aspires to create art, and one being a prudish production assistant with hidden intrigue for the business. As the film progresses, their bond is tested and their arcs become clearer the further they’re taken into the inferno.

The hardest working member of the cast is Mia Goth, another performer well-suited to wear the title of scream queen after her indelible performances in Suspiria and A Cure for Wellness. She pulls double duty in X as Maxine and Pearl, the film’s two oppositional characters—one being the youthful, ambitious performer and the other being a ghoulish old woman who wanders her husband’s farm. In both roles, Mia nosedives into abject disassociation from what’s generally expected of lead actresses in the modern landscape. Her dueling roles enhance the movie by adding her distinct flavor of intensity as one of the best young character-actors in movies today.

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“We spoke at length about the fact that they're very much the same woman. They carry the same essence, they're just at different life stages and the product of different circumstances and life choices ultimately - but their spirit is the same.”

Mia Goth | Screen Rant

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Being the genre enthusiast that he is, Ti West knows that horror movies in the American South are well-explored terrain that’ll never get old if executed correctly. And even though X (and its subsequent prequel) is filmed entirely in the rural farmland of Fordell, New Zealand, the production design team gives the film’s setting an unmistakably sun-baked Texan quality, without feeling antique or excessive.

In previous films, West captured the panic of Jonestown in 1978 and the new-wave ambiance of the mid-80s. Time and time again, he’s proven his ability to render 20th-century aesthetics with uncompromising detail which plays a huge factor in why his movies feel so immersive. X plunges audiences into middle-of-nowhere Texas in 1979 with authenticity and precision, shot through vintage anamorphic lenses and faithful set decoration. Its setting is clearly staged and its world built out, from the retro beer cans to the box-frame TVs and the dusty hay-stacked barnyards.

As exemplified by his crafty inclusion of The Fixx in The House of the Devil, music is often used in Ti West’s films to establish its era and undercut the tension. From a musical standpoint, X is the savviest film to date, with a livewire energy that moves freely from scene to scene. Through its winking depiction of groovy pornographic bliss to the sounds of Sexy Eyes or its exploration of an existential crisis through an acoustic performance of Landslide, the infectious energy is largely indebted to the sounds that Ti West employs.

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If the logline and rural Texas setting of X rope audiences into a false sense of security, it succeeds in a similar way that Drew Goddard’s The Cabin in the Woods toyed with expectations for a “cabin from hell” movie. His tightly wound script helps flip the convention by introducing an unsettling twist that unfolds with an intriguing balance of bloodshed and perverse sentimentality that does more than justify its own existence.

Despite the higher intentions of its subtextual readings, at the end of the day, this movie is one hell of a good time. Total chaos is the name of the game for X and when our protagonists begin to meet their gruesome ends, we can immediately identify that West is a filmmaker who has never sought to reinvent the wheel, just find a creative new way to let it roll. This hard-R hellscape is highly recommended for any viewer who dares to step into Ti West’s twisted slaughterhouse.

Creep in a Cowl: 'The Batman' Review

★★★ (3/5)

The Gotham City rendered by Matt Reeves is a sprawling urban metropolis that, in terms of aesthetics, feels different than every other setting in the caped crusader’s canon. As a filmmaker who’s used to taking on world-building franchises with his highly successful Planet of the Apes trilogy, Reeves executes his vision with discernible inspiration from genres that could tap into the essence of his subject’s oppressive backstories. That’s why The Batman feels more in line with grisly crime thrillers than it does with Tim Burton or Christopher Nolan’s established settings.

In this latest entry, Gotham City’s streets are slicked with unrelenting rainfall shot mostly by night, lit dimly by streetlamps and neon signs. Interior settings are grim and moody, overcome by a pervasive melancholy that helps distill the essence of Batman’s traumatic origin story—and stretches for the entirety of The Batman’s lengthy three-hour runtime.

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“By the time we were ready to do the movie, there was an enormous history of this specific Gotham, its corruption, and how it worked. I also just wanted it to feel very visceral and gritty, but not identifiable, so that you couldn’t say New York is Gotham or Chicago must be Gotham.”

Matt Reeves | Vulture

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Reeves was given a lofty task, adapting a Batman story with 12 previous feature films that already explored the masked vigilante through vastly differing perspectives. How can a director distinguish themselves in the archive of cinema’s most iconic superhero?

With the help of an effective production design team spearheaded by James Chinlund, Matt Reeves scores big with his envisionment of Gotham for exactly what it is, and in some ways always has been: a damp, cold city with a swirling heart of darkness at its core. And through this city, a criminal sludge runs amok, wreaking havoc from the shadows.

That’s where The Batman’s protagonist comes in, a youthful but antisocial Bruce Wayne (Robert Pattinson), still visibly wearing the trauma sustained from losing his parents as a child. As a man, he’s mostly withdrawn but when he dons the cowl, he evokes invulnerability, a bulletproof identity worn to shield himself from the inevitable horrors of the outside world. But somewhere in the folds of his split personalities, he finds a blurred line between them. Who is he really?

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In this timeline, both of Wayne’s identities are still entangled in one. As a man, he’s far from the billionaire playboy we’ve grown accustomed to seeing him as. And as a hero, he’s certainly the most stoic Batman we’ve ever seen in movies, walking into crime scenes and criminal dungeons with a deeply troubled distance you can feel in the way he walks, talks, and looks behind the eyes.

Continuing his streak of image-transcendant performances, Robert Pattinson plays Batman and Bruce Wayne as two strands of the same helix. Even with the mask on, there’s an undercurrent of sadness and fear that ultimately reflects what he is inside: just a young guy trying to figure out his place in the world.

By stripping the vigilante down to his broken foundations, Reeves introduces an unparalleled degree of psychology to Batman we’ve not yet seen in a feature-length film. That deliberate darkness is explored through many different aspects of the film’s execution, including its archnemesis Riddler (Paul Dano) being angled as more of a sociopathic serial killer than a traditional supervillain, the drab aesthetic that adorns the entire film, and the downbeat strums of Nirvana’s Something in the Way employed as a motif for the darker, anguish-riddled narrative.

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“He’s succumbing to his darkness. Once he’s put on that suit, he doesn’t really know who he is anymore.”

Robert Pattinson | The New York Times

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While many aspects of The Batman’s thematic execution are employed effectively, the film’s inevitable downside is also quite apparent upon first viewing. Many of those flaws are magnified by its hefty three-hour runtime, which feels like it lingers on the minutia of its narrative for much longer than it needs to.

In an effort to craft a more tactile superhero film that takes on more of a serial killer/detective milieu like David Fincher’s Zodiac, Matt Reeves and Peter Craig’s screenplay gets tangled in the lines of its underworld story. The lofty idealism feels refreshingly inspired, though it unavoidably feels derivative at times and also tends to weigh down the overall viewing experience.

Within the criminal underworld of Gotham, many of the film’s moving parts don’t quite match the film’s tonal intensity, with some supporting characters that feel more likened to a comic book or graphic novel. Unlike the grittier films it aspires to, The Batman draws toward its conclusion with way too many bad guys and subplots to keep tabs on, which distracts from the cat and mouse game between Batman and Riddler.

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Despite its story flaws, the film still manages to glide on the strength of its immersive set pieces, directed by Reeves with heart-pounding big-budget execution. The film’s sound design is vital to its overall viewing experience, so the action sequences pack a much heavier punch in a movie theater than they would from the comfort of home.

The film’s centerpiece is an unbelievably staged car chase between Batman and Penguin (Colin Farrell). Unlike previous iterations, the new Batmobile is specifically designed as a supersonic behemoth that rattles an auditorium and swallows audiences whole. Reeves’ vision for the sequence is massively empowered by its use of practical effects over CGI. The scene bulldozes toward a satisfying payoff that stands out upon first viewing.

The preeminent third-act sequence is an intricately staged finale, taking place in an indoor arena similar to Madison Square Garden. With the city corralled indoors after a sudden panic, masked assailants in the rafters begin firing rifles down at an unsuspecting crowd, which highlights the inconvenient timeliness of the visceral story Reeves is trying to tell. It’s not a football stadium rigged with C4, nor is it Mr. Freeze entombing Gotham City in a wall of ice, it’s essentially a mass shooting that encapsulates a very real and mounting fear that is scarily omnipresent in the modern world. It’s at this moment Batman comes to a realization of his true position behind the line that separates good from evil.

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“When I’m making movies, I’m trying to make sense of my experience, and through his vigilantism, he’s trying to cope with his.”

Matt Reeves | The New York Times

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Another point driving The Batman’s discourse focuses on its strong supporting cast including Zoe Kravitz as Selina ‘Catwoman’ Kyle. In this adaptation, Kyle is a well-developed character with clearly illustrated motives that sidestep the frivolity of Michelle Pfeiffer and the deceptive allure of Anne Hathaway. Instead, Kravitz plays Catwoman with a measured balance of class, charm, and spunk that serves as a refreshing counterbalance to the stoic and dour performance needed for Pattinson’s Batman to take shape.

Rounding out the rogues’ gallery of bad guys is Colin Farrell, who undergoes an astonishing transformation as Penguin, the fierce underworld kingpin. His sneers and snarls under an avalanche of prosthetics render him literally unrecognizable. He plays the role with a certain degree of grounded malevolence, diverging from Danny DeVito’s sideshow carney-esque performance in Batman Returns.

One of the biggest topics of conversation surrounds Paul Dano as the primary antagonist Riddler. Unlike Jim Carrey’s manic portrayal in Batman Forever, Dano’s Riddler is illustrated as more of a sociopathic extremist rather than an archetypal comic book villain. His unsettling volatility and aim to expose corruption in Gotham help ground the film in a backstory that is infinitely darker and more fitting to its time.

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While certain pieces of The Batman feel slightly out of place, the film takes DC’s most valuable asset in an intriguing new direction. On its opening weekend, the film grossed $134 million in domestic revenue, boasting a stronger performance than any DC movie since Batman vs. Superman: Dawn of Justice in 2016 and the second-best box office opener since the pandemic first began.

Looking ahead to the future, Matt Reeves explores rugged new terrain with which he can take Batman’s expansive mythology. While a sequel has yet to be officially announced, it’s a forgone conclusion that we haven’t seen the last of emo Batman just yet. Furthermore, with HBO Max gearing up for an upcoming Penguin spin-off series, we wait with bated breath for whatever lies in store for the world’s greatest detective.

An Amusing Ballad of Disgrace and Destruction: 'Red Rocket' Reviewed

★★★1/2 (3.5/5)

Sean Baker’s Red Rocket is a difficult movie to write about. Of all the movies that were released in 2021, none have been able to match the unbridled conflict that is felt while watching Simon Rex’s star-making vehicle; for those who are familiar with Sean Baker’s previous work, Red Rocket’s subject matter should come as no surprise as it doesn’t wish to pander, nor does it even concern itself with the concept of being liked. Though humorous at times, it chooses to show life as candid and as ugly as it truly can be.

As exemplified in his previous movies, writer-director Sean Baker has made a name for himself as an independent filmmaker who is drawn toward stories about those who live on the fringes of American society. In an interview with Jezebel, Baker pontificates that “the more that our stories are told about people on the margins, the less they will be on the margins simply because hopefully, it’ll lead to a greater acceptance, a greater interest, a greater empathy.”

‘Empathetic’ is the best word to describe how Sean Baker’s films examine the lives of their colorful characters; from sex workers in Tangerine to destitute motel families in The Florida Project, his canon tells underserved stories from voiceless communities. That brings us to his latest, Red Rocket, the acidic tale of a charismatic dirtbag who lives in a hell of his own design.

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The film is careful to do all but suggest empathy for the actions of its POV character Mikey Saber, the fast-talking antihero of Red Rocket. From the opening scene, we’re told everything we need to know about the disgraced porn actor who returns to his hometown of Texas City in search of his latest hustle, using anyone he can for his own personal gain. Rather than paint him in a light that encourages viewers to feel for the situations he finds himself in, Baker forces us into the driver’s seat, bearing witness to all of his manipulative schemes, only to watch them tumble like dominoes before our very eyes.

Despite all of his nasty schemes we’re made to voyeuristically endure, we still manage to understand how a person in Mikey’s position can live with the choices he makes. He’s portrayed as a begrudgingly lovable guy; he’s driven, magnetic, and tremendously self-confident, but at the end of the day, who wants to hire an exiled porn star to serve food or tend bar? This humanitarian dilemma is the beating heart of Sean Baker’s work, a filmmaker whose characters reflect situations that feel more than just plausible, but achingly real.

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“He’s like a cute dog that pees on the rug and doesn’t know what they’re doing. He just blindly walks through life, f*cking sh*t up, but I don’t really think he has horrible intentions. He’s just surviving.”

Simon Rex | Collider

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Throughout its two-hour runtime, we watch through clenched teeth as Mikey spends aimless days strutting around half-naked, bumming car rides off neighbors, selling weed to hard hats, but most damning of all, taking interest in a bright-eyed 17-year old girl who he sees as his ticket back to marginal glory in the L.A. porn scene—all while living under one roof with his estranged wife in her mother’s home. The perspective remains fixed on all of his follies that are inherently humorous and make us laugh reluctantly, but with an undercurrent of solemn repulsion for how low this man-child will inevitably sink.

At the center of Red Rocket is a career-defining performance from Simon Rex, a comedy actor who has never been so perfectly matched with a role so fitted to his larger-than-life persona. His manic energy and boundless confidence help illustrate Mikey Saber as a complex guy who flirts with the feeble balance between charm and sleaze, the kind of person you know exists in real life. Along with his standout co-stars Bree Elrod, Brenda Deiss, Brittney Rodriguez, Ethan Darbonne, and Judy Hill—most of which are Galveston natives with no prior acting experience—they bring an overlay of authenticity to this sun-baked Texas town.

Serving as a counterpoint to our washed-up antihero is breakout sensation Suzanna Son as Strawberry, the witty but wild-at-heart teenager who Mikey takes a problematic interest in. In portraying their relationship, Baker pulls no punches and chronicles their fling without regard for the illusion of moral boundaries. Despite Son being an actor in her mid-20s, we cringe watching their tryst unfold through Mikey’s male gaze because its filmmaker challenges viewers to perceive Strawberry as objectively as he does. While this illicit affair does tend to impose on the movie’s overall viewing experience, the unyielding boldness of its execution will undoubtedly have people talking about it for years to come.

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“Everybody has their flaws. That’s very important for me to explore in a truthful way.”

Sean Baker | Jezebel

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By using his films to inspire compassion for underserved communities, Baker implores audiences to see the inherent beauty in them that he sees. From the urban sprawl of West Hollywood to the boulevards of Kissimmee, there’s an endearing warmth in the visual depiction of his shooting locations. Despite surroundings that are often stripped down and bleak, his skies are contrastingly rendered as explosions of pastel light. In rooms filled with blunt smoke and neon-coated walls, the essence of Baker’s visual palette is ultimately a microcosm of his work at large: a clash between realism and life’s natural splendor.

Red Rocket interprets life in Texas City with organic provincial charm and a scorching Southern glow. It builds character in the environment through its honest depiction of a working-class town: power lines, trap houses, smokestacks, and donut shops, the iconography of faded Americana. They’re often captured in wide shots against lush backdrops of sunset vistas—objectively stunning but mostly unnoticed by its residents. Baker’s intentional direction of this glaring juxtaposition captures the overlooked beauty in unexpected places.

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When thinking of Red Rocket in terms of relational comparison, a great place to start is the recent work of Josh and Benny Safdie. In both Good Time and Uncut Gems, the stories are driven by conniving manipulators who build towering houses of cards, only to watch them collapse in abrupt and dramatic fashion. Red Rocket pushes that envelope by stripping its drama bare in quite the literal sense.

That’s not to say Red Rocket is a crime thriller; the film is infused with sufficient buffoonery to qualify as a dark comedy at heart, but it does tend to deviate from Sean Baker’s previous work in fascinating ways. Where his movies usually strive to inspire empathy for people and communities of dire circumstance, his latest entry tests the elasticity of our empathy by rendering the perspective of a “suitcase pimp”, an irredeemable archetype that actually exists in the adult film world.

With Mikey Saber as our avatar, we’re forced to experience life as a man who lives free of any semblance of shame because he doesn’t really know any other way to live. The movie doesn’t try to pardon his horrible behavior, but rather portray it objectively. After the end credits have rolled and the NSYNC has faded out, we’re confronted by the sheer weight of its honesty. As award nomination season looms, A24’s Red Rocket should be recognized as an ambitious comedy-drama that is not without faults but as Sean Baker’s body of work would argue: which of us isn’t?

Back to the Long and Winding Road: "The Beatles: Get Back" Review

★★★★1/2 (4.5/5)

It’s been less than 2 weeks since its release on Disney Plus and already Peter Jackson’s The Beatles: Get Back is being hailed as one of the most groundbreaking chronicles of music in our time. For one, because it examines the Fab Four at a storied crossroads with an extraordinary level of access. Secondly, it untangles the epic mythology behind their infamous breakup. The enduring myth behind their final days has plagued fans and historians for over 50 years—this yuletide season, we finally have the chance to be a fly on the wall of the most iconic finale in music history.

The Beatles: Get Back is an astonishing three-part docuseries that follows John, Paul, George, and Ringo in their ongoing struggle to find creative harmony while finishing their final album and landmark rooftop performance in London. Sifting through 22 days worth of archival footage originally captured for Michael Lindsey-Hogg’s documentary Let It Be (1970), Peter Jackson uses cutting-edge restorative techniques to re-immortalize the Fab Four and breathe new life into their fabled story.

Told in three 2.5 hour segments, Jackson gives a bounty of unfiltered context to The Beatles and their famously contentious dynamics. Creatively and personally, it explores the granular depths of their chemistry and delivers incredible perspective on the friction between all members of the band. While it can feel a little weighed down by its runtime, viewers also implicitly understand the importance of overexposure as a means to bring us closer to understanding each member.

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“It’s been unseen for half a century and it’s our responsibility to show people this is the raw, honest Beatles”

Peter Jackson

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Throughout the 7 total hours of runtime, viewers will come to better identify the strength of personality that played a huge factor in the band’s eventual split. As we come to find out, the four are incredibly self-aware of themselves, their talents, and their individual role within the band, which sometimes can complicate their dynamic as childhood friends who just love to play music. Though rifts clearly begin to emerge, at no point throughout this docuseries are we led to believe there’s an ounce of genuine disdain between any of them.

The docuseries does a great job of not just providing context for the band’s four members, but also those who are within their immediate orbit. At one point, Billy Preston comes into the London studio to jam with them, only to wind up sticking around when they realize how much his keyboard enlivens their sound. Additionally, Paul’s beautiful soon-to-be wife Linda Eastman and her daughter Heather are frequently shown during recording sessions. But the most insightful impression that comes to light is John’s legendarily peculiar relationship with Yoko Ono.

Throughout the three segments, Yoko is constantly shown sitting next to John during recording sessions and band meetings. Sometimes, he lovingly leans on her as he strums his guitar or grabs her for an impromptu dance while Paul plays the piano. Other times, she’s given the microphone to shriek like a banshee—yet still, the band plays on. The Beatles: Get Back makes it abundantly clear that, despite how perplexing their romance was, all members respected that John and Yoko were simply inextricable. At one point while discussing her presence, Paul sarcastically remarks that “they broke up because Yoko sat on an amp”—a joke that will come to foretell the next half-century of contentious dispute.

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From a technical standpoint, the footage restoration is nothing short of spectacular and one could think of no better director to spearhead such a monumental project than Peter Jackson. The New Zealand-based filmmaker is no stranger to revival as is shown by his acclaimed World War I documentary They Shall Not Grow Old (2018). Using advanced restorative audio/visual techniques, he resurrected the sights and sounds of trench warfare an entire century prior.

Using similar technological advancements, Jackson brings 1969 back to life in all its vivid glory to re-immortalize The Beatles in living sound and color. From Ringo’s vibrant floral shirts to the steely twang of Lennon’s guitar during the opening strains of “I’ve Got a Feeling”, the movie delivers on several moments of jaw-dropping elation for how modern the footage really feels. The sharp realism emotes contagious energy that helps demonstrate how some artists can transcend the boundaries of a generational divide.

In the realm of pop culture, eternalizing our legends is an ever-evolving challenge. In order to keep their mythology alive for younger generations, they need a reference point that makes them easily accessible. While there are countless ways in 2021 to access the music they leave behind, The Beatles: Get Back is a milestone that will guide future generations to experience their enduring appeal in true, fluid motion.

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In terms of function, the film works in two distinct ways: primarily as a historical document of The Beatles at their ill-fated peak, and secondly, as the most epic hangout movie ever assembled. Though there is no real narrative, storylines begin to emerge while viewers sit for 7 hours and digest the full breadth of John, Paul, George, and Ringo. Especially for viewers who come into the experience with a sense for who these people are and what their personalities are like, one can’t help but feel delighted by their silly antics and dry British humor.

Getting to spend such quality time with The Beatles and seeing their creative process unfold gives so much contextual depth to their chemistry as bandmates. Understanding the background helps us unspool the sordid mythology behind some of culture’s most burning questions about their seismic breakup—the “what really happened?”. We watch as their ideologies clash and create little skirmishes within the band, though when it’s time to unify, their sheer greatness always shines through.

Though life took them all in separate (sometimes tragic) directions, in the end, the four Beatles will forever be remembered by the one special thing that bound them all together: true friendship. Therein lies the unassailable charm of The Beatles: Get Back, it’s warmly reminiscent of the joy of spending time with good old friends. And while musical trends come and go, it’s the memories that stay with us the most; Peter Jackson’s latest work revitalizes that memory for generations to come.

Full-Tilt Retribution: "The Card Counter" Review

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★★★ (3/5)

If we can deduce anything from the life of a career gambler, it’s the fact that it isn’t accurately depicted in popular movies like Ocean’s Eleven or The Hustler; as two-time WSOP champion Doyle Brunson once said, “poker is a hard way to make an easy living”. In order to succeed, gamblers must entrench themselves in a lifestyle that is both grating and solitary. To repeatedly throw oneself into a series of psychological confrontations is a way of life that requires discipline, one that does not boast with glamor but rather unspoken virtue.

Ironically, The Card Counter isn’t actually about gambling. Much like Paul Schrader’s acclaimed 2018 spiritual drama First Reformed, his latest is a fitting (albeit sometimes formulaic) counterpart as an unflinching character study about a man grappling with the consequences of guilt. Schrader’s protagonists generally live a reclusive existence, with time and means to examine the existential nature of their vulnerabilities, all enslaved to their sins in one way or another.

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Driven by a career-defining performance from Oscar Isaac, The Card Counter follows a discharged military vet who makes his living as a traveling gambler in an effort to drown out the noise of his violent past at Abu Ghraib. Isaac’s portrayal of the film’s morally splintered protagonist William Tell is a tour-de-force that demands your attention for every second that he’s onscreen.

Throughout the film, Tell wears a permanent ice-cold gaze that’s steadied by an unwavering constitution, a regimented discipline that establishes character with meticulous depth. As the details of his life begin to unravel, we come to learn that his code is his penance, a forced veneer. When a shadow from his enigmatic past comes crashing into his present, it threatens the brittle fabric of Tell’s minimal existence.

Not since 2014’s A Most Violent Year has Oscar Isaac been more effectively utilized in a nuanced, dramatic role. Between this, the forthcoming Dune, and HBO’s new adaptation of Scenes from a Marriage, he’s making a strong statement for why he should be recognized come awards season next year. His portrayal of William Tell invokes an unshakeable fortitude but behind his cold, dead eyes lingers a horror that is far beyond comprehension.

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Having written such enduring Scorsese classics like Taxi Driver and Raging Bull, Paul Schrader has cemented his long, noteworthy career with gripping stories that navigate similar themes. From an alcoholic depressive priest in First Reformed to an ambivalent middle-aged drug dealer in Light Sleeper, his films often follow degenerate men who are tormented by their own frailty. Their arc is essentially a path of self-destruction to find enlightenment in moral reckoning.

In true Schrader fashion, The Card Counter re-purposes the classic motif of a protagonist sitting alone in the dark, scribbling thoughts on a notepad with a glass of whiskey close at hand. Having been raised a devout Calvinist, Schrader’s inherent religiosity manifests itself in this cathartic, almost confessional aspect in many of his films. This grounding in spiritual realism provides sincere perspective about the nature of self-reflection and internal conflict.

William Tell is one of Schrader’s most complicated creations; he’s a man of intense focus and sage wisdom, but an undercurrent of violent instability like Taxi Driver’s Travis Bickle. His somber assertation that “any man can tilt” is a distillation of the film’s larger commentary—a genetically implanted idea that anyone in the right set of circumstances can reach their breaking point. Much like the films of Sam Peckinpah, one of Schrader’s most influential directors, his art seeks to explore the depths of man when pushed to the brink of his limits.

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All said and done, The Card Counter isn’t without some glaring weaknesses in the way it follows too closely in the footsteps of Schrader’s previous work. While the film certainly goes in some unexpected directions, its dramatic beats are nearly identical to many films that have already been explored in the Paul Schrader canon. As viewers, we implicitly get that his movies explore themes of regret and reflection, but you can’t help feeling that by this point, he’s retreading old ground with new people.

What ultimately sets this film apart is the acting and the depths they bring to its characters. Alongside our protagonist, we find La Linda (Tiffany Haddish), a gambling backer who brings a certain degree of warmth and understanding to William’s life that he doesn’t quite feel he deserves. Between them stands Cirk (Tye Sheridan), a wild card who unexpectedly enters William’s life with a dangerous proposition that crashes the status quo of his equilibrious lifestyle.

Tell finds himself torn between the two polarities that La Linda and Cirk can both provide: one being the hope for self-acceptance, the other being a swirling descent back into a life of corruption. The fate of our soul must be chosen with care and autonomy; this compelling conflict is the cornerstone of all of Paul Schrader’s work, a cinematic artist who strives to show that there’s always beauty in the breakdown.

Under a Crimson Moon: "The Night House" Review

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★★1/2 (2.5/5)

One of the more difficult challenges faced by genre filmmakers in the 21st century is finding inventive new ways to make audiences react. To successfully make a movie within the framework of a proven formula is to carve clever new pathways into well-explored territories. And in the horror landscape, no route’s been conquered more thoroughly than the haunted house genre.

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David Bruckner’s The Night House is a tricky psychological horror movie that creates plenty of stylistic opposition. On one hand, it demonstrates an undying allegiance to the classical haunted house tropes and conventions that spawned it. On the other, you have a clever diversion that obscures the story in an attempt to lull you in with its genre-bending flourishes and labyrinthian structure, though sadly it starts to come apart as a result of its own audacity.

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The film’s premise follows Beth (Rebecca Hall), a teacher crippled by depression after her architect husband’s unexpected suicide. When she begins experiencing strange and supernatural occurrences around the house that they shared, Beth is confronted by the dark secrets hidden within its walls—as well as the truth about who her husband really was.

Smart, shifty, and creepily deceptive, The Night House builds to a boiling point for two solid acts, only to crumble under the weight of its not-so-hidden metaphor as it reaches a close. Its twists are thrilling and sharply unpredictable, but its underlying commentary is a bit too obvious to ignore. Many of the film’s best qualities are largely indebted to Rebecca Hall’s flawless performance as a tortured widow in various states of inebriation.

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In the aftermath of Owen’s (Evan Jongkeit) suicide, we watch as Beth spirals into an oblivion of brandy and hopelessness. She starts to adopt a morbid sense of humor that prompts discomforting concern from her colleagues and friends, played with raw sincerity by Hall. Her performance pays careful attention to the nuanced vulnerabilities of someone who wears the manifestations of grief on their face really well. In one particular scene out drinking with cohorts, her social skills are achingly sabotaged by a forced smile and faraway stare that does a terrible job of masking the devastation.

David Bruckner’s intelligent direction lends itself to some effective jolting scares and haunting cinematography littered throughout The Night House. His strong instinct for cult horror as seen in 2017’s The Ritual and the unforgettable Amateur Night segment from 2012’s VHS have manifested themselves in a series of terrifying visions that can stop and change direction with whiplash velocity. Bruckner has carved a name for himself in the contemporary horror scene as a director who excels in this stylistic deception. When it comes to sheer filmmaking prowess, his latest may be his finest work yet.

In spite of Bruckner’s refined direction and Hall’s sensational performance, The Night House’s strengths are largely diminished by the weakness of its revelatory moments. By the time its true motives are brought to light, audiences are left wanting more from the movie whose payoff doesn’t quite measure up to its hype. While many will undoubtedly enjoy the surprises this film has to offer, those who see through its clever twists might find it more cemented as the greatest Lifetime movie that Lifetime never made.

A Tale of Valor & Virtue: "The Green Knight" Review

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★★★★ (4/5)

After months of feverish anticipation since the first trailer dropped in February of 2020, David Lowery’s The Green Knight finally made its way into U.S. and Canada theaters last Friday. On paper, the movie was a Medieval buff’s mouth-foaming wet dream: rich mythology, a really cool trailer, beautifully rendered atmosphere, Dev Patel’s aspirational beard, articulate costume/set design, and lest we forget the pulsating hivemind of millennial sensibility—distributed by A24.

Don’t get me wrong, that’s not a knock on what A24 has accomplished since its inception in 2012. On the contrary, their accolades are nothing short of remarkable. They’ve won Oscars for tender human dramas and they’ve won notoriety for obscene cult horrors about self-flagellating zealots. But sometimes their movies get pre-emptively lost in the translation of mainstream marketing.

The film’s premise delves into the plight of King Arthur’s eager but stubborn nephew Sir. Gawain (Dev Patel). When a mystical woodland knight challenges him to confront a foreboding fate, he must embark on a tumultuous journey to seek worthiness in the eyes of his kingdom, his family, and ultimately, within himself.

The film’s lead-up promised a sprawling Fantasy epic, a perilous world full of monsters, giants, and plenty of swordplay. As it turns out, The Green Knight trades in the action for dark, spellbinding rumination. It’s not a blood-soaked odyssey, but a massive introspective search for self-worth. Yet still, it manages to be absolutely stunning.

So why the polarity here? Are critics buying too deeply into its pretentiousness? Or are audiences being misled into thinking it would mirror the zeitgeist appeal of Game of Thrones? The answer, much like the movie, is open to endless interpretation.

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While the movie can absolutely be classified as a sword-and-sorcery Medieval epic, The Green Knight’s dense, character-driven approach is a poetic deconstruction of the hero’s journey. Throughout the film, Sir Gawain must test the principles of his knighthood. Only by enduring the turbulent journey and learning the right lessons along the way will he find worthiness.

As proven by his previous work, David Lowery’s mindful direction propels The Green Knight down new pathways that had yet to be fully explored in the Arthurian canon, even though most of them revolve around similar themes. From Excalibur to Monty Python & The Holy Grail, they all share a commonality that pertains to people who must test their mettle by surviving a perilous ordeal.

But rather than questing for some generically established greatness, Sir Gawain is a refreshingly flawed archetype whose longing is intrinsically felt. Audiences need a relatable protagonist to latch onto, and Sir Gawain is an ideal avatar to explore the psychological underpinnings of why we strive for greatness. Beneath the safety of his chainmail tunic, he’ll come to learn the sacrifice, heartache, and disillusionment that all must confront in the existential search for validation.

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If Medieval Times taught us anything as kids, it’s that every King Arthur story should always feature one glorious battle, right? Although some action unfolds, The Green Knight doesn’t exactly serve those who expect to see a spectacular set-piece like the Battle for Helm’s Deep. The warfare in this movie is mostly internal, though it’s just as emotionally devastating.

When it comes to conflict, Lowery explores knighthood in a way that examines the historical connection between chivalry and combat. Instead of glorifying the bloodshed, he uses it as a plot device, a reminder of a bygone time when violence was a means to establish legacy. Living in the shadows of his fabled uncle, Gawain’s inherent dilemma is that he yearns for his own Excalibur story. Throughout his journey, his willpower will be tested, as will the moral standing of his character in determining the lengths a young man will go for a seat at the Round Table.

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Making a movie that takes place in the Middle Ages comes with its own fair share of technical difficulties. Sometimes filmmakers have the tendency of making movies about Camelot that feel corny and cliche, like they’re filmed at the county Renaissance Fair. To a visually gifted auteur like David Lowery, his vision always translates well on the big screen and noticeably stands tall in the foreground of all his work.

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While watching The Green Knight, there’s a conscious understanding that it was purposely made with striking visual attunement. The period piece set design by Lowery’s frequent collaborator Jade Healy is second to none, while its captivating cinematography, color, costumes, and lighting create a haunting elegance that feels cinematically epic but still perfectly faithful to its time.

Throughout Sir Gawain’s daunting journey into the great unknown, viewers are possessed by its ethereal enchantments. Much like A Ghost Story and Pete’s Dragon, the prestige with which Lowery tells this story is captured through a lens of mystifying wonder and is meant to grip viewers with profound effect. No matter what viewers thought they could expect from The Green Knight, its stunning visual splendor is the one undeniable fact that everyone can agree on.

In measured contrast to its visual scale, the film’s performances are astoundingly intimate. Dev Patel breathes flourishing life into Sir Gawain with a majestic but headstrong spirit; his role requires a balanced measure of both, as one would expect from the kin of King Arthur. The supporting cast comprised of Alicia Vikander, Joel Edgerton, Barry Keoghan, Sean Harris, Sarita Chowdhury, and Ralph Ineson as the bewildering green knight help populate this dense tale and navigate Sir Gawain toward his inevitable destiny.

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Just because it doesn’t feature Heath Ledger majestically jousting on horseback doesn’t mean The Green Knight won’t be remembered as one of the most beautifully rendered Arthurian epics of all time. Though your mileage may vary regarding its execution, the film rewards viewers who willingly engage with its deeper meditations on legacy, virtue, and what it means to live heroic.

The disproportionate feedback from critics and fans only seems to further solidify its refreshed originality, despite the way its marketing was positioned. Sir Gawain’s journey is a dignified portrait of being human told within the narrative framework of a fairy tale. This poignant tale of chivalry and honor is yet another astounding addition to David Lowery’s remarkable canon, a magical lead-in to Disney’s Peter Pan and Wendy, set to open in 2022.

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Let Them Fight: A 'Godzilla vs Kong' Review

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★★★ (3/5)

This past Wednesday, Legendary unleashed Godzilla vs. Kong—a massive, bespectacled showdown that’s bound to make you upset you probably didn’t get to watch it in IMAX. Released simultaneously on both HBO Max and big screens in select cities worldwide, this movie was the long-awaited converging point of Legendary’s MonsterVerse, a blockbuster franchise started in 2014 with Gareth Edwards’ Godzilla reboot but unlike the MCU, you don’t have to have seen any of the previous films to enjoy it properly. This monster mash-up pits the titular titans on a destructive collision course…and that’s all you really need to know; those in search of a cohesive story or any metaphorical depth whatsoever might want to look elsewhere this weekend. It might not be Nomadland but sometimes, two gargantuan creatures battling to the death is exactly what you want.

Godzilla vs. Kong is a sensory experience, an achievement of blockbuster filmmaking by director Adam Wingard. His awareness for what audiences instinctively love about monster movies are amplified by his deep knowledge of genre films he took clear inspiration from. There’s actually a scene where King Kong leaps off the edge of an exploding aircraft carrier and recreates the iconic jump from John McClane at the end of Die Hard.

At a justified 1 hour 53 minute runtime, this meaty, muscular crowd pleaser does for monster movies what Fast Five did for heist movies over a decade ago—it takes typical genre conventions and cranks the knob to 11. Notwithstanding its fair share of ridiculous human interest subplots, the film’s beating pulse is the proverbial clash between two circling giants of ungodly proportion. Much like when The Rock squares off with Vin Diesel in a warehouse in Rio, there’s definitive satisfaction in seeing two physical specimens clash for the undisputed heavyweight crown—it’s Pacific Rim by way of Rocky IV.

Godzilla vs. Kong is a distinguished franchise film that stands out from its predecessors. Let’s dive into this magnificent showdown and uncover what works best about the most fun moviegoing experience of the decade so far.

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If the first three films in this franchise taught us anything, it’s that no one cares about the people in it. From a performative standpoint, this carries a certain responsibility for the cast—when you know exactly what audiences are tuning in for, tempered balance is crucial in building the world. It’s easy to pinpoint when performers make a concerted effort to stand out, they take up unnecessary space. Alternatively if the actors underrepresent themselves, it could hinder the adequate set-up of a film’s larger set pieces.

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Godzilla vs. Kong retains a harmonious balance with a cast who clearly understands what it means to take a backseat and let the action speak for itself. There isn’t much ‘people’ subplotting, but the all-around solid performances from Alexander Skarsgård, Millie Bobby Brown, Rebecca Hall, Brian Tyree Henry, Julian Dennison, Demian Bichir and breakout performer Kaylee Hottle help unpack the complicated lore with natural chemistry and carefree ease. Their interaction takes up hardly any space and is only in service to the film’s higher purpose, a table setting for what’s to come. Ali vs. Joe Frazier wouldn’t have been the Thrilla in Manila if not for Don King’s infamous hype; in that same regard, when Rebecca Hall explains why Kong is wielding a 50-foot enchanted battle axe, you can rest assured it’s because he plans on using it to slay a radioactive iguana. Just like fight promotion, your excitement slowly builds between hard-hitting set pieces.

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Director Adam Wingard is most known for his work in the lo-fi horror realm; with a background in indie filmmaking, he instinctively knows the importance of executing a vision within monetary constraints. For a low budget director, you wouldn’t assume that by watching Godzilla vs. Kong—the $155 million budget is leveraged with skilled economy so that even when every single dollar isn’t on the frame, you never forget which film you’re watching.

Appropriate to its subject matter, the movie is striking, propulsive and genuinely massive. The world it takes place in is both modern and futuristic, a well-rounded blend of adventure/sci-fi with color palettes of vivid neon, befitting Godzilla’s atomic breath. Towering giants need an expansive arena to roam around and clash in, the path of destruction in their wake is what helps us comprehend the enormity.

In cataclysmic movies, no thing is safe: ships, bridges, oil rigs, helicopters, skyscrapers will all be demolished to a comical degree that somehow never makes you question how many people must have died as a result. It’s almost cartoonish how blockbusters like this or Independence Day or even Armageddon showcase action in a deliberately flagrant way that suspends disbelief for the sake of entertainment. It’s a special thing when a movie can deliver a ‘wow moment’ that embodies the magic of the moviegoing experience; when a submerged Godzilla swims toward Kong and his spiny fin rips through an aircraft carrier like a hot knife through butter, it’s a breathtaking gesture of otherworldly destruction that serves as a reminder for what we go to the movies for.

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Amidst the devastation, the earth-trembling roars or the majestic Junkie XL score, one of the most engaging aspects of Godzilla vs. Kong is its supreme level of self-awareness. Part of this stems from its ability to pay homage to the canon that inspired it.

From the aforementioned Die Hard leap to the bioluminescence of Avatar’s Pandora, the mechanized neural networking of Pacific Rim or the 2-on-1 fight sequence à la The Raid, this movie doesn’t go out of its way to attempt anything new. Rather, it chooses to Frankenstein different parts from other successful movies that came before it. Why struggle to re-invent the wheel when you can show up to the pitch meeting and suggest “let’s make this movie…but add monsters”.

Accurate down to the bare feet.

While it’s easy to misconstrue this as lazy filmmaking, it’s moreso understanding of how people will inevitably receive it. No one who tunes into Godzilla vs. Kong expects the second coming of Stanley Kubrick. It’s safe to say when you’re making a movie like this, it’s completely appropriate to throw in a few lines like “these prototypes we’re loaning you will make what you’ve been flying look like used Miatas”. Where movies sometimes struggle finding that even balance of tonality, a knowing lack of self-seriousness is the key virtue this movie uses to ultimately succeed.

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While this movie doesn’t break new ground in the grand scheme of things, Godzilla vs. Kong reconfigures the framework laid out in its three previous entries, and manages to put everything in its right place. The film’s record-breaking success is a promising step not just for Legendary’s MonsterVerse, but for the industry and resurrection of the moviegoing experience as a whole.

Everyone knew that in order to get the world back in proper orbit, pop culture needed defibrillation, a massive shockwave to jump start momentum. Godzilla vs. Kong reignites the flame by appealing to your inner-kid and following one simple rule as fondly remembered from the throwback Ken Watanabe meme: “let them fight”.

Method to Madness: "The Little Things" Review

★★ (2/5)

The Little Things had unwavering potential to be great. On paper, HBO Max’s latest original movie almost seemed too good to be true: a brooding psychological thriller with a really cool trailer, an established director at the helm but most notably—it boasted not one, not two, but three Oscar winning performers going toe-to-toe. It was like The Irishman for gritty crime junkies.

Further adding to the film’s mounting hype was Warner Bros’ decision to roll out their entire 2021 film slate on HBO Max; The Little Things wasn’t just a movie, but a colossal first step into the new order for how audiences will ostensibly experience most, if not all cinematic entertainment this year. The film’s marketing was a strong statement of arrival that previewed a tense, melancholic thriller—instead, we got a fumbling mood piece where Rami Malek describes the undigested beef in a dead woman’s stomach and Jared Leto was doing…that creepy Jared Leto thing.

“Charles Manson ain’t got s**t on me.”

It wasn’t unwatchable but it certainly didn’t rise to the occasion. Were our sights set too high? Or were there nuanced issues that proved too costly to save? For a film with so much going for it, you can’t help but wonder where things went wrong. So let’s dive into it and break down the big and the small of what didn’t work with John Lee Hancock’s The Little Things.

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I don’t know who let the anarchist Golden Globe saboteur into its voting core—the acting in this movie was flat out bad. Like, glaringly bad. This is despite all three being really good actors. Take Rami Malek for example; the first time he registered with me was when I watched Short Term 12. While he was only a side character, there was an odd subtlety about him that really seemed to stick. In 2015, he was cast as series lead in Mr. Robot, a role that inevitably earned him notoriety as a character actor, one who leans into really distinguished, borderline overt personas. In 2018, he scored huge as Freddie Mercury in 2018’s Bohemian Rhapsody. Malek had now entered a new echelon, a higher rung exclusive only to those worthy of the most iconic roles of his generation.

Let’s shift gears and focus on the outlier in this equation: Jared Leto, no stranger to taking on the weirdest of weird roles from the start. If even you needed any more proof of this (I highly doubt you do), feel free to look up his dramatic weight gain in Chapter 27 as Mark David Chapman, the sociopath who assassinated John Lennon. If character actors had a Mount Rushmore, some might argue it would just be Jared Leto’s face four times. Despite this, his pedigree as an actor is unquestionable, having clinched an Oscar for Best Supporting Actor in 2013 for his transformative role in Dallas Buyers Club. With all this in mind, it’s a safe assumption that Leto will always double down on unique roles with a blind ambition that unfortunately only pays off some of the time.

Sometimes it’s more blindness than ambition.

The Little Things pits Malek against Leto which results in the alchemic equivalent to bleach and vinegar, an offensive mixture. Malek plays Jimmy Baxter, an eccentric L.A. detective hot on the trail of Leto’s Albert Sparma, a maniacal weirdo. The weakness in their interplay doesn’t fall entirely on the script, but also the peculiarity in the way they’ve constructed their characters. They both put up an effort to make bold character choices but instead, only end up leaving viewers disoriented with their sheer weirdness. All of Malek’s dialogue is spoken through a monotonic groan, almost guttural in nature. Leto seems to be lost in a foreign astral plane altogether. When paired, they take the film in such different directions that even Denzel Washington himself can’t keep the movie afloat. We’ll circle back to that a bit later.

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The Little Things was written in 1993 but was iced for almost 30 years. Since then, thrillers have evolved in so many substantial ways so this film might frustrate viewers who were hoping for a sizzling platter of rising tension. The film suffers from pacing issues that I want to describe as “slow burn” but in all reality, it’s just slow. Being conceived in the wake of The Silence of the Lambs, you can see a reasonable effort in replicating those iconic thought-provoking elements: moral code, right and wrong, psychological depth. But vague, muddled writing prevent it from becoming so, thus falling short in activating any meaningful provocation.

“Show me where you buried the ending, you sunuvabitch”

Character motivations are wildly unclear which only adds to the disorientation. Many “big” moments feel unearned, which is a stark deviation from the subgenre; in David Fincher’s Se7en, the reason we’re so consumed by its depravity is the calculation with which the reveals are presented. The suspense only heightens because it feels earned but if one minor detail is missed or neglected, it could ruin the entire payoff. Somehow The Little Things unwinds like a series of missed and neglected details so its ending suffers from a serious lack of resolve.

The movie touches on some interesting themes that mostly go unfulfilled. Having seen so many iterations of the story, the film beats on overplayed tropes that make it harder for it to really set itself apart. Knowing this, their casting trifecta of Denzel/Malek/Leto was the over-reliant Hail Mary its imminent success or failure hinged upon. When their performances don’t live up to the hype or serve its intended purpose, audiences might find it hard to resonate with damn near anything in this film.

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“Your d**k is hard as Chinese arithmetic” - Actual line from the movie

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If The Little Things has a saving grace, Denzel Washington is it by a longshot. He plays Joe Deacon, a former homicide detective haunted by ghosts of cases past, caught in the fray of this grisly affair. His role demands a little more restraint and silent repression but when your co-stars are running amok chewing up scenery, it creates an imbalance that the movie never recovers from. This movie stresses the importance of how acting can make or break its tonal stability; while Denzel carries an enormous weight to keep this movie glued to its foundations, he’s thwarted by the two oppositional forces of nature who threaten to topple it.

In addition to its one really good performance, the film’s visual elements stand out as one of its strongest components. There’s a particular timelessness to crime movies set in L.A., a striking composition that manages to capture that carefully hidden ugliness beneath its many sprawling highways. Lighting and mood play a major factor in the way you engage with its setting, especially during night scenes. As eye-catching as it is, the film can’t capitalize due to poor editing that makes its presentation seem needlessly propulsive and arbitrarily thrown together. When its editing suffers, a film’s cadence is at stake, thus sabotaging the way viewers perceive its story.

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All things considered, John Lee Hancock’s The Little Things might still find an audience with those who want to kick back and throw popcorn at the screen, while basking in the presence of three award winners trying new things. Plus, there’s a respectable admiration for the movie it was trying to be, though it sadly falls short of—but sometimes we tend to look at a movie’s stat line through rose-colored lenses.

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Leto’s alter ego sings lead vocals for 30 Seconds to SARS

Remember The Snowman? Michael Fassbender starring, Tomas Alfredson directing, Martin Scorsese producing—universally disliked and mocked mercilessly. At the end of the day, a good movie is never defined by the weight of its parts, but the efficiency with which they operate. And if your movie features Jared Leto, you’d better hope you have enough face paint to last you the entire shoot.

The Skin You're In: A "Possessor" Review

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★★★ 1/2 (3.5/5)

For the past eight months since doomed to life indoors, we’ve all been treated to a myriad of nameless films that simply come and go. You probably know the kind—they take up no mental space whatsoever. Picture rifling through thumbnails in Netflix on a shapeless Saturday afternoon. Maybe you stop when you see a recognizable face. You read the caption then think to yourself, “what have I got to lose?” and you take your swing. More often than not, your response is something along the lines of, “eh, that was pretty good”, then you go about your day while the imprint sort of just dissipates from your memory—which is completely fine. Sometimes movies don’t need to make a profound impact for you to appreciate it in the moment. The inherent problem with this is that it results in a sort of complacency. Lately, these subpar films outnumber the objectively good ones maybe 8 to 1, it seems. And these subpar films usually have one consistent trait: you can feel a substantial lack of effort to make it something that’s actually worth standing out.

Actual live image of someone who was expecting to see a different kind of possession movie.

Brandon Cronenberg’s latest sci-fi horror/thriller Possessor is a film that instinctively knows how to stand out. The film premiered at Sundance Film Festival back in January and after a short theatrical run at the beginning of October, started to make its rounds on the rental circuit of streaming platforms. It quickly became a cult hit among genre fans though generally overlooked due to its lack of mainstream marketing and controversial subject matter; the film doesn’t just push envelopes, it dropkicks them. Possessor is a gritty tale of unflinching violence and graphic sexuality, but Cronenberg tells it with stunning visual flair and nuanced execution. For anyone who thinks his name sounds familiar, Brandon is the son of legendary body-horror filmmaker David Cronenberg, who turned Jeff Goldblum into a man-fly in 1986. So with that in mind, understand that Brandon is of a lineage that has a history with pushing the limits in cinema.

Possessor follows Tasya Vos (Andrea Riseborough), an elite operative who carries out high-profile assassinations for a futurist corporation. By leveraging brain implant technology, these possessors take control of a subject’s bodily functions to commit grisly murder then get away scot-free. While she’s proven to be the best at what she does, the brutal nature of her work has made her increasingly apathetic to the world around her. When she occupies the body of a rival corporation’s low level employee (Christopher Abbott), they both become entangled in a vicious descent that untethers the binding between their existences.

Though Possessor is only his second feature film, Brandon Cronenberg has proven his worth among the most talented indie filmmakers today. His uniquely constructed universe is a bold envisioning that pays careful attention to the details that help establish its near-future aesthetic. Any fans of Black Mirror should be thoroughly pleased with Possessor’s shared ability to feel grounded in reality while absorbing you in its dense sci-fi atmosphere. The film’s pacing is well crafted and builds suspense by embedding graphic brutality at pivotal points of the narrative; the moments between develop its characters in a way that make these tense payoffs feel earned, though never shying away from its responsibilities as a personal story at its core. The unfiltered violence is primarily effective because of its commentary on the ugliness that arises when we abandon our humanity. Possessor posits that the willful ignorance of what makes us people results in a progressive corrosion that has the power to kill the spirit and transform us into something hideous—the foundational basis for all body horror is rooted in this very concept.

A high concept movie like Possessor demands complex performances and from a casting perspective, it’s nearly faultless. Andrea Riseborough delivers a powerful performance as Tasya Vos, the coldhearted contract killer whose rapid disassociation as a result of the zoetrope of personalities she must embody, is driving a spiked wedge into her personal life as a mother and a wife. Her counterpart in Christopher Abbott also does heavy legwork as Colin Tate, the subject of mind control. There’s brooding intensity behind his black eyes, they match the robust physical eruptions that outline his character’s mortal struggle to retain control of his agency. Supported by a strong backing cast that includes Jennifer Jason Leigh, Sean Bean, Tuppence Middleton and Rossif Sutherland, Possessor gets maximum mileage from its highly credible cast. Their collective commitment to the story will grip you and drag you into its bleakest depths with no regard or hesitation.

For those who aren’t big fans of graphic violence in movies, it’s easy to hear one thing about Possessor then slap a label on it as run-of-the-mill gore porn. While those with really sensitive stomachs might want to steer clear of this one, the truth is that directors like Eli Roth aren’t making movies on this wavelength. Gore porn (or splatter film) is, by nature, self aware—it has a target audience that expects exaggerated violence to the point where it’s almost comical. In Possessor’s case, you can feel Cronenberg’s intention to craft a film that demands to be taken seriously, that audiences might think about long after the credits have rolled: from the opening sequence, you’re drawn into a world that’s sleek and futuristic, though plausible enough to still feel somewhat reachable. The characters feel layered, never unrealistic so the violence against them isn’t cheapened, rather heightened. As a result, Possessor is provocative while never feeling deliberately offensive. Achieving this delicate balance is no easy feat, as even his dad could probably tell you:

Wipe that smug look off your face, you brilliant jerk.

While it might not be everyone’s cup of tea, this brutal genre showcase finds its stylistic stride from the opening frames and gains locomotive steam as it careens into the heart of psychological darkness. By the time we reach its gruesome conclusion, we find ourselves grappling with concepts that run much deeper than what we saw on its razor bladed surface: identity, reality, control, our relationship to technology, to each other, to ourselves. Possessor at its core is a story about the struggles of being human and the pitfalls that come when we deny our programmed humanity. Some interpretations might suggest a conflicting reading of these ideas as being tied to an embrace of those Freudian instincts and the independence it truly yearns for. No matter your reading, one objective fact is for certain: Brandon Cronenberg’s second feature film is a bold statement that rivals some of his own father’s best work. It’s a solemn reminder on so many levels of why we love science fiction and horror—in times of unprecedented change, it helps us cope with what we can’t control. And ultimately, coming to grips with this finite vulnerability is what being human is all about.

Screaming Subconscious: An "I'm Thinking of Ending Things" Study and Review

*WARNING: Mild spoilers ahead*

As the title alone would likely indicate to a curious moviegoer browsing Netflix on a pale Fall night, we have a clearcut shoo-in for bleakest, most gonzo film experience of 2020, and it’s Charlie Kaufman’s latest feature, I’m Thinking of Ending Things—but that isn’t to say it’s a bad thing. Based on a best selling novel by Iain Reid, Kaufman couldn’t have chosen a more appropriate story to adapt; after all, he’s no stranger to making movies about the curiosities of mortal struggle. Having written the screenplay for such indie classics as Being John Malkovich and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Kaufman has proven himself an artist with uncompromising vision, both for better and for worse. As a standalone feature director, he’s just about as divisive an auteur as they come, with a strong sense for crafting deeply cerebral yet painfully personal films that often fly so far beneath the general public’s radar that they may as well not exist in a mainstream sense.

His latest, an oddball relationship horror-drama, follows a nameless young woman (played by Jessie Buckley) who takes a road trip with Jake (Jesse Plemons), her boyfriend of six weeks, to visit his parents (Toni Collette and David Thewlis) in their secluded farmhouse. Simple enough, but it gets stranger as the night unfolds. Her innermost thoughts punctuate the film’s narrative, revealing the sum of her darkest fears; a pummeling stream-of-subconscious that leads to an onslaught of surreal and unnerving imagery. The unshakeable dread interrogates her sense of what’s real and forces her to lose grip on both identity and time, giving way to a chaos that lies dormant within.

There’s a peculiar dreaminess to I’m Thinking of Ending Things that distinguishes it from the usual lot we’re conditioned to seeing on Netflix. It’s weird, dark, funny, thought-provoking, and somehow equal parts grim and poetic; like taking acid at your grandmother’s birthday party, it’s the kind of movie that could make you reconsider your most questionable life choices. It almost feels more like a moving human experience than it does a standalone piece of pop culture. Picture this: Netflix’s biggest original movie to date features a ripped Chris Hemsworth throwing henchmen through walls—obviously, this movie hums to the beat of a wildly different tune. Even considering Bong Joon Ho’s environmentalist sci-fi adventure Okja and Dan Gilroy’s artistic nightmare in Velvet Buzzsaw, this film might just take the coveted crown of most avant-garde film to ever be produced and distributed by Netflix. Can we expect to see Netflix beginning to fund more ambitious auteur-driven projects? Let’s certainly hope so.

From a directorial standpoint, Kaufman does an amazing job of reeling you into this world by establishing its tone strong and early. The opening shot skims past oddly colored wallpapers through the empty old farmhouse while our protagonist delivers a stirring monologue. Her cadence is poetic, her whisper is soft and stripped of hope—for herself, for that of her floundering new relationship, or for the uneasy world she implies to be navigating. In this world, a dense coat of snow blankets everything in sight, creating a strong visual energy that permeates every shot and makes even the most vibrant colors appear pale and weirdly muted. This aura of wintry desolation remains consistent throughout the entire film and its prevalence is a key identifier of Kaufman’s time-tested skill. Name another filmmaker who can make respectable claymation that ponders the meaning of life.

Despite the film’s most jarring subversions, one of its more universal assets are the brilliant performances that keep its characters grounded. The main cast is spearheaded by Jessie Buckley, the anonymous subject, whose outward warmth is played in measure with an archaically cold detachment. She’s abstract, opinionated, and really sells you on the tyrannies of an overactive mind. Then there’s Jesse Plemons as Jake, whose deadpan neuroses are incredibly awkward and tremendously genuine. His obnoxious intellect is undercut by a distinct lack of expression that creates uneasy frictions with each character he interacts with. Their ongoing repartee throughout the film is both witty and stimulating, though it evokes complex emotions around the horrors of social disconnection. Together, their offbeat synergy is the unpredictable pulse of the viewer’s experience in I’m Thinking of Ending Things.

Rounding out the film’s supporting cast is Toni Collette and David Thewlis as Jake’s parents, perhaps the film’s most intriguing characters. As far as individual performances go, Collette puts on a clinic as the cloying mother who exudes overt politeness with silent desperation while Thewlis counterbalances as an aging old man on the cusp of mental decline. As parents, they’re sweet, simple and emotionally invested in the accomplishments of their son. Nevertheless, he’s oddly disturbed by their pride while they actively vie for the affections of his shiny new girlfriend. Their roles become warped as the movie unfolds and they morph into representations of the cyclical nature of time and the melancholy of what it ultimately takes from us.

The film is a monument of provocative artistry and you can feel Kaufman’s intention in every shot, every scene, every interaction. By breaking the mold and withholding our rights to straightforward storytelling, it dares audiences to carve their own interpretation from it rather than having it spoonfed. The boldness of such filmmaking is quite rare and for good reason—it can easily go sideways. One example that stands out from recent memory is distinguished Greek filmmaker Yorgos Lanthimos, writer/director of 2015’s The Lobster and 2017’s The Killing of a Sacred Deer. Like Kaufman, Lanthimos disrupts narrative by using social disconnection to create bizarre worlds that simply don’t adhere to normative expectations and portrays them with utmost deadpan sincerity.

While I wouldn’t expect this film to crack Netflix’s top-10 algorithm anytime soon, it feels undeniably special because of its innovative quality. It’s not exactly Hubie Halloween, but Charlie Kaufman’s not exactly in the business of making fan favorites. I’m Thinking of Ending Things is an unforgettable film because of its ability to broaden viewer expectations on what movies can be on a more accessible streaming platform. This surreal tumble into the heart of psychological vulnerability is easily Netflix’s most avant-garde film to date, and should hopefully encourage its audiences to widen their scope for what to expect from a streaming achievement. Considering Netflix doesn’t have a surefire means of box office analysis, it’s hard to say whether or not this film can be considered a relative “success”—however since the film’s release almost two months ago, it’s drawn widespread acclaim as 2020’s favorite mindf**k. And in the spirit of artistic integrity, sometimes that’s the only validation a film really even needs. Don’t believe me? Go check Twitter.

Yeah…that all sounds about right.

Lost in Perpetuity: A "Palm Springs" Study and Review

*WARNING: Mild spoilers ahead*

You awaken in a groggy haze. Struggling to reclaim your bearings from what seemed like an oddly vivid dream, you shuffle out of bed but feel an unshakable sense of déjà vu as you take in your surroundings—you’ve been here before. Is your mind playing tricks on you? Or are you stuck in some strange, inescapable vortex somewhere in the folds of time? Believe it or not, I’m not actually referring to any given morning in quarantine; I’m talking about Max Barbakow’s latest Hulu Original that just set a streaming record for biggest opening weekend, Palm Springs starring Cristin Milioti and Andy Samberg.

This sun drenched sci-fi/rom-com revolves (literally) around Nyles and Sarah, an unlikely pair whose chance encounter at a Palm Desert wedding quickly spirals out of control when they find themselves trapped in an infinite time-loop where both are fated to relive the same day over and over again. Ripe with Lonely Island-esque comedic silliness but taking solemn influence from the seminal films that paved its way (specifically Groundhog Day), this film breathes new life into a decades-old concept by doubling up the lessons to be learned.

The Structure

From a narrative standpoint, Palm Springs ideally seeks to explore the idea of personal growth by disguising itself with a high-concept premise. Structurally speaking, time loop movies usually follow a flawed character who, by some twist of fate, becomes doomed to repeat their actions in perpetuity until they manage to learn the life lessons necessary to get it all just right. In a way, the protagonist usually finds themselves stuck in a personal hell of their own design that, by being given the opportunity to try it all over again, highlights the futility in running away from internal conflicts that they can’t or don’t want to confront. While Nyles and Sarah’s predicament can be considered “supernatural”, its underlying heart is always rooted in the human struggle—therein lies relatability.

A major factor that distinguishes Palm Springs is how it blends its sci-fi element with a vastly opposing genre so seamlessly; while this film executes on the basic structure of a time loop narrative, its romantic comedy never feels overshadowed. The rom-com structure begins with a fundamental difference in philosophies about the way our two protagonists live their life: while cynical Sarah’s (Milioti) turbulent life choices leads her to doubt the existence of true love, carefree Nyles (Samberg) chooses to live by a code of total complacency. This duality that separates them as individuals is ultimately what draws them closer together as they learn to tolerate and gain insights from one another.

Despite its bold creative choices, the film manages to maintain a consistent tone throughout by not getting lost in the minutia of its mechanics. With a tightly written screenplay by AFI alum Andy Siara, the film’s multi-layered characters navigate their existential oasis with profound morality like few would ever come to expect from a movie that so prominently features Andy Samberg being chased butt-naked down a mountain by a sadist with a crossbow. Palm Springs is everything that it sets out to be (and maybe more) by reinforcing its ability to balance clever tonal shifts while simultaneously serving as an inward reflection on what it means to live and love in what seems like the neverending continuum of life.

The Cast

With standout lead performances turned in by Samberg and Milioti, both get the chance to showcase multi-dimensional acting chops that are largely unexplored in their mainstream repertoire. Together they bring life to Nyles and Sarah—their crude humor, while typical of any Lonely Island-produced film, is cleverly counterbalanced with an equal measure of emotional depth that underlines their palpable onscreen chemistry.

Backed by a deep supporting bench in Peter Gallagher, Camila Mendes, Meredith Hagner, June Squibb, Tyler Hoechlin and most notably, J.K. Simmons in one of the most comically appropriate roles of his career as the slightly deranged Roy, each maximize their presence in our duo’s ever-repeating world by helping provide context, comedic relief, ethical reflection and living subjects to the film’s philosophical question: “if you could live every day without any relative consequence, how would you choose to spend your time?”.

The Breakdown

While Barbakow’s sun-soaked fantasy world is densely loaded with moral principle, radiant aesthetic composition, gut-busting humor and an extremely likeable collection of complex characters, its timely release on a major streaming platform might just be what makes Palm Springs the perfect snapshot of our strange Summer. While Nyles and Sarah’s raucous hellscape plays out like premier genre filmmaking, their unfolding struggles mirror tangible life issues that almost everyone has had to confront in some form or fashion these past few months—but amidst the gloom of modern uncertainty, one of the film’s most resonant lessons might just help us cope with our struggles by reminding us a key essence of finding happiness within ourselves: being stuck doesn’t mean we can’t live.