WTYWtD

American Primeval (Peter Berg)

I watched this primarily because Betty Gilpin is the most emotionally evocative actor working today (I wish she’d show up in more movies) and also because Kevin Costner’s first “Horizon” film left me with just enough hunger for more ensemble western hardship sooner than Kev’s next-time-on epilogue will be able to make good on its promises. There’s a great miniseries in “American Primeval”, through which creator Mark L. Smith screams blatant reminders that he wrote “The Revenant” even if you, same as me, weren’t already aware who he was until Googling him. As with “Horizon” the show seems something of a retort to Taylor Sheridan’s occupancy of its genre in recent years, though a more stereotypically desaturated one that could be easily defined by its insistence on rubbing your nose in the more brutal aspects of the 1850s Gold Rush. It could use a couple more episodes to flesh out stronger arcs. It could hinge less critically on the idea that one loser conveniently can’t keep his damned disguise on. It could stand to etch deeper into its own identity rather than constantly conjuring comparisons to “Deadwood”, “Red Dead Redemption”, and other contemporary icons of entertainment’s post-John Ford old west. And its solidly proven director could certainly be reminded what “Batman”-esque Dutch angles are actually supposed to be for. The potency of Smith’s archetypal characters played by a superb cast deftly surmounts these and other shortcomings, however, as each depicted individual falls somewhere on a complex spectrum of morality. Sympathetic victims seek sanctuary through the densities of manipulated information. Cogs of conquest carry out inhumane orders while peripherally revering the truer beauty in our shared lands. Some see and accept their lot; others are pawns to coin or faith or government or war. If you follow the overt tone, you join these tragic figures in their recognition that mostly doom awaits… but the splayed guts on the Utah plains are best highlighted by a glinting romanticism that nevertheless flashes brightness through the bloody miasma, like the glimpse of a sea-battered sailor striving to return home by the guidance of a lover’s lit beacon. Letterboxd.

The Apprentice (Ali Abbasi)

As Adam McKay and Oliver Stone assuredly back-of-mind a race to a glitzier takedown of more recent events, Abbasi and Gabriel Sherman portray a less expected rise angle across a dovetailing symbiotic mentorship between Roy Cohn and Donald Trump that humanizes the former as it dehumanizes the latter. This Cohn is introduced the bullish Jack Horner to Trump’s impressionable Johnny Doe, and ends as a tragic man knowingly facing his final birthday in the form of a tacky celebration self-servingly thrown by his own pitiless Frankenstein creation. Shot in digital grain very specifically circa 2003, the formation and dissolution of this professional friendship makes for a more thoroughly interesting observation of late 20th Century America - even removed from the retrospective context these past ten years have pushed upon us - than the all too timely subject matter would tend to let on. Letterboxd.

The Beastmaster (Don Coscarelli)

A bit like if a leather-harnessed Superman was the lead character in a swords & sorcery “Star Wars”. Autopilot pacing prevents the honestly inspired story beats from an undeniable claim to hidden classic status, but the creative practical effects, hammy performances, and oiled-up eye candy for all kinds means there’s plenty to enjoy along the way. I’ll be sure to thank my tattoo artist for the recommendation. Letterboxd.

Begin Again (John Carney)

Randomly got sat next to Carney on a plane to Toronto for TIFF13 where this premiered, but didn’t know what the director of “Once” looked like and was honestly a little patronizing when the stranger told me he had a little film in the festival and was excited to have gotten Keira Knightley to appear in it. I did put the pieces together after parting ways and doing a couple international roaming Google searches, but for whatever reason I never ended up prioritizing what was then called “Can a Song Save your Life?” even though “Once” had really grabbed me when I’d caught it on Blockbuster-rented DVD five years prior. Unfortunately what my mystery man’s movie mostly amounts to is your typical star-studded follow-up to an indie success that makes all of Hollywood want to glom on to a hot new talent. Keira Knightley indeed ‘appears’ as do many distracting Apatow-style cameos and supporting players throughout (whaddya know; ol’ Judd produced this ‘little film’). In particular James Corden and Adam Levine are woeful downgrades from Glen Hansard, and I may never forgive Carney for sneak-attacking me with Levine’s irritating radio falsetto. With more narrative channels than its singularly straight-forward predecessor, “Begin Again” is a passing whimper compared to the straight-forward potency of any isolated chord from “Falling Slowly” and may only play best to experienced recording industry professionals who still harbor romantic punk memories of what music can truly mean. If I could do it over I’d be much more genuinely engaged with my temporary travel buddy, but I’d still skip his big premiere. Letterboxd.

Black Phone 2 (Scott Derrickson)

The most Scott Derrickson that Scott Derrickson has ever Scott Derricksoned, for better and for worse. After the first film - which was fine if familiar - openly cribbed “The Silence of the Lambs”, I was surprised this sequel’s hints at a more Lecter/Starling central relationship were only red herrings. The strangely “Silent Hill: Revelation”-esque ride we’re on this time revs up slower than may have been ideal, but it ultimately presents a respectably unique approach to the persistence of a marketable horror villain. No delightfully hammy revivals, lazily forced blood relations, or fake-out copycat killers this time; just stylized psychological torment that won’t quiet until confronted. And that Mason Thames has got a facha let me tell ya. Letterboxd.

Blind Husbands (Erich von Stroheim)

A bit of shaky editing can’t derail this juicy vision - a tidy and captivating metaphor wrapped with the early assurance of projection backdrops to portray a mirror of inner thoughts, and poetic intertitles that never overtake the far more important imagery. Letterboxd.

Blink Twice (Zoë Kravitz)

Perhaps a misplaced compliment from one who bears little reverence for the work of Luis Buñuel beyond the Salvador Dalí collaboration, but were he born about 90 years later as a woman Buñuel might have made something like "Blink Twice". Kravitz holds sardonic humor at the forefront of this feminist fable, deftly surpassing the cannibalistic generalizations of contemporary peers "Nightbitch" and "The Substance". And she doesn't need Chaka Khan to default a film sampling the tunes of both "Black Caesar" and "Boogie Nights" into best-soundrack-of-2024 territory, but she gives us the Chaka anyway. See you for the next one, Zoë! Letterboxd.

Bring Her Back (Danny Philippou, Michael Philippou)

Everyone does the “Psycho” shower shot, but how about that “Suspicion” shot with Cary Grant’s milk swapped for Sally Hawkins’ urine? Steady feed of ingredients coalescing unforgivingly toward a heck of a bittersweet climactic sequence, with plenty dashes of contemporary witchcraft intrigue to taste. It’s a recipe solid enough to overcome the welcome this grief trend in elevated horror has gotten well on its way to wearing out. Letterboxd.

The Brutalist (Brady Corbet)

A wonderfully achieved first half, with still more incredible performances Adrian Brody and Guy Pearce can add to their résumés. The second half loses the focus and tact of what came before it, however, making the experience a difficult one to recommend. Corbet already has us wrestling with the complex realities of immigrants politely taken advantage of, but then stunts our pondering by explicitly over-simplifying that concept in case weren't paying attention - an unfortunately self-defeating finale.

Cabiria (Giovanni Pastrone)

Concern for the welfare of the sympathetic title character can fade in stretches where Pastrone becomes more interested in the history of the surrounding war as opposed to how that driving context affects said welfare, but “Cabiria” is absolutely chocked with stunning, medium-forwarding craft both in front of and behind the camera. Letterboxd.

Captain America: Brave New World (Julius Onah)

To this point Marvel has been careful in keeping their character-focused streaming series purely optional. Contrary to popular outcry, “The Multiverse of Madness” and “Deadpool & Wolverine” work just swell - if not as richly - when removed from “WandaVision” and “Loki”, respectively. Now, however, Disney has their cake in a more modernly relatable, less patriotically idealized, and black Captain America, but they are afraid to eat it by showcasing the social significance of a black Cap on the big screen. Thus the solid but ostensibly skippable “The Falcon and the Winter Soldier” shoulder content is the only place to experience Sam Wilson’s journey to accepting the shield and understanding what it means for him to do so. This troubled MCU theatrical production pays only passing lip service to the rank inheritance of the would-be role model we’re left but wishing to uphold, portraying Wilson as an already fully formed hero. Pausing to show a bearded white military bro smiling at the new Cap does not a complete story tell. Instead the true arc of “Brave New World” is that of the recast Thaddeus Ross. Aided by thematic color schemes and narrative symbolism, Harrison Ford enjoys screentime seemingly equal to that of Anthony Mackie and is sympathetically shown balancing more intriguing global and personal affairs than those of our title character’s loyalties and dopey new sidekick. Yet, while it feels unfair in part to critique a film based on its marketing, the admirably gradual build to Ross’ reveal as Red Hulk is completely cut off at the knees by the ads that cowardly promote this more as a Red Hulk movie than a Captain America one. Myriad dialogue dumps are rendered all the more tedious when we’re all the steps ahead of the delivery just because we saw the poster. Fans are forced to wonder what original plans may have been for the formerly titled “New World Order” before it was repeatedly reworked with entire characters cut out (including one played by noted WWE wrestler Seth Rollins). The “Secret Invasion” reshoots mostly got by with their small sets and limited casts - it was after all a home release miniseries about an invasion being done, well, in secret, and incidentally one that like “The Falcon & the Winter Soldier” also explored interesting social issues - but these dark hallways and under-populated offices make a major motion picture feel minor. All of this said, “Brave New World” does play out of context as a wholly competent action thriller with a compelling deuteragonist and several neat gadgetry moments utilizing the hybrid Cap/Falcon accoutrements. As the critical launching point of a new vision for what Captain America represents, though, it fails the potential of its top-billed star and thereby fails us. Letterboxd.

Carmen (Cecil B. DeMille)

Of course I prefer the Charlie Chaplin parody that would arrive just a couple months later - one of the funniest of all Chaplin's shorts, in my opinion - but this sure is saucy, with plenty of strong action to boot. Geraldine Farrar lights up her scenes, leading the tragic extinguishing of that light to resonate in a fashion newer than that of the stage. Letterboxd.

Cleopatra (Charles L. Gaskill)

Looks and plays like a tasteless theme wedding in a Boca Raton hotel lobby. Letterboxd.

Cleopatra (Cecil B. DeMille)

Indulgent as Nero, with so very many fantastical anachronisms they can only be forgiven if a sideboob-wielding Claudette Colbert publicly threatens murder-by-pegging on grounds of failing to accept manipulatively flirtatious blame for a bodily function. Oh, good news, then! But seriously, this is so disinterested in accuracy I wouldn't have been surprised had Caesar accepted a telephone call. Letterboxd.

The Coconauts (Robert Florey, Joseph Santley)

Not even slightly as raw as you've heard. The anarchic Marx Brothers-on-film formula was there from the beginning of their leap from stage to screen, even if yes it would become bolder and more refined in certain instances.

A Complete Unknown (James Mangold)

Mangold is anonymous as ever, only the correct filmmaker for this daunting job because the studio can cite “Walk the Line” in the trailer. It is something of a miracle, then, that for better or for worse he does not simply regurgitate the same tired musician biopic formula with a different iconic soundtrack. “A Complete Unknown” is instead a broad stroke of the evidently inimitable Bob Dylan’s 1960s culminating with a rendition of the artist’s most infamous performance, portraying Dylan as a juggler of an introspective search for truth through music and a passive flight from the public consequences of his innate knack. It touches the key events you’d want something like this to touch, and as with the Johnny Cash film the deeply familiar songs themselves make for its most enjoyable moments. It’s not where you’ll learn who one of the great voices of the 20th Century was, though, leaving one to wonder after Martin Scorsese’s excellent documentary and fictionalized documentary takes whether the best dramatized Dylan portrait would be one leaving the man obscured to focus rather on those who surrounded him. One of those in orbit was loose “Inside Llewyn Davis” inspiration Dave Van Ronk, whom “Complete Unknown” surprisingly represents in its opening notes. He shuffles in, briefly acts like a dick to a stranger, then vanishes. If the Coens taught us anything, yeah, that’s Van Ronk alright! Letterboxd.

Control Freak (Shal Ngo)

More than willing to accept there may be a lived Vietnamese-American depth to this I’m simply not in a position to fully grasp. Writer/director Ngo has, after all, woven the hooks of his 2021 short “Control” around an interesting subtext observing relics of Vietnamese culture persisting in a second-generation American experience. The father has outwardly converted to a monastic lifestyle, but remains secretly covetous. The aunt neglects a shrine embodying her authentic history, nesting instead within a more marketable façade of her roots. Kelly Marie Tran’s protagonist noticeably chooses not to speak her family’s native language until plunging to her darkest moments. These seemingly conscious details wind up background to yet another modern horror-as-metaphor story, though, the more carefully guided layers and foreshadowing of which eventually get pulled down by how convoluted it all becomes. In the end I feel the somewhat "Smile"-ish “Control Freak” - about a practiced isolationist whose life is slowly picked apart by the intensifying need to scratch an itch - is allegory for genetic heroin addiction and the necessity of accepting the continued assistance of intervention if one’s family is to survive. Or perhaps this entomological “Babadook” is far more basic and contemporarily familiar than that. Either way the overabundant lines between literal and symbolic tug and tangle for too long, leaving many of their dangled images to be laughable head-scratchers of the non-representational sort - disappointing for a film that introduces a tongue-in-cheek motivational speaker angle only to then be taking itself far too seriously by the time Tran is reciting a mid-movie Mary Katherine Gallagher-style monologue to an empty living room. And hey, I’m almost always in favor of a neat movie monster, and if the specificity of my heroin notion is on the money I can dig that this one’s infesting tendrils look like blackened veins, but after all of that I’m still left wondering… what’s with the freakin’ ant? Letterboxd.

Dagon (Stuart Gordon)

So this fucking rules. Fast-paced, gnarly, rooted in that now nostalgia-ripe early aughts DVD aesthetic, and more similar to “The Devil’s Rain” and “Silent Hill” than it is to any of the other flicks I’ve flicked that were based on the same material. Also, if Tubi had to hit me with commercial interruption, I’m glad this one was for Gorton’s. Letterboxd.

Dahomey (Mati Diop)

Interrupted beauty about interrupted beauty that devolves into a literal open lecture. Feels like we could have just skimmed a Wikipedia page instead.

Dark Phoenix (Simon Kinberg)

Sparing the personal title-by-title backstory of how I came to give up on the “X-Men” franchise, I’ll suffice that each film was so exponentially worse than the last that even this Marvel fan threw in the towel after the period reboot and solo entries continued the downward trend. Over and over I’d hear, “Oh, but you’d like the new one.” Well, thank TVs tuned to FX in public places, I guess, because I’ll be damned if the “Dark Phoenix” plot didn’t hook me in my periphery and get me to pop it on proper back home. It’s likely for the best that I had no hope for anything above last-ditch IP maintenance, because Bryan Singer’s replacement guided this thing to a surprisingly satisfactory result. It’s clear from the contracted cast and effects work (and, well, common knowledge) that much more was spent here than on today’s budget films (no longer called that) that hit and miss in large part through how efficiently they can mask or lean in to their designed shortcomings, but the cheap entertainment hits a similar mark of perfectly watchable. Think “Immortal Wars” or “Sinister Squad” - movies you’ve definitely seen the like of at 3AM when you can’t sleep. You’re right to be disappointed if you paid to see “Dark Phoenix” in theatres, and hey I’d have ditched tertiary characters like Nightcrawler and hoped for a more affected performance from Sophie Turner, myself. At home on a lark, though, this is the most I’ve enjoyed one of these things since the original. Letterboxd.

Daytrippers (Greg Mottola)

Takes several beats to match wavelengths, but deftly invests us in its imperfect characters.

Don't Bother to Knock (Roy Ward Baker)

An absolute gem of the early '50s unfolding in real time through dynamic ensemble. Ripe for yet another remake. I'd have James Franco arrive to the hotel blasting Loverboy’s “Turn Me Loose” on a boom box. Don’t ask.

Drive-Away Dolls (Ethan Coen)

I’m so glad “Dumb & Dumber” and “Raising Arizona” finally decided to adopt. Their bouncing bundle of joy isn’t entirely perfect, though; the dog really should have humped that severed head. Letterboxd.

The Electric State (Anthony & Joe Russo)

Countdown until “The Electric State” inevitably finds its staunch defenders. I suppose I’d be lying to say I don’t understand why a Netflix exclusive starring Chris Pratt has become an Internet punching bag seemingly before many have even seen it, but as someone who enjoys Pratt and - while sharing in the suffering of actual slop-shoveling across all media from film to gaming to literature - doesn’t mind getting to watch new major movies at home, I found this Spielberg-esque pariah to be more creative and entertaining than a considerable percentage of similar contemporary theatrical releases. If it was in theatres, with or without Garfield/Mario/Starlord, I can only imagine the pre-judging would be very differently characterized. Let’s just chill; none of that $320M was ever going to pay anyone’s rent. Letterboxd.

Eyes Wide Shut (Stanley Kubrick)

No one else ever did it or seemingly ever will do it like Kubrick did. We are so lucky; his masterpieces are the realest of real movies. Also, it’s taken me this long to connect this film’s shitty Christmas trees to the shitty basketball hoops in “Broken Flowers”. Letterboxd.

The Fall Guy (David Leitch)

A celebratory attestation for stunt performers by stunt performers that never takes itself too seriously as it rains rewindable moments, all the while freeing Ryan Gosling to be his goofy lovable self. Letterboxd.

The Fantastic 4: First Steps (Matt Shakman)

Excelsior! Following James Gunn’s exit with “Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 3” the MCU was in need of a new family unit for us to latch on to, and the iconic yet damaged Fantastic Four brand didn’t have to at last be done quite this right to have filled the void. “First Steps” is a piece so ingrained in modern mythos it is only possible at this point in a historic cinematic continuity that has over time become too easy to take for granted, its world so deeply imaginative we have no choice but to take it for granted in its moment to avoid becoming overwhelmed. Just in terms of dramatic storytelling, it is astounding how swift a pace the narrative maintains while utilizing pointedly broad characterization and the innate significance of anachronistic Americana to make even its exposition-heavy montage moments land with evocative heft. In a comparison that would be all too conveniently timed were it not so apt, like Gunn’s “Superman” the film gleefully gets away with being definitively geeky as it bypasses its characters’ overly familiar origin. Unlike with the new “Superman”, though, freshened takes on pop culture figures like Ben Grimm are effectively introduced a la Gunn’s Drax in the franchise’s best introductory entry since that first “Guardians”, all while leaving us wanting their collective arc’s second act. Also, add this next to “Shadow in the Cloud” in the mothethood-as-a-superpower canon. Letterboxd.

The Florida Project (Sean Baker)

Yup, this is Central Florida. Took one out-of-focus background in the opening moments to identify Kissimmee, and even less to call out a certain abandoned location I considered filming in myself when making my last short around the same time Baker would have been weaving magic nearby. For my own work I considered the region’s cicadas and air traffic to be obstacles in need of working around. Jersey boy Baker embraces and forwards these local textures and many others, understanding they are part of what defines this pocket of the United States and its theme park-adjacent people. As with the other Baker output I’ve been gobbling, “The Florida Project” entrancingly hovers on a precipice of grounded fable without diving over the edge into punishing exposé. I have to stop myself from taking for granted between tears how easy this man makes it look to so deliberately capture and celebrate sensibly realistic narratives in a way that appears so endearingly incidental. Letterboxd.

Flow (Gints Zilbalodis)

Sometimes feels like the extended cut of an animator’s demo reel, sometimes a 2010s third party video game with the QTE prompts cut out. That said there’s some nice wordless world-building, and enough personality in the impressively accurate animal mannerisms to chip cracks in the most hardened hearts despite minimal context. Letterboxd.

Fly Me to the Moon (Greg Berlanti)

A classically composed “Titanic” approach to the Apollo 11 moment, the whimsy of which functions swimmingly when conscientiously rooted in the gravitas of the greater historical context and anchored by a helping of actual footage and audio. Not so straight-forwardly as advertised the what-if-they-faked-the-moon-landing movie, it in fact dispatches the cynicism of popular conspiracy theory to accentuate the truth. With a slightly different spin it could have been the NASA version of “Burn After Reading”, which does sound fun if not nearly as reverent. Also, the costume department had a ball placing Scarlett Johansson in 1969, my goodness. Letterboxd.

Frankenstein (Guillermo del Toro)

Maybe Guillermo can go all “Shape of Water” on King Kong next. Given the opportunity, I’ll be one of the firsts championing addition, change, and subjective interpretation in adaptation. Generally some of that is strictly necessary from medium to medium, or even encouraged in cases like the suggested but deliberately ambiguous identity of the third murderer in “Macbeth”. The problem applying this principle to “Frankenstein; or, the Modern Prometheus” is that Mary Shelley already crafted such an impeccable novel that any alterations become frustrating. With due credit to the pure fun of Hammer’s series, Kenneth Branagh came closest and even his characteristically deliberate reverence slipped at the finish line. Del Toro is essentially mashing Shelley’s work together with Universal’s popular 1931 version, and for all the strengths that emerge as a result it’s impossible not to feel irked by all the divergences. Come on, Hollywood… make my perfect “Frankenstein” movie. Refuse, and I will glut the maw of death until it be satiated with the blood of your remaining friends. Well, hey… at least this Jacob Elordi kid is marvelous. Letterboxd.

Friday the 13th (Marcus Nispel)

While a total blast to have experienced in a packed theatre, this pseudo-remake is significantly less and less fun with each home revisitation especially when held against the franchise entries it makes a point to reference.

Gaucho Gaucho (Michael Dweck, Gregory Kershaw)

More an exercise than anything. Plays like a museum exhibit that doesn't amount to much beyond its synopsis.

Gladiator II (Ridley Scott)

Of the 20 widely ranging Ridley Scott films I've now seen, this is easily one of the worsts. More than that, I'm not sure just whom this is even for. It's difficult to picture a person enjoying "Gladiator II" be they a fan of the original, a fan of historical epics, a fan of sword & sandal subgenres, a fan of violence and gore, a fan of political intrigue, a fan of Denzel Washington, a fan of the male form, or Ridley Scott himself. This thing just stinks.

Go West (Buster Keaton)

Overall mediocre with a highly questionable protagonist motive, this Keaton is peppered with sneakily marvelous shot set-ups from rides atop bulls and locomotives to full-on comic stampedes. Letterboxd.

The Golem: How He Came into the World (Carl Boese, Paul Wegener)

The tale of a man so upset when his people are accused of doing black magic that he does some black magic about it. I suppose such a reductive quip could be aimed at any Moses story, but this particular portrayal of mystic legend makes the move of combining Moses with Dr. Frankenstein, and… well, it’s no “Cabinet of Dr. Caligari” but it sure leads to a strangely entertaining third act! Letterboxd.

Happy Gilmore 2 (Kyle Newacheck)

Absolutely what you think it is, though inoffensively so. I may be missing the current version of a socioeconomic point while my 22-year-old Netflix account remains in good standing from month to month, but even as someone who never cared much about the original “Happy Gilmore” there’s just something simplistically comforting to drinking a beer on the couch while the entertainment echoes of your youth keep doing the thing. And I got a kick out of Bad Bunny. Letterboxd.

Heart Eyes (Josh Ruben)

Clever scripting and one of the best horror scores since William Malone’s “House on Haunted Hill” can’t quite hoist this semi-throwback above trifle status. Letterboxd.

Hellboy: The Crooked Man (Brian Taylor)

One must take “The Crooked Man” for what it is, which is surprisingly easy to do after years of hopelessly wishing Guillermo Del Toro’s superb “The Golden Army” could have gotten its rightful follow-up. And there’s enough to take here to suggest a short proof-of-concept might have been just enough to crowdsource a slightly more coherent feature. Jack Kesy is perfectly suitable in the crimson accoutrements, inadvertently evoking a devil-may-care Ted Danson had Sam Malone traded his sweater collection and sobriety for a single trenchcoat and unlimited unfiltereds. Unfortunately, without Mark Neveldine, this other hellish comic adaptation from Taylor feels in feature length like a couple leftover inspirations patched together on the promise of tickling Mike Mignola die-hards. Many filmmakers populating Redbox machines and Tubi watchlists cleverly specialize in editing and effects strategies to elevate deliberate production efficiency, but this impressionistic pacing slough winds up seeming like it was filmed inside a murky slowglobe. Points for “Sinner, You Better Get Ready”, though. Letterboxd.

Here (Robert Zemeckis)

Recognizably anchored by the same key creators behind the Americana milestone-spanning "Forrest Gump" for better and for worse, "Here" strives to remain non-specifically universal enough that its own milestones - this time across a lifetime of primarily post-WWII suburbia - vibrate in the defining forks of the viewer's life path. Paul Bettany endears as a generational foundation supporting a framework of unnatural exposition, forced blocking, uselessly fancy transitions, and those distracting visual effects Zemeckis loves so much that now join "The Irishman" and "The Dial of Destiny" in giving us the most world-weary twenty-somethings wearing discomforting CG masks. As a reflection on the critical moments that mold our time, "Here" is not "The Tree of Life" nor is it "Apollo 10 1/2". Well shy of becoming great art on its own, though, its negligible meditation on how we value the spaces we inhabit is an invitation to dwell on our individual trappings and a little reminder to maybe not worry so much. We are left with but one question: did it have to be that particular camera angle? Letterboxd.

Heretic (Scott Beck, Bryan Woods)

The cynically consummate Hugh Grant is miscast in a role meant to be creepy and off-kilter as opposed to charming and familiar, and/or he is perfectly cast through apparent attempt to preach to a wide audience through a mere guise of antagonism. “Heretic” is a film marching in footsteps of “Stalker” and “Donnie Darko” that prioritizes a sheer articulation of its creators’ gestating notions above a worthwhile narrative exploring them, and/or it is simply fodder to make its viewers super fun to talk to at parties. The directing duo’s haunted house style of presentation is at least establishing an increasingly sophisticated trend following “Haunt” and “65”, and/or it is establishing rote expectation on shaky par with Alex Garland and M. Night Shyamalan. Whatever the case, Chloe East and Sophie Thatcher are excellent in the sort of movie where a ‘click’ sound effect is used when a smartphone flashlight turns on. Letterboxd.

His Three Daughters (Azazel Jacobs)

See, all they needed was a little mansplaining.

Honey Don't! (Ethan Coen)

If this overly tidy tramp is the collaborative couple’s lamentation of contemporary America, hey look I’m just glad they seem to be having a good time. Probably the most anal lesbian sex in a movie I didn’t end up loving despite all the anal lesbian sex. Letterboxd.

Horizon: An American Saga - Chapter 1 (Kevin Costner)

Mortal tales among the rocks and ravines of the 1800s American West will never lose their romance. Costner's open sharing in that sentiment is what seeds the potential of "Horizon" as a sweepingly engrossing "The Lord of the Rings" with cowboys and settlers instead of elves and hobbits. It is then the composition of Costner's vision causing this first installment to ceaselessly scream that a miniseries would have been more fitting, from the flatness of the episodic vignettes to the abrupt next-time-on montage sending us home. That said, bring on "Chapter 2". Letterboxd.

How to Train your Dragon (Dean DeBlois)

I’d like to think I’m beyond this basic cynicism. I’d like to think I can appreciate the craft through even this many obfuscating profit-focused layers. The score’s signature swells and a couple educated edits do enhance the key protagonists’ connection. While understanding the situational lightness Gerard Butler does bring far more #MiddleAgedDad weight to his role than necessary. I am genuinely pleased my children enjoyed “How to Train your Dragon” and its seemingly universal themes, anti-ableist enough to stand a chance countering their ingrained whiteness. I’m sure I’ll end up seeing a sequel for these reasons, and I can only hope Butler is back to help guide my 40-something dad ass through it. Similar to most of Disney’s rash of live action remakes, however, this film is really just a paid commercial for Universal’s new theme park that rushes its narrative while never making me believe its characters are anything more than actors on sets surrounded by visual effects. It’s a creatively bankrupt raison d’être for a subpar revisitation of a movie that was only passable on the main dragon’s feline cuteness to begin with. Nico Parker is one to watch, though. Also, I got the hiccups during my viewing. Letterboxd.

The Hunchback of Notre Dame (Wallace Worsley)

Until the cast-of-thousands climactic revolution sets fire, only the dynamism of Victor Hugo’s tale does any heavy lifting to aid this blasé build-up. Similarly, Hugo’s characterization of Quasimodo naturally wins in the end but Lon Chaney’s early screen portrayal is a might too snarly and oddly tongue-based for much of the running time. It is somewhat remarkable to note - apart from the title location’s obvious iconography - just how much Disney seems to have based their own “Hunchback” on this adaptation’s look and feel. Letterboxd.

I Married a Witch (René Clair)

Charmingly saccharine silliness.

I Saw the TV Glow (Jane Schoenbrun)

The meaningless mopey wandering reminded me of Sundance filler, and "The Pink Opaque" reminded me of the empty 'cellar door' bit from the immature "Donnie Darko". I eventually got on (or at least near) the wavelength, though, and appreciated not just the creativity but also the utilization of time jumps that directly acknowledges we are skipping parts of the characters' lives as if those parts didn't exist. My failure to coalesce a solid interpretation of what the hell was actually going on finally knocked me back off the ride, however, as the credits hit right at the moment I was thinking, "That had better not have been the fucking ending." It's not often I need to Google "ending explained" but there I was, still acknowledging I had experienced something different but accepting that it just wasn't my particular jam.

Jack (Francis Ford Coppola)

Even with all that's been piled on over the years, the combination of director and outlandish concept (along with the general trend of Robin Williams movies in the '90s, I suppose) made me wonder if there was at least a faltering glimmer hidden in there somewhere. Well, nope. "Jack" really is just a weirdly PG-13 children's film that makes no bold or creative choices at all. I do enjoy, though, that total babe Fran Drescher never learns Jack isn't an adult, but she's still included in the final scene and we're just supposed to be fine with the 'whatever' of it I guess!

Jay Kelly (Noah Baumbach)

The Clark Gable of our time, haunted by ghosts of Hollywood past, gets his own “It Happened One Night” of sorts (if you’ll excuse the reach). There are moments in the first act of “Jay Kelly” - including one of the great 180-degree breaks - among the bests Baumbach has ever committed to film throughout a definitively inconsistent career. His and Emily Mortimer’s efforts accept an air of expedient artificiality so to better linger in our armored protagonist’s anchoring memories. Through this the surprising duo strikes a chime of reflective lament that may best be consumed by their own industry fellows but is more than universal enough to resound. This chime is only fractured - and critically so - by the spreading of focus across so many side characters that the bittersweet core becomes lost. Dissipated is any passing sense that viewing this at a more impressionable age may have cemented it alongside coveted favorites. The team do wrench things back by the end, grounded in part by understated George Clooney and Adam Sandler performances, but by then they’ve lost grip long enough to keep their finished piece well shy of its enviable potential. Letterboxd.

Jim Henson: Idea Man (Ron Howard)

Biographical documentaries are often formulaic and thereby dull, so the Werner Herzog approach of interfering in your topic - making yourself and your perspective a new part of the story - tends to be preferable. Take Ben Steinbauer's "Winnebago Man" for example, or more controversially Herzog's own "Grizzly Man", as if some sort of "Man" needs to be in the title to apply. Well, "Idea Man" proves an exception to the notion as it marches chronologically by formula yet instantly springs alive as an extension of its subject. Howard connects us to the roots and significance of screen comedy then gets out of the way, allowing fascinating behind-the-scenes footage as well as Jim Henson's own notes, friends, and family to embody the spirit of one of the most genuine creatives the 20th Century produced. Several points could have been further explored, such as the sale to Disney or the continued form-forwarding work of the Henson children, but what we're given is so strong despite traditional formatting it practically suggests a Bert & Ernie sitcom about Henson and Frank Oz' professional friendship would be aces.

Juror #2 (Clint Eastwood)

Wonderful to see the "About a Boy" mother-and-son pair reunited on screen (with Toni Collette looking a might like Uma Thurman in that hairdo), but this compelling concept can't hold up against how cut-and-dry (and often overly coincidental) its deliberations turn out to be. And - read no further if you're avoiding spoilers - look, depicting investigative Internet research in a preliminary context is just fine, but when your climactic "oh shit" moment comes in the form of a Google Images search result you have a problem.

Karate Kid: Legends (Jonathan Entwistle)

Points for aiming at an ‘80s tone, even if that tone doesn’t quite work in full HD with so little hairspray. Points also for successfully creating a jumping-on spot that doesn’t demand a comprehensive recollection of the prior films and the streaming series. Still more points for subtle references throughout to the broader martial arts and combat sports film legacy, from kung fu and wire fu to “Rocky” and JCVD (and of course Jackie Chan, whose clear stamp on several fight scenes is a highlight). Points docked, however, for so many moments screaming for just a single punch-up pass. Points docked also for such an unceasingly unfortunate soundtrack. Still more points docked for following the lead of “Creed III” with a distractingly over-stylized finale that feels more like an act two climax with a tacked-on act three ending (taking place during what is apparently the longest sunset in Earth’s history). So that leaves us about even. Thank goodness, then, for bonus points in the form of the movie’s savior - Fat Jerry - whose every spare line is a New Yorker cliché over here. Letterboxd.

Key Largo (John Huston)

Edward G. Robinson is incredible as a human force of nature whose evil is no match for a force of true nature in this uniquely set potboiler. More and more I'm convinced Jason Statham has based at least 90% of his screen persona on Humphrey Bogart characters.

Kingpin (Bobby Farrelly, Peter Farrelly)

For their considerable hit tally The Farrellys have never quite found consistency across their signature blend of heartfelt characters and cartoonish buffoonery, and riding high after “Dumb & Dumber” that blend was already off. There is a decent little film buried in “Kingpin” about how life never stops beating the shit out of you. A few silly wigs and fake teeth don’t get in its way, and a post-“Cheers” Woody Harrelson is the perfect fit. The Farrellys’ pitfall instead is the smearing of focus over to the Randy Quaid protégé character. By using so much of an already scattered trajectory on this go-nowhere sidekick who feels like he’s pasted over from a separate unproduced script, we lose the through-lines of our protagonist’s issues. By the end Harrelson’s driving inadequacies, guilt, daddy issues, dying hope for redemption and, oh yeah, romantic subplot all feel hand-waved. In “Hall Pass” I’m still emotionally connected to Jason Sudeikis when his date sneeze-sharts all over the wall, but here I’m struggling to keep the plot by the time Harrelson is repeatedly punching Vanessa Angel’s breasts like Moe bopping Curly. Letterboxd.

The Last Showgirl (Gia Coppola)

Whether it’s Dirk Diggler wanting to fuck because it’s his big dick or Randy the Ram taking one last sacrificial leap, I am always a sucker for sympathetically imperfect performers self-destructing for their ostensibly lowbrow art. Notably similar in narrative to “The Wrestler” and of course taking after the infamously misunderstood tragedy of “Showgirls”, “The Last Showgirl” does remain frayed at the edges but achieves a tender triptych of glitz faded to time and doomed by default to compromise for obscured survival despite lifetimes of concession and passion. And it’s not all turn-of-the-Millennium sweat and tits; there’s a fun Loïe Fuller nod for those who notice it. Letterboxd.

The Lion King (Roger Allers, Rob Minkoff)

A triumph of feature animation so absolute it remains of the few perfect movies. Cinema is missing the Ratso Rizzo overconfident Bronx type these days. Letterboxd.

Locked (David Yarovesky)

An agreeable diversion if you need to pass 90 minutes plus previews. That honest version of “it’s fine” out of the way so I can feel slightly less guilty criticizing the discount matinee my ten-year-old fully enjoyed as we waited for his sister to be through Spring Break window-shopping with friends, it doesn’t stand out nor excite enough to enthusiastically recommend. Yarovesky‘s direction is totally competent, Bill Skarsgård is doing a swell Tom Hardy-in-“Venom” impression, and I’d love to see a Corridor Crew breakdown of the custom car builds - especially for an early interior long take that has my gears turning over what practical and digital trickery might have been involved - but the pacing stalls out enough when trying to justify the thrills with wafer-thin social commentary that a lesson in being shameless from producer Sam Raimi may have come in handy. Octogenarian Anthony Hopkins’ inflection alone is a welcome delight regardless, but it’s undeniable Sir Tony’s been paychecking it since his second Oscar win. Letterboxd.

The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring (Peter Jackson)

All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us. It’s now nearly a quarter of a century later. More than half my own life later. The concurrently produced sequels and a subsequent prequel trilogy later. About 1/5th-1/6th the lifetime of its form later, depending how/what you count. I’ve adored “Fellowship” since its release as have we all, and upon this umpteenth rewatch I’m ready to declare it one of the greatest films ever made. Hold it up against anything, from 1874 to today. Hold Ian McKellen’s Gandalf up against anyone, from 1893 to today. Keep it alongside “Alien” and “Star Wars” as an embodiment of what cinema has grown to become and will go on to be, its every instant a simultaneously learned and trailblazing example for the blending of history with its future in the purpose of achieving optimal audience experience - an experience we feel and identify with as opposed to merely recognize and acknowledge. I’m lucky to have seen it in theatres with my father when we didn’t even know what we were getting in to, then multiple times beyond that during its original run. Tangentially, we need an English adjective for something that still feels as modern as it was upon release while also now feeling so very, very vintage. Letterboxd.

The Lord of the Rings: The War of the Rohirrim (Kenji Kamiyama)

The awkward animation, voice performances dropped in as if buffering between lines, and backgrounds like a dive bar's moving waterfall artwork call to mind Ralph Bakshi and Frank Frazetta more than the technologically limited charm of "Fire & Ice" would lead one to believe today's creators are aiming for. Dwelling rigidly in the medium shot, this geeky waifu edition of Middle Earth lets down the care of its design in its restriction from mimicking Peter Jackson's involving camerawork. Thankfully the not-quite-Shakespearean material is intriguing enough that its cheaply stilted phases still carry us through to their more captivating climaxes in a classically formatted good-versus-evil journey of an Eowyn-like Nordic woman grasping the power to choose. Most miraculously "The War of the Rohirrim" sidesteps most typical prequel blunders, enriching as opposed to diminishing the chronological successor with its own story details while refraining from all but the most essential familiar references. Letterboxd.

Loving You (Hal Kanter)

Within minutes you can safely bet multiple farms it’s fading out on a smooch with the young blonde, but “Loving You” is an absolute party of a film that puts a goofy grin on your face if you can also see how it bottles the Elvis Presley duality that is both mysteriously dark stranger and sweetly innocent boy while also playing like a glorified biography for the icon. I’ve always appreciated Elvis and cherished his song “Teddy Bear”, but I’ve never understood the Elvis phenomenon more than during the “Teddy Bear” performance in this almost arbitrarily titled vehicle. Also, apparently Lizabeth Scott was Brigitte Nielsen before Brigitte Nielsen was Brigette Nielsen. Letterboxd.

The Major & the Minor (Billy Wilder)

Wilder's first Hollywood picture expertly guides subject matter that should not work as well as it does, helped immensely by its charming principles (fun to see '70s villain Ray Milland as the handsome love interest). And we caught that "Top Hat" reference, Billy! A precursor to Marilyn Monroe herself getting name-dropped in "The Seven-Year Itch".

Midnight (Mitchell Leisen)

Enchanting setup with middling follow-through, but a welcome reminder Claudette Colbert was one of the very best. Letterboxd.

A Minecraft Movie (Jared Hess)

I’ve never understood “Napoleon Dynamite”. I’ve really never understood “Nacho Libre”. I’ve really, really never understood “Minecraft”. Not only is “A Minecraft Movie” a Hess film through and through, it’s also somehow a total blast that shockingly sidesteps the most obvious formula building blocks with its tongue loosely in cheek. Like a hybrid of “Honor Among Thieves” and “The Super Mario Bros. Movie” it emulates actual player experience while celebrating what its phenomenon brand has meant spiritually to players over the years. It’s never better than its tone-setting salvos that introduce Jack Black at his Jackiest Blackiest as well as the crowning highlight of a very Boromir-vibes “Macho Man” Jason Momoa, but its overflowing enthusiasm easily carries it through later sequences that had me leaning on my kids for help understanding references. Also, it may be worth keeping an eye on this Emma Myers kid from “Family Switch”; she’s got something. Letterboxd.

Moana 2 (David G. Derrick Jr., Jason Hand, Dana Ledoux Miller)

Look, if [the Disney animated sequel in general but mostly] "Frozen 2" prepared us for anything, it's that "Moana 2" never had a chance to meet the incredibly elite echelon of company bests its predecessor belongs to. Since that wasn't in the cards, though, at least they made this fun! Lighter at best and disposable at the very worst, this very Taika Waititi-like adventure succeeds where others have faltered by keeping in spirit with what made its brand special in the first place. Clench through any tears, hug your family after. Letterboxd.

The Monkey (Osgood Perkins)

Being exceedingly generous, it’s like Tim Burton characters wandered into an Ethan Coen script. Being real, it’s a blatantly identifiable Stephen King short story (not an insult; this may also have fit in Chuck Palahniuk’s “Haunted” anthology) with a conceptually great ending rendered trivial through all of the oh-so-very King dialogue oh-so-very atonally delivered. Also, as Perkins’ rendition unfolds, one wonders if the whole deal may have played better from the Petey character’s perspective. Letterboxd.

No Time for Love (Mitchell Leisen)

Fred MacMurray and Claudette Colbert were Sam Malone and Diane Chambers 40 years before “Cheers”. This arbitrarily titled rom-com is a timeless riot that, like many of its ilk, could be a no-brainer hit remake today if only cast correctly. Letterboxd.

Nosferatu (Robert Eggers)

Yeesh. Is the Eggers who made "The Witch" and "The Lighthouse" still with us? This is starting to feel like another Wes Anderson in that Eggers' acclaim has loosened his reins so much he seems to have lost the restraint that once made his ideas work.

Oh. What. Fun. (Michael Showalter)

Showalter slips a few diverting background gags into what might otherwise be too much of a trifle to tolerate. Michelle Pfeiffer gives all she’s got to a narrative that buries its core concept in hopes you remember the trailer as it bumbles toward a climax that never really coalesces. I imagine Denis Leary exclaiming after every take, “This is all you fuckers got for me?” Letterboxd.

Our Hospitality (John G. Blystone, Buster Keaton)

With all due respect, I’ve seen more than enough Keaton at this point to wonder if those who prefer his work to Chaplin’s just think movies are cool for completely different reasons than I think movies are cool. Letterboxd.

Pandora's Box (G.W. Pabst)

Pabst’s late silent era imagery is incredibly striking, if challenging to stick with through its latter half. Unexpectedly pairs quite well with Sean Baker's "Anora".

The Princess Comes Across (William K. Howard)

A perfectly agreeable dalliance but no more, until it decides to climax a fantastically foggy shootout characterized by dramatically critical foghorn blasts - good stuff.

Red Sonja (MJ Bassett)

When the opening shots feature a waterfall animation created from only a handful of repeating frames that don’t loop seamlessly, you know you’re in trouble. I’ve followed this production (and its concerningly prolonged post-production limbo) closely enough to know it’s made by people who revere Red Sonja on the page. It is beyond me, then, why this second attempt at a live action adaptation is unrecognizably a “Spartacus”-esque prequel story following a younger Sonja when we don’t already have a satisfactory cinematic representation of the brashly badass archetype that has kept me coming back for #1 issue after #1 issue. Jennifer Holland’s bar scenes in “Peacemaker” remind me more of the real Sonja than this generic and miscast swords & sorcery business striving interminably to evoke “The Lord of the Rings” and “Game of Thrones” over the long-running Marvel and Dynamite comics. At least our girl doesn’t need to be rescued by a man as in the cowardly 1985 attempt, though the assurance with which she wears her iconic if impractical armor does get swapped for contemporary shame… so it about evens out. Letterboxd.

The Remarkable Life of Ibelin (Benjamin Ree)

When the closest companion I made in my massively multiplayer game world of choice suddenly passed away, I got a small tattoo. These people got a whole-ass documentary tribute produced with the assistance of the game developer itself. We all hope to be the kind of friend Ibelin was to his guildmates. We can, too, stand to learn something about improving our roles in this still relatively young society of logged-in connections. Selfishly, we can each also hope to be remembered and commemorated the way Ibelin is here as a result of his connections. Movie’s just okay. Letterboxd.

Ricky Stanicky (Peter Farrelly)

Even if you need to pretend the characters are actually all Jeff Daniels in “Dumb & Dumber” to justify their stupid dialogue, the hallmarks that built the Farrelly brothers’ career are still present. And so is a truckload of bit and supporting players who all admirably understand their purposes, from crudely grimacing suits and delectably slimy goons to roast master Jeff Ross as a rabbi who speaks only in tacky circumcision jokes. “Ricky Stanicky” can hardly be accused of greatness, but follows many of its predecessors in defying a dumb-as-rocks makeup to deliver heart and laughter. I’ll be damned if William H. Macy graphically miming blowjobs for half his screen time isn’t funny as fuck. Letterboxd.

The Roaring Road (James Cruze)

Unmistakably low-brow, which is fine as there’s barely an ounce of fat to burn. Thomas Edison’s racing actualities remain a worthwhile curiosity, and Mack Sennett’s remain a passing novelty, but even the simplest injection of narrative torque allows this first of real racer Wallace Reid’s hit Byron Morgan adaptations to surpass them in terms of thrills. The first race - comprised primarily of limited actuality-esque inserts and wise to focus on frame-devouring reaction shots of “The Bear” Theodore Roberts - gets a pass for that simple narrative boost alone, but a bonus prize is awarded for the cleverly edited reverse projections and vehicular stunts in the climactic chase between stock car and locomotive. Letterboxd.

Roofman (Derek Cianfrance)

“Logan Lucky” meets “Stillwater” with a dash of “Bernie” and a cast I wish could work with PTA. It’s worth the time, if rather basic relative to Cianfrance. Ben Mendelsohn as a singing pastor (seemingly just because he bears passing resemblance to the real singing pastor) is a hoot. Letterboxd.

The Room Next Door (Pedro Almodóvar)

Almodóvar puts a great many roadblocks in the way of this story's potential warmth, seemingly more interested in admonishing the decreasing humanity in our world for being the cause of such a story.

La roue (Abel Gance)

Some wonderful imagery, if you can remember to appreciate it after the chugging four-and-a-half hours.

Rumours (Guy Maddin, Evan Johnson, Galen Johnson)

This movie sure has all of one joke to tell, and it lackadaisically strolls its entire duration to set up the joke only for the punchline to be a reiteration of that setup.

Sheena (John Guillermin)

The other 1980s Tanya Roberts adaptation of a hero who psychically communicates with exotic animals and must protect a tribe alongside a new friend who learns to understand them as we overstay the story’s natural climax, which also like “The Beastmaster” is probably most watched by people looking to ogle Roberts in the buff. Hello, I am one of those people! And while I can’t speak for 1996’s direct-to-video “Vampirella”, I’m pleased to report “Sheena” is at the very least superior to the filmic bastardization of the other point of the 20th Century feminine comic book sex symbol triad that took “Red Sonja” and rendered her a damsel in distress. Pick up almost any Sonja issue and you’ll find her out-drinking the men who wish they could bed her before she beheads them three at a time for trying. Pick up any Sheena issue and… well, if you’re like me you’ll probably put it back down shortly thereafter. Hey, we all have our preferences, and for me the badass redhead in chainmail easily beats out the blonde cat lover in loincloth. If the Queen of the Jungle never gets another shot at the big screen the way the She-Devil with a Sword is finally getting in 2025, though, at least this one was a worthy effort. The portrayal of the female Tarzan-like is widely lensed and romantically scored with esteem for the conservation of a natural lifestyle. Even that eyeball-acquiring nudity is utilized to further characterize innocence and earthly oneness, however anyone arguing the bathing scenes are ultimately superfluous would not be wrong. If you want to be cynical, at its worst “Sheena” is a dull fetishization of a white savior type. At best it’s an inherently flawed yet applaudably genuine attempt to capture the essence of the comic book world’s earliest pulpy precedent to modern page-turners like “Bomb Queen”, “Tarot: Witch of the Black Rose” and, yeah, even though it’s not quite the same categorically I’m going to throw “Tank Girl” in there just because I love it. After all, every time is a good time to bring up “Tank Girl”. Letterboxd.

Shopworn (Nick Grindé)

It’s bad enough to have Regis Toomey acting as well as a damp sack of flour, devoured by Barbara Stanwyck each time they’re opposite one another. It’s worse that, as if missing entire scenes, the film completely omits any reason for us to root for the two of them beating their odds in the name of what they’re labeling as love. Letterboxd.

Skylark (Mark Sandrich)

Certainly wasn’t expecting to be so reminded of “Babygirl”. Thankfully this timeless take is a vastly preferable play on the restlessness in polite society as filtered through Preston Sturges-style social comedy along with a share of popping vaudeville-style bits, and a Cary Grant-style Ray Milland for extra scampish variety. And speaking of all that ‘style,’ I’m not much of a wardrobe guy but Claudette Colbert’s stands out so marvelously I have half a mind to snag a houndstooth-lined rain slicker myself. Letterboxd.

The Smashing Machine (Benny Safdie)

If you loved this, I am happy for you. The documentary style is beautifully achieved, and the recovering fighter subject matter rumbles sympathetically throughout. I also appreciate the implementation of symbolism without express definition, as with the showy demolition derby driver or the traditionally repaired Japanese bowl (which does eventually get its apparently inevitable thematic exposition, but still). For all the individual positives, however, a coalescence into a greater whole escapes the production unharnessed, and the most identifiable issues lay in the performances. We know this was never going to be anything but The Rock’s movie, though if I’m fantasy casting, the frame and boyish innocence of the similarly aged Mark Wahlberg could have been infinitely more evocative. Despite always covering his face for the crying scenes The Rock is fine, though, if over-hyped in effort to catapult him to an Oscar nomination. The more woefully miscast one is actually Dewey’s “Jungle Cruise” buddy Emily Blunt, in the Heidi Gardner “I’m taking the kids to my sistah’s” role. Any number of actresses from your Heather Grahams to your Juno Temples could have deftly knocked out this quintessentially Marisa Tomei part. My fantasy pick? Miley Cyrus. Letterboxd.

Spinal Tap II: The End Continues (Rob Reiner)

It feels selfish but difficult to ignore given the circumstance to point out I was informed of Reiner’s murder about twenty minutes in to my viewing of what has ended up being our Meathead’s swan song. Simply awful for anyone, let alone a beloved figure who managed to outshine his father’s enviable legacy and become woven into countless lives through popular film. “Spinal Tap II” is packed with so many funny lines delivered by such profoundly funny people, yet it’s all so deeply tongue-in-cheek there’s nary a genuine laugh to be found. It’s the kind of movie that will feel funnier when explained in later conversation. To be fair, this is exactly what I felt about the original. “These go to eleven” is funny as hell, and I’ve never actually laughed at it once. This sequel is that same experience, repeated, scene after scene, for 84 minutes. It is not a cheap cash-in nor a failure, but it requires a very particular audience to be truly enjoyed. RIP Rob Reiner, a rare filmmaker we can all agree on. Letterboxd.

Star Trek: Section 31 (Olatunde Osunsanmi)

As though the earliest germ of what feels like an extended pilot was someone wondering aloud regarding Quentin Tarantino’s claim of desire to make a “Star Trek” movie. Inoffensive if not an especially ennobling use of time, and you’d hardly know it’s “Trek” without the occasional Starfleet name-drop. On one hand it’s neat that such an unrecognizably in-universe story can be told within the vast franchise. On the other… why? Letterboxd.

Subservience (S.K. Dale)

Revisitation has brought me to terms with Megan Fox' sudden switch from hot HAL to titillating Terminator - my one consequential first viewing hang-up - as a second sit-through has allowed me the reconsideration that if HAL 9000 had a rockin' bod he too probably would have forced himself into a James Cameron flick by the end. And in a world where films can be lauded for screaming their influences when all their arbitrary flag-waving amounts to is noise (this part of the sentence is about "The Substance"), I am thankful the agreeable Stanley Kubrick worship and T-800 homages here are appropriately placed in the narrative and keep to themselves if unnoticed. Moreover I just appreciate good workmanship, and this Dale fella has shown even better here than in "Till Death" that he knows how to set his target at efficient entertainment and hit that modest mark. This is a movie that duct-tapes light-up displays to dashboards and stitches iPods into wigs, knowing it'll all flow just fine with the right camera setup and blip-blop sound effects cheaply added in post. It understands the simple seamlessness of frumping up the human characters' hairdos so we never consider they might be bots, while also prioritizing a negligible 'cool' factor over sense when giving us surgery droids that all unnecessarily look like the "X-Men Origins" version of Deadpool. "Subservience" deliberately delivers its sensual summarizing of Asimov's Laws with quiter poetic notes as well as stunt doubles blasting through drywall. So, yeah, if Dale and Fox decide make it three, you can bet I'll be there. Letterboxd.

The Substance (Coralie Fargeat)

Plunges seeping holes - accompanied by mismatched produce aisle Foley - in the adage that fictional mechanisms do not need to be exposited so long as they are shown acceptedly functioning in-universe. Fargeat hyper-focuses on an aspiringly brave yet muddled and disconnectedly Hollywood-embedded message without taking near enough of her film's outstaying length to motivate that obvious message through characterization any greater than representational. Add the insulting pseudoscience to a big whiff on a bad roommates subplot and Biggie Size It™ with depressingly arbitrary homages to "2001: A Space Odyssey" and "The Shining" throughout and you have a movie so aggressively dumb it's difficult to decide which overly simplistic detail to be most frustrated about. Letterboxd.

Suspicion (Alfred Hitchcock)

Though setting off on shaky footing, the early and constant casting of, well, suspicion on Cary Grant's character works brilliantly as it heightens and begs of us a verdict without definitive evidence. I've not historically found myself enamored with Hitchcock, but I enjoyed "Suspicion" enough to become a bit confounded upon discovering the apparent consensus regarding its finale. Sure, it's apparently different from the source novel and allegedly not what the director wanted, but sensibly having all the suspicion amount to just that is far more interesting than a carnal confirmation of foul play. Besides, the lack of evidence persists in its ultimate explanation, so the ending is in fact ambiguous. I, myself, would have felt let down had things been more resolute.

Superman (Richard Donner)

This is movies. This standard-bearing Superman represents human hope, and Christopher Reeve is as perfectly cast as Johnny Weissmuller was for Tarzan. The silliness of the many gaping logic leaps is no match for the many reverent and fantastical blockbuster sequences capitalizing on romantic wonder while sufficiently aping the “Star Wars” phenomenon that preceded them (complete, of course, with John Williams fanfare). Now if only the makeup department hadn’t had it out for Margot Kidder… Letterboxd.

Superman II (Richard Lester)

Drink your Cokes and smoke your Marlboros between chomps of Kentucky Fried Chicken, it’s an Italian-style farce masquerading as the “Superman” sequel! Well, if the handful of Terence Hill movies I’ve seen (as well as “Dr. Goldfoot & the Girl Bombs”) is anything to go by. This ultra contrived script does share DNA with the uneven ‘78 film, but woefully leaves behind the wonder that original harnessed in its resoundingly triumphant moments. There is plenty to enjoy: the shockingly ever-present comedy frequently amuses, Gene Hackman is that much more at ease playing Lex Luthor like a Willy Wonka who loves real estate instead of chocolate… but the “Donner Cut” (not currently available for streaming) must have done some real heavy lifting to become as lauded as it is among fans. Letterboxd.

Superman III (Richard Lester)

At a certain point you’ve just got to choose to be impressed so many utterly bizarre scenes were written and made it to the screen in this form. Letterboxd.

Superman (James Gunn)

Every major new millennium Superman movie has remained obsessed with what the idea of Superman represents in a modern context, and as one also basally enraptured by that ostensible idealistic simplicity I can’t fault them that. As one also admittedly over-confident in James Gunn’s repeatedly proven sensibilities as well as the near future of superhero films in general despite popular malaise, I sadly find myself more willing to take a neck-snapping Superman over the whiney one we’ve arrived at. I understand the desire to present a more vulnerable version of the famously invincible icon and avoid yet another retold origin, but the dial cranks to overcorrection as we’re plunged into what feels like a sequel to several films we haven’t seen. While it feels foreign to criticize this filmmaker’s normally affecting character work, the new Clark Kent seems as want to tweet “#ReleasetheSnyderCut” as the blindly enraged CG apes transparently employed to represent our respective algorithms’ noisiest detractors. Gunn specializes in misfits, so try though he has I suppose it should be no surprise his delightfully nerdy inclusion of The Justice Gang thrives on his strengths far more than his obligatory focus on the more pure and noble title figure. To be clear this condensed miniseries-like “Superman” is certainly superior to the sloppy “Man of Steel” overall. Not only does it leave us relying on future DCU entries to galvanize the freshened feature franchise as opposed to commencing on the best footing itself, though, it also leaves me wishing I’d rewatched the 1978 film instead. Letterboxd.

Superman (James Gunn)

Revisitation is always something of a balm for pacing woes, even if I still don’t love the way Gunn’s “Superman” literally hurls its hero at us years into an established in-world canon we’ve been assumed to prefer skipping. Revisitation in this case also shores up my general hesitations regarding Gunn’s approach to Big Blue. The Rocket Raccoons and Peacemakers of the writer/director’s filmography still make me want this to have been “The Justice Gang” instead, but while it’s not the Superman movie I felt I wanted it is a return to the good-for-goodness’-sake archetype with a thoughtfully crafted narrative prodding at exactly that as well as some welcome heartstring-tugging with the Kents and whatnot. I think my chief remaining hangup must simply be David Corenswet’s voice-cracking portrayal of an icon I personally wish would keep one foot in throwback archetype territory. Nicholas Hoult is excellent as always and owns the flawed class of a coolly calculated yet maniacally obsessive Steve Jobs-like Lex Luthor, Edi Gathegi is a scene-stealer as Mr. Terrific, and so on. Corenswet, meanwhile, shrinks and frustrates in what I can only hope will improve in retrospect as future installments grow this version of the character into a more confident avatar of justice with at least a smidge more bass in his chest. I do remain bullish on Gunn’s capabilities orchestrating the DCU, and my ranking of this first official feature plunge (no asterisks) has improved considerably upon giving it a second chance, though I’ve seen that proceeding with caution as opposed to unabashed optimism from this point will lead to better experiences. So bring on… well, whatever it may be. I don’t know what’s on the slate. I still have to catch up on “Creature Commandos”. Letterboxd.

Thirty Day Princess (Marion Gering)

A riot. Even as a deemphasized co-writer Sturges’ breathless bite never misses, here speckled with Laurel & Hardy-esque antics and a third act double exposure to charm even the most dedicated of Corridor Crew subscribers. Remake it with Sydney Sweeney and Glen Powell and bathe in the simoleons. Letterboxd.

This Is 40 (Judd Apatow)

I liked this quite a lot when it came out and I was 27, but 13 years later became dismayed upon starting up and nearly rejecting a third viewing because I could relate so little to the people on screen anymore. Just off the top of my head I'd go as far as to say the majority of major Hollywood characters are wealthy, but there's an aggravating tone set as Paul Rudd and Robert Smigel wear expensive athletic gear to ride their expensive bikes from their expensive homes to an expensive coffee shop through an expensive neighborhood where they almost get hit by an expensive car... and their casual attitudes suggest it's just another standard day they're taking completely for granted. I was thankful to be reminded that the main characters' journey together is one addressing that money does not equal happiness. We as the viewers may observe that money sure as fuck goes a long way to help, but Apatow's message reminds us it won't mend broken relationship bridges by itself. The generational comedy auteur's improv-forward style doesn't totally fit and leads to a tonal imbalance, but the recipe comes out in the end. Indeed the young Maud Apatow is a standout as the typical teen contrarily handling drama better than her parents while checking off perhaps the biggest laugh at the expense of "Mad Men", but the spin-off I'd really watch is a buddy flick about Albert Brooks and John Lithgow.

Thunderbolts* (Jake Schreier)

I’m thrilled Wyatt Russell, David Harbour, Julia Louis-Dreyfus, and Geraldine Viswanathan are getting a big screen MCU spotlight. I’m thrilled Florence Pugh is anchoring a tentpole franchise blockbuster. Hell, I’m thrilled to see Sebastian Stan popping crowds as legacy character The Winter Terminator. “Thunderbolts” is only rescued from the distinction of sitting at the higher tier of Marvel Studios’ lower tier, however, by its stronger climactic beats that show our downtrodden mercenary protagonists enacting their real aspirations of becoming true-blue “Superman”-style heroes who selflessly save unsuspecting innocents from errant falling debris and runaway commercial vehicles. The story is engaging enough, the ragtag team gels just swell (even if with all due respect Hannah John-Kamen could really have stood to be swapped out for Hailee Steinfeld)… I enjoyed myself. The very “Reservoir Dogs”/“The Usual Suspects”/“8 Heads in a Duffel Bag”-flavored phase injection comes off like another Disney+ streaming miniseries repurposed as a feature, though, like “Moana 2” but with the budget (and The Volume) of two and a half episodes of “The Mandalorian”. Thank goodness this likable if not quite wholly endearing cast of characters is the one tasked with serving scenes feeling as though they are suffering a short shrift after being conceptualized as lengthier individual episodes to be consumed at home alongside Jimmy Dean’s turkey sausage patties with melted store brand singles, accidentally generous dabs of bhut jolokia hot sauce, and just enough iceberg lettuce to keep your face straight when you swear to your Medicaid-assigned practitioner that you eat well and have no earthly idea why your triglyceride levels are so high. The meanderingly minor “Thunderbolts” packs enough twixt-“Avengers” momentousness to be a worthwhile experience, but I still look to “First Steps” for this post-James Gunn universe’s next endearing surrogate family. Letterboxd.

To Be or Not to Be (Ernst Lubitsch)

Already remade about 40 years after its release, but so well written - hilarious without ever losing its biting poignancy from curveball to curveball - it should see another crack another 40 years on. Who wants to pay Ethan Coen to write, Joel Coen to direct, and Steven Soderbergh to run the cameras? It's sure to be a meager streaming success depending how prominently Channing Tatum features on the key art.

Train Dreams (Clint Bentley)

Good rack focuses are rare, and I always appreciate one when I catch it. “Train Dreams” can be heavy-handed and tries harder than it needs to, but its particular early 20th Century American brood landed nicely for this white man born in the 1980s. I will definitely be recommending it to my white father who was born in the 1950s. Letterboxd.

Trap (M. Night Shyamalan)

Utilizes its remarkably realized setting to gradually breathe more and more tension into its compelling scenario. Then it breathes just a bit too hard, the balloon suddenly bursts, and that's all she wrote until the credits let us go.

The Truman Show (Peter Weir)

While "The Truman Show" is rightly credited for its increasing prescience in a world more and more defined by the production of one's self on ever-present camera, this far on from release it may be difficult to relate back to what made the concept stand out in the '90s beyond the surefire marketing of a big Jim Carrey face on the poster. Alongside "Pleasantville" and one year before the release of "Being John Malkovich" and "The Matrix", etcetera, Niccols and Weir realized something ideal for its time. Before the true takeover of reality television and social media, etcetera, it was easy to innocently imagine our mundane lives being watched as if we were secret celebrities. I remember believing "The Truman Show" stole my idea, though that teenage notion was clearly my own experience's version of why the film was so relevant. Truman himself is less a character and more an abstraction - a human shape we can place ourselves into, so long as we're not thrown by the lone specificity of finding Natascha McElhone unforgettably stunning (no problem there; that otherworldly beauty is also a key reason Soderbergh's "Solaris" works as well as it does). We're with him as we wonder more about his trappings, trusted so completely to comprehend what we're seeing that a mid-movie exposition dump comes off as if it's supposed to be a twist when in fact paying attention to the man behind the curtain was literally shot number one. Post-dump - and post-breaking point in a Laura Linney performance that does not get enough credit for its deceptive layers - we're behind the scenes of those trappings and considering real filmmaking implications as we're left to wonder more about our aptly named true man from the perspective of his invisible father figure. This unusual layout is far from unflawed, but makes for a fascinating pastiche of our dedication to disposable and exploitative worship-based entertainment that culminates with that indelible image of our abstraction walking through his door in the sky. Though a bit messy when broken down, the many possible takeaways forgivingly render it all worthy of review. Letterboxd.

Vanilla Sky (Cameron Crowe)

Romance. Comedy. Intrigue. Horror. Science fiction. LoveHateDreamsLifeWorkPlayFriendshipSex. “Vanilla Sky” is everything a movie can be, which sounds fraught but works like… well, a dream. This is the third or possibly fourth time I’ve felt compelled to attempt writing on my adoration of it after being almost inexplicably drawn to its aesthetic in 2001, wantonly obsessing over it in 2004, and cherishing it as my very favorite ever since. Only “Boogie Nights” and “Inside Llewyn Davis” have shared comparable personal esteem from me over the years, and as it’s now been by far my longest stretch yet between rewatches I’d been harboring the slightest concern my response to it could change. Apologies; it’s nigh impossible to characterize what this film means without bringing subjectivity into it… though I’ll try to avoid specificities of that connection like how weaving Joan Osborne’s one hit single into the fabric of the plot’s significance speaks resoundingly to who I am and who I used to be (oops). As Crowe would have it, with further maturation has come an even deeper appreciation for the construction of this remake (Alejandro Amenábar’s “Abre los ojos” is indeed similarly excellent if not the place my heart landed). The man behind the memorable sweetness of “Say Anything” and “Jerry Maguire” builds a recognizably sugary base on the foundation of a peak-of-his-power Tom Cruise’s statuesque face. The 38-year-old Cruise’s 33-year-old Dakota-dwelling David Aames has had the world handed to him, but all his wealth and women have not abated the shadow of inadequacy built in to his inheritance. As a teenager, to see Cruise on screen at all was to be enraptured by an idealized role model, but the learned ability to evade his billion-dollar grin’s hypnotizing effect reveals Aames to be the boy his harshest detractors see him as. He’s a businessman who doesn’t know business. He’s a lover who doesn’t know love. His father was an adventurous jet-setter; he’s afraid of heights. It’s all a small price in exchange for a spoiled lifestyle, but one chance meeting reveals to our ‘Citizen Dildo’ the potential of an earned life. That statuesque face is suddenly shattered, though, and in through the cracks leaks doubt, paranoia, and self-consciousness. The living dream becomes a nightmare. As Aames loses his grip - an elite class Michael Myers jabbering to the handsomest Dr. Loomis you’ll ever see in a paternal 49-year-old Kurt Russell - the dream/nightmare angle becomes literal. Following his darkest moment he is thrust into a pastoral vision of his home city where everyone interacts with him the way he most fondly remembers, his companions speak to him with “You had me at hello”-style dialogue like they used to, and his beautiful appearance is reassembled. Most critically he is saved by the one person who allowed him to glimpse, however briefly, a version of himself more substantial than the unworthy playboy heir he has been. That idea of what true love can bring is strong enough - and conveyed affectingly enough to the audience - that when the perversions of nightmare culminate Aames chooses to overcome the fear that made him lesser in his father’s eyes in order to start over in a time when he’ll need to work for what he now knows is possible. I don’t tend to care for plot synopses in movie reviews but more than anything else “Vanilla Sky” has influenced how I tell stories and how I want stories to be told, and as I enter middle age I’m able to better identify more of its narrative’s nuance. Previously I let the film sweep me off with its sentimental presentation of its main character’s condition and goals, swooning as my emotions soared from the actual edge of my seat, and now I can see how the themes of life turning out unexpectedly as fantasy meets reality still apply to the person I am today. I may also be seeing how my fear of beginning again could add layers to what are hopefully multiple future revisitations. I once knew a guy who was a real loner, and one day he woke up at 40 with two kids who light up his life with purpose. Suddenly he goes to endless school plays and he has the time of his life. His favorite Beatle was once John, and now it's Paul. Letterboxd.

Virtue (Edward Buzzell)

Bold creative choices mixed with hackneyed ones, but most importantly makes you root for the main characters' success through all the sympathetic hardship and misunderstanding. Carole Lombard is utterly magnetic.

Warcraft (Duncan Jones)

In the dying days of the Obama presidency, I found myself stumbling out of an early showing of “The Shallows” and decided it might be gratifying to laugh at a silly-looking adaptation of a video game series I’d never particularly cared for. If you’re one with a certain respect for late 20th Century budget fantasy and sci-fi you may share what turned out to be my pleasant surprise that “Warcraft” is exactly in line with it, only with some of the best effects work of its decade and most of the fat trimmed at the sacrifice of dramatic pacing. While many of my younger film obsessions predated Letterboxd and would have dwarfed the rest of my non-holiday repeat diary entries, this thing has become one of my most rewatched since joining the site as it’s such a reliably dense percent by mass chunk of entertainment. The setting is vibrant, magic spells are casually slung about like six-shooters in a Western, names like “Durotan” and “Medivh” are taken deadly seriously, Paula Patton wields defined triceps and cute little tusks, Travis Fimmel is like if Aragorn was permanently hung over from that fateful night at the Prancing Pony, and Ben Foster classes up the whole deal like he’s Christopher Plummer in “Starcrash”. And that’s not to mention the even more memorable motion capture performances from several of the same folks who have worked on the new “Planet of the Apes” franchise. Yeah, it rules. And my girlfriend still sometimes sleeps in the free promotional “Shallows” tank top we got that momentous day at the movies, so I’m sure she would sign off on all of this. Letterboxd.

We Live in Time (John Crowley)

Crowley makes the instant striking and holding of a lip-quivering tone seem like child’s play through a conscientiously ordered montage of events so cute the collective risks betraying their realism. While not an unmissable revelation for the form, this levy to own the time we have is neither too cloying nor overwhelming and would have been welcome to linger had it chosen to. Letterboxd.

Weapons (Zach Cregger)

This movie has everything: Jamie Dornan from the receding hairline dimension, a Jay in desperate need of a Silent Bob, that one small town grocery everyone shops at… and hey at least unlike “Hereditary” I mostly think this was was actually trying to be funny. I was amused, and muttered “that was a hell of a shot” under my breath at least twice. Letterboxd.

Weird Science (John Hughes)

I’ve heard Hughes would sometimes write his features over the course of a single weekend. “Weird Science” feels like it was written over a single brunch, but one third of the pages got left on the Denny’s bathroom floor. Mercifully Robert Downey, Jr. shows up to inject a few laughs amid the awkward silences. Letterboxd.

Wicked (Jon M. Chu)

Hollywood’s marketing monster wins again, as “Wicked” has probably, objectively, through successfully manufactured popularity, been positioned as its cycle’s most agreeable Best Picture winner even if only as a make-good for “Barbie” losing. Musical theatre can of course be wonderful but the big stages have slowly been overtaken by film adaptations bloated with mediocre tunes featuring lyrics simply chanting pop culture iconography back at us. Broadway’s “Wicked” may have had a tiny bit more going than that, but is now filmed on impressive designed sets washed out by uninspiring framing to accompany its many tracks unworthy of replay. Worse, it reminds too much of recent decades’ questionable major franchise choices. Like we never needed to know why Han’s last name is Solo, we never needed to know how the Wicked Witch got her broom. Like Bella Swan is an empty vessel with no autonomy, Elphaba is most critically an anonymous protagonist to whom random circumstances occur in place of a real hero’s journey. And like Sony severed their “Spider-Verse” sequel on a cliffhanger without satisfying a self-contained arc, “Wicked” thanks its customers for our endurance by booting us to the vomitorium via advertisement for its future completion. Oh, and all the choreography sucks. Letterboxd.

Wolfs (Jon Watts)

Botch Cassidy.

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