Glass Onion: Layers of delight

Glass Onion (2022) • View trailer

Four stars (out of five). Rated PG-13, for strong language, violence, sexual candor and drug content

Available via: Netflix

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 12.30.22

Rian Johnson reminded me how much I miss well-crafted murder mysteries.

 

Consider a few classics: Sleuth, The Last of Sheila, Deathtrap, Gosford Park and The Usual Suspects. Each is a blend of twisty plotting and mildly snarky attitude.

 

Tech billionaire Miles Bron (Edward Norton, center) and several of his guests — from
left, Claire (Kathryn Hahn), Whiskey (Madelyn Cline), Lionel (Leslie Odom Jr.) and
Birdie (Kate Hudson) — are quite surprised by the identity of their gathering's
newest arrival.

The writer/director garnered well-deserved admiration for 2019’s Knives Out, which — among its many other delights — gave star Daniel Craig an opportunity to craft a memorable character far removed from a certain shaken-not-stirred secret agent.

We all wondered, when Craig’s second outing as sharp-eyed sleuth Benoit Blanc neared arrival, if Johnson could pull it off a second time. So many filmmakers have run afoul of the sophomore curse.

 

Well, not this one.

 

Glass Onion is just as clever — and engaging — as its predecessor. Although driven by a tantalizing whodunit and whydunit, those features almost take second place to the fact that this film is pure fun. At a time when numerous recent releases have run far too long in the hands of self-indulgent directors, this one earns its 139 minutes. Goodness, I wanted it to keep going.

 

Johnson’s fondness for the genre is obvious, and his new film is a loving — and cheekily updated — riff on Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None.

 

The story begins as identical, elaborately carved wooden boxes are delivered to scientist Lionel Toussaint (Leslie Odom Jr.), Connecticut Gov. Claire Debella (Kathryn Hahn), fashion designer Birdie Jay (Kate Hudson) and macho streaming celebrity Duke Cody (Dave Bautista). Editor Bob Ducsay’s sleek split-screen montage reflects the fact that these are (of course!) large puzzle boxes, which the quartet ultimately solves via phone collaboration.

 

Inside: an invitation to a murder mystery weekend hosted by longtime friend and tech billionaire Miles Bron (Edward Norton), at his private island in Greece. His estate’s stand-out feature: a massive, glass-enclosed conservatory shaped like an onion.

 

Elsewhere, the recipient of a fifth box extracts her invitation via hilarious old-school methodology. (Whatever works, right?) She turns out to be Cassandra “Andi” Brand (Janelle Monáe), co-founder and former CEO of Bron’s tech company Alpha, unfairly ousted — not long ago — via some acrimonious legal maneuvering.

 

Everybody — most particularly Bron — is astonished when Blanc turns up, identical invitation in hand. The detective, unswervingly polite to the core, is embarrassed by having unwittingly crashed the party; Bron sets him at ease. After all, the cunningly conceived weekend will be far more successful if he’s able to outfox the world-famous Benoit Blanc.

I Wanna Dance with Somebody: Celebratory

I Wanna Dance with Somebody (2022) • View trailer

3.5 stars (out of five). Rated PG-13, for drug use, profanity and emotional abuse

Available via: Movie theaters

By Derrick Bang

Film biographies live or die on the basis of the starring performance, and Naomi Ackie is by far this project’s strongest asset (although, in fairness, she’s surrounded by an equally strong supporting cast).

 

As her career explodes, and she finds herself surrounded by an increasing number of
"takers," Whitney Houston (Naomi Ackie) knows that she always can trust
Clive Davis (Stanley Tucci) to look out for her best interests.

Ackie persuasively runs the complex emotional arc of Whitney Houston’s tempestuous — and tragically brief — career: modest ingénue; giddy breakthrough artist; savvy judge of what works best; regal diva; betrayed daughter; out-of-control mega-celebrity, blind to the way in which she’s torching her own brand; and, ultimately, wan and emaciated substance abuser.

During the best and brightest moments, Ackie’s mimicry is almost eerie: the warmly radiant smile; the shrewd, theatrical hand gestures and body language; and — most crucially — the sheer magnetic presence this woman displayed, both on stage and during quieter moments. She lights up an otherwise quiet room, sucks all the air out of a massive, sold-out theater.

 

What Ackie does not do, however, is sing; she lip-synchs everything to Houston’s actual vocals. (It is, credit where due, extremely convincing lip-synching.)

 

This, perhaps, is the most visible example of the compromises, omissions and tread-very-carefully decisions that director Kasi Lemmons and scripter Anthony McCarten were forced to make, every step of the way: both in order to please the many surviving associates and family members, and to avoid potential defamation lawsuits.

 

This is most obvious during McCarten’s “softening” of Bobby Brown (Ashton Sanders), and the ludicrously restrained manner in which the film deals with his abusive behavior during their 14-year train wreck of a marriage.

 

On the other hand — and no doubt a reflection of our more enlightened times — McCarten’s depiction of Houston’s bisexuality is refreshingly frank, along with her long, complex relationship with best friend (and eventually executive assistant) Robyn Crawford (Nafessa Williams). 

 

Their flirty, meet-cute connection, as young women, is one of this film’s many pleasures. Williams is similarly excellent as the effervescent lover turned steadfast, truth-telling watchdog, as Whitney’s career ascends and then heads into troubled waters. Robyn’s feisty, take-no-prisoners loyalty cracks only briefly, when the necessity of a heterosexual “image” derails any chance of a longstanding romantic relationship.

 

Robyn’s crestfallen expression — and rage — are heartbreaking, when this moment of truth arrives.

Guillermo del Toro's Pinocchio: A truly unique vision

Guillermo del Toro's Pinocchio (2022) • View trailer

Four stars (out of five). Rated PG, and much too generously, despite considerable violence, dark thematic elements, peril and rude humor

Available via: Netflix

By Derrick Bang

Although there’s much to admire in this handsomely mounted, stop-motion version of Carlo Collodi’s oft-filmed 1883 children’s novel, I’m reluctant to recommend it … in great part, because the intended target audience is a mystery.

 

Having broken a promise to attend school, Pinocchio is delighted by the acclaim he
receives as the new star of Count Volpe's marionette show.

Del Toro’s relentlessly morbid and very loose adaptation definitely isn’t for children, who certainly won’t understand the updated shift to war-era Fascist Italy, and likely will be terrified by this setting. Nor can I picture mainstream adults wandering into what superficially appears to be a children’s film.

Unsuspecting parents who gather the kiddies for what they assume will be a family-friendly holiday flick, are apt to be horrified.

 

Even del Toro hedges this particular bet. “It’s not necessarily made for children,” he admitted, in a recent Los Angeles Times interview, “but children can watch it.”

 

Seriously?

 

I think not.

 

(Del Toro is fond of placing his dark fantasies against the backdrop of real-world horrors; both The Devil’s Backboneand Pan’s Labyrinth are set during the Spanish Civil War.)

 

Granted, the surrealistic writer/director has a legion of fans, and lovers of this painstaking animation style certainly will embrace this outré fantasy; perhaps, combined, they’ll be sufficient. And, in fairness, co-director Mark Gustafson’s stop-motion work is stunning; whatever else can be said about this film, it exhibits a true sense of wonder.

 

Pinocchio’s appearance here — rough-hewn, spindly, unfinished (missing one ear), a true marionette — is inspired by artist Gris Grimly’s illustrated 2002 edition of Collodi’s book.

 

And, backed by fine voice talent, del Toro and Gustafson elicit an impressive range of emotions from these characters.

 

But my goodness, this film is bleak. And macabre. And sad.

 

A lengthy prologue introduces wood-carver Geppetto (voiced by David Bradley) and his young son, Carlo (Alfie Tempest). The old man dotes on the boy, who — a model child — is equally devoted to his father: trustworthy, obedient, eager to learn. Alas, his life is cut short by a wartime tragedy.

 

Geppetto is heartbroken, overwhelmed by grief; his work suffers, leaving unfinished a large wooden effigy of Jesus in the local church, much to the chagrin of the village priest (Burn Gorman). Time passes; finally, in a fit of drunken rage one night, Geppetto makes a “replacement son” and then falls asleep.

 

A large, feather-winged, luminous blue wood sprite (Tilda Swinton) appears; taking pity on Geppetto, she grants life to the hastily carved little puppet. She then charges his “development” to the erudite and touchingly noble Sebastian J. Cricket (Ewan McGregor, who also narrates this tale).

 

Avatar: The Way of Water — Waterlogged

Avatar: The Way of Water (2022) • View trailer

Three stars (out of five). Rated PG-13, for strong violence, dramatic intensity, partial nudity and occasional profanity

Available via: Movie theaters

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 12.23.22

Well, it happens to the best of us.

 

James Cameron has run out of ideas.

 

Realizing that their presence puts the entire Na'vi clan in peril, Jake (Sam Worthington,
far right) insists that his family — from left, Kiri (Sigourney Weaver), Neytiri (Zoe
Saldaña), Neteyam (Jamie Flatters) and Lo'ak (Britain Dalton) — must leave their
home, and move far away, to another part of Pandora.

There’s no shortage of opulent, eye-popping imagination in this long-overdue sequel to his 2009 hit; this is sci-fi/fantasy world-building on a truly monumental scale. Every frame could be extracted and admired, for the meticulous detail and all the “little bits” that you’ll likely overlook during first viewing.

That said, sitting through this semi-slog a second time, won’t ever make my to-do list.

 

Writer/director Cameron, with a scripting assist from Rick Jaffa, Amanda Silver, Josh Friedman and Shane Salerno, has basically recycled the first film’s plot, along with — thanks to cloning — the exact same primary villain: Col. Miles Quaritch (Stephen Lang). He and his elite team of kill-crazy mercenaries have been transformed into “recombinants” : artificial 9-foot-tall avatars embedded with the memories of the humans whose DNA was used to create them.

 

The character template has broadened a bit, and the setting has shifted from the forest-dwelling Omatikaya Na’vi clan to the ocean realm of the Metkayina clan. But the conflict is identical: Earth’s nasty-ass Resources Development Administration (RDA) returns in force, this time determined to colonize all of Pandora, as the new home for humanity.

 

“Earth is about to become inhabitable,” RDA’s Gen. Francis Ardmore (Edie Falco, appropriately callous) intones, “so Pandora’s natives must be … tamed.”

 

And, as if this bit of déjà vu all over again weren’t enough, Cameron’s climactic third act includes a re-tread of Titanic’s ultimate fate … except, instead of a sinking ocean liner, our heroes wind up scrambling about the shifting decks of a 400-foot-long attack vessel, as it slowly slips beneath the sea. Heck, we even get the same “climb this way … now this way” scramble involving two key characters.

 

All that said, this still could have been a reasonably engaging 150-minute film … were it not expanded into an insufferably self-indulgent 192 minutes. Cameron clearly didn’t trust his three co-editors.

 

The second act, in particular, accomplishes little beyond filling time. So many tight close-ups of slow, thoughtful takes; so many half-baked lines delivered with measured, melodramatic intensity.

 

Empire of Light: Radiant

Empire of Light (2022) • View trailer

Five stars (out of five). Rated R, for profanity, sexual content, dramatic intensity and violence

Available via: Movie theaters

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 12.23.22

Writer/director Sam Mendes’ handsomely mounted, intensely intimate character study is enchanting on so many levels, it’s difficult to know where to begin.

 

In the long-deserted upper level of their majestic cinema palace, Hilary (Olivia Colman)
watches, transfixed, as Stephen (Micheal Ward) gently tends to a pigeon with an
injured wing.

First and foremost, this is a loving valentine to the transformational magic of old-style film palaces: perhaps also a sad farewell to a manner of moviegoing likely to disappear within the next decade.

We’re also reminded, ever so gently, of the healing power of art in general — music, poetry, film itself — and the connective warmth of community, however unusual the “family unit” might be.

 

And this poignant story’s emotional impact comes from the powerhouse starring performance by Olivia Colman, whose bravura work here may be the high point of an already astonishing acting career. (I’ve said this before, about Colman’s work … and, somehow, she always tops herself.)

 

The setting is an English coastal town, where Hilary (Colman) is the shift manager of the Empire, a fading palatial cinema house that still looks quite fancy — to a point — while nonetheless being a shadow of its glory days. 

 

(Filming took place in Margate, a town on the northern shore of Kent, where production designer Mark Tildesley discovered Dreamland: a former cinema and ballroom, with a majestic art deco exterior attached to a seaside fun fair. His transformation of that venue, for this film, is breathtaking.)

 

It’s Christmas Eve, 1980; Hilary arrives for the day’s shift, unlocking doors and cabinets, turning on lights. The rest of the crew soon follows: notably projectionist Norman (Toby Jones), junior manager Neil (Tom Brooke) and 18-year-old worker-bee Janine (Hannah Onslow).

 

Everybody answers to supervising manager Mr. Ellis (Colin Firth), prone to outbursts of temper, and soon revealed as a tight-lipped bully who uses and abuses people. (Firth, a chameleon who could embrace any role, is thoroughly convincing as an unapologetic bastard.)

 

Business is light, despite the allure of top-drawer, second-run fare on the theater’s two screens; we sense that a long time has passed, since the Empire enjoyed anything approaching a full house.

 

Despite her obviously capable skills, Hilary is quiet, withdrawn and oddly muted. It’s as if her eyes have become motion detectors: dark and inert at rest, erupting suddenly with life — and a smile that feels forced, existing only because it’s expected — only when somebody interacts with her.

The Swimmers: Medal-worthy

The Swimmers (2022) • View trailer

Four stars (out of five). Rated PG-13, for dramatic intensity, occasionaly profanity, violence and sexual assault

Available via: Netflix

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 12.9.22

Some people are born with a level of grit, determination, strength and focus that the rest of us can’t even comprehend, let alone emulate.

 

Following railroad tracks to their next destination, and mindful of avoiding soldiers who
would arrest them — or worse — this small group of refugees hopes for the best:
from left, in foreground, Bilal (Elmi Rashid Elmi), Sara (Nathalie Issa), Shada
(Nahel Tzegai, with infant), Yusra (Manal Issa) and Emad (James Krishna Floyd).

Director Sally El Hosaini’s depiction of what Syrian sisters Sara and Yusra Mardini endured, while pursuing their version of the impossible dream, is compelling and impressively inspirational. El Hosaini and co-scripter Jack Thorne had no need to lard actual events with fictionalized melodramatic touches; the truth — adapted from Yusra Mardini’s 2018 autobiography, Butterfly: From Refugee to Olympian — is sufficiently astonishing.

This is one of the rare films that can change hearts and minds, by compartmentalizing a real-world crisis: in this case, the massive refugee crisis that resulted when the 2011 Arab Spring protests ultimately prompted Syrian President Bashar al-Assad to brutally crack down on his own citizens.

 

This saga follows that war’s impact on one family, along with some key sidebar relatives and friends.

 

Events begin quietly during Yusra’s 13th birthday party, a cheerfully lively event orchestrated by her parents, Ezzat (Ali Suliman) and Mervat (Kinda Alloush). Ezzat, a former champion swimmer, has become a demanding coach to Yusra and her older sister, Sara; he toasts Yusra’s sporting abilities while Sara wanders into another room and watches a television news report on government protests elsewhere in Damascus.

 

Flash-forward four years. Sara and Yusra (now played by real-life sisters Manal and Nathalie Issa) revel at an outdoor penthouse nightclub where their cousin Nizar (Ahmed Malek) is DJing. They dance blithely, apparently oblivious to the bombs raining down in the distance: a bizarrely callous, modern-day version of fiddling while Rome burns.

 

The dynamic between these sisters is complex; they clearly love and are devoted to each other, but tension is palpable. Sara has become a wild child: reckless, headstrong, unwilling to respect authority. She also  has abandoned her swimming training. Manal Issa gives her a mocking, defiant gaze, as if daring the world to get in her way.

 

Yusra is quieter, cautious and nurturing: forever trying to protect her older sister from her worst instincts. Yusra has maintained her swim training, fixated on one day competing in the Olympics. Nathalie Issa’s expression is frequently troubled, her eyes wide and worried, her posture suggesting vulnerability.

Santa Camp: Far more than mere ho-ho-ho

Santa Camp (2022) • View trailer

Four stars (out of five). Rated TV-MA, for profanity and occasional sexual candor

Available via: HBO Max

By Derrick Bang

It was bad enough when ultra-conservative American Christians were confronted with the notion that Jesus, as a Middle Eastern Jew, almost certainly would have had olive skin, brown to black hair, and brown eyes.

 

Despite his big heart and can-do spirit, Chris (center) can't
help feeling out of place amid a sea of lily-white
Santas and Mrs. Clauses.

No surprise: They rejected this suggestion.

(I’ve always felt that composer Alfred Burt’s poignant seasonal song, 1951’s “Some Children See Him,” states the case quite eloquently.)

 

But broadening the appearance of Santa Claus? 

 

That’s an even tougher sell in this country.

 

Nick Sweeney’s delightful documentary would have been a charmer had he solely detailed the traditional activities of the annual “Santa Camp” that takes place each August in the New Hampshire woods: a two-day “crash course” devoted to helping professional Santas, Mrs. Clauses and elves learn the tricks of their trades, in order to become the best possible version of the characters who populate malls and department stores every year.

 

He also opens with a hilarious title credits montage, which will be familiar to any parent.

 

But Sweeney’s film dovetailed with the New England Santa Society’s decision that this would be no ordinary year, after a pre-event discussion that revolved around the increasingly obvious possibility that the Jolly Red Elf might have a “diversity problem.”

 

This wasn’t an overnight decision. As Sweeney depicts in brief archive footage, the Mall of America faced considerable wrath when retired Army captain Larry Jefferson became the venue’s first Black Santa, back in 2016. The online rants were bad enough, but they were encouraged by the racist, bloviating talking heads at (where else?) Fox News.

 

Which continues to this day, spearheaded in great part by television journalist Megyn Kelly’s stubborn declaration that Santa “must be white.”

 

Although casual myth-making generally credits the American Santa to England’s Father Christmas and the Dutch figure of Sinterklass, actual history traces the legend back to the monk St. Nicholas, born roughly around 280 A.D. in — wait for it — Patara, near Myrna in modern-day Turkey. (Care to guess what color his skin likely would have been?)

 

The “whiteness” of our American Santa results from two much more recent sources: political cartoonist Thomas Nast, whose January 1863 illustration for Harper’s Weekly established the mold; and Coca-Cola execs, who in 1931 hired illustrator Haddon Sundblom to paint Santa for Christmas advertisements. Drawing inspiration from Clement Clark Moore’s 1822 poem, commonly known as “Twas the Night Before Christmas,” Sundblom firmly established Santa as a warm, happy, elderly white guy with rosy cheeks, a full beard, twinkling eyes and laugh lines.