Bullet Train: One helluva ride!

Bullet Train (2022) • View trailer

Four stars (out of five). Rated R, for strong bloody violence, gore, relentless profanity and brief sexuality

Available via: Movie theaters

By Derrick Bang

The first 10-15 minutes of this film are remarkably off-putting.

 

We’re dumped into the midst of a story in progress, with numerous characters muttering sotto voce dialogue that gets buried beneath a shrieking pop score soundtrack. A gory and unpalatable flashback illuminates a running argument between two posh assassins over whether they’ve thus far killed 16 or 17 people.

 

Ladybug (Brad Pitt, left) believes that he has made an easy score, when he quickly
locates the metal briefcase he's been hired to snatch. Then he encounters Wolf
(Benito A Martinez Ocasio), merely the first of numerous assassins on this
bullet train run from Tokyo to Kyoto.

Elsewhere, Brad Pitt wanders amid the cacophony of late-night Tokyo — bewildered but purposeful — following instructions from a cool, soothing female “handler” at the other end of his phone.

Honestly, you’ll be tempted to bail …

 

… but that would be a mistake.

 

Once this film settles into its groove — and, more importantly, once viewers embrace that groove — this stylish, gleefully violent romp is a lot of fun.

 

Due in great part to Pitt’s increasingly amusing “Who, me?” performance.

 

Director David Leitch’s heavily stylized, unapologetically brutal thriller is a mash-up of Guy Ritchie-style crime romps and bloodthirsty Japanese yakuza epics, replete with wrathful assassins who go by code names, and have various scores to settle. Pitt’s character — dubbed “Ladybug” for the purposes of this snatch-and-grab assignment — swans not-quite-helplessly through this increasingly lethal chaos: the ultimate (comparative) innocent in the wrong place at the wrong time.

 

He has been tasked with retrieving a certain metal briefcase on the Töhoku Shinkansen Hayate bullet train run between Tokyo and Kyoto. It should be simple: Find the briefcase, depart the train at its next stop, liaise with his unseen handler.

 

What poor Ladybug doesn’t know — what we also don’t know, and learn only in fits and starts, as he does — is that the case is in the possession of the useless, wayward son (Logan Lerman) of White Death (Michael Shannon), a reclusive and much-feared Russian kingpin within the international crime scene.

 

White Wolf’s son is being chaperoned by professional killers Tangerine (Aaron Taylor-Johnson) and Lemon (Brian Tyree Henry). The former is a Savile dandy with slicked-back hair and a penchant for erudite, long-winded speeches; the latter has a guileless demeanor and an uncanny ability to “read” people honed from (I’m not making this up) a lifelong study of Thomas the Tank Engine.

 

Ah, but this is a very busy train. The passengers also include Kimura (Andrew Koji), an alcoholic, low-level Tokyo criminal who has hit rock-bottom after failing to stop the unknown culprit who shoved his young son off the roof of a tall building. With family honor at stake, Kimura has concocted a mad scheme that will put him face-to-face with his target.

 

Then there’s Wolf (Benito A Martinez Ocasio), a rage-fueled assassin with a score to settle against Ladybug; The Hornet (Zazie Beetz), a master of disguise with a lethal sting, who travels beneath the radar of every job she accepts; and Prince (Joey King), a seemingly angelic young woman whose sweet looks and tender voice conceal torturous tendencies.

 

Oh, and let’s not forget the boomslang, a highly dangerous snake stolen from the Tokyo Zoo, whose highly toxic venom causes victims to bleed out from every bodily orifice within 90 seconds.

 

And off we go…

Eternals: Superheroes redux

Eternals (2021) • View trailer

3.5 stars (out of five). Rated PG-13, for fantasy violence, brief sexuality and fleeting profanity

Available via: Movie theaters

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 11.05.21 

The Marvel Cinematic Universe is getting crowded.

 

Seriously, one wonders why these folks don’t bump into each other.

 

Ikaris (Richard Madden) is unpleasantly surprised to discover that this particularly nasty
Deviant monster seems impervious to his energy blasts.

“Well hello there,” Thor says cheerfully, and he spots Ikaris (more on him in a moment) jetting in the opposite direction. “Whachu up to?”

 

“Got a big, slimy monster to put down, which just emerged in the Arctic,” Ikaris replies.

 

“You, too?” Thor adds, before the other is out of earshot. “What say we compare notes over a few brews, after?”

 

“You’re on!” Ikaris shouts, as he vanishes over the horizon.

 

(Ahem.)

 

As envisioned by comic book luminary Jack Kirby back in 1976, Eternals existed on a cosmological, universe-shaping plain far removed — and quite separate — from everyday superheroes. (Think all-makers such as Odin and Zeus, blended with the arrogant amorality of Thanos and Galactus.)

 

But director Chloé Zhao — a recent double-Oscar winner, for last year’s Nomadland — was tasked with blending the Eternals with the rest of the MCU. The result — co-scripted with Patrick Burleigh, Ryan Firpo and Kaz Firpo — still feels mostly like a stand-alone entity, although passing reference is made to the Avengers.

 

As is typical of so many superhero movies, the first two acts are thoughtful, engaging and character-driven. Zhao has a sensitive touch with inter-personal relations: no doubt the reason she was chosen to helm this ambitious slice of myth-making. And while the climactic third act maintains the emotional angst, it also descends into the usual, bombastic sturm und drang that overstays this film’s 157 minutes.

 

So: Bear with me.

 

For untold millennia, the massive Celestials — picture brooding, blood red, rock-encrusted, six-sunken-eyed beings the size of our moon — have created new civilizations by seeding planets throughout the galaxy. The Celestials “cleanse” a given planet of pesky apex predators, by sending monstrous Deviants to perform this culling; the Deviants then are destroyed by the noble Eternals, who subsequently (but subtly) help “shape” the rise of the dominant bipedal civilization.

 

(Seems a rather complicated way to do what evolution handles on its own, but hey: Who am I to argue with a Celestial?)

 

(There’s also a rather strong echo of the Transformers series’ ongoing war between autobots and decepticons, which diminishes some of this film’s originality.)

 

The Woman in the Window: Draw the curtains

The Woman in the Window (2021) • View trailer

2.5 stars. Rated R, for violence and profanity

By Derrick Bang

This one should have been a slam-dunk, because the premise is irresistible.

 

And classic.

 

(Alfred Hitchcock certainly thought so, back in the day.)

 

Jane (Julianne Moore, right) proudly shows Anna (Amy Adams) a photo of her son,
which she keeps in a locket.

Consider the elements: Author A.J. Finn’s best-selling 2018 thriller, adapted for the screen by Tony- and Pulitzer-winning playwright Tracy Letts; a top-flight cast headed by Amy Adams, Gary Oldman, Julianne Moore and Jennifer Jason Leigh; and director Joe Wright, whose striking visual sense has propelled terrific films such as Pride & Prejudice, Atonement and Darkest Hour.

 

Trouble is, we’ll likely never see the film this team created.

 

The Woman in the Window became an orphan when its studio parent, Fox 2000, was absorbed by Disney in March 2019. (In a demonstration of childish behavior akin to Nature at her cruelest, takeover studios rarely embrace projects birthed by the vanquished “parent.”) Bowing to unfavorable test screenings, Disney demanded re-shoots and new material scripted by an uncredited Tony Gilroy.

 

What now has hit the screen is awkward, to say the least. And I can’t imagine this version is superior to what Wright and Letts delivered the first time.

 

New York City-based child psychologist Anna Fox (Adams), crippled by a severe case of agoraphobia, has been unable to leave her Manhattan brownstone for nearly a year. She’s trying to work this out via frequent sessions with her visiting psychiatrist, Dr. Landy (Letts, in a solid cameo).

 

He has put her through an ongoing cocktail of prescription drugs; the most recent, Elevan, comes with a strict warning not to mix it with alcohol. Which doesn’t stop Anna from drinking a lot of wine.

 

She’s estranged from her husband Ed (Anthony Mackie) and their daughter Olivia (Mariah Bozeman), although they chat daily on the phone. Anna also has the company of a tenant: aspiring musician David Winter (Wyatt Russell), who lives in the basement, runs errands for her, and handles odd jobs throughout the house.

 

Anna passes the time by watching classic film noirs — a brief clip from Hitchcock’s Spellbound is a bit on the nose — and observing the comings and goings in the buildings across the street, from the safety of her front windows. She therefore notices when a new family, the Russells, moves in directly opposite her brownstown. She’s charmed when 15-year-old Ethan (Fred Hechinger) pays a visit, to give Anna a “hello” gift from his mother.

 

Anna immediately senses that Ethan is oddly uncomfortable, perhaps distracted, for some reason he’s much too shy to share. They nonetheless part as friends.

Godzilla vs. Kong: Thud and blunder

Godzilla vs. Kong (2021) • View trailer

Two stars. Rated PG-13, for dramatic intensity, relentless carnage and brief profanity

By Derrick Bang

Back in the golden age of Universal Studios monster movies, when one character’s popularity began to wane, he’d be set against another.

 

Although completely dwarfed by the massive Kong, Jia (Kaylee Hottle) isn't the slightest
bit afraid of him; indeed, she and the mighty ape share a special bond.

Ergo, we got Frankenstein Meets the Wolf Man in 1943, followed by the triple-threat of Dracula, Frankenstein’s Monster and the Wolf Man in 1944’s House of Frankenstein.

 

And when Universal got really desperate, their monsters became shameful comedic foils for Abbott and Costello.

 

Despite being silly, pratfall-laden spoofs, even they were far more entertaining than this noisy, landscape-leveling dust-up between Godzilla and Kong (this revived franchise apparently having dropped the “King” from the latter).

 

In fairness, director Adam Wingard’s monster mash — available via HBO Max, and at operational movie theaters — is somewhat better than 2019’s thoroughly deplorable Godzilla, King of the Monsters (although, yes, that’s damning with faint praise). Wingard and editor Josh Schaeffer move this entry along more efficiently — at least until the interminable third act — and the CGI animators get a welcome level of emotional depth from Kong.

 

But the major problem, as before, is the script: a sloppily assembled, seemingly random collection of set-pieces populated by — for the most part — stiff-as-a-board characters too vacuous to be regarded as even one-dimensional. (A few exceptions stand out, and I’ll get to them in a moment.)

 

This (ahem) Frankenstein’s monster of a story is credited to Eric Pearson, Terry Rossio, Michael Dougherty, Zach Shields and Max Borenstein, the latter three responsible for writing the aforementioned Godzilla, King of the Monsters. So I guess we can credit Pearson and Rossio with this new film’s slight improvement.

 

Matters begin well, with Kong safely — but unhappily — housed in a huge biodome located on Skull Island (presumably cleared of all the other huge and nasty beasts we met in 2017’s Kong: Skull Island, by far the best of these films). He has bonded with Jia (Kaylee Hottle), a young, deaf/mute orphan whom the mighty ape both trusts and — to a degree — obeys, via their shared sign language. This relationship is the film’s strongest note, due to the nuanced sensitivity of Hottle’s performance; she immediately wins our hearts and minds.

 

Jia shares a similarly loving and caring bond with her adoptive mother, Dr. Ilene Andrews (Rebecca Hall), an anthropological linguist attached to Monarch, the world government’s crypto-zoological agency dedicated to the study of “Titans” such as Kong. Hottle and Hall work well together; it’s a shame they’re not granted larger roles. Like, in place of everybody else in the film.

Spider-Men: Into the Spider-Verse — A needlessly tangled web

Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018) • View trailer 
3.5 stars. Rated PG for frantic animated action violence
By Derrick Bang

In today’s pop-culture entertainment world, you can’t have too much of a good thing.

When Marvel’s initial Amazing Spider-Man comic book becomes a smash success, the next move is obvious: Start publishing another dozen (or two) Spider-Man titles. If this cuts into the sales of the character’s flagship title, no matter; the combined overall sales are bound to increase.

Having barely gotten a sense of the whole web-slinging concept, young Miles discovers
that swinging between city buildings is a lot harder than it looks.

And if Spider-Man himself is a major part of the allure, then the next move is equally obvious: Concoct a storyline that creates more Spider-heroes. Thanks to one of sci-fi’s most overworked clichés — the notion of multiple parallel universes, where things are familiar but (tellingly) not quite the same — that’s a snap.

On top of which, the beauty of alternate realities is that writers can do something drastic — such as kill off a beloved character — without damaging continuity in our “core” reality.

The ultimate means of eating one’s cake, and having it too.

But care must be taken. If the original franchise — and character(s) — are diluted too much, everybody loses interest in the whole enterprise.

In fairness, directors Bob Persichetti, Peter Ramsey and Rodney Rothman have done a mostly commendable job with the animated Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse. Rothman and co-scripter Phil Lord deftly navigate the physics-challenged complexities of the alternate universe premise, while granting a solid origin story to a younger, equally captivating, but woefully inexperienced Spider-Man.

That would be Miles Morales (voiced by Shameik Moore), an Afro-Latino teenager who debuted in a complicated 2011 Marvel Comics storyline, and has remained popular enough to earn his own ongoing series.

But he’s not the character with whom this fast-paced, audaciously twisty saga begins. We’re instead (re)introduced to good ol’ Peter Parker, our one and only Spider-Man, who extols his uniqueness during a narrated prologue that cleverly references previous comic book adventures, along with iconic scenes from the live-action films that began in 2002 (most notably that sexy upside-down smooch with Mary Jane).

Poor Peter has his hands full, because the nefarious Wilson Fisk — better known as the Kingpin (Liev Schreiber) — has teamed up with a theoretical physicist, in order to access the “multiverse” for a deeply personal reason. But Peter is enough of a scientist himself, to know that Fisk’s reality-bending device will have drastic consequences, and therefore must be destroyed.

Widows: Revenge with style

Widows (2018) • View trailer 
Four stars. Rated R, for violence, profanity, nudity and sexual content
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 11.16.18

This one hits the ground running — literally — and never lets up.

Director Steve McQueen’s skillfully constructed crime thriller boasts a top-flight ensemble cast and a sharp script — from McQueen and Gillian Flynn — along with slick editing (Joe Walker) and creative cinematography (Sean Bobbitt), which a camera that frequently crouches and prowls around walls and cars. The latter two elements contribute to a rising level of nail-biting tension that becomes nearly unbearable by the explosive climax.

Veronica (Viola Davis, center), grieving over the sudden, violent loss of her husband, is
comforted by political candidate Jack Mulligan (Colin Farrell), who insists that she get
in touch if she ever needs anything. She'll find cause to hold him to that promise...

Everything that a taut suspenser should be.

McQueen’s film is adapted and updated from an equally hard-boiled, six-part 1983 British miniseries written by Lynda La Plante, best known on these shores for having created DCI Jane Tennison, in the riveting Prime Suspect franchise. La Plante set the narrative in London; McQueen and Flynn transplant the action to Chicago, while adding a strong — and brilliantly integrated — political element.

(Chicagoans must wonder whether their city ever will escape its corruption-laden reputation.)

The story kicks off on a heist-in-progress gone violently awry, as a four-man crew led by Harry Rawlings (Liam Neeson) attempts to escape in a van, while police cars descend from all directions. This sequence is intercut with glimpses of earlier, calmer moments between the men and their four wives: Harry and Veronica (Viola Davis) in bed, deeply in love with each other; Linda (Michelle Rodriguez), arguing finances with the evasive Carlos (Manuel Garcia-Rulfo); Alice (Elizabeth Debicki), a Polish immigrant bride nursing another black eye inflicted by the abusive Florek (Jon Bernthal); and Amanda (Carrie Coon), happily nesting and co-parenting a newborn infant.

Back in the moment, Harry screeches the van into their warehouse hangout, two of his accomplices tending to the badly wounded third. But it’s a trap; surrounding police unleash a fusillade of gunfire. The van explodes and burns hot, leaving nothing but charred remains.

Meanwhile…

Jack Mulligan (Colin Farrell), a legacy candidate running for alderman in Chicago’s 18th Ward, pays a visit to the modest campaign headquarters of Jamal Manning (Brian Tyree Henry), the African-American opponent whose poll numbers have begun to climb. Jack’s family has run (and looted) the 18th Ward for generations, and Jack isn’t about to let that change on his watch; his viciously racist father, Tom (a savage, venom-spewing Robert Duvall), wouldn’t tolerate it.

This superficially cordial tête-à-tête between Jack and Jamal bristles with veiled threats and razor-sharp dialogue (which McQueen and Flynn continue to pen throughout the film). Jack clearly is as crooked as a spent match, dogged by accusations of having “extracted” $5 million from various phony public works projects. But it quickly transpires — after Jack departs — that the seemingly virtuous Jamal is no better.

Worse yet, Jamal’s interests are safeguarded by his homicidal younger brother Jatemme (Daniel Kaluuya, recognized from last year’s Get Out), a psychopath with a fondness for using guns and sharp knives to extract information … or eliminate “problems.”

White Boy Rick: Not worth the bother

White Boy Rick (2018) • View trailer 
Two stars. Rated R, for profanity, drug content, violence, sexual candor and brief nudity
By Derrick Bang

The point of this film — the reason for its existence — eludes me.

The press notes proclaim it a “moving story” of a blue-collar kid who “enters into a Faustian bargain” and ultimately is “manipulated by the very system meant to protect him” and “betrayed by the institutional injustice and corruption that defined Detroit, the home they loved.”

The hook is planted: Ricky (Richie Merritt, left), not wanting his father to be arrested,
reluctantly agrees to a dangerous undercover scheme proposed by FBI agents
Snyder (Jennifer Jason Leigh) and Byrd (Rory Cochrane).

Like, wow. Lay it on a bit thicker, could you?

Makes me wonder if these folks watched their own film.

At no time can the narrative in White Boy Rick be considered “moving” to any degree, nor is there room for an ounce of sympathy for any of these individuals. It’s impossible to chart a fall from grace, when somebody hasn’t any to begin with.

Nobody in director Yann Demange’s film is likable:  not for a nanosecond. Nor are they interesting/captivating in the manner of characters in a Martin Scorsese crime film. These are just mopes,  and spending 110 minutes with this gaggle of amoral scumbags and opportunists is a bewildering waste of time. 

We reach the conclusion and wonder, okay … to what purpose?

Demange’s filmmaking skills are acceptable, and several performances are noteworthy. Screenwriters Andy Weiss, Logan Miller and Noah Miller adhere respectably to the real-world facts, and Tat Radcliffe’s grainy, gritty cinematography gives this saga the feel of a documentary; there’s a sense that these events are happening in real time, and we’re granted access as invisible observers.

An argument can be made that law enforcement officials shouldn’t take advantage of ingenuous minors, but Ricky Wershe Jr. was hardly a poster child for exploited innocence. He was a seasoned delinquent without a trace of conscience long before the FBI came calling; blame for that undoubtedly falls on the shoulders of his low-life father, who cheerfully schooled his son in a life of crime.

We meet 14-year-old Ricky (Richie Merritt) as he helps his father (Matthew McConaughey) out-hustle a bent dealer at a Detroit gun show. It’s immediately apparent that Rick Sr. is a blue-sky dreamer who flits from one unlikely get-rich-quick scheme to another; his current “occupation” involves selling illegally enhanced AK-47s to local thugs.

Ricky, his older sister Dawn (Bel Powley) and their father eke out a lower middle-class existence in a predominantly African-American eastside neighborhood, roughly seven miles from downtown Detroit. Ricky’s grandparents — Ray (Bruce Dern) and Verna (Piper Laurie) — live across the street, grimly hanging onto their memories of a time when the area was booming, and filled with Chrysler employees and their families.

Hotel Artemis: Make a reservation!

Hotel Artemis (2018) • View trailer 
3.5 stars. Rated R, for violence, profanity, sexual references and drug use
By Derrick Bang

Back in the era of double features — when dinosaurs roamed the earth — a prestige “A-picture” frequently was accompanied by a low-budget companion pejoratively known as the “B-picture.”

The Nurse (Jodie Foster) and her newest patient — the local crime lord known as
Wolfking (a bloody Jeff Goldblum) — argue "politely" over chain of command, while the
latter's hair-trigger son (Zachary Quinto, center) watches with mounting impatience.

But a studio’s more modest units often were a training ground for gifted, up-and-coming talents, and it wasn’t at all unusual for a B-film to be more entertaining than the bloated, top-of-the-bill “spectacular” that brought folks into the theater.

Given Hollywood’s current obsession with over-hyped franchises and brain-dead popcorn fare, we’ve once again entered a time when unpretentious indie productions can be far more interesting than their mega-budget cousins. We simply don’t call ’em B-films anymore.

Case in point: Hotel Artemis, which marks an impressive directorial debut by writer/producer Drew Pearce, best known — up to this point — as part of the scripting teams on Iron Man 3 and Mission: Impossible – Rogue Nation. Pearce’s first solo effort as writer/director is a smart, savvy “what if” thriller set in the near future, with an intriguing premise that makes excellent use of ornately moody surroundings and a solid ensemble cast.

The setting is downtown Los Angeles, late on an average evening in the year 2028. (“It’s a Wednesday,” one of our primary characters wearily repeats on occasion, shaking her head each time.) The most violent riot in L.A. history has entered its third night, with the privatized police force pummeling blue-painted protestors whose only demand is clean water ... because the city’s water supply also has been privatized. Those who don’t pay get their bills cut off.

(As has been noted on numerous occasions, the best science-fiction is that which takes place in a near future that doesn’t seem far removed from reality. Frankly — given the degree to which today’s privileged one percent works so aggressively to disenfranchise the rest of us — I find Pearce’s notion disturbingly prophetic.)

One outwardly decrepit building stands undisturbed amidst a chaos that includes police helicopters being blasted out of the sky by weaponized drones: the imposing Hotel Artemis, seemingly a dilapidated relic of a long-ago past, when it might have been filled with movie stars, high-rollers and local aristocrats.