His Three Daughters: Tense, touching and tragic

His Three Daughters (2024) • View trailer

Four stars (out of five). Rated R, for profanity and drug use

Available via: Netflix

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 10.20.24

The fact that this film’s title isn’t Three Sisters is telling.

 

Writer/director Azazel Jacobs opens his story in what feels like the middle of the first act.. Katie (Carrie Coon), Christina (Elizabeth Olsen) and Rachel (Natasha Lyonne) are gathered inside their father’s New York City apartment. He has neared the end of a battle against cancer, and has just entered hospice care.

 

Nervous exhaustion leads to an unexpectedly tender moment between, clockwise from
top, Christina (Elizabeth Olsen), Katie (Carrie Coon) and Rachel (Natasha Lyonne).

The three women, clearly uncomfortable in each other’s presence, cope in ways that enhance the friction between them. 

What follows takes place over the course of three volatile days.

 

Katie, the eldest and most practical, adopts an authoritative, take-charge manner that involves lists, schedules, phone calls, food for each meal, and “behavioral suggestions” that feel more like commands than requests. (She must’ve been hell to grow up with, as a bossy older sister.) Being useful is her way of coping ... but, ironically, she has no control over her teenage daughter back in Brooklyn.

 

Rachel, a casually sloppy, failure-to-launch stoner who spends all her time sports gambling, does her best to stay out of the way ... and particularly away from Katie’s gaze. 

 

The holistic and somewhat shy Christina, who gamely tries to run interference between the other two, chatters constantly about missing her own young daughter, Mirabelle, back at their West Coast home. She calms herself via yoga, and sings Grateful Dead songs to their father, much to the bewilderment of the other two women. Olsen makes Christina a bit too radiant; we halfway expect to see her surrounded by an aura.

 

Being thrown together by this tragic end-game is uncomfortable enough; it’s even worse because the apartment is so claustrophobic. Jacobs and cinematographer Sam Levy filmed in an actual apartment — not a film set, with moveable walls — which further enhances the tight closeness. (I wondered, at times, where the heck Levy put his camera!) The film stock is warm and slightly grainy, which adds a sense that we’re eavesdropping via a lengthy and painfully intimate home movie.

 

The result feels very much like a stage play, and possesses the same dramatic intensity.

 

The tableau opens up only when Rachel goes outside for a fresh toke ... and to escape Katie’s tight-lipped disapproval. This exasperates the building’s security guard, Victor (Jose Febus), who fields complaints from other tenants unhappy about the smell of smoke. (Not marijuana per se, but any smoke.) 

 

Victor’s amused annoyance notwithstanding, he and Rachel clearly are fond of each other.

Ghostbusters: Frozen Empire — Give 'em a call!

Ghostbusters: Frozen Empire (2024) • View trailer

Four stars (out of five). Rated PG-13, for supernatural action/violence, mild profanity and suggestive references

Available via: Movie theaters

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 3.22.24

Sometimes dreams do come true.

 

When 2021’s Ghostbusters: Afterlife proved successful, with its (mostly) new cast of younger characters, those of us who’ve adored this franchise since 1984 thought, Boy, wouldn’t it be nice if the new gang and the entire old gang got together in the next entry?

 

The inquisitive Ghostbusters — from left, Phoebe (Mckenna Grace), Podcast (Logan Kim)
and Ray (Dan Aykroyd) — are horrified by what Hubert Wartzki (Patton Oswalt) reveals
about the mysterious brass orb in their possession.

Well, it appears that the notoriously fickle Bill Murray decided that he couldn’t miss out on the fun this time. He, Dan Aykroyd, Ernie Hudson and Annie Potts have key roles in this Earth-shattering adventure.

But the planetary threat comes later. As was the case with Afterlife, director Gil Kenan and co-scripter Jason Reitman take their time with smaller matters that allow solid character development. The focus this time is on Phoebe Spengler (Mckenna Grace), who — following her family’s destructive Eccto-1 chase through New York City streets, in pursuit of a shimmering Sewer Dragon ghost — gets benched by the infuriated Mayor Walter Peck (William Atherton), because, well, at 15 she’s a minor. 

 

It gets worse. The contemptuous Peck — Atherton, at his snarling best — warns Callie Spengler (Carrie Coon), Trevor Spengler (Finn Wolfhard) and Gary Grooberson (Paul Rudd) that he’s waiting for just one more excuse to shut down the Ghostbusters. 

 

He also wants to raze their beloved firehouse headquarters.

 

(You’d think the former team’s past accomplishments would have counted for something. But People In Authority never learn.)

 

Elsewhere, Podcast (Logan Kim) continues to help Ray Stantz (Aykroyd) become a YouTube influencer, with his weekly online explorations of everyday household objects that either are haunted ... or merely old. Ray is surprised, one day, when an opportunistic slacker, Nadeem Razmaadi (Kumail Nanjiani), turns up hoping to trade a box of his grandmother’s old possessions for fast cash. The contents include a mysterious, softball-size brass orb covered with ancient glyphs.

 

Still elsewhere, at the Paranormal Research Center run by Winston Zeddemore (Hudson), he and Lucky (Celeste O’Connor) — assisted by brainy newcomer Lars Pinfield (James Acaster) — have perfected next-gen equipment to extract and contain ectoplasmic essence.

 

As for Peter Venkman (Murray) ... well, rumor has it that if you want to get in touch with him, you leave a message on an answering machine somewhere (which, believe it or not, is the only way people can try to get Murray to accept a role, in the real world).

Boston Strangler: Riveting true-crime drama

Boston Strangler (2023) • View trailer

Four stars (out of five). Rated R, for profanity and violent content

Available via: Hulu

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 3.17.23

Writer/director Matt Ruskin’s new film is an excellent companion to last autumn’s She Said.

 

His fact-based account of the early 1960s serial killer is far more honest than its 1968 big-screen predecessor, with Tony Curtis in the title role; it focused exclusively on a lead detective — played by Henry Fonda — who “single-handedly” obtains the murderer’s confession.

 

After Jean Cole (Carrie Coon, left) and Loretta McLaughlin (Keira Knightley) become the
"public face" of the rapidly developing Boston Strangler story, they're soon flooded by
hundreds of letters from women who insist they've been approached by the killer.

That film is, to put it kindly, a work of fiction very loosely inspired by actual events.

It completely ignored the two newspaper journalists who — most crucially — broke the story; recognized the crucial patterns that pointed to a serial killer (a phrase not even coined, at the time); and doggedly pursued subsequent leads … much to the displeasure of the Boston police.

 

Both were women, of course: Boston Record-American journalists Loretta McLaughlin and Jean Cole, played here by (respectively) Keira Knightley and Carrie Coon.

 

We’ve lately been enjoying a welcome surfeit of films that shine a long-overdue light on previously unsung women of major consequence, from 2016’s Queen of Katwe and Hidden Figures, to last year’s The Woman King and She Said (all of which make me wonder how many more equally inspiring stories are waiting to be told).

 

Boston Strangler definitely belongs in their company.

 

Knightley’s McLaughlin is introduced as an ambitious journalist thoroughly bored — and frustrated — by the softball society column fluff to which she has been relegated. Efforts to cover meatier material get shot down by her editor, Jack Maclaine (Chris Cooper, appropriately gruff and grizzled), who is sympathetic but unwilling to budge.

 

The message is clear: “This is simply the way of things.”

 

But McLaughlin continues to follow police reports, and becomes intrigued by the murders of three Boston women, aged 56 to 85, during the latter half of June 1962. Lacking any effective inter-departmental means to share information, and with differing jurisdictional oversight in various parts of the city, the police fail to recognize a common element that links the killings: the fact that all three were strangled with nylon stockings or a bathrobe belt.

 

Another odd detail: None of the apartments showed signs of forced entry, suggesting that the victims either knew the killer, or assumed he was a “trusted” figure such as a building maintenance man, or some other service individual. (We roll our eyes, at the thought of such naïve, innocent times.)

 

McLaughlin wants to pursue this lead; Maclaine won’t have it. But he grudgingly agrees to let her profile the three victims — on her own time — to learn if they had anything else in common.

 

Ghostbusters: Afterlife — Definitely worth a call

Ghostbusters: Afterlife (2021) • View trailer

Four stars (out of five). Rated PG-13, for supernatural action and intensity

Available via: Movie theaters 

By Derrick Bang

This is just as much fun as the 1984 original.

 

But it goes deeper than that. Director Jason Reitman — who co-wrote this new film’s script with Gil Kenan — also honor that four-decades-old classic. Although we’re introduced to an entirely new set of characters, the all-important tone and balance are maintained: same snarky humor and whimsical atmosphere, along with some genuinely scary jolts and gotcha moments.

 

Following a wild, hell-for-leather chase, Trevor (Finn Wolfhard, left) Phoebe (Mckenna
Grace) and Podcast (Logan Kim) realize that something definitely is wrong inside the
ominous mountain outside their small town.

(Reitman and all concerned wisely pretend that 2016’s abysmal, gal-oriented remake never happened.)

Composer Rob Simonsen even quotes much of the late Elmer Bernstein’s score for the 1984 film, at first teasing us with occasional chordal hints, and finally — as we move into the exciting third act — unveiling Bernstein’s primary themes in their entirety. 

 

(Bearing in mind how much of Bernstein’s music is used, a highly visible co-credit for this film’s score would have been proper, rather than the tiny “original themes” acknowledgment buried deep within the voluminous end credits crawl.)

 

Considerable time has passed in this franchise’s universe, as it did in the real world. Following a spooky, suspenseful prologue, we meet single mom Callie (Carrie Coon), her 15-year-old son Trevor (Finn Wolfhard) and 12-year-old daughter Phoebe (Mckenna Grace). Everything has gone wrong in poor Callie’s life, up to a sudden eviction that leaves them homeless.

 

With nowhere else to go, they drive to the tiny community of Summerville, Oklahoma, where her long-estranged father spent the final decades of his life in a ramshackle farmhouse. Callie hopes to sell the place and its contents for enough to make a fresh start, but a local Realtor (Annie Potts, fleetingly reprising her role as Janine Melnitz) gently explains that the land is worthless, and the property burdened by debt.

 

So they settle in. Reluctantly.

 

Trevor, a typical teenage boy, immediately makes a clumsy play for Lucky (Celeste O’Connor), who works at a retro, roller-skating fast-food joint. He’s obviously punching above his weight, but she finds him amusing, and tolerates his presence; he soon joins her clique of friends.

 

Callie, mindful that her curious, super-smart but socially hopeless daughter needs some sort of focus, enrolls Phoebe in the local middle school’s summer session science class. She immediately comes to the attention of Podcast (Logan Kim, utterly adorable), so named because he constantly films and interviews anybody who foolishly fails to evade him.

 

The irrepressibly cheerful Podcast is an impetuous, fearless chatterbox; Phoebe is quiet, shy and stoic. She also can’t tell a joke to save her life (a cute running gag with a terrific third-act payoff). But they’re both inquisitive and boldly (foolishly?) scientific. Naturally, they become fast friends.

 

Phoebe also catches the eye of the class teacher, Gary Grooberson (Paul Rudd), an affable guy with a laser-focused interest in seismology: specifically the region surrounding Summerville, which seems prone to far more than its share of earthquakes.

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.”

Gone Girl: A thriller for the ages

Gone Girl (2014) • View trailer 
Five stars. Rated R, for strong violence, profanity, sexual content and nudity
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 10.3.14

Thrillers rarely get the respect they deserve.

Oh, sure; it’s a popular genre that sells plenty of tickets, but such public approbation is viewed with suspicion and scorn, when it comes time to hand out awards. The implication is that thrillers represent empty, pop-culture calories unworthy of serious recognition. Academy Awards go to historical dramas and intimate character pieces.

Back in the day, Nick (Ben Affleck) and Amy (Rosamund Pike) enjoyed a storybook
courtship in their beloved New York City surroundings, notably the bookstores both loved
to frequent. Sadly, many relationships cannot survive a crisis ... and this one is about to
be hit by several.

Oscar hasn’t given its Best Picture prize to a thriller since 1991’s The Silence of the Lambs.

That may be about to change.

Director David Fincher’s masterful handling of Gone Girl is much, much more than an impeccable translation of its wildly popular source novel (so rest easy, readers; I’m sure you’ll be pleased). This also is a tour de force of cinematic craft: one of those rare films that ingeniously utilizes every aspect of movie-making magic.

Fincher masterminds each detail with the meticulous scrutiny of a master conductor who pays careful attention to every last instrument, even those that play but a single note during an entire symphony. This is bravura filmmaking at its finest.

Fincher wisely has surrounded himself with a talented cadre of actors, all flawlessly cast, and an equally accomplished production crew. Then, too, he has the advantage of working with novelist Gillian Flynn, a first-time screenwriter who has adapted her own book with the same cunning that turned it into a page-turning best-seller.

Even capable novelists don’t always make good screenwriters; they’re entire different sciences. Flynn, clearly, is adept at both.

And that’s what it comes down to: All the aforementioned talent would be wasted, were the core narrative not up to snuff. Flynn’s storyline is mesmerizing, and not just for its deliciously twisty — even macabre — thrillers elements. She also unerringly skewers contemporary society’s bread-and-circuses infatuation with the mindless media “talking heads” who scurry like rats from one overblown crisis to the next, passing judgment without attempting even the most basic research legwork.

Because, at the end of the day, too many of us prefer such vacuous glitter and glitz, and get a vicarious thrill out of feeling superior to the maligned victim of the moment.

This particular victim-in-waiting is Nick Dunne (Ben Affleck), whom we meet on the morning of his fifth wedding anniversary: a milestone that doesn’t bring the pleasure one would expect from a guy who, he always insists, enjoyed a deliriously happy courtship and subsequent marriage with Amy (Rosamund Pike). Instead, as Nick strolls into the downtown bar that he co-owns with twin sister Margo (Carrie Coon), he seems ... troubled. Not quite himself.

A neighbor calls; Nick and Amy’s cat seems to have gotten out of their house. Nick returns home, restores their feline friend to indoor safety, and then spots an unsettling mess of upended furniture and broken glass in the living room. And Amy is nowhere to be found.