Zootopia 2: Another sure-fire hit!

Zootopia 2 (2025) • View trailer

4.5 stars (out of five). Rated PG, for action violence and mild rude humor

Available via: Movie theaters

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 11.30.25

This was a brave gamble.

 

2016’s Zootopia was a perfect film, and (as I wrote, at the time), a work of subversive genius: an enormously clever project that functioned both as a charming, suspenseful and exciting adventure, and also as a compelling parable of tolerance and inclusion.

 

While doggedly pursuing a fleeing suspect through waterlogged Marsh Market, Nick and
Judy accept transport from a rather unusual source.

Making a sequel, and risking the possibility of tarnishing the original film’s reputation, seemed foolhardy.

But they pulled it off.

 

Trust the talent involved: Co-directors Jared Bush and Byron Howard have returned, along with all the key voice actors. Bush also has the sole writing credit, and his cunning script is another impressive blend of cheeky character interaction, suspenseful action set-pieces and sly references to real-world issues, once again set in an alternate animals-only universe that hilariously sends up human behavior.

 

This film’s overall look and settings are just as visually rich and detail-laden as its predecessor, once again stuffed with far more sight gags and little bits of sidebar business than can possibly be absorbed in one viewing. 

 

The core plot also involves a cheeky nod to 1974’s Chinatown, which is rather audacious on Bush’s part.

 

Events resume where they left off. Plucky bunny Judy Hopps (voiced by Ginnifer Goodwin) and street-smart con artist-turned-good-guy fox Nick Wilde (Jason Bateman) have become the newest partner team in Zootopia’s police force. This naturally annoys the much larger, more ferocious teams of Hoggbottom and Truffler (razorback hogs), Bloats and Higgins (hippos) and Zebro Zebraxton and Zebro Zebrowski (zebras, of course … and the coolest cops in the station).

 

Mindful of the high expectations under which she and her new partner are operating, and desperate to prove that their first success wasn’t a fluke, Judy naturally disobeys orders, much to Nick’s exasperated consternation. She recklessly follows another of her shrewd hunches, nearly ruins an ongoing investigation, and wrecks untold city property during the first of this film’s madcap chase sequences.

 

This naturally confirms the dismissive opinions of her razorback, hippo and zebra colleagues, and also earns a stern public scolding by exasperated Chief Bogo (Idris Elba).

 

Privately, though, Bogo tells Judy that he likes and respects her, but warns that her unchecked behavior could jeopardize the dreams of other rabbits hoping to follow in her footsteps. Elba’s softened tone, during this gentle caution, is note-perfect.

A House of Dynamite: A chilling nail-biter

A House of Dynamite (2025) • View trailer

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

Available via: Netflix

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 11.02.25

This is our generation’s Dr. Strangelove ... but it’s deadly serious.

 

Director Kathryn Bigelow is right at home with intense, white-knuckle geo-political thrillers, having kept us glued to seats with 2008’s The Hurt Locker and 2012’s Zero  Dark Thirty. Even so, I suspect most viewers won’t be prepared for the deeply unsettling events of this disturbingly probable scenario.

 

Even as matters grow increasingly dire, and the atmosphere in the White House Situation
Room becomes more tense, Capt. Olivia Walker (Rebecca Ferguson) calmly
orchestrates and oversees all the necessary procedures.

As some of the film’s posters warn, “Not if ... when.”

Noah Oppenheim’s clever script is divided into three chapters, each of which concludes at a screaming point ... whereupon the clock rolls back, and we witness the same events through the eyes of different key players: folks at the other end of telephones, in situation rooms elsewhere, scrambling to replace somebody missing at a meeting. In each case, the second and third go-rounds expand upon details, amplify the tension, and minimize reasonable options.

 

The time is a reasonable extrapolation of our near future. Despite inroads made back in 1969, thanks to the Strategic Arms Limitations Talks and subsequent Anti-Ballistic Missile Treaty, nuclear proliferation once again has ramped up (as it already is, in our real world).

 

Part One, titled “Inclination Is Flattening,” focuses primarily on two sets of characters: the personnel at the White House Situation Room, supervised on this particular morning by Capt. Olivia Walker (Rebecca Ferguson); and the 49th Missile Defense Battalion at Fort Greely, Alaska, under the command of Maj. Daniel Gonzalez (Anthony Ramos).

 

Walker is informed of potentially troublesome recent events, notably an uptick in chatter between Iran and its proxies, and uncharacteristic silence from the DRPK (North Korea), following a ballistic missile test.

 

Then, suddenly, an sea-based early warning X-band radar station detects an unidentified intercontinental ballistic missile (ICBM) launch: not at point of origin — as should have been the case, thanks to orbiting Defense Support Program (DSP) satellites — but in mid-flight over the northwest Pacific Ocean. The initial assumption is that it’s simply another of the many DRPK test flights that’ll terminate in the Sea of Japan...

 

...but then the ICBM’s trajectory enters low orbit, with an updated strike target of Chicago.

 

In 19 minutes.

 

Hastily assembled phone and videoconferencing is established between the Situation Room, the Pentagon, various armed forces commands, and the President. Secretary of Defense Reid Baker (Jared Harris) initiates the continuity of governance protocol, which alerts armed soldiers to scoop up numerous “designated evacuees,” — willing or not — including Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) official Cathy Rogers (Moses Ingram).

 

Forced calm prevails, thanks to Walker’s steady hand at the tiller; we’re prepared for this sort of thing. Gonzalez and his team launch a pair of ground-based interceptors (GBIs), specifically designed to knock ICBMs out of the sky.

 

The countdown advances ... and advances...

Heads of State: Way over the top

Heads of State (2025) • View trailer

Three stars (out of five). Rated PG-13, and quite generously, despite strong action violence and profanity

Available via: Amazon Prime

By Derrick Bang 

This relentlessly silly movie will require a lot of patience, even from undemanding viewers inclined to be forgiving.

 

When Air Force One is blown out of the sky during a coordinated drone attack, U.S.
President Will Derringer (John Cena, left) and UK Prime Minister Sam Clarke
(Idris Elba) wonder if the next few minutes will be their last...

It’s basically a live-action cartoon, and the dog-nuts script — by Harrison Query, Josh Appelbaum and André Nemec — has plot holes large enough to swallow Air Force One. I frequently was reminded of Jackie Chan’s goofiest martial arts comedies, and the degree to which this flick succeeds, does so for the same reason: sheer star power.

Idris Elba and John Cena are a lot of fun together, and appear to have a great time in the midst of all the chaos ... so we do, as well. 

 

To a point.

 

Will Derringer (Cena) is the gung-ho President of the United States: a political neophyte after a successful career as an action movie star. Imagine Arnold Schwarzenegger’s Governator as the President: Derringer constantly employs Cena’s wide smile as if he’s greeting folks on the Hollywood red carpet, as opposed to anything resembling a statesman.

 

Sam Clarke (Elba) is Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, a relentlessly serious man who grieves over the state of the world, and quietly despairs over his inability to make things better. He’s refined, well-educated and loathes Derringer’s glib, glad-handed egocentricity; Derringer, in turn, never has forgiven Clarke for a deliberate slight during the U.S. presidential campaign.

 

But we don’t meet them immediately. Director Ilya Naisheller opens with a prologue set amid Spain’s annual Tomatina, a tomato-throwing festival that takes place in the town of Buñol, and is famed as the world’s largest food fight. Senior MI6 agent Noel Bisset (Priyanka Chopra Jonas) leads a surveillance team that hopes to capture notorious terrorist Viktor Gradov (Paddy Considine), who has been spotted in the town square.

 

Alas, it turns out to be a trap; Bisset and her entire team are ambushed by thugs led by Viktor’s ruthless pet assassins, Sasha and Olga (Alexander Kuznetsov and Katrina Durden, both impressively nasty).

 

This sequence is typical of the frequent, brutal violence that often works against the story’s humor, and also stretches the generous PG-13 rating.

 

Much as Clarke and Derringer dislike each other, they’re forced to make a public show of togetherness and mutual respect — displaying the long-standing “special relationship” between the U.S. and UK — while attending a NATO meeting in Italy. It’s a crucial gathering, because membership is wavering, in the face of an increasingly hostile and unpredictable world.

Three Thousand Years of Longing: Truly magical

Three Thousand Years of Longing (2022) • View trailer

Four stars (out of five). Rated R, for graphic nudity, sensuality and occasional violence

Available via: Movie theaters

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 8.26.22

Director George Miller’s unusual new fantasy is both intimate and opulent, delicate and explosive, genteel and vulgar.

 

Alithea (Tilda Swinton), an academic and longtime creature of logic and reason, finds
her core beliefs continuously challenged by probing questions from the acutely
perceptive Djinn (Idris Elba) that suddenly enters her life.

It seems a highly unlikely film to be made at a time when so much of the world is bitterly divided along partisan and sectarian lines … and yet, perhaps, this is precisely the right time to be reminded of the comforting and enduring power of storytelling and myth.

Miller and co-scripter Augusta Gore based this beguiling piece on the title tale in British novelist A. S. Byatt’s 1994 short story collection, “The Djinn in the Nightingale’s Eye.” Byatt — the pen name of Dame Antonia Susan Duffy — also holds the conventions of folk and fairy tales as a revealing mirror of contemporary society; there’s a strong sense in her work — and in Miller’s film — that those who ignore or dismiss myth are much the poorer for having done so.

 

Dr. Alithea Binnie (Tilda Swinton), a narratologist who has focused her career on how fables and myths have affected human development, is introduced as she arrives — the guest of honor — for a conference in Istanbul.

 

Her scholarly focus notwithstanding, she’s a stoic academic and creature of logic and reason: someone who long ago abandoned any desire to pursue romantic intangibles such as true love or unbridled passion. Swinton’s performance, in these early scenes, is brusque but not unfriendly, although close colleagues find Alithea’s demeanor a bit baffling (given her field of study).

 

That said, she’s also prone to occasional visions of fantastical beings from some sort of long-ago realm. 

 

It’s no accident, as she and her entourage make their way to the packed auditorium that awaits her presentation, that they pass a reference to a local production of Scheherazade.

 

The following day, seeking a bauble to commemorate this visit, she impulsively selects a delicate blue bottle from within an exotic gift shop. Back in her hotel room, she cleans it in the sink, snatching an electric toothbrush to scrub away the inset swirls.

 

And poof! The bottle top shoots out, and the room fills with a purplish-red mist laced with sparkling electromagnetic elements. They coalesce — at first massively, but ultimately at a somewhat more conventional size and shape — into a regal Djinn (Idris Elba) whose voice suggests thunder, even when calm and restrained.

The Suicide Squad: Totally deranged

The Suicide Squad (2021) • View trailer

Three stars (out of five). Rated R, for strong bloody violence and gore, relentless profanity, sexual references, drug use and fleeting graphic nudity

Available via: Movie theaters and HBO Max

By Derrick Bang

Fans of trash cinema — and their number is larger than you’d expect — fondly remember the 1980s glory days of Troma Studios, which brought us gleefully gruesome low-budget classics such as The Toxic Avenger, Surf Nazis Must Die, Rabid Grannies and Chopper Chicks in Zombietown, among many others. 

 

Having battled their way through most of an island nation, our "heroes" — from left,
Harley Quinn (Margot Robbie), Ratcatcher 2 (Daniela Melchior), Bloodsport (Idris Elba),
King Shark and Polka-Dot Man (David Dastmalchian) — simply cannot believe what
they now must deal with.

Writer/director James Gunn’s carnage-laden sequel to 2016’s Suicide Squad — this new one adds a crucial “The” — is like a Troma flick with a big-studio budget. That homage clearly is deliberate, since the voluminous end credits include an acknowledgment of The Toxic Avenger.

Which is to say, this is an unapologetically tasteless, offensive, gruesome and profane 132 minutes of hyper-violent gore, made (perhaps) a bit more palatable by equally relentless gallows humor. It’s The Dirty Dozen gone dog-nuts.

 

Gunn and visual effects supervisor Kelvin McIlwain include all possible means of torturing a human body, invariably amid gouts of splattered blood: decapitations, sliced limbs, craniotomies, gouged eyeballs, halfectomies (just what it sounds like), close-range shotgun blasts, and every other imaginable form of slicing and dicing. (Actually, they may have missed defenestration, but I’m not going back to double-check.)

 

Oh, yes: and being devoured by an enraged, land-based shark.

 

Gunn has no shortage of chutzpah. Recognizing that the 2016 film was a grim, joyless affair, he has doubled-down on this one’s unceasing snark. The most ridiculous lines, emerging at the most inappropriate moments, are uttered with straight-faced sincerity … which, of course, makes them even funnier (if your predilections run to such things).

 

And I do love the clever intertitles that bridge events and signal flashbacks (“Eight minutes earlier…”).

 

Gunn also earns geek cred for resurrecting some of the craziest characters ever introduced in DC comic book lore, such as the one updated here as TDK (and played by fan fave Nathan Fillion, although he’s hard to recognize beneath the mask); and the even more unlikely Starro the Conqueror, the first supervillain faced by the original Justice League of America, when that team debuted in early 1960.

 

Unlikely, to be sure … yet also quite creepy.

 

But that comes much later. Events kick off with the clandestine, late-night invasion of the island nation of Corto Maltese, which — thanks to a vicious regime change — suddenly has become a threat to the good ol’ US of A. Our assembled “mercenaries” are misfit, hyper-enhanced villains given this chance to shorten their sentences at Belle Reve, a prison with bragging rights for having the country’s highest mortality rate.

 

These degenerate delinquents are released to the care of Task Force X leader Col. Rick Flag (Joel Kinnaman), with their every move monitored back in the States by government techies supervised by the merciless Amanda Waller (Viola Davis). One false step, and she’ll activate the micro-bomb implanted in the base of each villain’s skull, thereby blowing his — or her — head off.

 

(Yes, of course we get to watch that happen.)

Concrete Cowboy: Hard-knock life

Concrete Cowboy (2020) • View trailer

3.5 stars. Rated R, from drug use, violence and relentless profanity

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 5.14.21

Now, this is tough love.

 

Director/co-scripter Ricky Staub’s impressive feature debut is a gritty, poignant study of father/son bonding, set against a fascinating real-world backdrop that adds even more pathos to the emotionally charged narrative.

 

Fifteen-year-old Cole (Caleb McLaughlin, right) can't begin to understand the horse
culture that absorbs his long-estranged father (Idris Elba), particularly with respect to
the funny hats everybody wears.

The story is fictitious, adapted from Greg Neri’s 2011 young adult novel, Ghetto Cowboy. But the setting is completely authentic, its anti-gentrification message more timely now than ever. Staub and co-scripter Dan Walser make this issue organic to their film, without strident preaching; we understand what’s in danger of being lost here, and — frankly — the threat is repugnant.

 

The story opens on a grim note as Amahle (Liz Priestley), a hard-working Detroit single mother, receives word that her rebellious teenage son, Cole (Caleb McLaughlin, of Strangers Things), has been expelled from yet another school. It’s the final straw, and Amahle is at wit’s end; she knows that Cole is just a heartbeat away from a life on the crime-laden streets.

 

She therefore packs all of Cole’s clothes in two trash bags, drives him to North Philadelphia, and (literally!) dumps him on the doorstep of Harp (Idris Elba), the long-estranged father that the boy barely remembers. And Harp isn’t even home to answer the knock at the door.

 

Nessie (Lorraine Toussaint), a sympathetic neighbor, explains that Harp can be found around the corner, at the Fletcher Street Stables. “You’ll smell it when you get close.”

 

Indeed.

 

Alongside a hard-scrabble collection of similar horse lovers, Harp is a member of the Fletcher Street Urban Riding Club (an actual 100-year-old organization, whose modern identity dates from 2004, with a tax-exempt status granted in 2015). The horses are purchased at auction, saving them from likely being killed; the loosely monitored program provides a positive — and rigorous — working experience for local youth who otherwise might succumb to the temptations of the streets.

 

And it’s absolutely the last thing Cole wants any part of. Particularly since his father seems far more concerned about the horses’ welfare, than his son’s. Indeed, Harp even lives with a horse, having built a makeshift stall in his apartment (a thoroughly ludicrous notion, but hey: roll with it).

 

Cole would much rather spend time with Smush (Jharrel Jerome), a ne’er-do-well cousin who acts as a low-level gopher for a local crime baron who’s clearly Very Bad News. This prompts Harp to lay down the law: Cole won’t be welcome — at home, or at the stables — if he dallies with Smush.

 

Cats: Purr-vasively strange

Cats (2019) • View trailer 
Three stars. Rated PG, for some suggestive humor
By Derrick Bang

From the opening moments and without interruption throughout, director Tom Hooper’s big-screen adaptation of Cats is visually breathtaking: a mesmerizing display of cinematic razzle-dazzle dominated by Paco Delgado’s stunning costume design, Sharon Martin’s equally impressive hair and makeup design, and Andy Blankenbuehler’s inventive choreography.

Having unwisely followed the larcenous Rumpleteazer (Naoimh Morgan, left) and
Mungojerrie (Danny Collins, right) into a human house, in order to steal anything that
catches their fancy, Victoria (Francesca Hayward) is dazzled and distracted by
all the finery.

Theater fans who delight in ostentatious production numbers will be blown away. That’s the only possible reaction.

Those seeking a story to go along with all the visual excess, however, will find this many kibbles short of a full bowl.

In fairness, that shortcoming is equally true of the play. Andrew Lloyd Webber’s staging of T.S. Eliot’s poems in Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats was audaciously far-fetched to begin with, and it definitely didn’t resonate in the manner of Phantom of the Opera or Les Misérables. Cats plays more like an opulent cabaret show, with individual production numbers linked by the barest trace of plot.

And a very weird plot, at that.

The film opens ominously, as a car stops in a Soho alley; the driver gets out only long enough to discard a sack with something inside. The car departs; the sack is surrounded by dozens of cats (all actors), who help the young feline inside free herself. This is Victoria (Francesca Hayward, principal ballerina at The Royal Ballet), abandoned by unseen owners. (Human beings never appear in this saga. Nor do dogs, although one is heard.)

Victoria discovers that she has been embraced by a tribe of cats known as the Jellicles, on the very night that matriarch Old Deuteronomy (Judi Dench) will make the “Jellicle choice” that determines which cat will be reborn into a new life, by ascending to the Heaviside Layer.

(One simply must run with this.)

The rest of the film is dominated by the contenders for this honor, each granted a descriptive song and dance that reveals characteristics and talents. In that respect, Cats is somewhat akin to A Chorus Line, building to the triumphant “choosing moment.” But Cats is more full-blown opera, with each lengthy song weaving into the next; very few lines are spoken in dramatic fashion, absent musical accompaniment.

Hobbs & Shaw: Dumb & dumber

Hobbs & Shaw (2019) • View trailer 
Two stars. Rated PG-13, for relentless cartoon violence and fleeting profanity
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 8.2.19

Too loud, too preposterous, and too bloody long.

This isn’t a movie; it’s a pinball machine, with two-legged combatants randomly rolling around an obstacle-laden playing field, savagely bumping into each other for no particular reason.

With the fate of the entire planet resting on their shoulders, Shaw (Jason Statham, driving)
and Hobbs (Dwayne Johnson) get ready for a rather improbable lassoing stunt.

The so-called director of this mess, David Leitch, graduated from stuntman to stunt coordinator over the course of two decades; succumbing to delusions of grandeur, he turned director for Atomic Blonde, Deadpool 2 and this sorta-kinda entry in the Fast and Furious franchise.

All three films have the same thing in common: They’re soulless, live-action cartoons operating under the delusion that relentless mayhem compensates for a complete lack of plot and characterization.

It doesn’t.

Bravura action scenes work best when they’re an explosive surprise amid a story that has built tension, drama and emotional gravitas. (Consider the Matt Damon Bourne films as excellent examples.)

Leitch’s approach is akin to a diet of nothing but ice cream. No matter how much we enjoy such dessert as the delicious conclusion to a savory meal, being force-fed nothing but ice cream for 135 butt-numbing minutes — the length of this cinematic travesty — isn’t merely tedious; it becomes acutely painful.

In fairness, Leitch can’t take the sole blame; this misbegotten script comes from Chris Morgan and Drew Pearce, who deserve some sort of chutzpah award for having been paid for this utter absence of anything resembling an actual story. The 135-minute result actually is rather impressive, for its vacuousness.

Dwayne Johnson’s whup-ass and Jason Statham’s martial-arts beatdowns have been lots of fun in the past, and — goodness knows — both have starred in their share of brain-dead clunkers (Skyscraper and The Meg, respectively, in the recent past). In many cases, the two action stars have skated by via droll ’tude and sheer force of incandescent personality; they’re usually a lot of fun to watch.

That said, I suspect Hobbs & Shaw will task the patience of even their most ardent fans.

Molly's Game: All in!

Molly's Game (2017) • View trailer 
Four stars. Rated R, for profanity, drug use and brief violence
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 1.5.18

Truth isn’t merely stranger than fiction; sometimes it’s flat-out astonishing.

Molly’s Game is the mesmerizing study of Molly Bloom, who — in a parallel universe — might have been the gold medal-winning Olympics skier that she was trained to become, from an early age.

Having become master of her own high-stakes poker domain, Molly (Jessica Chastain)
strides confidently through the room, fully aware of the impact she has on her all-male
clientele.

Or, maybe, she’d have blossomed into the high-profile lawyer being nurtured by her academic talents.

In our world, derailed by a freak accident and occasionally hampered by a rebellious spirit, she applied her preternatural intelligence to become — of all things — the “Poker Princess” known in upper-echelon circles for running weekly, invitation-only games for some of the wealthiest high-rollers in Los Angeles and New York.

Her rise and fall — and rise and fall, and rise and fall — is detailed with supernova intensity by famed scripter Aaron Sorkin, also making a splashy directorial debut in this adaptation of Bloom’s page-turning 2014 memoir, Molly’s Game: From Hollywood’s Elite to Wall Street’s Billionaire Boys Club, My High-Stakes Adventure in the World of Underground Poker.

And yes, the film is as breathtaking as that title.

Perhaps too breathtaking.

As Sorkin’s longtime fans are well aware, his rat-a-tat dialog sizzles with the manic incandescence of classic Hollywood screwball comedies, albeit on a far higher level of dramatic gravitas: often laden with information dumps that demand not only one’s full attention, but (couldn’t hurt) a college graduate’s vocabulary.

There’s a reason Sorkin’s best-scripted episodes of TV’s gone but still much-beloved West Wing clocked in at a fast-paced 45 minutes; most viewers probably couldn’t have endured more. The same narrative ferocity can be found in any isolated 15 to 20 minutes of Molly’s Game, particularly as anchored by Jessica Chastain’s hypnotically alluring starring role, and Idris Elba’s equally powerful supporting performance.

Taken as a whole, though, this 140-minute film is exhausting. Even too many chocolate milkshakes can overwhelm the most enthusiastic palate, and — as director — Sorkin has over-indulged his writing sensibilities. (Tellingly, this fate that did not befall his Academy Award-winning script for 2010’s The Social Network, when his efforts were carefully modulated by director David Fincher.)

Molly narrates her own unlikely saga, Chastain giving these events the stream-of-consciousness passion of a seasoned sportscaster. As is his frequent custom, Sorkin eschews a conventional linear approach for a three-pronged attack divided mostly between the “present” — April 2013 through May 2014 — and the whirlwind events that began a decade earlier. Occasional deeper flashbacks illuminate the childhood training sessions under her disciplinarian father, Larry (Kevin Costner), by profession a clinical psychologist and Colorado State University professor.

Thor: Ragnarok — Thud and blunder

Thor: Ragnarok (2017) • View trailer 
Three stars. Rated PG-13, for intense sci-fi action and violence
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 11.3.17

Thor has succumbed to a case of the sillies.

Perhaps concerned by the grim sturm und drang that has turned so many recent superhero epics into dreary slogs, Marvel Studios has authorized a rather drastic realignment of its cinematic God of Thunder. They shifted too far in the opposite direction: The results here feel more like a new try-out team for Guardians of the Galaxy.

Having rather miraculously survived their first gladiatorial punch-out, Thor (Chris
Hemsworth) and the Hulk discover they've been forced to become unlikely roommates
in an oddly appointed cell.

Granted, the myth-specific costumes and flowery Shakespearean dialogue drew snickers in the first two Thor films, but they nonetheless let viewers know that none of it was to be taken seriously. The tone was light, particularly with respect to the sniping between Thor (Chris Hemsworth) and his half-brother Loki (Tom Hiddleston), whose villainy never was as dire as he would have preferred.

But Thor: Ragnarok is a full-blown comedy interrupted only occasionally by super-heroics, and that’s an unfortunate miscalculation. The film’s three credited writers — Eric Pearson, Craig Kyle and Christopher Yost — seem far more interested in replicating the playful banter and witty one-liners that were characteristic of 1930s and ’40s screwball comedies, little realizing that crafting such repartee, and making it sound organic, requires far more skill than is on display here.

Delivering such dialogue also demands a level of thespic skill that Hemsworth sadly lacks. Co-stars Cate Blanchett, Anthony Hopkins and Hiddleston have the acting background required to chew up the scenery, but Hemsworth is far outside his comfort zone. Too many of his line readings smack of desperation.

Worse yet, the core plot — highlighted by Blanchett’s marvelously malevolent über-villainess, Hela — gets sidetracked by an interminable second act that piles on the dumb-bunny gags. It’s sad to see Thor become an object of ridicule in his own series.

The film’s subtitle — ragnarok, also known in Norse mythology as “twilight of the gods” — refers to a final apocalyptic battle that (depending on interpretation) concludes with the destruction of the world, or the universe, or godly realms. For this story, the threat is to Thor’s ancestral home of Asgard, gateway to the “nine realms” that include Midgard (Earth).

Thor seems to have this threat well in hand during a prologue; he handily defeats Surtur, an immense fire demon who is the fabled harbinger of ragnarok. But Loki once again has been up to no good, back in Asgard, having usurped the throne and stripped their father Odin (Hopkins) of his magical power. In this weakened state, he’s no longer able to secure the enchanted prison that has long protected the nine realms from Hela (Blanchett), goddess of death ... and — surprise, surprise — Thor and Loki’s hitherto unknown older sister.

Finding Dory: Another aquatic hit from Pixar

Finding Dory (2016) • View trailer 
Four stars. Rated PG, and needlessly, for mild fantasy peril
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 6.17.16

Best...

...sidekick...

...ever.

Dory, in search of her parents, eventually finds her way to California's Marine Life
Institute. While searching the various aquatic zones, she encounters Hank, a
foul-tempered octopus with a flair for escapes and camouflage.

The hilariously confused, memory-challenged Dory stole the show in 2003’s Finding Nemo: no small feat, considering the engaging story and wealth of equally colorful aquatic and avian characters. And yet, with this long-gestating sequel, the folks at Pixar have done the impossible, by concocting a new co-star who gives even Dory a run for her money.

We really shouldn’t be surprised, since Pixar makes a habit of doing the impossible.

Finding Dory continues the saga of everybody’s favorite blue tang fish, voiced with such delightful, off-kilter haze by Ellen DeGeneres. As director/co-scripter Andrew Stanton explains, in his film’s press notes, Finding Nemo — despite its clearly happy conclusion — left perceptive viewers with an open question: What would become of Dory?

Her attention deficit disorder and short-term memory issues clearly weren’t going away, so ... what if she got lost again? Remember, Nemo wasn’t the only fish “lost” in the first film; we knew nothing of Dory’s origin, or what sequence of events put her in the path of the fretting clownfish Marlin (voiced by Albert Brooks), as he attempted to find his “kidnapped” young son.

Obviously, this was the perfect excuse for a sequel.

Stanton and his colleagues — co-director Angus MacLane, and co-scripters Victoria Strouse and Bob Peterson — have delivered the goods. Finding Dory has the essential Pixar magic: appealing characters, well-cast voice actors, zany sight gags, gentle environmental messages and, most importantly, a finely tuned story that builds to a mirthfully exciting climax.

Rarely has defeat been snatched so frequently, and cleverly, from the jaws of victory. Every time we think things have worked out ... the rug gets pulled out from under us. Time and again.

And we love it.

The Jungle Book: Family-friendly adventure

The Jungle Book (2016) • View trailer 
Four stars. Rated PG, for dramatic intensity
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 4.15.16

The CGI tiger in 2012’s big-screen adaptation of Life of Pi was quite impressive.

This one is better.

Although Mowgli (Neel Sethi) often is puzzled by the rule-laden lectures he constantly
receives from Bagheera, the boy is about to discover precisely why some of these
lessons are so important.

Indeed, the myriad faux animals in Disney’s fresh take on Rudyard Kipling’s The Jungle Book are rendered with jaw-dropping authenticity. Many viewers likely will spend much of the first act trying to decide which (if any) of the critters are real — either in close-up or distant group shots — and which are genius computer animation.

I was convinced that a darling little tree frog was real, as it hopped out of some water, until it brushed itself in an adorable — but decidedly unfroglike — manner. At which point, I simply abandoned the exercise and settled comfortably into an exhilarating experience that Kipling himself never could have imagined.

Justin Marks’ screenplay owes more to Disney’s animated 1967 adaptation than Kipling’s nine short stories about the “man cub” Mowgli, and his adventures with the various creatures — benign and dangerous — that make their home in the Indian jungle. Fans of the earlier animated film will be pleased to see Marks hit all the narrative and character high points, most notably those concerning the fatherly panther Bagheera, the free-spirited bear Baloo, and the utterly malevolent tiger Shere Khan.

Mowgli is played to impressionable, young-kid perfection by 12-year-old newcomer Neel Sethi, introduced during a bravura chase through the jungle, which is choreographed for maximum breathtaking excitement by director Jon Favreau and editor Mark Livolsi. It’s an impressive prologue: a pell-mell blend of running, jumping and tumbling through jungle undergrowth, up and down trees, and across small canyons.

I can’t imagine how Sethi and Favreau did it, and — of course — that’s the magic of movies. (For starters, the kid must have the world’s toughest feet.)

Back-story eventually reveals that a toddler-age Mowgli was found by Bagheera (voiced by Ben Kingsley), who brought the child to Raksha (Lupita Nyong’o), one of many wolves belonging to a pack led by alpha male Akela (Giancarlo Esposito). Although subsequently raised in the way of the wolves — most particularly the chanted law, “The strength of the pack is the wolf, and the strength of the wolf is the pack” — Mowgli cannot help the blossoming human ingenuity that enables him to “do tricks” (Bagheera’s term) that simplify certain tasks.

Such “tricks,” alas, are met with suspicion by the jungle’s many other creatures.