One Night Only: A delightfully sexy romp

One Night Only (2026) • View trailer

3.5 stars (out of five); rated R, for frequent profanity, sexual candor and surprisingly little nudity

Available via: Movie theaters

By Derrick Bang

Although one first must accept this film’s ridiculously unlikely premise, what follows is an unexpectedly delightful romantic comedy, highlighted by Travis Braun’s continuously cheeky script and two stars who share a Periodic Table’s worth of chemistry.

 

Allie (Monica Barbaro) and Owen (Callum Turner) bump into each other — not for the
first time — when they independently find the only bodega in all of New York City
that still has one precious condom for sale.

Think of this as a gentler, (somewhat) kinder response to the one-night-of-legal-crime franchise that began with 2013’s The Purge.

The setting is New York City, the time some point is the very near future. Thanks to the efforts of an ultra-conservative D.C. faction, three years earlier the “Mandate” became law, which outlawed premarital sex. Enforcement was established via the mandatory placement of biometric tattoos on everybody’s wrist, which signal authorities when unsanctioned canoodling takes place.

 

The ban is lifted for just 12 hours, one night each year ... and these events begin shortly before the kick-off.

 

Braun and director Will Gluck employ this gimmick as an ingenious means of overcoming the most persistent challenge in romantic comedies: how to credibly keep separating two people obviously destined for each others, without relying on clichés such as miscommunication or missed connections.

 

It’s a cheeky step up from the suspenseful “ball drop” on New Year’s Eve: Who will you kiss?

 

Throw in The Big Apple as a bustling, effervescent backdrop, and the result —unexpectedly — is delightful.

 

Owen (Callum Turner) is a hardworking pizza shop owner and hopeless, old-school romantic who has planned — down to the tiniest detail — how to spend this night with longtime fiancée Malika (Maya Hawke). Alas, their “favorite restaurant” preamble self-destructs when she abruptly confesses that she wants to take advantage of the moment ... by sleeping with somebody else.

 

Allie (Monica Barbaro), a talented singer whose stage fright has relegated her to the anonymity of studio work, has made a career of turning familiar pop songs into jingles for glossy pharmaceutical medications with impossible-to-pronounce names (a very funny touch). She’s a hopeless romantic with a vivid fantasy life, ready to Embrace The Moment with encouragement from best friend Arya (Quintessa Swindell) and “wing woman” Jacinta (King Princess).

 

Their goal: a genuine connection with a “quality” guy, and true love.

Presence: Insubstantial

Presence (2024) • View trailer

Two stars (out of five). Rated R, for violence, sexuality, drug use and relentless profanity

Available via: Amazon Prime and other VOD services

By Derrick Bang

This movie is extremely exasperating.

 

During a long and (mostly) illustrious career, director Steven Soderberg has come in two flavors:

 

Realtor Cece (Julia Fox, far right) shows off the house to its soon-to-be new owners:
from left, Chloe (Callina Liang), Chris (Chris Sullivan), Tyler (Eddy Maday) and
Rebekah (Lucy Liu). Trouble is, the house already has a resident tenant...

• the crowd-pleasing maker of star-driven vehicles such as Out of Sight, Erin Brockovich, Traffic and the Oceans Eleven series; and, alternatively,

• the occasional cinematic experimenter who stretches the medium, starting with 1989’s Sex, Lies and Videotape, and continuing with 2002’s utterly unwatchable Full Frontal, and now this deliberately challenging take on the classic haunted house story.

 

The “gimmick” here is that the entire story emerges from the point of view of the ghost trapped within its lavish suburban home. The film never leaves the house, because the ghost cannot.

 

Okay, potentially clever in concept ... but the execution is an assault on the senses. The house is empty as scripter David Koepp’s narrative begins, and this entity initially swoops from room to room with supernatural speed, spinning and gyrating in a manner certain to induce vertigo and even nausea in viewers prone to motion sickness.

 

As usual, Soderberg is responsible for his own cinematography — “concealed” behind his familiar pseudonym, as Peter Andrews — so he’s wholly responsible for this dizzying assault on the senses. And although this spectral entity soon settles down a bit, its occasional whip-fast plunges — from one room to another — remain jarring.

 

The house soon is purchased and tastefully furnished by the not-so-typical American family of Rebekah (Lucy Liu), Chris (Chris Sullivan) and their two high school-age children, Tyler (Eddy Maday) and Chloe (Callina Liang).

 

We learn more about this family as the ghost eavesdrops on them, individually and collectively. Each revelatory session is a single tracking shot — some fleeting, some impressively long — which then cuts to a brief black screen, as the ghost slides through a wall to go elsewhere (at least, that’s what it feels like).

 

It soon becomes clear that Rebekah is clandestinely up to something shady, likely a sort of financial swindling, which worries Chris enough to think about separating. But he can’t, because he needs to be around for their fragile daughter, still deeply traumatized by the recent drug overdose of two friends, one her former bestie.

 

The unpleasantly arrogant Tyler, a bullying jock who swears constantly and believes that he walks on water, enjoys playing cruel pranks on vulnerable classmates; he also has no patience with his sister’s fragility. To make matters worse, Rebekah’s unwholesome fondness for him — at the expense of practically ignoring Chloe — borders on a Jocasta complex.

 

No Sudden Move: Suspensefully riveting

No Sudden Move (2021) • View trailer

Four stars (out of five). Rated R, for profanity, violence and sexual candor

Available via: HBO Max

By Derrick Bang

Fans of slow-burn crime thrillers will love this one.

 

Scripter Ed Solomon’s noir-ish saga is given precisely the right look and atmosphere by director Steven Soderbergh and production designer Hannah Beachler. The post-WWII Detroit setting emphasizes the deplorable racial divide between cozy white neighborhoods and decaying inner-city Black districts, and the wary mistrust this prompts from both sides.

 

Having maneuvered their way up the conspiratorial food chain, Ronald (Benicio Del Toro,
left) and Curt (Don Cheadle) are startled by where they've suddenly wound up.

Soderbergh’s camera glides languidly along both sets of streets, as if perched atop a slow-moving vehicle; he frequently employs a fish-eyed lens, which distorts the image at both edges. This adds to the unsettling, overall sense of disorientation experienced by our fish-out-of-water protagonists. (As he has done before, Soderbergh “hides” behind the pseudonym “Peter Andrews,” when he handles his own cinematography.)

The year is 1954. Curt Goynes (Don Cheadle), recently released from prison, is offered a job by shady go-between Jones (Brendan Fraser). It sounds simple enough: babysit the family of low-level General Motors executive Matt Wertz (David Harbour) for a couple of hours.

 

“Babysit,” meaning “guard at gunpoint while something goes down elsewhere.”

 

Jones also recruits Ronald Russo (Benicio Del Toro), similarly down on his luck, who isn’t wild about sharing a job with, ah, someone of color. (Cheadle’s dry amusement, when the two men share the back seat of Jones’ car, is priceless.) The little gang is augmented further by Charley Barnes (Kieran Culkin), who outlines the plan.

 

Charley will “escort” Matt to his office, to retrieve a document from a certain safe. Curt and Ronald will keep Matt’s family at home: wife Mary (Amy Seimetz) and their two children, Matthew Jr. (Noah Jupe) and Peggy (Lucy Holt). The three criminals will remain masked the entire time; if everybody cooperates, everybody lives.

 

The raw intensity of the early morning home invasion is palpable, as Mary and her children are startled by the sudden appearance of these three menacing intruders. Curt’s calming words do little to ease the atmosphere of terror; Seimetz’s performance is sublime, as the terrified Mary — and we — expect something awful to happen, at any moment.

 

Uncut Gems: Badly flawed

Uncut Gems (2019) • View trailer 
One star. Rated R, for pervasive profanity and strong language, violence, sexual candor and fleeting drug use
By Derrick Bang

Ick.

This thoroughly unpleasant waste of time isn’t really a movie; it’s a disgusting experience on par with military latrine duty.

Doing his best to please a first-time customer with plenty of cash, Diamond District shop
owner Howard (Adam Sandler) hauls out a truly hideous example of bling.

Fifteen minutes in, you’ll feel the need for a shower. Once the atrociously self-indulgent, 135-minute slog concludes, you’ll want to scrub off at least two layers of skin.

Class, can we spell l-o-a-t-h-s-o-m-e?

Hollywood tends to be oddly tolerant, when stand-up comics-turned-actors stray into dramatic territory. In fairness, the results sometimes justify such a charitable attitude; we need look no further than Melissa McCarthy, who delivered such sensitively layered work in last year’s Can You Ever Forgive Me?

Alas, Adam Sandler scarcely deserves such a free pass, for this repugnant travesty.

It feels as though every single minute of Uncut Gems is spent watching thoroughly unpleasant characters scream at each other, every other word of such outbursts punctuated by F-bombs and racial epithets. Co-writer/directors Benny and Josh Safdie — New York-based indie filmmakers — give us nobody to like or admire, even in a vicariously mean-spirited sense; nobody among this assortment of mopes, creeps, thugs and degenerates is worthy of God’s precious gift of life.

This film’s media champions — and there are many — apparently are impressed by its “authentic street” attitude, while conveniently overlooking the fact that, Sandler aside, nobody else is remotely credible with what seems to be entirely improvised dialog. The so-called acting is stiff, forced and shrill, defined by little beyond swagger.

Ironically, the best performances come from Keith Williams Richards and Tommy Kominik, as Phil and Nico, a couple of heavies who radiate lethal menace while saying very little. (We’ll get back to them.)

But okay, credit where due: Cinematographer Darius Khondji and editors Ronald Bronstein and Benny Safdie definitely catch the rhythm and flow, hustle and bustle, hurly and burly of New York City’s colorful Diamond District. A-plus for atmosphere.

As for the rest…