Sorry, Baby: An acting, scripting tour-de-force

Sorry, Baby (2025) • View trailer

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

Available via: HBO MAX

By Derrick Bang

“Dying is easy, comedy is hard” — a quote most often attributed to character actor Edmund Gwenn, as he lay dying in bed — has been oft-repeated film and theatrical wisdom ever since.

 

At her lowest ebb, Agnes (Eva Victor) is treated with unexpected gentleness by Pete
(John Carroll Lynch), a deceptively gentle guy who believes that a good sandwich can
go a long way toward healing one's soul.

I’ll go it one better: Persuasively depicting the aftershock of deep trauma is even more difficult ... but Eva Victor truly nails it, starring in this intimate drama that she also wrote and directed. Her performance is quietly, deeply powerful.

Her film is divided into subtitled chapters. The first — “The Year with the Baby” — takes place in an unspecified time: could be present day, perhaps a bit earlier. Agnes (Victor) is a literature professor at Fairpoint, a liberal arts college in rural New England. She’s smart, sensitive and witty, and lives alone in a big house in a quiet, forested area; her only companion is a gray cat named Olga (likely after one of Chekhov’s Three Sisters).

 

The film actually opens with cinematographer Mia Cioffi Henry’s lengthy framing shot of this house, during early evening: a disorienting touch that’ll be repeated in a subsequent chapter, with a different house, and a far different implication. 

 

Henry also favors distant framing shots of Agnes, which emphasize her isolation.

 

But she’s delighted, on this particular day, by the arrival of long-time bestie Lydie (Naomi Ackie). Their bond is palpable, their rapport delightfully uninhibited and bluntly profane; they’re both truly themselves with each other. Victor and Ackie are marvelous together; the latter is a joyful, irrepressible free spirit.

 

(We all should be blessed a friendship this intense.)

 

But something is off. Even at her happiest moments — as when both lie down, warmly jacketed, in an open field — Agnes’ giddy smiles aren’t entirely matched by the flicker of wariness in her gaze. A bit later, she comes closest to true joy when Lydie announces her pregnancy; Agnes playfully chats with the baby, lips pressed close to her friend’s stomach.

 

The two also spend an evening visiting Natasha (Kelly McCormack), Logan (Jordan Mendoza) and Devin (Cody Reiss), all of them former Fairpoint graduate students. Agnes’ presence is reluctant, and no surprise; the grouchy Natasha clearly has a long-simmering antipathy toward her.

 

McCormack overplays this card, sullenly looking more like a character in a horror movie, than somebody who simply has a stick up her fundament.

 

Alas, all visits must conclude, when Lydie returns to her life and responsibilities. Agnes’ disappointment is palpable; it feels more like grief.

French Exit: Comme ci comme ça

French Exit (2020) • View trailer

2.5 stars. Rated R, for profanity and sexual candor

By Derrick Bang 

Few films follow their source as closely as this one: not really a surprise, since scripter Patrick DeWitt has adapted his own 2018 novel.

 

Newly arrived in Paris, having fled Manhattan ahead of creditors, Frances (Michelle
Pfeiffer) and her son Malcolm (Lucas Hedges) wonder what they're going to make
of this new life.

Add a director — Azazel Jacobs — who clearly studied at the altar of Wes Anderson, and French Exit becomes a slice of absurdist eccentricity: a character study filled with people who (mostly) seem to exist slightly out of phase with the real world.

 

The degree to which they’re likable or sympathetic — as opposed to annoying and contemptuous — will depend on your ability to laugh at their foibles. In fairness, moments in this unhurried narrative are laugh-out-loud funny … but they’re few and far between.

 

To cases:

 

Despite years’ worth of warnings from her accountant, Manhattan socialite Frances Price (Michelle Pfeiffer) has exhausted the inheritance left when husband Franklin died 12 years earlier.

 

“My plan,” she insists rather vaguely, “was to die before the money ran out.”

 

Which means that she gave no consideration to leaving anything for her directionless adult son, Malcolm (Lucas Hedges), who has put his own life on hold, in order to be her faithful companion for the same 12 years. (Nice mother, eh?)

 

Given the way Pfeiffer swans condescendingly through every scene, we immediately realize that this is typical of Frances, who rarely (never?) considers anything — or anybody — beyond herself. She’s all appearance and no substance, given to grand gestures of generosity — such as inappropriately huge tips — solely because they call attention to herself.

 

Acting on her accountant’s advice, she quietly (and quite illegally) sells everything in her lavish home, converts the proceeds to Euros, and accepts a suggestion to move into a Parisian apartment owned by best friend Joan (Susan Coyne, as one of this saga’s “normal” characters).

 

Where Frances supposedly will “figure things out.”

 

Malcolm somehow has accumulated a fiancée along the way: Susan (Imogen Poots), a nice young woman who quite reasonably cannot understand why he’s abandoning her in order to follow his mother. Their parting does not go well; Malcolm pauses outside the restaurant, looking back inside at her, clearly having no clue how to do the right thing … or even what that might be.

 

Let Them All Talk: No, really, they should stop!

Let Them All Talk (2020) • View trailer

2.5 stars. Rated R, for profanity

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 1.22.21 

Although director Steven Soderberg’s gentle little drama has its charms, it’s more of an acting exercise than an actual film.

 

Alice (Meryl Streep, foreground) has just spotted a fellow writer — one who seems more
popular than she — much to the amusement of, from left, companions Tyler
(Lukas Hedges), Susan (Dianne Wiest) and Roberta (Candice Bergen).

As revealed in the production notes, Deborah Eisenberg’s “script” was more an outline: the broad strokes of the story, with its key plot beats, and a general sense of the primary characters. Most dialogue was left to actor improv, which was fine-tuned during production.

 

Seasoned pros like Meryl Streep and Dianne Wiest clearly had no trouble with this approach. The rest of the cast … leave something to be desired. The results are visible via HBO MAX.

 

New York-based author Alice Hughes (Streep) is celebrated for two novels: her debut, You Always, You Never, which brought her a Pulitzer; and the more recent A Function of the Body, which has just earned the Footling Prize. She regards the latter as more prestigious, because it’s bestowed by writers: an honor therefore coming from her peers.

 

That aside, Alice’s publisher has grown impatient over the lack of progress on her next book. Karen (Gemma Chan), a newbie literary agent, has been sent to extract some details. The rumor is that it might be a sequel to You Always, You Never, but Alice refuses to say anything. Even so, she’s clearly been working on something, given the tall stack of manuscript pages.

 

Much as Alice would love to attend the UK presentation of the Footling Prize, she can’t fly. (Streep’s visible discomfort at the very notion suggests a phobia.) No matter, Karen replies brightly, clearly invested in the publicity that would be generated by a personal appearance; you could travel by luxury liner.

 

(Talk about serendipity: Cunard, which allowed shooting to take place aboard its flagship Queen Mary 2, must be loving the positive attention, as a welcome change.)

 

Alice accepts this suggestion, in part as a means to re-connect with old school chums Susan (Wiest) and Roberta (Candice Bergen), whom she hasn’t seen in 35 years. Both accept the all-expenses-paid invitation; Alice’s nephew Tyler (Lucas Hedges) completes the party, as a sort of wrangler. Unknown to Alice, Karen also joins the cruise, still hoping to learn something about the mysterious manuscript.

 

Once on board, the reunion is tense, even prickly. We gradually learn that Alice apparently mined details of Roberta’s tempestuous marriage for You Always, You Never; she therefore has long blamed Alice both for the subsequent divorce, and for the dead-end life she has led ever since. Worse yet, Roberta is convinced that the rumored sequel will re-open old wounds.

 

Ben Is Back: He should have stayed away

Ben Is Back (2018) • View trailer 
2.5 stars. Rated R, for frequent profanity, dramatic intensity and drug use
By Derrick Bang

It’s a shame to see a fine performance wasted on poor material.

Julia Roberts acts up a storm in this well-intentioned melodrama, but writer/director Peter Hedges’ increasingly contrived script ultimately defeats her. 

Ben (Lucas Hedges, center) is protectively flanked by his mother (Julia Roberts) and
step-father (Courtney B. Vance), as they watch his younger half-siblings participate
in a church Christmas pageant.

Part of the problem is familiarity breeding contempt, and raising expectations. We’ve recently seen Beautiful Boy, which is a far superior study of a family attempting to endure — and surmount — the anxiety-laden complexities of dealing with a drug-addicted young adult son. That film felt authentic, its various crises proceeding logically, one to the next.

Hedges, in great contrast, lards his film — which takes place during a single 24-hour day — with an escalating series of revelations, challenges and predicaments that ultimately become ridiculous. The compressed time period doesn’t help, since it calls greater attention to the escalating absurdity.

The morning of Christmas Eve is bright and cheerful, until Ben Burns (Lucas Hedges) surprises his family with a visit: unexpected — even potentially unwelcome — because the 19-year-old is supposed to be confined to a detox clinic. It’s okay, Ben smoothly insists; my progress has been excellent, so my sponsor approved this one-day visit, for Christmas.

His mother Holly (Roberts) is deeply conflicted, a duality that Roberts conveys superbly. Holly wants to believe him, but is doubtful; her daughter Ivy (Kathryn Newton), slightly younger than Ben, doesn’t trust him for a second. More to the point, Holly has built a new life, with a second marriage to Neal (Courtney B. Vance) that has produced their own two young children, Lacey (Mia Fowler) and Liam (Jakari Fraser). Their safety also warrants consideration.

(There’s no significant reference to Ben’s father, who plays no role here.)

Neal, patient and pragmatic, reminds his wife that they’ve been through this countless times before; rules have been established, which Holly agreed to. But it’s Christmas, and she desperately wants to share the holiday with her son. Ben, for his part, launches a charm offensive that quickly wins over his half-siblings.

But we viewers already know, emphatically, that Ben is lying. We watched him arrive at the house, while his mother and the other children were out shopping: witnessed his anger and impatience at not being able to get inside.

Lady Bird: Truly soars

Lady Bird (2017) • View trailer 
Four stars. Rated R, for profanity and sexual candor
By Derrick Bang

Well into writer/director Greta Gerwig’s accomplished filmmaking debut, the story’s protagonist is complimented — by her high school counselor — on the depth of feeling she expresses, in a college application essay, for the city in which she has grown up: a city from which she’s eager to escape.

As the high school senior prom approaches, Lady Bird (Saoirse Ronan, left) brings her
mother (Laurie Metcalf) along when she tries out a series of dresses: an excursion that
takes place amid the organized clutter of Sacramento's massive Thrift Town store.

The city is Sacramento, where Gerwig herself grew up, and her film exhibits the same reverence. Indeed, I doubt Sacramento ever again will be the subject of such a heartfelt cinematic valentine.

Lady Bird can’t help feeling semi-autobiographical; Gerwig’s characteristic personality shines throughout, easily recognized from her starring roles in quirky indie dramedies such as Lola Versus, Frances Ha and Mistress America. Her filmmaking debut is both an engaging and painfully raw coming-of-age saga, and a respectful appreciation for the environment that shaped her as an artist.

A kiss on Sacramento’s cheek, and an earnest Thank You.

But that’s merely the narrative portion of Gerwig’s film. She also deserves credit for coaxing persuasively intimate performances from her stars: most notably Saoirse Ronan and Laurie Metcalf, who deliver one of the most tempestuous, complicated and deeply loving mother/daughter relationships ever depicted on camera.

The year is 2002, as the United States enters a new national mindset in the wake of 9/11. We meet Ronan’s Christine McPherson on the eve of her senior year in high school, which she’s horrified to discover will be spent at a Catholic school. She’s a rebellious young adult, with strikingly dyed hair and an insistence that everybody — even family members — refer to her as “Lady Bird”: a name she has given herself, as opposed to the one that was thrust upon her.

She has little use for her post-college brother Miguel (Jordan Rodrigues) and his girlfriend Shelly (Marielle Scott), both of whom share the small, cramped house which is all that Lady Bird’s parents — Marion (Laurie Metcalf) and Larry (Tracy Letts) — can afford. Lady Bird is deeply ashamed of living on “the wrong side of the tracks”; it’s one of the innumerable “slights” that she takes personally, and for which she — unjustly, and immaturely — blames her parents.

She’s a teenager, in every horrific sense of the term: stubborn, selfish, shallow, spiteful and short-tempered.

Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri: Signs of the Times?

Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri (2017) • View trailer 
Four stars. Rated R, for violence and relentless profanity
By Derrick Bang

This one’s not for the faint of heart.

Writer/director Martin McDonagh’s savagely dark assault on mainstream sensibilities is both a blistering burlesque and a painfully raw depiction of despair, frustration and unchecked rage. Much of this film obviously cannot — should not — be taken seriously; unfortunately, quite a lot also feels excruciatingly real.

Although troubled by the rather drastic step that Mildred (Frances McDormand) has taken,
in an effort to achieve closure regarding her daughter's long-unsolved murder, Police
Chief Willoughby (Woody Harrelson) checks his emotions while explaining the
frustrating circumstances behind the case.

And not all that unlikely.

The film is powered by Frances McDormand’s sensational starring performance, an acting tour-de-force even more persuasive — more believably, subtly grounded, even within exaggerated circumstances — than her Academy Award-winning work in 1996’s Fargo. And I never, ever expected to write those words.

Her Mildred Hayes is wracked with grief and unresolved anger: a single mother pushed to the edge by her teenage daughter’s gruesome rape/murder, which remains unsolved after seven months. Fed up with what she perceives as investigative apathy, Mildred purchases messages on three long-unused billboards standing alongside the quiet road leading to her home.

The three-part message is a direct and controversial challenge to local police chief William Willoughby (Woody Harrelson).

Many of the residents in bucolic Ebbings regard Mildred’s provocative act as profoundly unfair. Tellingly, Willoughby isn’t all that bothered. But second-in-command Officer Jason Dixon (Sam Rockwell), an immature, racist, violence-prone mama’s boy who wouldn’t know prudence if she kissed him, gets ugly. Repeatedly.

The subsequent unraveling of McDonagh’s vicious narrative is laden with revelations, which is much of the fun: You simply cannot anticipate the twists and U-turns, and there’s no sense trying.

Casting is the first surprise, because Harrelson has built his career — in great measure — on a series of unbalanced and even dangerous misanthropes; we naturally expect the same here. Yet it quickly becomes apparent that Willoughby is the story’s most rational, thoughtful and level-headed character: a decent man who wins our respect, because he responds to Mildred not with hostility, but kindness and sympathy.

It’s an absolutely cold case, he gently explains, after the billboards go up. No telling evidence. No DNA hits. Nada.

Harrelson exudes good-natured pragmatism and intelligence; he’s genuinely endearing. We all should be so lucky, to have such a thoughtful police chief.

Mildred is unconvinced; Willoughby acknowledges this as her right.

Manchester by the Sea: Drowning in an ocean of grief

Manchester by the Sea (2016) • View trailer 
Five stars. Rated R, for profanity and sexual candor
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 12.2.16

Some films are constructed so beautifully, and lensed so crisply, that they seem to glow. Life of Pi is a recent example, and it brought cinematographer Claudio Miranda a well-deserved Academy Award.

After being brought back to his home town by the sudden death of his brother, Lee (Casey
Affleck, left) is left with the question of what to do about his now parentless teenage
nephew, Patrick (Lucas Hedges).

Manchester by the Sea has the same radiant allure, its northern Massachusetts fishing village setting portrayed with such luxurious sparkle that it literally feels like heaven on Earth. Cinematographer Jody Lee Lipes deserves equal recognition, come Oscar time.

The same can be said for just about everybody connected with this poignant drama. This luxurious, rustic setting is juxtaposed against star Casey Affleck’s heartbreakingly persuasive, all-encompassing depiction of grief. This is one of those assignments that transcends acting; within 10 or 15 minutes, we simply accept the fact that Affleck is Lee Chandler, an estranged native son brought back to his hometown under tragic circumstances.

Writer/director Kenneth Lonergan has an ear for the way people actually talk to each other: true conversation, which often erupts in short-tempered bursts, as opposed to the carefully sculpted “movie talk” that generally passes for dialogue. He’s a methodical and unhurried filmmaker; this is only his third big-screen feature, beginning with 2000’s similarly impressive You Can Count on Me, with Laura Linney and Mark Ruffalo shining in the poignant saga of a woman’s awkward reunion with her younger brother.

It has become clear, with time, that Lonergan is adept at coaxing superlative, quietly lifelike performances from his stars. Affleck is by far the standout here, but he’s in good company; co-stars Lucas Hedges, Michelle Williams and Kyle Chandler complete the core ensemble, together enacting a story that illustrates the crippling, pervasive impact of guilt and anguish.

We meet Lee during his daily routine as a Boston-based janitor, solemnly dealing with clogged toilets, recalcitrant radiators and persnickety light fixtures. Some of the lonely tenants in question welcome his presence; others flirt awkwardly; still others are rude. Lee is uniformly stoic, to the point of appearing discourteous; we initially wonder if he’s on the spectrum, unable to properly process social niceties.

But then we realize no, it’s more a case of a man lost in a swamp of despair, and no longer able to navigate. Affleck moves with uncertainty, as if worried that the very ground might trick him into placing a foot wrong. His sleepy eyes fail to register friendly overtures, as if he’s perpetually stoned, yet he takes no drugs. He does, however, drown the remnants of a gray day with a few too many beers at the local tavern, at which point he may become a short-fused, belligerent drunk: picking fights as a means of securing a punishing beat-down.

All of this emerges in a deft, superbly assembled introductory montage; Lonergan is a master of small, character-establishing details.