The Room Next Door: Confronting the ultimate enemy

The Room Next Door (2024) • View trailer

Four stars (out of five). Rated PG-13, for thematic content, sexual candor and occasional profanity

Available via: Movie theaters

By Derrick Bang

Greater love hath no friend...

 

Pedro Almodóvar traditionally makes films about women — often a pair of women — and they always talk a lot. It’s tempting to assume that he’d have been happier as a director of stage dramas, but that would overlook the beautifully composed cinematography that always highlights his productions — in this case, courtesy of Eduard Grau — and which almost becomes a character in itself.

 

During one of her better days, Martha (TIlda Swinton, left) and Ingrid (Julianne Moore)
visit a bookstore, where the former buys books she'll never have time to read.

This is writer/director Almodóvar’s first English-language film, and he’s equally adept with dialogue that feels and sounds just as authentic, at every moment.

Ingrid (Julianne Moore) and Martha (Tilda Swinton) were close friends during their early, post-college years, when they worked together at the same magazine. Ingrid subsequently became a successful author of autobiographical fiction, with legions of adoring fans; Martha became a war correspondent energized by the adrenaline-charged buzz of being in a danger zone.

 

They lost touch, as the years passed. The film begins as the Manhattan-based Ingrid chances to learn, from a mutual acquaintance during a bookstore signing, that Martha has been hospitalized.

 

Ingrid visits immediately, and is stunned by the news that Martha has end-stage cervical cancer.

 

What follows is essentially a two-hander, which occasionally expands via flashbacks and Ingrid’s chats with close friend Damian (John Turturro), who — back in the day — was a lover to both women (sequentially, not simultaneously). There’s a comfort and familiarity to the ongoing conversations between Moore and Swinton; they look, sound and move like longtime best friends.

 

We’ve all experienced this dynamic. Reuniting with some long-unseen friends feels awkward and uncomfortable; you can’t wait to depart (probably permanently). But it’s different with friends who somehow remain fiercely close, despite distance and separation; you fall right back into the pattern of finishing each other’s sentences, and perhaps even continuing a conversation cut short, as if no time had passed.

 

Reminiscences and catching-up comes first, although Martha’s condition obviously hovers throughout.

Emilia Pérez: Breathtakingly original

Emilia Pérez (2024) • View trailer

3.5 stars (out of five). Rated R, for profanity, violence and frank sexual content

Available via: Netflix

By Derrick Bang 

Wildly operatic, transgender, quasi-farcical cartel telenovela musical mash-ups — in Spanish, of course — don’t come along very often.

 

Enraged by the criminal scum she has spent a career representing, Rita (Zoe Saldaña)
vents her furty during the first act's show-stopping production number.

Depending on one’s open-mindedness, French director/co-writer Jacques Audiard’s dream project is either a wildly imaginative phenomenon — after all, it took the Jury Prize at last year’s Cannes Film Festival — or a ludicrously overcooked mess that repeatedly betrays its characters.

I lean toward the former, with some misgivings. Whatever its occasional faults, Emilia Pérez covers strong dramatic territory, and boasts some truly show-stopping production numbers.

 

The elevator-pitch plot summary: Mexican drug kingpin Juan “Manitas” Del Monte, who for his entire life has wished to escape his cycle of violence and death, embraces gender-affirming surgery and emerges as Emilia Pérez, a stylish, soon-to-be-much-admired advocate for citizens whose friends and relatives have been “disappeared.”

 

Of course, it isn’t that simple. Emilia soon discovers that a new identity — indeed, an entire transformation — cannot erase one’s heart and soul, not to mention a lifetime of vicious behavior patterns.

 

But all that comes later. Audiard — aided by co-writers Thomas Bidegain, Léa Mysius and Nicolas Livecchi — begin by introducing the story’s true protagonist: Rita Moro Castro (Zoe Saldaña), a talented but overtaxed 40-year-old defense attorney, who is increasingly sickened by a career spent helping cartel thugs, murderers and wife-killers avoid prison.

 

Right out of the gate, Saldaña proves that she owns this film.

 

Rita’s anger and self-loathing are highlighted in the first dazzling production number, “El Alegato,” as she moves among hundreds of folks in a street market, chanting and singing while typing notes and then striding toward court, with everybody around her quickly drawn into the action. It’s an explosive display of cinematographer Paul Guilhaume’s inventive camera placement, Juliette Welfing’s tight editing, and Damien Jalet’s vibrant choreography.

 

The result is a show-stopper on par with the similarly fantastic “Another Day of Sun” freeway sequence, which opens 2016’s La La Land.

 

Rita’s professional talent hasn’t gone entirely unnoticed; she’s abruptly brought before Manitas (Karla Sofía Gascón), a terrifying, tattoo-covered figure with gold teeth and a menacing aura that could smother the faint of heart. He makes her the ultimate offer that cannot be refused: Find a surgeon who’ll handle a gender transition, safely relocate his family in the wake of “his” death, and navigate all the tricky legal details ... after which she’ll be paid more money than she ever could have imagined.

 

But the clock is ticking, since Manitas already has (secretly) begun hormone therapy. “Your predecessor wasted too much time,” he warns.

 

The subsequent whirlwind montage hits high burlesque with “La Vaginoplastia,” a production number set in a Bangkok transitional surgery clinic, where Rita learns all about the, um, necessary snips, tucks, folds and so forth. (This is likely the moment when puritanical viewers will choose to escape.)

 

But then Audiard abruptly shifts emotional gears — not for the last time — when Rita finally encounters an Israeli surgeon (Mark Ivanir, as Dr. Wasserman) willing to consider the procedure. During their quiet and surprisingly emotional duet, “Lady,” he warns that he can change the body ... but he cannot change the mind.

 

Manitas vanishes into surgery and post-operative recovery, with everybody believing him killed and vanished by a narco rival. By this point, we’ve also met his wife, Jessi (Selena Gomez), a self-centered little tart who pays scant attention to their two children; Rita relocates all three to Switzerland.

 

According to the original plan, that should be the end of it.

 

But no.

 

Four years pass. Rita has blossomed into a respected attorney on the proper side of the law. During a fancy dinner laden with movers and shakers, she’s seated next to a striking and impressively dressed woman. It doesn’t take Rita more than a few heartbeats to realize that this charismatic figure — Emilia Pérez (also played by Gascón) — is Manitas’ new identity.

 

And she wants to be reunited with her children. (Cue the warning bells.)

 

Rita arranges this; Jessi and the children return to Mexico, and move into the opulent home of “Manitas’ distant cousin,” Emilia. That this charade succeeds is the story’s biggest eyebrow lift, because — honestly — Manitas and Emilia don’t look that different. 

 

The very notion would descend into farce, except that Audiard once again plays against expectation, with the film’s most poignant song: “Papa,” a lament that unfolds as “Auntie Emilia” tucks her young son into bed one night. “You smell like Papa,” the boys says, sleepily curling into her arms; the play of emotions on Gascón’s face is shattering.

 

Wanting to atone for previous bad behavior, Emilia enlists Rita to help set up a foundation, La Lucecita, devoted to finding the more than 10,000 people missing in this region alone. But the bloom quickly fades from this rose — for Rita — when Emilia is forced to solicit funds, during a fancy charity dinner, from a room laden with corrupt politicians, judges and public figures.

 

Rita’s wrath at this hypocrisy explodes into the second dazzling production number: “El Mal,” a cheeky, rock-and-rap extravaganza that sends Saldaña striding, writhing and bouncing around the room and onto tables, as Rita — entirely in her imagination — announces and castigates the vile secrets shared by this deplorable ruling elite.

 

This sequence will, fer shur, earn Saldaña an Oscar nomination.

 

In terms of storyline, matters subsequently go from bad to worse, building to what obviously will be Shakespearean-style tragedy.

 

That said, the increasingly grim third act also features several notable musical performances: “Mi Camino,” a vibrant, karaoke-style number sung by Gomez, which highlight’s the story’s themes of love and identity; and “El Amor,” a soft duet between Gascón and Adriana Paz, who enters proceedings as Emilia’s new lover, Epifania.

 

Even when the primary characters aren’t bursting into song, their dialogue frequently shifts from spoken words to softly chanted ballads with oft-repeated lyrics. Almost all of these narrative-enhancing tunes are written and sometimes performed by French singer/songwriter Camille, working with composer Clément Ducol.

 

In fairness, viewers who faithfully hang on during this film’s 132 minutes likely will be moved by the finale. Audiard definitely knows how to work one’s emotions.

 

However...

 

Gomez is a glaringly weak link; her acting chops simply aren’t up to the script’s demands, and she pales alongside Saldaña and Gascón. (Gomez’s Spanish also has been faulted severely, but I can’t judge that.) 

 

It also should be noted that Mexican viewers are enraged by Audiard’s stereotypical depiction of their culture — he made the entire film in France, on sound stages — and GLAAD has branded the story a “step back” for transgender representation.

Whether this matters will be up to individual viewers, and the film is certain to be quite polarizing. There’s no denying the uniqueness of Audiard’s bold vision, but I’m not sure Emilia Pérez ever will find the audience it deserves.

 

Vengeance Most Fowl: It's a gnome run!

Vengeance Most Fowl (2024) • View trailer

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

Available via: Netflix

By Derrick Bang 

Filmmaker Nick Park already had won two Oscars, the second for Wallace & Gromit’s The Wrong Trousers, when American viewers finally got to see that hilariously clever claymation short via a Wednesday evening PBS screening on March 20, 1995.

 

That’s how long it took to cross the pond. Unbelievable.

 

Wallace,left, thinks that his recently invented Norbot "helper gnome" will revolutionize
back-yard gardening ... but the more practical Gromit has his doubts.

We Yanks instantly recognized what our British cousins had known since Park burst onto the scene in 1989, with a pair of Oscar-nominated shorts: Creature Comforts took the award, besting A Grand Day Out, Wallace & Gromit’s debut adventure.

Park and his Aardman production team subsequently made the world a better place, in their own modest way: not merely by bringing renewed respect to the painstaking art of sculpted clay animation, but because they also carved a niche for adorable, family-friendly British whimsy.

 

Along the way, Park and his hilariously eccentric claymation duo collected two more Academy Awards, for 1996’s A Close Shave and 2006’s feature-length The Curse of the Were-Rabbit.

 

They’re all laden with folksy, tea-and-cheese, veddy-British charm, laced with countless spot gags and a wacky, off-kilter sense of humor.

 

Along with plenty of eyeball-rolling puns. 

 

That’s also true of the many other delightful Aardman productions that kept us entertained along the way, among them Chicken Run, Arthur Christmas and Shaun the Sheep TV episodes and big-screen features.

 

All of which brings us to this new film: not merely the first Wallace & Gromit entry we’ve seen since 2010’s A Matter of Loaf and Death, but also an inspired sequel to The Wrong Trousers.

 

That earlier short’s villain — Feathers McGraw, the nefarious, inscrutable penguin who disguises himself as a chicken, with the help of a red rubber glove — is seeking payback. (Park and co-director Melin Crossingham must be the only people alive who could made a mute, animated penguin look sinister.)

 

A brief prologue recaps how the beloved duo captured Feathers, and turned him over to the constabulary; the penguin subsequently was sentenced to a “high-security institution” ... the local zoo.

 

The story proper kicks off on a typical day with the ceaselessly inventive Wallace (voiced by Ben Whitehead, sounding just like the late and very lamented Peter Sallis, who played this role for years).  Wallace never met a simple task that couldn’t be “improved” via some crazily complicated contraption.

 

By way of example, each morning begins when Gromit activates the “Get Up Deluxe,” which opens the curtains in Wallace’s bedroom, tilts his bed, and — with the push of a red “launch” button — sends him down a chute, removes his pajamas, dumps him into a bathtub — with pre-wash, soak, scrub and eco cycles — then dries and plunges him into the Dress-O-Matic, after which he plops into the downstairs kitchen, fully clothed, in time for the automatically prepared tea-and-toast breakfast. 

 

It’s a breathtaking 70 seconds — choreographed to Lorne Balfe and Julian Nott’s exhilarating score, with echoes of the iconic main theme — which sets the tone for future, equally frantic action sequences.

A Complete Unknown: Not come Oscar time!

A Complete Unknown (2024) • View trailer

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

Available via: Movie theaters

By Derrick Bang 

Director James Mangold’s mesmerizing depiction of Bob Dylan’s early years is laden with electrifying moments.

 

Early on, Joan Baez (Monica Barbaro) is the self-assured, veteran stage performer,
and Bob Dylan (Timothée Chalamet) is just a nervous kid ... but that dynamic changes
quickly, and quite dramatically.

The first comes quickly, when a scruffy 19-year-old leaves Minnesota for New York’s Greenwich Village, with little more than a guitar and the clothes he wore, in order to visit Woody Guthrie, with whom he had become obsessed after reading the legendary folk singer’s autobiography.

It’s January 1961: a quietly intimate moment in the hospital room where Guthrie (Scoot McNairy) has long been under care for Huntington’s disease (for which there was no treatment, at the time). His frequent visitor is Pete Seeger (Edward Norton), who has learned how to understand his longtime friend’s mostly unintelligible attempts at speech. Young Dylan (Timothée Chalamet) appears in the doorway; Seeger invites him inside.

 

Guthrie spots the guitar slung against Dylan’s back, and gestures for a song.

 

The young man obliges.

 

Like ... wow.

 

Movie magic at its finest.

 

A similarly powerful scene comes much later; it involves a cigarette passed between two people standing on opposite sides of a chain-link fence: unexpectedly sweet, intimate ... and sad.

 

Mangold and co-scripter Jay Cocks based their film on Elijah Wood’s 2015 non-fiction book, Dylan Goes Electric: Newport, Seeger, Dylan and the Night that Split the Sixties. The result is rigorously authentic to actual events — warts and all — allowing for occasional fabrications for dramatic purposes. The time frame is brief, from early 1961 to the galvanic, game-changing evening of July 25, 1965, during Dylan’s closing set at that year’s Newport Folk Festival.

 

To say that Chalamet fully inhabits this performance is the worst of understatements. It isn’t merely an uncanny replication of Dylan’s look, posture, mannerisms and the cadence of his mumbled, almost whispered speaking voice. Chalamet also sings and performs more than 40 songs during the course of this rhapsodic film, often sounding more like Dylan than the man himself.

 

The dramatic arc here will be familiar to those who’ve followed the careers of artists who burst explosively onto the scene, and then become pigeon-holed. Some are content to stay in such boxes, cheerfully riding the money machine; others — the genuinely talented — chafe at public expectations.

 

The resulting weight can be crippling. What, if anything, does an artist owe his public?

Nosferatu: It sucks

Nosferatu (2024) • View trailer

One star (out of five). Rated R, for strong bloody violence, graphic nudity and sexual content

Available via: Movie theaters

By Derrick Bang

Watching paint dry would be preferable to enduring this turgid, overcooked slog.

 

In fairness, writer/director Robert Eggers gets points for atmosphere. Cinematographer Jarin Blaschke definitely maximizes the eerie settings concocted by production designer Craig Lathrop. (That said, much of the film is too damn dark.)

 

Professor Albin Eberhart Von Franz (Willem Dafoe) and Ellen (Lily-Rose Depp) eventually
realize that particularly drastic measures will be required, if they're to have any chance
of defeating the vampire in their midst.

Alas, these opulently sinister backdrops are ill-served by a somnambulant cast that appears to wade through thick glue at all times, delivering lines with breathy pauses in between each word ... particularly true in the case of the title monster, who wheezes through every labored syllable, like he’s battling the world’s worst chest cold.

That affectation undoubtedly was intended to sound scary, but Eggers misses “scary” by a Carpathian mile.

 

His film has an intriguing legacy. 1922’s Nosferatu was plagiarized from Bram Stoker’s Dracula; director F.W. Murnau and scripter Henrik Galeen stole the plot and characters, changing names and relocating the story to their native Germany, in order to evade copyright issues. The ploy didn’t work; Stoker’s heirs sued, and the court ruled that all copies of the film be destroyed.

 

They missed a few, and Murnau’s film now is deservedly hailed as an early silent masterpiece that birthed the horror genre; the appearance of star Max Schreck’s Count Orlok also established a template for vampire makeup. 

 

Aside from the numerous legitimate adaptations of Stoker’s novel during the subsequent century, Nosferatu was remade by director Werner Herzog in 1979, with Klaus Kinski as the title vampire. Francis Ford Coppola’s handling of Bram Stoker’s Dracula, in 1992, also tipped a fang to Murnau.

 

Eggers’ new film borrows from all of the above, while focusing mostly on Murnau’s setting and characters. Eggers also employs shadows, often of a menacing hand, just as Murnau did. And, as befits our modern era, this film more explicitly emphasizes the lurid sexual eroticism that fuels much of the vampire mythos.

The Six Triple Eight: It delivers!

The Six Triple Eight (2024) • View trailer

Four stars (out of five). Rated PG-13, for dramatic intensity, profanity, racial slurs and brief war violence

Available via: Netflix

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 12.29.24 

Director Tyler Perry’s compelling, fact-based drama is a painful reminder that heroic deeds can get overlooked, when history is compiled by biased reporters.

 

New enlistees, from left, Dolores (Sarah Jeffery), Lena (Ebony Obsidian), Elaine (Pepi
Sonuga) and Johnnie Mae (Shanice Shantay) nervously wonder what awaits them.

In early 1945, during the waning days of World War II, the 6888th Central Postal Directory Battalion — known by its members as the Six Triple Eight — became the sole Women’s Army Corps of color to serve overseas during the war.

This was prompted by a bit of political pressure from Eleanor Roosevelt and her close friend, barrier-shattering Black educator Mary McLeod Bethune, who tirelessly crusaded for Black women to be allowed a more prominent role in the U.S. military.

 

Back in July 1942, after having graduating from Ohio’s Wilberforce College — with a triple major in physics, math and Latin, and a minor in history — and then teaching junior high school for four years, Charity Edna Adams enlisted in the Women’s Army Corps. By late 1944, she had risen to the rank of Major, becoming the war’s highest-ranking Black female officer.

 

She was selected to lead the Six Triple Eight’s 855 women on its overseas assignment: an “impossible” task that some of her blatantly racist white superior officers clearly hoped would prove too much for the battalion.

 

But that’s getting ahead of things.

 

Perry and co-scripter Kevin Hymel shine a welcome light on this riveting — and often astonishing — saga, which came to modern attention just a decade ago. (Absent some accidental research, it might have been forgotten entirely.)

 

Perry’s film is anchored by Kerry Washington’s powerful performance as Major Adams. She’s joined by a solid supporting cast: most notably Ebony Obsidian, as Lena Derriecott King (also an actual WAC).

 

The story begins stateside with Lena, who has fallen for the white, wealthy and Jewish Abram David (Gregg Sulkin) ... much to her mother’s disapproval and concern. Abram is unfazed; he’s madly in love with Lena, and doesn’t care what the rest of the world thinks. But he soon ships out to join the overseas war effort, after which she hears nothing.

 

No mail from him.

 

Mufasa, The Lion King: Roars with energy

Mufasa: The Lion King (2024) • View trailer

Four stars (out of five). Rated PG, and rather generously, despite considerable violence, peril and dramatic intensity

Available via: Movie theaters

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 12.22.24 

This film’s look is nothing short of spectacular; the blend of animation, photo-real CGI and cinematographer James Laxton’s live-action contribution is amazing. All the animals, as well, look and move with impressive authenticity.

 

You’ll wonder, repeatedly, where actual African vistas surrender to CGI make-believe.

Ideally, though; you shouldn’t spend much time wondering, thanks to Jeff Nathanson’s riveting screenplay. He includes everything: family bonding, friendship, love, betrayal and often brutal Shakespearean drama. Indeed, this film’s PG rating seems generous, given the level of violence and nature’s harshness.

 

The often varied African landscape can be unforgiving.

 

Mufasa opens as Simba and his mate, Nala (Donald Glover and Beyoncé, returning to their roles from 2019’s The Lion King), temporarily leave their young daughter, Kiara (Blue Ivy Carter), in the care of the wise mandrill shaman, Rafiki (John Kani). The cub is frightened by a ferocious thunderstorm, so Rafiki calms her with the saga of her grandfather, Mufasa, who rose from humble origins to become the beloved king of the savannah.

 

This story frequently is interrupted by the antics of wisecracking meerkat Timon (Billy Eichner) and gassy warthog Pumba (Seth Rogen), who attempt to interject their trademark slapstick ... along with repeated attempts to sing “Hakuna Matata.”

 

(Children will find their antics hilarious. In point of fact, they quickly become distracting, even annoying.)

 

The core tale thus unfolds via a lengthy flashback. It opens under grim conditions, as young Mufasa and his parents, Masego (Keith David) and Afia (Anika Noni Rose), join other desperate animals in a search for water during a lengthy drought. Masego celebrates his son’s speed and adventurous spirit; Afia regales him with stories of Milele (“forever”), a cherished savannah “beyond the last cloud in the sky.”

 

A sudden monsoon rainstorm initially seems like salvation, but the resulting flash flood separates Mufasa from his parents; the helpless cub is washed many, many miles downstream.

 

Exhausted when the current finally recedes, barely able to keep his head above water, Mufasa escapes becoming an alligator’s dinner thanks to the timely intervention of Taka (Theo Somolu), a kind-hearted cub from a nearby pride. Alas, this generous act violates the pride’s rule that forbids outsiders, strictly enforced by Taka’s father, Obasi (Lennie James). His more forgiving mate, Eshe (Thandiwe Newton), perceives Mufasa as a lion capable of enhanced senses. Mufasa is allowed to remain.