Crime 101: Slick and suspenseful

Crime 101 (2025) • View trailer

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

Available via: Movie theaters

By Derrick Bang

This is a solid, methodical crime thriller, very much in the mold of classics such as 1971’s The French Connection, 2010’s The Town, and director Michael Mann’s Heat (1995) and Collateral (2004).

 

During their first date, Maya (Monica Barbaro) becomes increasingly puzzled when
Mike (Chris Hemsworth) is unable — or unwilling — to share personal details about
his childhood, friends and family members.

Director/scripter Bart Layton delivers a similarly clinical, semi-detached atmosphere, along with an intriguing roster of characters, each deftly portrayed by the excellent ensemble cast. Layton also benefits from his source material: the 2021 novella by respected crime author Don Winslow.

The best line from that novella, which firmly establishes the milieu in which these individuals operate: “Laws are made to be broken, with rules that are made to be followed.”

 

The on-screen result is a treat.

 

Layton doesn’t waste time with any back-story. We briefly meet our three primary characters as each greets a new day: Mike Davis (Chris Hemsworth), cool, calm and collected; Sharon Coombs (Halle Berry), exhausted from another night of fitful sleep; and Lou Lubesnick (Mark Ruffalo), rumpled, flustered and unhappy.

 

Matters then focus on Mike, as he begins another of his precision-planned heists of jewels being transported to underworld buyers. He intercepts and takes the place of a guard, which grants him access to the actual transfer point, orchestrated by the shady jeweler (Payman Maadi, as Sammy Kassem). Davis brandishes a gun, sufficient to frighten everyone into cooperation; clearly, variations of this approach have succeeded many times before.

 

But this time things go slightly awry, because an intermediary brought along a younger, unseasoned companion who behaves rashly.

 

Clearly shaken, Mike nonetheless keeps his rendezvous with his fence and “sponsor,” known only as Money (Nick Nolte). They discuss Mike’s next scoped-out job, involving the robbery of a posh Santa Barbara jewelry store. But Mike has had second thoughts, concerned by too many variables.

 

Meanwhile, high-end claims adjuster Sharon Coombs (Halle Berry), dressed to kill, is doing her best to sweet-talk über-rich Beverly Hills asshole Monroe (Tate Donovan) into allowing her company to insure and protect all the flagrantly expensive elements of his upcoming marriage to his trophy fiancée, Adrienne (Andra Nechita). 

 

Sharon has long been promised partnership at her firm, but she’s beginning to realize that her smarmy boss, Mark (Paul Adelstein), has been dangling this hope while using her as glamorous “bait” on wealthy clients. And, on the north end of 50, Sharon worries that she may be reaching her sell-by date … particularly when Mark augments his team with a much younger cutie.

 

When Kassem calls the police; Lou catches the case with his partner, Tillman (Corey Hawkins). Recognizing the modus operandi, Lou is convinced that this is the latest job by the same individual responsible for a couple dozen earlier, similar heists, all of them committed at stores along the 101 freeway. But he’s alone is this belief, and his ongoing obsession has diminished the respect he once possessed, as a capable investigator.

 

Lou is an old-style cop, who trusts his instincts and believes in following even the tiniest of leads. This attitude has made him a dinosaur, increasingly at odds with a boss who prefers clearing cases off the department ledgers, to actually solving who perpetrated them.

The Union: Spy VERY lite

The Union (2024) • View trailer

Three stars (out of five). Rated PG-13, for violence, sexual candor, and occasional profanity

Available via: Netflix

By Derrick Bang

The bar is getting awfully low, when it comes to spy thrillers.

 

Writers Joe Barton and David Guggenheim didn’t do much to earn their keep; you won’t find a single original thought here. Their barely-there premise lifts clichés from countless other (superior) films, adding just enough plot to justify the requisite half-dozen action and chase sequences.

 

Although every attempt to stay ahead of countless unspecified attackers fails miserably,
Mike (Mark Wahlberg) and Roxanne (Halle Berry) always survive to fight another day.

This script couldn’t have filled more than a single sheet of paper ... and that’s pretty much what wound up on the screen.

Events kick off during a prologue, as seasoned operatives Roxanne Hart (Halle Berry) and Nick Faraday (Mike Colter) lead a team to capture a guy planning to auction a suitcase that contains a priceless whatzit. The operation goes south; Roxanne’s entire team is killed, along with their target, and unspecified Bad Guys get away with the suitcase.

 

(We never know who any of these adversaries are, or for whom they work; they’re simply Black-Clad Bad Guys who arrive in Black Cars and Black Helicopters.)

 

Turns out Roxanne works for The Union, which — stop me, if you’ve heard this before — tackles worldwide catastrophes that other U.S. government spy agencies aren’t able to handle.

 

(“The Union”? Seriously? That sounds like a labor organization. Would it have been asking too much, for Barton and Guggenheim to come up with a catchy acronym?)

 

The sought-after whatzit is a computer file that contains a list of every individual working for Western-allied agencies throughout the world: CIA, FBI, MI5 and MI6, France’s DGSE, and so forth.

 

(One wonders how such a list could have been assembled. Do they all subscribe to the same magazine? Share the same Amazon shopping account?)

 

Those in possession of the suitcase intend to sell it to the highest bidder, during a black-market auction. Union head honcho Tom Brennan (J.K. Simmons) hopes to put one of his own “friendly” bidders in play, to surmount offers from five international bad actors: China, North Korea, Syria, Russia and Iran. But since all active agents would be recognized — due to the aforementioned list — this “friendly” must be some sort of regular guy.

 

Which — and this is an awfully big leap — makes Roxanne think of her former high school boyfriend, Mike McKenna (Mark Wahlberg), who remained in New Jersey and is employed as a blue-collar bridge worker. Wahlberg doesn’t need to stretch, since such roles have become his signature: a hard-working, hard-partying good ol’ boy with a solid moral compass and limited ambition.

 

He's also sleeping with his seventh-grade school teacher: a “gag” that doesn’t begin to work (and suffers more from repetition).

Kingsman: The Golden Circle — More cheerfully deranged spyjinks

Kingsman: The Golden Circle (2017) • View trailer 
3.5 stars. Rated R, for strong violence, frequent profanity, drug content and sexual candor
By Derrick Bang

This is the guiltiest of guilty pleasures.

Director Matthew Vaughn’s Kingsman: The Golden Circle is just as hyperkinetically loopy as its 2014 predecessor, and I mean that in the best possible way. Both films are deranged riffs on the 1960s spy craze: from the colorfully mod sets to the manic gadgets and weapons. Think Our Man Flint or The Man from U.N.C.L.E. ... on steroids.

Waitaminute ... isn't he dead? Having tracked the nefarious Golden Circle's drug-dealing
enterprise to a huge lab concealed beneath a mountain ski chalet, Eggsy (Taron Egerton,
left), Galahad (Colin Firth, center) and Whiskey (Pedro Pascal) plan their assault.

The Kingsman films are over the top in all respects, which includes frequent profanity and outrageous dollops of violence, the latter guaranteed to whiten the faces of sensitive viewers. (Consider this ample warning.)

But none of this should be taken seriously. These are comic book-style comedies, even if Vaughn and co-scripter Jane Goldman repeatedly crash the boundaries of good taste. Actually, this sequel is more palatable in one key respect: It lacks the first film’s vulgar sexuality, which is a blessed relief.

On the other hand, this second outing does suffer from bloat. At 141 minutes, Vaughn and Goldman overstay their welcome by at least one frenzied action sequence. Too much of anything becomes tedious.

Following a brilliantly choreographed, pedal-to-the-metal prologue that nearly claims the life of Savile Row-garbed Kingsman agent Eggsy (Taron Egerton), Vaughn and Goldman kick this second global adventure into even higher gear, with an unexpectedly vicious housecleaning: a purge reminiscent of how 1996’s first big-screen Mission: Impossible began. When the dust settles, only Eggsy and Merlin (Mark Strong), the organization’s fastidious Scottish tech guru, are left standing.

Forced to activate their organization’s emergency “Doomsday Protocol,” Eggsy and Merlin are guided to the plains of Kentucky, and the massive Statesman bourbon distillery: actually a front for an even more massive compatriot spy organization that clandestinely protects the civilized world. In its own, inimitably American fashion.

2014’s Kingsman milked considerable humor from the class divide that initially separated Eggsy — introduced as a wayward, uncouth, working-class bloke — from Harry Hart/Galahad (Colin Firth), the seasoned operative who brought the young man into the fold. This film does the same, with even funnier results, as the now-suave Eggsy and (always suave) Merlin confront their rougher, gruffer American counterparts.

Kentucky is cowboy country, and everything about Statesman adheres to that model, starting with boots, pronounced drawls and plenty of denim. The primary Statesman field agents are Tequila (Channing Tatum) and Whiskey (Pedro Pascal); their tech guru — Merlin’s counterpart — is Ginger Ale (Halle Berry).

As for the group’s leader, who else but Jeff Bridges would be cast as Champagne? He has a great time sending up his various cowboy roles, down to little gestures such as Champ’s habit of wiping his mustache with a finger moistened in bourbon.

Kidnap: Race with the devils

Kidnap (2017) • View trailer 
Three stars. Rated R, for violence, dramatic intensity and profanity
By Derrick Bang

At his syndicated prime, Joe Bob Briggs would have been all over this one.

Kidnap is a classic drive-in exploitation flick: gratuitously violent, wholly preposterous and at times laughably acted ... but you gotta give director Luis Prieto credit for momentum, and for cunningly winding up his viewers.

Karla (Halle Berry) spends most of this film's vehicular pursuit looking ahead, toward the
car that contains her kidnapped son ... except when the baddies in that car do something
dreadful to other folks.

And for knowing when to get off the stage. At a revved-up 82 minutes, his film certainly doesn’t overstay its welcome.

Matters could have been improved considerably, however, had Prieto bothered to find a better writer. First-time scripter Knate Lee may have delivered a smashing concept pitch, but his dialogue is atrocious ... particularly during the first act, when star Halle Berry spends far too much time talking to herself (by way of — needlessly — telling us stuff that we already know).

Berry’s clumsy, unpersuasive delivery doesn’t help the situation. She’s far more convincing during the final act, when she talks less and relies more on mama-bear fury. By that point, you should expect to hear repeated shouts of “You go, girl!” from the audience.

And you’ll probably be perched at the edge of your own seat, as well.

Prieto opens his film with a sickly sweet montage that demonstrates the depth of Karla Dyson’s (Berry) devotion to her son Frankie, from birth to adorable young kidhood. Now played winningly by Sage Correa, the bespectacled Frankie is every inch the lovable, trusting and achingly vulnerable little boy.

Karla, alas, scrambles as a hard-working New Orleans waitress and single mother, often taking double shifts just to make ends meet, and embroiled in a custody battle with her ex and his new girlfriend. Both are much more financially stable.

The latter subplot, apparently introduced for character depth, goes absolutely nowhere. It’s entirely superfluous and offers no closure. Sloppy.

A rare shared afternoon’s fun at the magnificent City Park grants Karla and Frankie some quality time, until her attention briefly wanders while taking a phone call from her divorce attorney. But that’s enough for Frankie to vanish, Karla’s initial concern igniting into full-blown panic when she sees her son being hauled into a scruffy hatchback by an even scruffier woman.

An unseen driver roars out of the parking lot, but Karla is close enough to her minivan to hop in and give chase.

And “chase” is rather an understatement.

The Call: Better hang up!

The Call (2013) • View trailer 
Two stars. Rating: R, for violence, profanity and disturbing content
By Derrick Bang

This is a taut and tidy little thriller ... for awhile.

Unfortunately, the need to sustain the wafer-thin premise for 90 minutes prompts plot developments that are increasingly contrived, tawdry and — ultimately — downright stupid.

The calm before the storm: LAPD 911 operator Jordan Turner (Halle Berry) is good at
her job; indeed, she's one of the best. But all her training goes for naught when an
unknown nutjob goes on a serial kidnapping spree ... and worse. Alas, Jordan's
behavior will get pretty damn stupid by the time this numbnuts story concludes.

Not to mention exploitatively violent, with director Brad Anderson lingering almost lovingly on moments of gruesome death. By the time we hit the third act and its jaw-droppingly ludicrous conclusion, we’re firmly in the realm of exploitative trash.

Chalk up another dog on Halle Barry’s increasingly lamentable résumé. This woman has no taste or judgment whatsoever.

We also must wonder why anybody saw merit in Richard D’Ovidio’s brain-dead script, which feels like a one-sentence “What if” concept stretched far beyond its limits. I note that D’Ovidio had help from Nicole D’Ovidio and Jon Bokenkamp for the initial story, which staggers the imagination. It took three people to cobble together this laughable mess? The mind doth boggle.

That said, the first act is promising, as Anderson and cinematographer Tom Yatsko slowly swoop through the “hive” of the greater Los Angeles 911 call center, hovering over operators one by one, as they assess emergencies — and trivial nonsense — while logging details via an impressive computer interface. We finally come to rest on Jordan Turner (Berry), a crisp and efficient veteran who calmly handles everything that comes.

Including an inebriated “regular” who somehow seems to reach her whenever he desires. Which begs an obvious question — since I’m not aware that one has the option of requesting specific operators when dialing 911 — but hey, we’ll grant this rather odd detail for the sake of a quick smile.

The levity doesn’t linger, though, because Jordan’s next call comes from a terrified teenager who’s alone in her house as an intruder is breaking in. Jordan rises to the challenge, and one must credit Berry for navigating the escalating situation with a persuasive blend of calm and crisp efficiency; she does look and sound right for the part.

But it quickly becomes apparent — to us first, and then to Jordan and her increasingly concerned colleagues — that this is no mere burglary. This particular intruder’s intentions are far worse, and Jordan can only listen helplessly as the grim scenario unfolds.

A day or two later, the girl’s body is found.

Cloud Atlas: Fair to partly opaque

Cloud Atlas (2012) • View trailer
3.5 stars. Rating: R, for violence, profanity, nudity, sexuality, drug use and often disturbing dramatic intensity
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 10.26.12

Shirley MacLaine will adore this film, and I’m sure she already has done her part to goose sales of David Mitchell’s source novel.

Investigative journalist Luisa Rey (Halle Berry), poking about behind the scenes at a
nuclear power plant, is surprised when scientist Isaac Sachs (Tom Hanks, center)
doesn't turn her in to CEO Lloyd Hooks (Hugh Grant). She soon learns that Sachs has
just as much reason to be concerned by what is taking place under Hooks' watch.

Rarely has the interconnectivity of past lives been conveyed so cleverly on screen, and certainly never before with such audacious snap. Even if you snicker at the premise and the multiple casting gimmick — about which, more later — it’s impossible to deny the skill with which these half-dozen interlinked stories unfold.

Despite an indulgent length of nearly three hours, directors Tom Tykwer, Andy Wachowski and Lana Wachowski maintain an impressive degree of suspense and momentum, layering cliff-hanger upon cliff-hanger. We can’t help being caught up in the vastness of this sweeping fantasy, or the intimacy of its individual storylines.

And yet, when all is done and the screen fades to black, it seems like a lot of fuss and bother about very little. Just as Christopher Nolan’s Inception was an overcooked journey to discover the identity of Rosebud, Cloud Atlas builds to its climax only as a means of reflecting upon the endurance of true love, and the notion that — historically, contemporarily or in a future yet to come — individuals can make a difference, and always have.

As one character says, “What is an ocean, but a multitude of drops?”

Not exactly an earth-shattering revelation, but I suppose the thought is comforting.

The interlaced narratives are driven, to a degree, by the shared memory of a piece of music: the Cloud Atlas Sextet, a symphony written by young ne’er-do-well Robert Frobisher (Ben Whishaw), during his 1936 stint as amanuensis to cranky old composer Vyvyan Ayrs (Jim Broadbent), years beyond his prime. The spirit of this music — actually composed by Tykwer and score collaborators Johnny Klimek and Reinhold Heil — imbues these and all other characters, and the theme itself bridges events from one time period to the next.

New Year's Eve: Classic Hollywood froth

New Year's Eve (2011) • View trailer for New Year's Eve
3.5 stars. Rating: PG-13, for fleeting profanity and some sexual candor
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 12.9.11


New Year’s Eve is a lighthearted throwback to classic Hollywood ensemble dramas such as 1932’s Grand Hotel, with star-laden casts that played isolated clusters of characters involved with their own little dramas.

Trying to get a conventional cab on New Year's Eve is impossible, so when
Tess (Jessica Biel) suddenly must get to the hospital right now, lest she deliver
her baby on the sidewalk, husband Griffin (Seth Meyers) does the best he can,
and flags down a pedal-cab.

Additionally, New Year’s Eve is very much like last year’s Valentine’s Day, also directed by Garry Marshall and co-written by Katherine Fugate, who assumes solo scripting chores this time.

And, as was the case with Valentine’s Day, Marshall’s newest effort will be embraced as a fun date flick by folks with romantic souls, and loudly dissed by cinematic snobs who can’t get beyond the calculated pretense and contrived star turns.

A pox on the latter’s houses, and may they be alone on New Year’s Eve.

Sometimes a movie is just a movie, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Marshall knows how to craft slick Hollywood product, and Fugate deftly sketches a dozen or so mini-dramas, adding just enough backstory — in most cases — to involve us with each set of characters.

And we can’t help being impressed by a cast that includes three Oscar-winning best actors, a couple more Oscar nominees and several dozen familiar faces from both television and the big screen. A few are notorious scene-stealers, but Marshall maintains a steady hand and somehow grants everybody equal time.

That’s an impressive accomplishment with a cast this large, and a set of stories this diverse. Which only matters in an abstract sense, because our sole obligation with a film such as New Year’s Eve is to sit back and have a good time.

As the title suggests, the events take place during a single day in and around New York’s Times Square, as a massive cluster of humanity jams the streets in order to watch the big ball drop at the stroke of midnight. This year’s annual ceremony is being supervised by Claire (Hilary Swank), the newly promoted vice president of the Times Square Alliance.

She arrives early, with plenty of time to test the ball. Which — horrors! —gets stuck halfway up the massive pole, with only a few of its many lights flashing.