The Three Musketeers: Milady — Thoroughly enjoyable

The Three Musketeers: Milady (2023) • View trailer

Four stars (out of five). Not rated, and akin to PG-13 for violence

Available via: Amazon Prime and other VOD options

By Derrick Bang

No surprise: The second chapter of French filmmaker Martin Bourboulon’s swashbuckling epic is every bit as entertaining as its predecessor.

 

You'd think he would learn! Milady (Eva Green) once again has D'Artagnan (François Civil)
at her mercy ... although what she intends to do with him, remains an open question.

As director Richard Lester did, back in the 1970s, Bourboulon closed the first half on a (mostly) triumphant note, with the French queen’s reputation preserved, thanks to the heroic efforts of D’Artagnan (François Civil) and his fellow Musketeers; they foiled a nefarious plot by the scheming Cardinal Richelieu (Èric Ruf) and his henchwoman, the malevolent Milady (Eva Green).

Our heroes also thwarted an attempt to assassinate King Louis XIII (Louis Garrel). 

 

But Bourboulon and his co-scripters — Matthieu Delaporte and Alexandre de La Patellière — couldn’t resist adding a nasty cliffhanger. D’Artagnan, warned that his beloved Constance (Lyna Khoudri) was in danger, was just in time to see her snatched and whisked away in a black coach ... after which he was whacked on the head and left to an uncertain fate.

 

This second chapter picks up immediately thereafter, as D’Artagnan regains consciousness in a wood crate shared with a corpse (yuck!). He overcomes his captors and captures the Comte de Chalais (Patrick Mille), a secondary villain whose role expands in this film. D’Artagnan believes that the Comte has Constance in a prison cell, and instead is surprised to find Milady chained within.

 

In a nod to the old proverb — “the enemy of my enemy is my friend” — the subsequent skirmish finds D’Artagnan and Milady fighting as unlikely allies: an uneasy alliance that Bourboulon continues to exploit as the story progresses.

 

Both actors have fun with this prickly dynamic. Although still impetuous and reckless, Civil’s D’Artagnan no longer is as foolish or callow; he doesn’t trust Milady ... but she’s so damn seductive, that his guard frequently drops. Green, in turn, positively delights in her character’s shameless malice; she’s every inch a black widow spider waiting eagerly to ensnare and devour hapless prey.

 

Green’s eyes sparkle with cold, cunning evil: the pluperfect villain we love to hate.

 

(The writers attempt to justify Milady’s behavior by adding references to abusive treatment by men earlier in her life, but that’s an eyebrow-lift. Go with the obvious: She’s bad because she enjoys it.)

 

The Three Musketeers: D'Artagnan — Energetic swash and buckle

The Three Musketeers: D'Artagnan (2023) • View trailer

Four stars (out of five). Not rated, but akin to PG-13 for violence and brief nudity

Available via: Amazon Prime and other VOD outlets

By Derrick Bang

There’s plenty to enjoy in this sumptuous, old-school adaptation of Dumas’ 1844 novel.

 

That said, Dumas purists might get cranky, because scripters Matthieu Delaporte and Alexandre de La Patelliére have taken serious liberties with the author’s book.

 

The musketeers — from left, Athos (Vincent Cassel), Aramis (Romain Duris) and
Porthos (Pio Marmaï) — are amused to discover that brash young D'Artagnan
(François Civil, back to camera) has arranged to duel all three of them ...
at hourly intervals.

I was surprised to discover that this rip-snortin’ saga hasn’t been filmed in its native country since a 1959 TV movie with Jean-Paul Belmondo, starring as D’Artagnan. During that time, Hollywood gave us no fewer than four big-screen versions, most notably director Richard Lester’s two-parter in 1973 and ’74 (which, it must be mentioned, followed Dumas’ novel very faithfully).

Director Martin Bourboulon and his writers mimicked that two-part template with their new Gallic adaptation; both halves debuted in France last year, and “Part 1” just hit video-on-demand in the States, with (I hope) the conclusion following soon.

 

The year is 1627, and France is a bitterly divided country. King Louis XIII (Louis Garrel) and his wife, Anne of Austria (Vicky Krieps), have yet to produce an heir, placing the monarchy in peril. Protestant separatists, supported by England, wish to establish their own state; this enrages the king’s Catholic advisors.

 

Louis is cautious, though, not wanting to provoke a civil war ... but his younger brother Gaston, Duke of Orléans (Julien Frison), believes they should attack the Protestant rebels at their stronghold in La Rochelle.

 

Waiting in the wings: Cardinal Richelieu (Èric Ruf), playing a nefarious long game with the expectation of seizing power himself. To that end, he has enlisted the aid of the villainous Milady de Winter (Eva Green, sublimely evil), to set a crafty plan in motion.

 

All of this is backdrop, as young D’Artagnan (François Civil) leaves his Gascony homeland in order to join the ranks of the King’s Musketeers in Paris. While en route, D’Artagnan unwittingly stumbles on an attempt by ruffians to kidnap a young noblewoman, Isabelle de Valcour (Charlotte Ranson). Alas, the kidnappers succeed, and D’Artagnan’s attempt at chivalry nearly proves fatal.

 

Standing nearby, Milady smiles in satisfaction.

 

Longtime fans will recognize what comes next. D’Artagnan arrives in Paris, garners an encouraging audience with Captain de Tréville (Marc Barbé), and then manages to insult — in quick succession — musketeers Athos (Vincent Cassel), Porthos (Pio Marmaï) and Aramis (Romain Duris). They demand satisfaction via duels in the nearby woods; D’Artagnan rashly books them at hourly intervals ... much to their amusement, when all three arrive together.

 

But Richelieu has outlawed dueling, and a sizeable regiment of his guards arrive, with the intention of arresting the quartet. What follows is the first of the film’s energetically choreographed, hell-for-leather skirmishes; it’s exhilarating, messy and rather brutal, which follows Bourboulon’s insistence on a period-accurate dark and gritty environment. (Clearly, these guys don’t bathe very often.)

 

Another nice touch: Civil’s D’Artagnan goes all-in during this fight, and — toward the end — looks and moves like a man at the verge of total exhaustion.

Beckett: Solid acting, inept script

Beckett (2021) • View trailer

2.5 stars (out of five). Rated TV-MA, for violence and dramatic intensity

Available via: Netflix

By Derrick Bang

Although the bulk of director/co-scripter Ferdinando Cito Filomarino’s “innocent on the run” thriller generates considerable suspense — and John David Washington throws everything into his lead role — the story eventually collapses under the weight of its overly complicated narrative.

 

Beckett (John David Washington) and April (Alicia Vikander), enjoying their vacation in
Greece, playfully concoct fictional back-stories for the other tourists they spot.
Alas, things won't remain casual and carefree much longer.

Even worse, this is yet another frustrating film that stops abruptly, rather than concluding appropriately. Yes, one key issue is resolved, but Filomarino and co-scripter Kevin A. Rice leave several other hanging chads twisting in the wind, giving us no means of separating good from evil, or determining Who Was Behind It All.

On top of which, a running thread of soul-shattering grief and personal responsibility is disagreeably mean-spirited.

 

(On a trivial note, Beckett is a terrible title. Something along the lines of Nightmare in Greece would be far more appropriate.)

 

American tourists Beckett (Washington) and girlfriend April (Alicia Vikander) are vacationing in Greece: a gorgeous, architecturally stunning setting granted lavish exposure by cinematographer Sayombhu Mukdeeprom. Beckett and April are very much in love; their cute, flirty banter fuels a lengthy prologue that overstays its welcome.

 

Depending on one’s tolerance for such things — in fairness, it’s not as if Washington and Vikander are hard to watch — you’ll either get increasingly nervous, waiting for some awful unexpected shoe to drop … or you’ll become annoyed by the way Filomarino seems to be vamping for time.

 

(I favor the latter.)

 

Eventually, though — finally — that shoe does drop.

 

In the aftermath, Beckett walks along the imposing Vikos Gorge, near a small town in Northern Greece, trying to piece together what actually happened. His probing curiosity is interrupted by a hard-edged blonde (Lena Kitsopoulou) who, without warning, pulls out a gun and starts shooting. One bullet punches through his left arm; in abject terror and confusion, Beckett takes panicked flight through the mountainous Tsepevolo countryside.

Old: Only partly satisfying

Old (2021) • View trailer

Three stars (out of five). Rated PG-13, for dramatic intensity, sexual candor, nudity and fleeting profanity

Available via: Movie theaters

By Derrick Bang

Calling this the best film M. Night Shyamalan has made in well over a decade is damning with very faint praise; this is, after all, the man who unleashed stinkers such as After Earth, The Visit, The Happening and The Last Airbender (the latter one of the worst big-budget fantasies ever made).

 

A creepy discovery — from a clever point of view — is made by, from left, Chrystal
(Abbey Lee), Patricia (Nikki Amuka-Bird), Jarin (Ken Leung), Maddox (Thomasin
McKenzie), Charles (Rufus Sewell), Sedan (Aaron Pierre) and Prisca (Vicky Krieps).

But credit where due: Old is by turns intriguing, mysterious and disturbing. It also holds together, as a story, better than the above-mentioned turkeys: a welcome surprise that can be attributed to the fact that this is not a Shyamalan original script. He has adapted the 2010 graphic novel Sandcastle, by Pierre-Oscar Lévy and Frederick Peeters.

Here’s a bigger revelation: Shyamalan’s altered conclusion — one of his signature twists — is more satisfying than the original’s ruminative metaphor.

 

Mind you, we’re talking a degree of success. There’s still much to complain about here.

 

We meet Guy (Gael García Bernal), wife Prisca (Vicky Krieps) and their children — Maddox (Alexa Swinton) and Trent (Nolan River) — en route to a family holiday in a trendy seaside resort. The atmosphere is a bit tense, the dynamic between Guy and Prisca clearly fragile. Troubled.

 

They attempt to mute such feelings, to spare the kids: not difficult, in such a pampered environment, where attentive staff cater to their every whim. This cheerful prologue is quite pleasant; it allows Guy, Prisca, Maddox, Trent and a few of the other resort guests to define themselves.

 

Guy’s family is encouraged to spend the next day at a gorgeous, secluded cove: “Only for our special guests,” promises the resort manager (Gustaf Hammarsten, oozing false sincerity). This invitation clearly troubles young Idlib (Kailen Jude), the manager’s nephew, who has just befriended Trent.

 

The family accepts; they’re joined by Charles (Rufus Sewell), his Barbie-doll trophy wife Chrystal (Abbey Lee), their 6-year-old daughter Kara (Kyle Bailey), and his mother Agnes (Kathleen Chalfant). The shuttle driver (Shyamalan, in his usual cameo role) deftly evades their questions.

 

The promised cove is peacefully picturesque; the little group is augmented by late-comers Jarin (Ken Leung) and his wife Patricia (Nikki Amuka-Bird).

 

They’re all surprised to find somebody else on site: Sedan (Aaron Pierre), brooding and isolated in a distant corner, against the sheer rocky walls that enclose the cove. His presence irritates Charles, who seems to have a hair-trigger temper. Actually, the three family groups seem oddly uneasy around each other.

 

(And for no reason, at this early stage; it’s just Shyamalan, clumsily — and needlessly — heightening the disconcerting atmosphere.)

 

Phantom Thread: A clumsily stitched melodrama

Phantom Thread (2017) • View trailer 
Two stars. Rated R, for profanity and brief nudity
By Derrick Bang

I simply cannot fathom the waves of critical adulation lapping onto the shores of this dramatic snooze of a film.

Having decided that Alma (Vicky Krieps) is to become his new lover and muse, celebrated
fashion designer Reynolds Woodcock (Daniel Day-Lewis) naturally insists on creating a
dress for her.

Writer/director Paul Thomas Anderson may have framed every scene with the care and precision that Reynolds Woodcock employs while making his haute couture dresses and gowns, but the story and characters remain unpalatable, the pacing lethargic, and the result about as appealing as waiting for paint to dry.

In short — although the viewing experience seems to last forever — Phantom Thread is a crushing bore.

Anderson’s films are always challenging at best; they range from weirdly captivating (Inherent Vice, Boogie Nights), to distastefully bizarre (There Will Be Blood, Magnolia), to utterly unwatchable (The Master). His characters invariably are grotesque burlesques: parodies of actual people, exaggerated to make a peculiar narrative point that rarely has anything to do with the actual human condition.

Based on his artistic output, Anderson feels like a misanthrope.

Phantom Thread is no different. Despite the luxurious world in which these people inhabit, laced with beautiful things, their souls are ugly and cruel. They deserve each other ... which I suspect is Anderson’s ultimate point, but hardly an epiphany on which to hang a 130-minute movie.

The setting is post-WWII London in the 1950s, at the House of Woodcock, where the imperious Reynolds (Daniel Day-Lewis) lives and designs at the center of British fashion: lavishly expensive creations coveted by royalty, movie stars, heiresses, socialites, debutants and their ilk. The firm’s mostly silent staff caters to every caprice and demand of their fussy, fastidious and anal-retentive lord and master; the stiffly condescending Reynolds expects no less.

Business matters and other “unpleasant details” are handled by his starch-collared sister Cyril (Lesley Manville); such details include hustling each of his casual lovers out the door, once he tires of their companionship ... which, we gather, is a frequent occurrence. Each, during her short stay, supplies a smidgen of inspiration drawn from personality and physique; each departs having been transformed, to a degree, into a “better” version of herself.

Reynolds also is an unrepentant sexist pig: a coldly calculating martinet who doesn’t even seem to like his most loyal and devoted clients. The dynamic feels like an uncomfortable gothic mash-up of Pygmalion and Rebecca, with Manville’s Cyril standing in as the chilly, omnipresent Mrs. Danvers.

A Most Wanted Man: Superb espionage drama

A Most Wanted Man (2014) • View trailer 
4.5 stars. Rated R, for profanity
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 7.25.14

John Le Carré continues to write gripping espionage thrillers, and he has the added bonus of seeing many of them translated intelligently to the big screen.

A Most Wanted Man is no exception.

Having brought naive young lawyer Annabel Richter (Rachel McAdams) into custody against
her will, German intelligence agent Gunther Bachmann (Philip Seymour Hoffman) patiently —
oh, so patiently — explains the folly of her recent behavior, in an effort to get her to reveal
information about the young man she believes needs her help.

This compelling adaptation is helmed by Dutch director Anton Corbijn, who first came to our attention back in 2010 with his disappointing handling of The American, an adaptation of Martin Booth’s A Very Private Gentleman. In fairness, that film’s failure had more to do with its dull, dreary script and a miscast George Clooney’s soulless performance, along with the fact that it was difficult to sympathize with a career assassin possessing few redeeming qualities.

Corbijn obviously learned a lot from that experience, because A Most Wanted Man boasts everything that his previous thriller lacked. For starters, le Carré’s riveting plot is ripped from contemporary headlines and fueled by the moral dilemma that troubles all progressive Western countries: Can we justify subverting established law in the pursuit of terrorists who refuse to “play fair”?

Le Carré’s densely complex novel has been compressed ingeniously by scripter Andrew Bovell, who deftly stripped away an entire set of supporting players (the British) in order to amplify the German setting and characters, primarily the veteran black-ops surveillance agent who has become the heart of this narrative.

That would be Gunther Bachmann, played to ferocious perfection by Philip Seymour Hoffman: the last film he completed before his tragic and untimely death.

To say that Hoffman’s performance is mesmerizing would be gross understatement; the man owns the screen, and this film. The forever disheveled Bachmann is a study in contrasts: a beady-eyed, chain-smoking, whisky-drinking fox who flouts established authority and couldn’t care less about currying favor, and yet possesses investigative skills that cannot be dismissed, even by colleagues and superiors who loathe him.

Hoffman has for quite some time transcended the artifice of performance; he’s one of very few film actors who doesn’t merely “play” a part, but instead fully inhabits the role of moment. That’s particularly true here, where we quickly cease to see Hoffman and instead watch, fascinated, as Gunther Bachmann embraces the sacred trust placed in his hands: to make the world a safer place.

That’s a key line: Watch Hoffman’s body language, and his expression, when he is given the opportunity to toss it back at the individual who first says it to him. Rarely will you see such an impeccably crafted blend of amusement, irony and barely controlled fury.