Charlie's Angels: Clip their wings. Please.

Charlie's Angels (2019) • View trailer 
2.5 stars. Rated PG-13, for violence, profanity and suggestive content
By Derrick Bang

Director/co-scripter Elizabeth Banks deserves congratulations, of a sort: She has appropriately honored this franchise.

Which is to say, this film is every bit as dumb, dull and contrived as the late 1970s TV series on which it’s based.

Having tracked the bad guys to an industrial rock quarry, the resourceful Angel
operatives ‚ from left, Jane (Ella Balinska), Sabina (Kristen Stewart) and Elena (Naomi
Scott) — ponder their next move.

Oh, sure; the insufferable sexism has been upgraded (somewhat) to bad-ass gal power, but that’s not much of an improvement … particularly since this updated Charlie’s Angels still finds ample opportunity to pour its three stars into skin-tight outfits. (A third-act dance sequence is particularly eye-rolling.) Costume designer Kym Barrett certainly is kept busy, particularly with glitzy tube dresses.

Mostly, though, Banks has simply proven that she can deliver an action thriller every bit as mindless as those featuring male stars in equally ludicrous predicaments. Although her story — co-written with Evan Spiliotopoulos and David Auburn — ostensibly is fueled by the desperate effort to Keep A Nasty Device Out Of The Wrong Hands, it’s little more than an excuse for an increasingly tiresome series of chases, melees, absurdly drawn-out smackdowns and the usual physics-defying stunt work.

Most of the performances rarely rise above the smug and smirk that too frequently passes for “acting” in live-action comic books of this sort, and occasional efforts at more serious emoting — as when we lose a good guy, early on — are wincingly awful. The one exception is Kristen Stewart, whose sass and snark are a breath of fresh air. I can’t say she carries the film — that would be impossible — but she certainly makes it more bearable.

Having moved further into the 21st century, the Townsend Agency has expanded from its Southern California roots, with clandestine pockets of high-tech Angels now operating world-wide. A prologue escapade introduces the resourceful and athletic talents of Sabina (Stewart) and Jane (Ella Balinska), as they take down wealthy international criminal Johnny Smith (Chris Pang, suitably smarmy).

Meanwhile, back at the Townsend Agency, veteran Bosley (Patrick Stewart) is feted with a retirement party, having been instrumental in taking the Angels global during the past decades. He’s congratulated by his replacement Bosley (Banks) — the name being more of a company rank, like lieutenant — with other Bosleys wishing him well via international video links.

Last Christmas: An enchanting stocking-stuffer

Last Christmas (2019) • View trailer 
Four stars. Rated PG-13, for sexual candor and profanity
By Derrick Bang

Emilia Clarke has the best eyebrows in town.

Mind you, her eyes are rather fetching as well: sparkling, seductive, laden with promise.

Kate (Emilia Clarke), a hopeless mess made even more tragic by the bright green elf
costume required during working hours, cannot understand why Tom (Henry Golding)
keeps pursuing her, despite her constant rejection.

But the eyebrows speak volumes, as skillfully manipulated by an actress who truly understands the power of expression. She’s a force of nature who carries this enchanting film through sheer presence and personality. With her merest glance — without a word — she’s mischievous, curious, crestfallen, hopeful or absolutely shattered. 

Or she smugly acknowledges a particularly tart bon mot.

Which is not to say that spoken words are superfluous here: far from it. Clarke is equally adept at tearful self-reproach and saucy one-liners, and this script — credited to Emma Thompson, Greg Wise and Bryony Kimmings — is laden with plenty of the latter. Indeed, this unapologetically sentimental holiday charmer has the wit, effervescence and cunningly sculpted characters we normally expect from Richard Curtis (Four Weddings and a Funeral, Love Actually and Pirate Radio, among others).

The even greater surprise is that director Paul Feig — known mostly for broad-stroke pratfall comedies such as Bridesmaids, Spy and the updated Ghostbusters — takes an appropriately restrained (dare I say British?) approach to this far gentler bon bon.

Kate (Clarke) harrumphs around London in a perpetual state of disarray, forever dragging a suitcase while exhausting the patience of friends who soon regret letting her sofa-surf. She’s erratic, undependable and persistently selfish: a bundle of bad decisions who never met a bar she couldn’t shut down, or a bloke she couldn’t tolerate during another ill-advised one-nighter.

The question is from whence these self-destructive tendencies spring; answers come in captivating fits and spurts.

Her presence inevitably is heralded by the jangle of bells on her shoes: an insufferable consequence of her job as a green-garbed elf in a year-round Covent Garden Christmas shop owned and managed by the imperious “Santa” (Michelle Yeoh). When not at work or getting soused, Kate hustles to music or theatrical auditions for which she’s inevitably late and ill-prepared: a fitful attempt to reclaim the vocal glory displayed as a young choir performer, when she and her family still lived in what used to be Yugoslavia.

Once upon a time, Santa saw potential in Kate: a radiant personality that pleased customers and enhanced sales. But that Kate has long been absent; the hopeless mess who replaced her is in serious danger of losing her job.

Doctor Sleep: Ultimately a yawn

Doctor Sleep (2019) • View trailer 
2.5 stars. Rated R, for violence, dramatic intensity, profanity, disturbing images and nudity
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 11.8.19

When asked how he can stand to have so many of his books and stories ruined by bad movie adaptations, Stephen King is fond of quoting James M. Cain, who faced the same question in the wake of his novels being sanitized — to the point of absurdity — by 1940s and ’50s Hollywood morality standards.

Against his better judgment, but forced by dire circumstance, Dan Torrance (Ewan
McGregor) once again finds himself in the malevolent hallways of the dread Overlook Hotel.

“They’re not ruined,” Cain growled, pointing to his bookshelf. “They’re all right there!”

King can point to a much larger shelf, and it would be overstating to claim that director/scripter Mike Flanagan completely botched his handling of Stephen King’s sequel to 1977’s enormously popular The Shining. The first two acts of this film adaptation are impressively faithful to the 2013 novel.

The third act is something else again. 

It destroys the good will Flanagan has built up to that point, while demonstrating the arrogant hubris of filmmakers who believe that all books — and plays, TV shows, whatever — are ripe for “improvement.”

I’m not referring to the judicious trimming required to condense (in this case) a 528-page novel into a 151-minute film. Flanagan skillfully removed a couple of supporting characters, nipped here and tucked there, and trimmed the extensive attention paid to a hopeless alcoholic not yet ready to become sober (while retaining the issue vividly enough to make its point).

No, I’m much more troubled by Flanagan’s decision to completely re-write the ending, while simultaneously indulging in a mean-spirited viciousness wholly at odds with the tone of King’s book. The result is simply wrong, although intriguing from an analytical point of view: Flanagan’s first two acts honor King’s text, but the ill-advised third act plays more like a clumsy sequel to Stanley Kubrick’s’ 1980 adaptation of The Shining … which also screwed up its source material.

(Flanagan should have learned from previous mistakes, given his equally failed 2017 handling of King’s Gerald’s Game.)

A prologue finds young Danny Torrance and his mother relocated to Florida, only a short time after the events in The Shining: as far removed as possible from the freezing, claustrophobic Colorado snows that surrounded the dread Overlook Hotel. But its phantasms still haunt Danny, until the kindly specter of Dick Hallorann (Carl Lumbly, regal as always) teaches the boy how to deal with such vengeful shades.

Flash-forward several decades. Dan Torrance (Ewan McGregor), long tortured by his “shine,” has succumbed to the alcoholism that helped transform his father into the monster so easily corrupted by the Overlook’s supernatural residents. Constantly fleeing from bad situations, Dan hops a bus and randomly steps out in bucolic Frazier, N.H. He soon encounters Billy Freeman (Cliff Curtis), who senses all is not right with this newcomer. Dan responds to this random act of kindness, late one night, by knocking on Billy’s door and saying the three magic words: “I need help.”

Jojo Rabbit: A cheeky masterpiece

Jojo Rabbit (2019) • View trailer 
Five stars. Rated PG-13, for dramatic intensity, disturbing images and violence
By Derrick Bang

You’re unlikely to see a more audacious film this year.

The slightest misstep — the most minute mistake in tone — and director/scripter Taika Waititi’s adaptation of Christine Leunens’ Jojo Rabbit would slide into puerile bathos or unforgivably heinous poor taste.

Having just discovered that a young woman (Thomasin McKenzie, as Elsa) has been
concealed behind the wall of an upstairs bedroom for an unknown length of time,
impassioned Hitler Youth acolyte Jojo (Roman Griffin Davis) is uncertain how to
handle this potentially dangerous situation.

Such a delicate tightrope walk … which Waititi maneuvers with impressive grace, skill and cunning.

Along with his unerring handling of a note-perfect cast.

Satires about Adolf Hitler are rare, and for obvious reasons; the very notion is an artistic mine field. Charlie Chaplin pulled it off, with 1940’s The Great Dictator; so did Mel Brooks, with his Oscar-winning script for 1967’sThe Producers. And now we have an even more daring and impudent skewering of the dread Teppichfresser.

Ten-and-a-half-year-old Jojo Betzler (precocious Roman Griffin Davis, in a stunning acting debut) is introduced as he stares at his reflection in a mirror, dressed in Nazi finery. “Today you join the ranks of the Jungvolk!” he proudly tells himself. “You are in peak mental and physical condition. You have the body of a panther, and the mind of … a brainy panther. You are a shiny example of shiny perfection!”

The setting is the quaint (fictitious) town of Falkenheim, Austria, years into the repressive Nazi rule. Although all signs point to the war’s imminent conclusion, the naïve and credulously gullible Jojo has waited to be old enough to embrace the pervasive propaganda against which he has grown up, by joining the Hitler Youth. He and best friend Yorki (Archie Yates, endearingly cherubic) are tremendously excited by the weekend of “training” that will transform them into hard-charging Nazi warriors.

Except that things don’t quite work out that way. 

The training camp is overseen by the wearily cynical Capt. Klenzendorf (Sam Rockwell), who’d prefer to lead men to “glorious death” at the front, rather than shepherd “a bunch of little titty-grabbers.” He’s assisted by loyal acolyte Freddie Finkel (Alfie Allen, late of Game of Thrones), far more faithful than intelligent; and Fraulein Rahm (Rebel Wilson, whose deadpan slow takes are to die for), ever-willing to accept and spread the most absurd Nazi myths.

Trouble is, Jojo’s inherently sensitive nature is completely at odds with the Nazi “Aryan ideal” he’s so desperate to mimic. The crunch comes when, as the youngest and clearly most intimidated boy in the group, he’s ordered to demonstrate his ferocity … by killing a rabbit.

Motherless Brooklyn: The Big Apple's rotten core

Motherless Brooklyn (2019) • View trailer 
4.5 stars. Rated R, for violence, profanity and drug use
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 11.1.19

Fans of Jonathan Lethem’s award-winning 1999 crime fiction novel will be quite surprised by what director/scripter Edward Norton has done with it.

The spider and the fly: Thoroughly irritated by the persistent investigation mounted by
private detective Lionel Essrog (Edward Norton, right), rapacious New York City developer
Moses Randolph (Alec Baldwin) demands a face-to-face, hoping to make an offer his
pipsqueak tormentor dare not refuse.

Lethem’s Motherless Brooklyn, although contemporary to its late 20th century arrival, has the attitude, atmosphere and plot stylings of 1940s and ’50s pulp detective thrillers. Revering that style as a jumping-off point, Norton has retained the primary character — and very little else — while bouncing him back to 1957, and dropping him into an entirely new story that blends fact, fiction and noir sensibilities in a manner we’ve not seen since 1974’s Chinatown.

In a word, the result is mesmerizing.

Chinatown scripter Robert Towne ingeniously employed a “simple” gumshoe case to illuminate the real-world corruption and power-mongering behind Los Angeles’ bureaucratic theft of Owens River water, as ruthlessly orchestrated by civil engineer William Mulholland (fictionalized by John Huston’s Noah Cross). 

Norton, in turn, dumps Lethem’s intriguing protagonist into the clandestine, Tammany Hall-style empire ruled by the even more powerful Robert Moses, the mid-20th century developer/builder who — by manipulating politicians behind the scenes — ruthlessly transformed New York City into his vision of a metropolis. It’s a fascinating slice of history, which Norton cleverly blends with the character that he also plays in this thoroughly absorbing drama … but it has absolutely nothing to do with Lethem’s novel.

The film opens at a sprint: Lionel Essrog (Norton) and colleague Gilbert Coney (Ethan Suplee), both operatives of a small-time detective agency run by Frank Minna (Bruce Willis), accompany their boss when he arranges a meeting with shadowy figures left unspecified. The acutely perceptive Lionel knows that Frank is up to something, and likely something dangerous; this hunch proves accurate in the worst possible way, when Minna winds up dead.

Frank was more than merely a boss to Lionel; he also was mentor, friend and protector. Indeed, all four agency operatives — including Tony (Bobby Cannavale) and Danny (Dallas Roberts) — emerged from the same Catholic orphanage, back in the day, where Minna became their father-figure. 

His murder therefore hits Lionel quite hard, particularly since he is far from “normal.” Lionel is obsessive/compulsive and also suffers from an uncontrollable tendency to erupt in nonsense speech: often punning, rhyming and “clanging” against what somebody else has just said. He’s constantly forced to apologize for the “glass in the brain” that prompts such spontaneous outbursts; we recognize this as Tourette Syndrome, a designation not at all familiar to the characters in this re-imagined 1950s version of Lethem’s novel.

Terminator: Dark Fate — Deserves termination

Terminator: Dark Fate (2019) • View trailer 
Two stars. Rated R, for profanity, relentless violence and fleeting nudity
By Derrick Bang

Seriously?

Bad enough that this film is little more than 128 minutes’ worth of increasingly daft chases, brawls, explosions and big guns making bigger holes, fleetingly interrupted by fitful — and unsuccessful — attempts at some semblance of story.

Enraged by the violent events that have turned her life upside-down, Dani (Natalia Reyes,
right) is prevented from foolish bravado by Grace (Mackenzie Davis), her mysterious
protector from the future.

The greater sin, however, is that this sixth entry in the Terminator series makes even worse hash of the time-travel elements so carefully established in the initial two films, and progressively screwed up by each subsequent entry. At this point, nothing makes any sense, particularly with respect to the fate of all-important John Connor.

Dark Fate apparently is intended as a re-boot of the entire series, but even that flimsy claim doesn’t withstand analysis, given the presence of Linda Hamilton’s Sarah Connor and Arnold Schwarzenegger’s venerable T-800. This is arbitrary, kitchen-sink mayhem at its most gratuitous.

I’ve observed, over the years, that the quality of a film decreases — often exponentially — in direct relation to the number of writers above two. This misbegotten screenplay has sixcredited writers, which is rather ironic. It can’t take that many people to type “She shoots him repeatedly. They beat each other to a pulp. Then stuff blows up.”

Granted, the reunion with Schwarzenegger’s T-800 is a crowd-pleasing thrill, although his presence centers around a heinous act from which the film never recovers … despite some (later) preposterous lip-service toward redemption. Ol’ Arnie, bless him, hasn’t anywhere near the acting chops to pull off that whopper.

We shouldn’t be surprised by this flick’s superficiality. Director Tim Miller’s sole previous big-screen feature was 2016’s Deadpool, which is nothing but exploitative, violently gory pandemonium. In fairness, that guilty pleasure benefited from its snarky attitude and cheerfully deplorable dark humor. Dark Fate has no humor whatsoever, despite Hamilton’s repeated efforts at thuddingly clunky one-liners.

Actually, the only genuinely funny moment comes when Schwarzenegger, deadpan as always, claims to be funny.

Black and Blue: Badly bruised

Black and Blue (2019) • View trailer 
Two stars. Rated R, for profanity and considerable violence
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 10.25.19

As a gritty urban thriller, this is one helluva ride.

Director Deon Taylor and production designer Frank Zito make superlative use of post-Katrina New Orleans’ still ravaged wards; such scenes evoke the bombed-out European cities during all manner of World War II-era film dramas. One can’t help viewing this setting as a deplorable condemnation of the U.S. government’s failure to put any effort into rejuvenating NOLA’s poorer neighborhoods.

With corrupt cops closing in from all sides, Officer Alicia West (Naomie Harris) and
Mouse (Tyrese Gibson) have little chance of surviving the next few seconds, let alone
long enough to get crucial information back to her precinct house.

Taylor also draws a persuasive, crowd-pleasing performance from Naomie Harris, starring as rookie police officer Alicia West: an intelligent, compassionate and admirably (foolishly?) stubborn individual who genuinely believes that change begins one person at a time. She gets solid support from Tyrese Gibson, similarly strong as Milo “Mouse” Jackson, a local fixture whose tenuous, long-dormant tie to Alicia puts him in mortal danger.

And if this film had nothing beyond its suspenseful, heroine-in-peril scenario, this would be an entirely different essay.

But no: Peter A. Dowling’s original script is equal parts (supposedly) barbed social commentary, and in that, this film fails utterly. Indeed, this story is an equally offensive example of that which it intends to indict.

We begin as Alicia, enjoying an early morning jog through her attractive suburban neighborhood, is stopped and thrown against a fence by two white cracker cops intending to bust her for EWB (existing while black). They back off — very reluctantly — only when her ID reveals that she’s “on the job.”

Her day having gotten off to a lousy start, she nonetheless works a full shift alongside mentoring partner Kevin Jennings (Reid Scott), a decent enough guy who laments that their beat — the Ninth Ward — has deteriorated significantly, since she left years earlier and served several army tours in Afghanistan. Chance encounters with Mouse and former best friend Missy (Nafessa Williams) elicit savage contempt from the latter, now that Alicia has become “blue,” rather than black.

A personnel shortage prompts a second night shift detail, with Alicia now working alongside veteran Officer Deacon Brown (James Moses Black). As dawn approaches, they roll up to an abandoned warehouse, Brown having gotten “an assignment” on his personal cell phone. He orders her to remain in the car; when shots are fired, she rushes into the building, intending to support Brown.