All Buckle, No Swash: This "Cyrano" Disappoints

 Cyrano
directed by Joe Wright
starring Peter Dinklage, Kelvin Harrison Jr., Haley Bennett, Ben Mendelsohn 

I have said it before and I will say it again: I love musicals. I grew up on a steady diet of Lerner & Lowe, Rodgers & Hammerstein, Cole Porter and Frank Loesser. These were the standards set for the American style musical from the 1920s through the mid 1960s, and I am a product of my Baby Boom generation, and I swallowed them, hook, line and sinker. The next generation of musicals -- particularly the jukebox style and the rock opera -- have also gained my affection. The combination of storytelling with the emotion of clever lyrics wedded to powerful melodies, performed by incredible talents, has always been appealing to me.

Musicals have changed a lot over the last two decades -- they have grown into presentations with songs that incorporate rock, soul, blues, opera, hip-hop and today's pop music. Characters have more stream-of-consciousness thoughts set to music and songs don't always have memorable choruses. Today's musicals -- particularly in film -- don't always seem to require fabulous singing voices. Often to their detriment.

The story of Cyrano de Bergerac is a tale of unrequited love a nobleman with a physical deformity has for a young eligible woman, Roxane, who has fallen in love at first sight with Christian de Neuvillette, another soldier. Most of us know this story, or some form of it. First introduced via the 1897 play written by Frenchman Edmond Rostand, the original drama was inspired by a very real author, poet and duelist and written in rhyming couplets. According to this beloved tale, Cyrano believed that no woman could truly love him because of his deformity, his extra-large nose, so he agreed to ghost-write letters for his love-stricken but inarticulate fellow cadet, Christian, to make Roxane fall in love with him. This allows Cyrano to pour out his own feelings for her under the guise of being Christian. 

Cyrano The Musical

Jose Ferrer chews the scenery with gusto in his most famous stage role and on the screen in 1950's first English language version that earned him an Academy Award. A previous musical version, Cyrano, starring Christopher Plummer and directed by Michael Kidd, played just 94 performances on Broadway starting in 1973. Steve Martin translated the idea to a comedy set in Canada with a happy ending in 1987's Roxanne (a very cute and laugh-filled film for the rom-com crowd). A French-language screen version starring Gerard Depardieu did well in 1990. The original play has been restaged dozens of times, and the main themes have been adapted or satirized on the big screen, on stage, and on television. 

Jose Ferrer in the 1950 film

All this brings me to Cyrano, the musical film released by Disney and starring award-winning actor Peter Dinklage in the title role. I am a big fan of Peter Dinklage -- he is an amazing and handsome actor who just happens to have dwarfism. Throughout his career he has been successful at avoiding roles usually reserved for actors of his stature, like fantasy elves, leprechauns, trolls or freaks, and been able to showcase his humanity and range. This Cyrano was crafted especially for him by his wife, Erica Schmidt, who adapted the original material, adding music by the Grammy-winning rock group The National. It's a clever idea -- transferring Cyrano's stumbling block from a facial feature to his stature -- that at first glance works well. It's also nice that the film engages in diverse casting choices, making its young Christian a man of color, played by newcomer Kelvin Harrison Jr.  

Still -- This Cyrano is mopey and dopey. A lot of this Cyrano takes the audience for granted -- we have to take a lot of facts as a matter of course, just because the movie says they are so. I guess Roxanne is beautiful enough to fall in love with at first sight -- she needs a weekend in the sun and a sandwich. And I guess she's clever and intellectual -- her bucking her intended husband, the villainous Duke De Guiche, is evidence. The Cyrano character is supposed to inspire admiration: for his boldness, his brashness, his derring-do, his swordplay both with a sharpened bit of steel and with his tongue. He's supposed to be clever and funny and smart in addition to being secretly lovelorn. But Dinklage doesn't quite carry that off -- he's less swagger and more haggard. He seems bitter and mean instead of clever, hangdog instead of noble, his swordplay is questionable, he's shaggy in a world of foppery (powdered wigs, powdered faces, beauty marks, and high heels are worn by both sexes) and what's worse, his singing voice is ... less than compelling. It doesn't help that many of the songs in this musical are slow, sad, navel-gazing yearnings about love: wanting love, losing love, not being able to declare love, being in love. There's not enough upbeat, celebratory tunes here that make you leave the theater singing. 

Can this love be revealed? Bennett & Dinklage

There are some interesting dance numbers, such as when Christian reprises the song originally crooned by Roxanne (in a lyrical soprano by Haley Bennett) in an earlier scene, when his fellow French army cadets suddenly begin to gyrate, quadrille, and lift each other with deadpan earnestness behind him. Harrison's voice is also less than what a stage actor would muster, and the distracting swooshing of the costumes as the men dance behind him is so disconnected that I was laughing out loud. Again, no joy. Just ludicrousness.

Granted, Cyrano sticks fairly close to the original material. Therefore -- Spoiler -- the ending isn't exactly happy. In the original story, Roxanne and Christian wed but barely have a chance to consummate before Christian is killed in battle, and Cyrano keeps his love for Roxanne a secret until his last dying breath a few years later. So no, he doesn't really get the girl. 

Bennett & Harrison in Cyrano

I wanted to like this Cyrano. It's beautifully shot. The costuming and set design are impeccable. Peter Dinklage is acting and singing his heart out. But so much of this film is off-putting, weird, sad, and disjointed. I literally wanted to stand up in the middle of the movie theater and yell, Wake Up -- This Is A BAD Movie, people!!! But that's just snobbery on my part. Many people seem to love this film and have heaped it with accolades. 

But I have to put a red light on for this Roxanne. 

This "Cats" Could Have Been Saved

CATS
directed by Tom Hooper
starring James Corden, Judi Dench, Jason Derulo, Idris Elba, Jennifer Hudson, Ian McKellen, Taylor Swift, Rebel Wilson, and introducing Francesca Hayward

No surprises here: Cats is a bad kitty.

I've read many of the reviews excoriating the film as beyond bad, but as a fan of musicals I felt I had to see it for myself and form my own opinion. I also have the (questionable) advantage of having seen the original musical on Broadway, and of reading the source material, poet T.S. Eliot's whimsical "Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats." In truth, I wasn't a big fan of the musical (I thought the costumes were weird then), though I am fond of the original book, as it is a truly imaginative collection of poems that describe a variety of cats as having human traits, to humorous effect. However, the collected poems are very British and were first published in 1939 -- 80 years ago! Composer Andrew Lloyd Webber's NYC stage adaptation premiered in 1980, which is also quite a while back.

Why It's Bad
1. It's out of its time:
The time lapse is a large part of the problem. The material is significantly dated. Why the producers thought they could take this ancient monstrosity, which was an oddity in its time, and transfer it largely untouched to the screen is a mystery. In our high-tech, short-attention span, Disney-fied, action world, this kind of old-fashioned show fails miserably. Despite the efforts of an Oscar winning director, stunt casting, a couple of new songs, a lot of choreography, and CGI effects, the film is mostly dull, ugly and weird.

2. The cats are frightful:
I think of cats as elegant, attractive animals. These humans looked like something from the Island of Dr. Moreau, or from Dante's Inferno. They were mostly a repulsive-looking bunch other than the angelic young ballerina cat (Heyward) who wants to be a Jellicle. Jennifer Hudson looks like she'd been dragged over the streets on her face. Judi Dench seems to have been mummified. The venerable Ian McKellen appears to have been electrocuted. Idris Elba looks like the devil, both literally and figuratively, in a shiny dark leotard and tail, ice blue contact lenses, and ears set like horns -- in a way that skirts both taste and racial sensitivity. They don't really look like cats. There have been many musicals that cast humans as animal characters (The Wizard of Oz/The Wiz's Cowardly Lion, Johnny Depp as the Big Bad Wolf in Into The Woods, every other contestant on TV's "The Masked Singer"), and none of them looked this freakish.

3. The music is bad:
To me, the most unforgivable part of this film musical is the music itself. Other than "Memory," the songs are universally awful and what's worse, they are badly produced. Many a half-baked screen musical has been elevated in my mind because the soundtrack production was so fantastic (the Bee Gees' Beatles fantasia Sgt. Pepper, Andrew Lloyd Webber's superior Evita, even the recent The Greatest Showman). The minute I heard those cheesy synthesizers (unfortunately, synth is an apparent signature sound that imitates the mewling of the cats) and bubbling pseudo-disco basslines -- so emblematic of early 80s music -- my heart sank. Not-great songs can be updated, adapted, and produced to enhance their appeal and timeliness for modern audiences, but in Cats, nobody bothered. Andrew Lloyd Webber himself produced the music, and I can only imagine that he was either too married to the original arrangements, or he didn't have the time or money to reimagine them.

4. Bad songs/bad singing/ho-hum dancing:
Further, as a sung-through musical with literally no spoken dialogue, the singing is woefully second-rate. Rebel Wilson as Jennyanydots and James Corden as Bustopher Jones play it for laughs, and they seem to be in a completely different movie. The other characters should have taken a page from them. Taylor Swift does a sexy "Macavity," but it's unclear to me why Idris Elba's Macavity isn't singing his own song. Jennifer Hudson over-cries and over-sings her setpiece "Memory." Jason Derulo as Rum Tum Tugger tries to inject some soul into a corny uptempo number, but you can hardly understand his lyrics. Judi Dench doesn't even try to sing, nor does Ian McKellen, whose spotlight number is a snoozy dead spot. And speaking of Cats' lyrics, since they are adapted from poems, there are either too many words (as the Skimbleshanks the Railway Cat, Bustopher Jones, or Mungojerrie & Rumpleteazer) or simple phrases repeated ad infinitum (as with Mr. Mistoffelees). Specific references to London locales and British colloquialisms also go over the heads of most Americans. As for the dancing, its is ... unremarkable. A lot of cat writhing that is overwhelmed by the large-scale sets they take place in. There have been complaints that the dancing is oversexualized, but I didn't feel that. Have you ever watched cats move? They're slinky, sensual, seductive creatures. It never occurred to me that they were horny.

5. Not enough character development.
A lot of the cat characters aren't named in the film, but apparently they all have names and relationships. I didn't even know that the main tomcat's name was Munkustrap or that TaySwif was Bombalurina until the credits. Indeed, the plot is very thin; much like A Chorus Line, you meet all the characters in a kind of "I Hope I Get It" audition line, with the cats hoping to get picked to go to the Heaviside Layer, which I assume is the next life in their nine-lives cycle, though that is never explained.

I don't want to just pile on, though. I love musical theater. So could anything have been done to make it palatable for contemporary audiences? I think so.

How I Would Have Fixed It

How could Cats have been saved for 2019? Put it through a contemporary lens. Think of the framing of The Princess Bride, for example.

I would have made Judi Dench a kindly, modern-day grandma with a house full of cats that her young granddaughter comes to visit. Grandma keeps a copy of "Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats" and shares it with her granddaughter, telling her that every cat in her house and the neighborhood is a Jellicle cat with a story. They go to the market, passing the junkyard, the theater, the railway station, a garbage dump, and Grandma points out all the cats. The perspective could then shift to the cat-ified human personifications singing and acting out their theme songs. And if these characters are identified as cats, they don't have to be drowned in makeup and fake fur for us to understand they are cats!

Back in modern times, Grandma tells the girl that there will be a full moon, a Jellicle Moon, and that it's a special night for the cats. Then the movie can shift back to the cat characters and their Jellicle Ball, Dench can still show up as Old Deuteronomy, Macavity can still be evil, and Grizabella can still ascend. Back in real time, Grandma sings about how to address cats and treat them with respect. They hear meowing at the back door, and it's a tiny multicolored kitten. "Hello, Grizabella," says Grandma. "Welcome to the Heaviside Layer." THE END.

Yes, some of the cats' song and dance numbers would have to be trimmed quite a bit, but I don't think that would be a loss, since so much of the movie is a slog. So what do you think of my fix?

Black History Month: Looking Back at "Paris Blues"

As February is Black History Month, I thought it would be interesting to take a look back at some films featuring African American actors and African American stories that have been overlooked, unsung, or also rans in the pantheon of favorite or important films about us.

Paris Blues (1961).
Directed by Martin Ritt
Starring Paul Newman, Sidney Poitier, Joanne Woodward, Diahann Carroll

A product of the post-civil rights sensibility, Paris Blues has to take place across the water to show us how we can really all get along.

The film is about two expatriate American jazz musicians, trombonist Ram Bowen (Paul Newman) who leads his own combo, and his saxophonist Eddie Cook (Sidney Poitier), who live in sophisticated, freewheeling, bohemian Paris. The pair sketch out new compositions by day and hold court nightly as the main attraction in a fashionable jazz club into the wee hours. What are they performing? Music by Duke Ellington, naturally, though it is credited to the Ram Bowen group.

Ram initially meets two pretty American tourists, Lillian (Joanne Woodward) and Connie (Diahann Carroll), when he goes to meet the train bringing in noted jazz player Wild Man Miller (played by Louis Armstrong) who will sit in with Ram (as if the great Armstrong could play second fiddle to anyone on a bandstand). After a flirtation with Connie, who introduces him to Lillian, Ram invites the ladies to show up at his gig, which they do.

After some initial bad behavior and crossed signals, romance ensues along "race-appropriate" lines. Lillian makes a calculated play for Ram, impressed by his commitment to his music. Eddie finds himself drawn to Connie. As feelings deepen, the two couples must decide what happens when the ladies' two-week vacation is up. Do the women stay in Paris? Or will the mad lads return to America?

Newman and Woodward, already married in real life, portray the primary story in this black and white film, and Ram and Lillian's struggle is purely about the artistic freedom (not to mention a dalliance with a world-weary French chanteuse) that Paris affords Ram in his career as a composer and performer. While Lillian presses for a commitment, Ram isn't interested and initially breaks it off.

After confessing their love, Eddie and Connie talk marriage but can't agree on a future. Connie has a teaching gig to return to that's she fought too hard to get. She's also deeply connected to her roots, her family, and her home; regardless of the problems back in the U.S. of A., she is committed to being part of the solution. Eddie has been in Paris five years, finally feels free, and has no interest in a return. In a painful scene, Eddie tells Connie that he will never go back to America, where racism, segregation, abuse, and disrespect await a black man. "I don't beg for anything anymore! I'm not interested in The Cause," he says, "I'm only interested in us." "No, you're only interested in you," Connie responds.

Meanwhile, music is the great harmonizer. The Ellington soundtrack is swoon worthy, and a scene where Wild Man enters the subterranean jazz club with his entire band blowing their hearts out in a challenge is totally jazzalicious. Resplendent in its hand-clapping abandon, the music percolates with Satchmo displaying all the trumpet skills he's known for. Both Newman and Poitier studied with noted players to make their performances look authentic.

In addition to being a great travelogue of Paris by foot, Paris Blues is supposed to be about the travails of love, but the romances are too easily tied with a bow. The flick is about the cost of freedom. Unfortunately, the issue of freedom for African Americans is relative: Stay in America and Love it, defend it, and fight to change it, or leave its shores for a country where tolerance for racial differences seems to be higher. Even today, Paris is filled with numerous African American expats who came to shake off the shackles of America's deeply ingrained racism.

Totally Underwater: "Aquaman"

Aquaman
directed by James Wan
starring Jason Momoa, Willem Dafoe, Amber Heard, Patrick Wilson, Nicole Kidman

Recommended? Only for serious superhero fanatics. Otherwise no.

I am not a staunch follower of superhero films, but I do enjoy a good adventure yarn as well as elements of fantasy and the ongoing struggle between good and evil. The best superhero stories follow the classic Hero's Journey plot, with some snappy dialogue, good pacing, a believable alternate universe, and a sympathetic hero. Sequels should be able to stand on their own as individual films. I was stoked to see Aquaman because this hero comes from a unique world, and because, let's face it, it's Jason Momoa.

What a letdown.

Aquaman is a cool bro named Arthur Curry, whose long-lost mom was queen of Atlantis. First of all, though this film is supposed to be the Aquaman Origin Story, it's less about how Aquaman became Aquaman and more about how he became King of Atlantis despite being half human. Second: Arthur is a terrible name for a superhero; apologies to all the Arthurs out there, but it just made me think of King Arthur and the Round Table, and the whole journey to find the ancient trident of a long-dead original king of Atlantis is straight Sword In The Stone, Excalibur stuff. Third, I didn't get a feel for the adult Arthur, though we do find out that he was raised with an awareness of his underwater royal heritage, developed some cool Atlantean skills, and loves his lighthouse-keeping dad. Basically, he's ... likeable, laidback Jason Momoa. He looks the same in the film as he does in his daily life: mane of flowing hair, tats, jewelry, Polynesian origins and boots intact.

Yes, Aquaman's origins are sketched out, but at the top of the film he is already established as Aquaman, and he even makes light of his celebrity by mugging with fans for pictures. We learn that Arthur can swim like the devil, breathe underwater, has incredible strength, can take a punch or two. We see him save a Russian submarine from pirates led by a very Angry Black Man whose father and mentor ends up dying in the fight. When Pirate Pop passes, Arthur feels bad. That's how we know he's just a goodhearted dude. But I still didn't get a sense of his hopes and dreams, fears or insecurities before a Princess from the Deep shows up to drag him into the undersea beef he knows nothing about. I guess my quibble is that I would have wanted to see more about how he first took on the mantle of being Aquaman -- not just a kid who can breathe underwater and commune with sea creatures, but become a bona fide superhero who decides to do good and ally himself with the Justice League. Not having seen many of the previous Justice League-related films, I'm probably at a disadvantage.

While the underwater scenes are mostly well done in terms of flowing hair and floating objects, they are busy. In fact, the backstory lore of how Atlantis fell and turned into seven different ocean kingdoms with different creatures of varying abilities, intelligence, and alliances was just hella hard to follow. The costumes for the Atlantis folks were also Arthurian, with a lot of medieval-style armor and helmets that looked totally out of place in the ocean and raised unintentional concerns, at least in my mind, about anchor weights, rust and corrosion. Perhaps this costuming scheme came directly from the original DC Comics visuals.

Playing a trusted palace advisor with perennially slicked-back hair, Willem Dafoe looked like he was in a samurai movie. Or maybe that was him behind the fish mask in The Shape of Water. Some of the marine creatures used as transportation were unintentionally hilarious. The whole romance plotline between Arthur and Princess Mera (Heard) is cheesy. His jealous half-brother Orm (Wilson), who was fighting to keep the crown of Atlantis -- is a cardboard villain. With the film hurtling along and cramming in so much information--most of it visual CGI wizardry--there was less time to develop a story that would really invoke some emotion.

Despite the fact that Aquaman was throwing a lot of story and special effects at me, I was waiting for it to end. Also, I found the Unintentional Hilarity Quotient to be quite high in this film, which meant I was laughing at stuff I was not supposed to be laughing at. I laughed at Aquaman swimming the depths in his jeans and motorcycle boots. I guffawed at the crazy crab creatures, goofy amphibians, and manic sharks battling in the final scenes. But when the Pirate turned up again toward the middle of the film to exact revenge on Aquaman in a hi-tech armored black suit topped by a giant head with glowing red eyes, I lost it. It's Roach Man! No, The Fly! It's a Barbecued Ninja Turtle! A Super-Pissed Power Ranger! Then the character mumbled his name. "He's from Atlanta?" my sister asked. The whole "Black Manta" identity thing got lost in the film's hectic storytelling and we were left in hysterics that totally undercut the intended drama and menace of his appearance.

The teens seated in front of me were clearly annoyed by our giggling, but we couldn't help it. (Side note: The kid in front of me was really pissed by my laughter; when the movie was over I accidentally grazed him in the noggin with my Slurpee cup as I was getting out of my seat. So not only did I insult his flick, I assaulted him as well. I'm lucky he didn't call Security.)

It really doesn't matter what I think of Aquaman. Jason Momoa and Warner Bros. Pictures are laughing all the way to the bank. Meanwhile, I was laughing until tears sprang from my eyes over the spectacle of Black Manta looking like Mothra's Play Cousin LeRoy.

Amusing, Astonishing, Sobering: "The Favourite"

The Favourite
directed by Yorgos Lanthimos
starring Olivia Colman, Rachel Weisz, Emma Stone

Recommended? Yes. But strictly for adults and Anglophiles.

Power. Everybody wants it. Some sacrifice much to get it, and those who attain it don't seem to hold onto it long. Because this has been true for centuries, driving plots from Macbeth to TV's Scandal, the eternal struggle for power remains a compelling storyline.

The history of the English monarchy is rife with tales of palace intrigue and power plays among those circling the throne. Women have played key roles in history, which has shown that the so-called fairer sex can be just as ruthless, manipulative and calculating as the men, and were often forced to live by their wits during centuries of legally sanctioned male dominance. With a trio of women at its center, The Favourite examines the historical relationship of early 18th century English monarch Queen Anne and her closest friend and advisor, Lady Sarah Churchill, and a young usurper, Abigail Masham.

While The Favourite takes place in England after the reign of King Charles and William and Mary, when fashion dictated elaborate powdered wigs, stick-on beauty marks, high heels and ribbons for men, this is no frilly, stuffy historical drama. Thanks to director Lanthimos, whose sharp sense of the absurd was brought to light in the weird 2015 absurdist drama The Lobster, The Favourite has a decidedly contemporary, and thus often hilarious, view of history. That perspective becomes clearest in a scene where a court dance turns into something more like Dancing With The Stars meets Electric Boogaloo, but in countless other small details, including the characters' language (Sarah refers to a woman's parts as her "vajuju").

Played with a flair for comedy and pathos by Olivia Colman, Queen Anne is something of a pathetic figure. Plagued by illness, confounded by the politics of the country's current war with France, childless after 17 pregnancies, and with a withering temper, Anne is given to fits and fallouts, childish tantrums and illogical pronouncements. Her political affairs and personal welfare are managed by her longtime friend Lady Sarah Churchill (Rachel Weisz), a no-nonsense powerhouse who both coddles and bullies Anne. Their relationship is threatened by the arrival of Abigail (Emma Stone), a distant cousin of Sarah's, a former aristocrat whose family has been taken down by the father's gambling, who is now seeking a position in the queen's household. As it turns out, Abigail is baldly ambitious herself, and after suffering through a few weeks as a scullery maid, she finagles herself into the Queen's chamber and good graces thanks to a facility for herbal healing and personal charm. When she learns that there is still more to Sarah's relationship with Anne -- an illicit love affair -- Abigail immediately plots to get herself between the Queen's sheets.

Sarah issues some veiled threats to Abigail on the shooting range, but once she learns that Abigail has replaced her as the Queen's lover she has her fired from the household. In retaliation, Abigail arranges to have Sarah's tea drugged to get her out of the way, resulting in a brutal riding accident for Sarah. With Sarah gone, Abigail doubles down in her relationship with the Queen, convincing the monarch to approve of her marriage to a willing young nobleman -- despite being of low birth -- and guaranteeing her standing as a lady in the court. When Sarah survives her injuries and returns to court to find Abigail firmly ensconced as Anne's confidante and lady in waiting, she swears revenge while Abigail gloats. But as the camera focuses on Abigail as she responds to Anne's whining request that her aching legs be rubbed, we the audience are reminded of the price of success.

There is more to the story, including some bizarre palace antics that include duck racing and pelting a naked man with fruit; the ambitious scheming of a young parliamentary politician named Robert Harley (Nicholas Hoult); and the Queen's 17 pet rabbits who hop around in her bedchamber. But at its core, this is a story about the path to power and all it entails -- good and bad.

The script offers some whiplash pacing, withering insults, hilarious quips, and -- as mentioned -- a decidedly modern view of history. As such, the film has been compared to Mean Girls, Heathers, All About Eve, and more. Adding to the movie's polish is its incredible cinematography, with wide shots to show off the castle grounds, the richness of its rooms, the costuming, and the English countryside; the intricate costumes, including breeches for Lady Sarah for riding and shooting, an elaborate set of braces for the Queen so she can sit upright on a horse, and of course the foppery of the male courtiers; and its music, which is an evocative and often foreboding score mined from classical themes. And while all three actresses are brilliant -- Weisz and Stone are already Oscar winners -- Coleman is an absolute standout for her portrayal of Anne.

The Favourite is a beautiful, strange, amusing and ultimately cautionary tale.

"The Wife" Wins Out In The End

The Wife
Directed by Bjorn Runge
Starring Glenn Close, Jonathan Pryce, Christian Slater, Max Irons

They say that in any relationship, there is the lover and the loved. While the standard scriptural wisdom about marriage idealizes a couple that is "equally yoked," somehow one person ends up pulling more of the weight than the other. In the traditional American marriage, up until the middle of the 20th Century, women were expected to be the "helpmeet" of their husbands: the mistress of the home, the tender of the hearth, the guardian of the children, and an endless source of support, wisdom, comfort and sustenance to their mate. Even in modern love partnerships, a large part of how relationships grow is how the partners shore each other up, keep each other's secrets, and safeguard their egos.

In the opening scenes of The Wife, which is set in the early 1990s, we meet long-married seniors Joan (Glenn Close) and Joe Castleman (Jonathan Pryce) as they turn in for the night in their Connecticut home. Insecure, self-absorbed and somewhat quixotic, Joe is a respected author, shortlisted for the Nobel prize in literature and hoping for a call from Sweden. Practical, even-tempered Joan manages him -- his expectations, his nighttime routine, and after initially resisting finally gives in to his boyish sexual advances. "Imagine me as I was then, young," he says, shimmying himself on top of her.

The next morning, when a call does come in bright and early from the Nobel Committee, Joe instantly asks for his wife to pick up the phone extension so they both can hear the news of his award. After the call he excitedly grabs Joan so they can jump on the mattress in jubilation, until Joan soberly calls the activity to a close and begins to orchestrate everything that must be done in terms of celebrating and getting the family to Sweden for the ceremony. This is her role. She is The Wife.

Joan has been managing every aspect of Joe since she first managed to wedge herself between him and his first wife, when Joe was a college writing professor and she a young student with writing potential, which we discover in flashback. Since then, she has basically managed his writing career: serving as his sounding board, editor, typist and more, even shutting out their young son as they worked on Joe's novels. Joan manages Joe's apparel, his comportment, his health maintenance, his relationships, and his meals, and he praises her and thanks her at every turn. But as the family prepares to go to Sweden for the Nobel festivities, Joan begins to reflect on everything she has sacrificed to support her husband's brilliant career. In doing so, her resentment slowly begins to bubble to the surface and then rapidly comes to a boil once they arrive in Stockholm.

Joan's feelings on the trip are pushed along by all of the pomp, circumstance, and lionizing of her husband; her husband's treatment of their adult son (Max Irons, son of Jeremy Irons), also an aspiring novelist who feels neglected by his parents and belittled by his father; by the probing and badgering of smugly persistent journalist Nathaniel Bone (Christian Slater) with a book contract to write a biography about Joe and who threatens to reveal juicy secrets that Joan denies; and finally, by her husband's dalliance with a young Swedish photographer assigned to him. Though Joan has excused and dismissed Joe's many affairs, and denied having a greater role in Joe's writing success than the public knows, in the face of Nathaniel's barbed comments and observances, Joan keeps up her unruffled façade though inside she begins to seethe.

The Wife is an excellent, in-depth study of a marriage, an often painful examination of everything it takes to keep two separate people together, and how after 40 years together the accumulated chinks in the armor of that marriage can bring the whole thing down. It is also about the cycle of pain, sacrifice, elation amd dejection that comes with being a professional writer.

Glenn Close is superb, as usual, playing a woman who on the surface is calm, cool, and collected at all times, and has fooled herself into believing that she has no ambitions of her own, that all of her motives have been selfless, and that her most important role has been to be The Wife. Jonathan Pryce is her equal, playing Joe as a charming but clueless cad who would literally be nothing without his wife and knows it, though he doesn't always show it.

The dramatic denouement may be a bit too tidy a plot turn for some, but Joe's fate is just another, perhaps unintended manifestation of Joan's ability to manage an outcome. Despite everything, Joan loves Joe. The truth is that love isn't easy or easily explainable. There are no perfect people. And no perfect movies, either, though this comes close.

Thoughts on "Baby It's Cold Outside": Let It Go, Let It Go, Let It Go

"Baby It's Cold Outside"
written by Frank Loesser, 1944



These are expanded comments I made about the song during the opening of the Dec. 6 "Words On Flicks" podcast.

There is a current controversy going on about the age-old ditty "Baby It's Cold Outside," a song associated with winter and the holidays because of its references to frosty weather. Many radio stations have decided to pull the song from their holiday broadcast playlists because of complaints that it condones date rape and is triggering to victims of sexual abuse. Others say, Get over it -- it's just a song. I can see both sides of this debate.

CBS This Morning's Gail King spoke out on the program Wednesday defending the song, as have many other newspaper opinion pieces, while the daughter of its writer, Frank Loesser, blamed the kerfuffle on convicted sexual predator Bill Cosby, whose habit of drugging victims brought new attention to the line "say, what's in this drink?"

Why it's pertinent to Words On Flicks is because "Baby It's Cold Outside" was popularized when it appeared in a movie, the 1949 romantic-comedy-with-music cream puff Neptune's Daughter. Starring the then-popular mermaid Esther Williams, an expert swimmer who inspired MGM to build giant tanks and stage elaborate water ballets around her, Neptune's Daughter is a fluffy mistaken-identity comedy with Ricardo Montalban as a smooth, polo-playing Latin lover.

The song "Baby It's Cold Outside" pops up as Montalban's character tries to convince Williams to stay a little longer for romance on a cold night. It's a cute and very clever duet about the cat and mouse romantic flirtation between a man and a woman. During the time it was written, the 1940s, it was a scandal for a woman to spend the whole night with a man, her "reputation" would be ruined. Men who wanted more than a few kisses or casual petting had to ramp up their persuasive techniques to get what they wanted. Women were supposed to draw the line at having sex unless there was a wedding first, or at least a ring on her finger.

According to the alternating lines of the song, the man is doing everything he can not merely to verbally convince but to physically coerce the woman to stay the night. Tp be fair, the movie Neptune's Daughter also shows the song being sung by a woman, Betty Garrett, in the pursuer's role, trying to interest Red Skelton in a romance. So the song shows both sexes as putting pressure on the other, to hilarious effect. But the song is more often heard in the classic style with the man as the aggressor.

If you listen to the whole song, at the end it seems that the woman gives in -- seemingly of her own free will -- or at least she gives up. But in a scenario like this, what could have happened if she said no? If, in fact, she insisted on leaving?

A gentleman would open the door, express regret, and graciously say goodnight. A sexual abuser would lock the door, block all exits, and attack. How do I know? Because it has happened, to me and to many others.

And that is what is triggering about this song for many. These are the same coercive lines and maneuvers that many sexual predators use to trap their targets physically and emotionally so that they cannot escape, and that place of isolation is where they feel emboldened to harass, grope and/or rape. It's all fun and games, lightness and flirtation -- until it isn't. Abusers count on the fact that women expect men to follow the rules of chivalry and courteousness in every situation; it's the benefit-of-the-doubt rule, the innocent-until-proven-guilty rule. Predators use this against victims. Their target often can't tell a good guy from a bad guy until it's too late.

Although the song ends on an upbeat note, with both parties making an informed choice, one could interpret this song as encouragement to men to press their advantage whenever and however and for as long as they can until they get the answer they want and feel entitled to.

"Baby It's Cold Outside" is a song strictly of its time, certainly a more innocent era with stricter societal mores, courtly traditions and lighthearted intent. The trouble is that the song continues to be recorded, year after year, by more contemporary artists. New generations are listening, generations for whom the year 1949 may as well be the Pleistocene Era and Esther Williams doesn't spark any glimmer of recognition, generations for whom the idea of a mother waiting by the door or a maiden aunt spreading gossip (as it says in the song) is laughable. The original intent and source of the song is lost, and all that is left are its words -- which today's listeners take on face value. And just as we know better now on other issues -- blackface and minstrelsy, stereotyping, gay bashing -- we should do better by letting questionable Hollywood fare fade into the background. To riff on another popular holiday weather tune: Let it go, let it go, let it go.

If radio stations are responding to the needs of listeners by taking this antiquated song off the air, I think that's a responsible response. And if there are people who can listen to "Baby It's Cold Outside" and hear only a playful teasing exchange between equals who are already fond of each other, then that's great too.

But I don't think those who find no problem with the song should shame or dismiss the concerns of those who do. That's just another way the very real experiences and concerns of #MeToo victims get pushed into the cold outside.

Once Was Lost But Now We Can See: Aretha Franklin In "Amazing Grace"

Amazing Grace
produced by Alan Elliott
starring Aretha Franklin

If you love and appreciate true American "soul" and gospel music, not to mention one of the greatest to ever perform it -- Aretha Franklin -- then there is no better document than the long-hidden film treasure Amazing Grace, just making the rounds of film festivals now.

Originally shot in 1972, Amazing Grace is a film document of the live recording of the late Aretha Franklin's seminal 1972 album of the same name, a collection of gospel and gospel-inspired tunes that put on dazzling display its performer's prodigious vocal talents and went on to sell some 2 million copies and become the best-selling gospel album of all time. The two-night performance was originally shot by the late director Sydney Pollock for a Warner Bros. release, but problems with the footage and disagreement between the studio and its star left it unfinished for 46 years.

Thanks to a long overdue agreement between the Franklin estate and producer Alan Elliott, who was able to piece together Pollock's footage and complete the gargantuan job of synching the audio to the images, Amazing Grace is finally seeing the light of day. It is being show Nov. 12 at the DOC NYC Festival, has been shown in Los Angeles, and will likely get a theatrical release in early 2019. And thank goodness. Beyond its title being associated with the much beloved gospel hymn, its central performance is just that: Amazing.

The action takes place in Los Angeles at New Temple Missionary Baptist Church, with backing from a crack band of session musicians: Cornell Dupree on guitar, Bernard Purdie on drums, Chuck Rainey on bass, with Kenny Luper on church organ. The Southern California Community Choir, led ably by choir director Alexander Hamilton, in typically animated choir director form, provide requisite vocal support. Both nights are emceed by noted gospel eminence the Reverend James Cleveland, who alternates with Aretha on piano and lends his powerful vocal on several numbers.

Just 30 when this project was recorded, Aretha appeared to be in full possession of the soulful melodics, harmonics, dynamics, improvisation, and sheer inspirational fervor that have been her trademarks throughout a long career that spanned a broad range of musical styles. Watching Aretha in a church setting, throwing back her head and opening her golden throat, I couldn't help but imagine that the very angels themselves were being arrested by the glorious sounds that emerged. Whether standing at the podium or seated at the piano to accompany herself, Aretha is composed, confident, and in control. Beautiful in her flowing shifts, glorious afro, and vibrant eye makeup, she is in command of the music, the choir, and even the audience at every moment.

It seems strange that Aretha herself does not directly address the audience, instead demurring to Rev. Cleveland, who amiably introduces the tunes and instructs the audience to be lively in their responses (encouragement that wasn't really necessary). We only hear Aretha speak when asking for water, or to clarify the key for a tune. But somehow this distance only adds to her mystique as not only an artist but almost an oracle. Not a second-night appearance by her father, the renowned Rev. C.L. Franklin (who makes a speech of pride in his daughter's accomplishments), nor a flowery entrance by mink-coated gospel great Clara Ward, nor the enthusiasm of special guests like Rolling Stones frontman Mick Jagger in the back row, nor the hot lights, nor a steady stream of perspiration puddling her eyeliner can deter Aretha from the preternatural composure and skill with which she delivers beloved classics like "What A Friend we Have in Jesus," "How I Got Over," "Precious Memories," "Mary Don't You Weep," and the enduring title anthem "Amazing Grace."

Indeed, by the time Aretha arrives at the seminal title hymn, stretching its melody a cappella, and emphasizing the thankful fervor of its lyrics, members of the audience -- not to mention members of the backing choir and even the film production crew -- are enraptured, many of them visibly moved, some to tears, others seemingly to visitation by the Holy Ghost. Watching Aretha in her element, the Black Church, in what is universally acknowledged as her greatest recorded performance, the film dares you not to renew your own faith -- if not in a higher power, than certainly in the power of music to salve the soul.

Amazing Grace is a visual and aural baptism into the wellspring of African American gospel music by one of its most revered practitioners. In simple terms, this often rough-hewn film is nothing short of a blessing.



All photos are screenshots.

Skateboards, Hip-Hop and S**t: Growing Up "Mid90s"

Mid90s
written and directed by Jonah Hill
starring Sunny Suljic, Kate Waterston, Lucan Hedges, Na-Kel Smith, Olan Pranatt and others

Recommended? With reservations.

I wandered into Mid90s out of sheer curiosity. This coming-of-age tale was written and directed by Oscar nominee Jonah Hill, the onetime chubby comic relief in a number of comedies like SuperBad, Get Him To the Greek, This Is The End and Forgetting Sarah Marshall -- movies that I lowkey enjoyed -- who has since repositioned himself as a serious actor in Moneyball, The Wolf of Wall Street, and the Netflix stumper Maniac with a sleeker physique. Mid90s is his attempt at a cinema bildungsroman, but while he's wrangled some strong performances out of his young actors, the results are mixed.

Shot almost documentary style, Mid90s centers on diminutive 13-year-old Stevie (an astonishing Sunny Suljic), a middle schooler growing up in LA with a single mother (Katherine Waterston) and an emotionally stunted older brother (Lucas Hedges) who frequently beats and abuses him. Desperate to come out from under his brother's thumb, while simultaneously studying everything bout him, and grow up fast, Stevie insinuates himself into a group of teen skateboard enthusiasts at the local skate shop.

Spending hours on their skateboards perfecting tricks, often in prohibited enclaves of the city, and listening to hip-hop, these boys are seeking to escape whatever they feel is oppressing them (poverty, familial abuse, parental expectations, or neglect). This new crew gives Stevie -- dubbed Sunburn by the others -- a sense of family and belonging he doesn't get from his distracted mother and repressed older brother. Except that, other than dreadlocked ringleader and skateshop proprietor Ray (Na-Kel Smith), the rest of this crew are clueless, questing kids who engage in raunchy debates, give each other bad advice, and drink and drug at escalating rates. Ray's best friend and the charismatic center of the film is a character called Fuckshit (Olan Prenatt), so named for his favorite expletive, a blonde-ringleted slacker whom Stevie admires as being the ultimate in "cool." There's also Stevie's friend-turned-foe Ruben (Gio Galicia) and the laconic Fourth Grade (Ryder McLoughlin), named for his intellectual level, who dreams of being a filmmaker and carries his camera everywhere.

Stevie is ready to put himself out there, prove himself any way he can, and he's willing to risk life and limb to do it. Already the brunt of his brother's violence, Stevie cracks his head open falling off a rooftop in a skateboarding dare, a move that gains him the admiration of the crew, and privately engages in self-harm to toughen himself further. "You take the hardest hits of anyone I know," muses Ray toward the film's conclusion. "You know you don't have to do that, right?"

The film showers affection on the era before computers riveted teen culture: skateboards, party hip-hop, oversized jeans, and the kind of aimless angst that made "Smells Like Teen Spirit" a breakout hit for Curt Cobain and crew. Mixed by race and ethnic origin, the group likes to freely throw around the n-word. For a film about the mid 1990s, key scenes are driven by music outside of that era, as in a sequence as the crew skates down the median of a busy thoroughfare to strains of the Mamas & the Papas' "Dedicated To The One I Love" from 1967 and Herbie Hancock's version of "Watermelon Man" from 1974. Trent Reznor contributed original music, and there are a number of other 90s hip-hop tracks quoted.

The film casts a reminiscent glow on Stevie's pubescent milestones, like his first cigarette, first drink, first sexual encounter, and first drug experience. Viewing this as an adult who came of age two decades earlier, I had significant trouble watching the child-sized Suljic in a sexual encounter at a party with a girl who looked to be way over 16, ingesting drugs freely handed to him by Fuckshit while Ray merely shakes his head, and climbing into a car driven by an obviously too-high Fuckshit with predictable results. (My inner thoughts: This has got to be illegal, this is child abuse, where is this actor's mother, etc.)

The movie tries to tie everything up with a bow. Stevie's mother Dabney, alarmed by Stevie's behavior and this new group of friends, at first tries to prohibit her son from associating with them, but Stevie rebels and resists. Mom finally relents once she sees how devoted they are as Stevie lands in the hospital. Stevie's brother attempts a form of reconciliation with his sibling. And the mostly wordless Fourth Grade finally shares the video documentary he's been working on, appropriately titled "Mid90s."

Watching this I was reminded that every generation thinks its teen years were deeply poignant, significant, and unique. I certainly have felt that way about my own experience, but watching Mid90s, with which I couldn't really relate, I realized that it's a universally human conceit. But Mid90s did show me -- who grew up in a household of females -- how often boys are conditioned to masculinity through the idea that they must cultivate their ability to not only survive physical challenges and violence, but to seek them out.

Not bad for a first effort, but Hill should turn his directorial vision outward for his next project.

Shining A Light In The Corners: "Blindspotting"

Blindspotting
directed by Carlos Lopez-Estrada
starring Daveed Diggs, Rafael Casals, Janina Gavankar, Jasmine Cephas Jones


Blindspotting is a cinema love letter to How Things Used To Be.

Not just a love letter to how things used to be in Oakland, the setting for this film, but to every inner-city hood that is a mix of strife, heart, tragedy, beauty and humanity, where many came of age and many more are living still. Where friendships are forged and tried and tested and feel like family.

For black and brown people, Oakland has a long and storied cultural history in politics and the arts. It has long been ravaged by crime and overpoliced. Today, like many urban centers around the nation, it is being claimed by hipsters and gentrifiers. From the opening credits, where director Carlos Lopez-Estrada uses a split screen to juxtapose the past and the present, we see the good and the bad.

Blindspotting is also an examination of How We Used To Be. An examination of the time we had to grow the eff up, not give up our dreams necessarily but refine them. Everybody has to make that transformation. Remember your younger or more naive self, when you weren't exactly innocent, but were just old enough to think you knew everything? When you had decided who you were and who truly had your back? Often we are forced by circumstances to open our eyes to a much bigger picture. Often, those circumstances are sad, sudden, ironic, tragic; sometimes they are of our own making. Regardless, they mark us forever after.

Here's the thing: As uncomfortable as it is, change is unavoidable. Whether in ourselves, the people around us, or in our environment, nothing stays the same.

As you can tell, this movie got me all in my feelings.

Blindspotting centers on Collin (Tony and Grammy-winning Hamilton star Daveed Diggs), a 20something parolee living out the final days of his court-ordered probation period in a halfway house. Collin is trying to get back on his feet and stay out of trouble, since any infraction can put him back behind bars. He's rattled by the fact that his mother hasn't kept his bedroom available for him, hurt by his broken relationship with Val (Janina Gavankar), and profoundly haunted by witnessing a white police officer gunning down an unarmed black youth only days before his probation ends. He takes refuge in his relationship with his trigger-happy childhood friend, Miles (Rafael Casals), an Oakland-bred white boy who has settled down in the neighborhood with his black wife (Jasmine Cephas Jones, another Hamilton alum and daughter of This Is Us TV favorite Ron Cephas Jones) and their child. Miles, who also works at the moving company, lives life out loud, with a carefree heedlessness that Collin is discovering he can no longer afford.

We don't discover the details of what landed him in prison until mid-film, when it's related by a random stranger in a brilliant reenactment sequence that is simultaneously hilarious and horrific. "Tell me something, when you look at me now, do you see [that incident]?" Collin asks Val, his former girlfriend and the dispatcher at the moving company where he works. What's interesting is that, at this point in the film the audience sees the entire scope of what Collin is grappling with.

As written by stars Diggs and Casals, real-life long-time friends and erstwhile spoken word artists from Oakland, Blindspotting shows us the ways that Collin is being forced to truly examine his circumstances and make some choices in order to not just to move on with his life but move up. The movie is less than subtle in making points about the impact of police brutality, the criminalization of black men, staying true to one's roots, the parameters of friendship, gentrification of traditionally black neighborhoods, and how equality and tolerance can combust when non-blacks brought up within black culture face the confounding problems of white privilege within themselves. It also uses rap as a tool of expression for both characters, who like to trade rhymes and improve their flow when things on the job get slow.

Though it's a snapshot of current-day Oakland, Blindspotting shares more narrative DNA with films like John Singleton's 1991 drama Boyz N Tha Hood or 1995's Ice Cube comic opus Friday than it does with Sorry To Bother You, the ribald Oakland-set social satire that hit theaters earlier in July. Like Tre in Boyz and Craig in Friday, Collin is the voice of reason in a West Coast enclave of established relationships, cultural traditions, and social hierarchies, but he has to evaluate his place within that world and take responsibility for his own actions to become a better man. He has to identify and shine a light on those blind spots.

It's the compelling and emotional performance of Diggs as Collin as well as his natural chemistry with the exuberant and hotheaded Casals that make Blindspotting really click. Its visual imagery and narrative themes stayed with me long after I left the theater.


All photos are screen shots.
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Crazy, Brilliant, Awkward, Strange: "Sorry To Bother You" Is ... A Lot

Sorry To Bother You
directed by Boots Riley
starring LaKeith Stanfield, Tessa Thompson, Omari Hardwick, Danny Glover, Terry Crews, Armie Hammer, Jermaine Fowler

People of color are having something of a moment in the filmmaking arena. Further, Oakland-based actors, filmmakers and locations are experiencing a comeup. So I was chomping at the bit to see Sorry To Bother You. (That metaphor will be more apt once you see the film for yourself.) I was left feeling that this movie, for all of its groundbreaking story, visual virtuosity, unique characters, and cultural commentary, may have bitten off more than it can chew. This could have made a really interesting cable series, much like "Atlanta," in which star LaKeith Stanfield also appears. Sorry To Bother You is overstuffed with potent observances, visual jokes, surrealist setups, witty dialog, awkward humor, and jaw-dropping reveals. Honestly, I wasn't really ready. It's ... a lot. A LOT.

This first feature from Oakland writer, musician, and director Boots Riley is an absurdist, surreal meditation on capitalism, racism, classism, corporate greed, art as political commentary, media, technology, civil disobedience, black culture, and moral integrity. At least, these are the myriad ideas this mind blower of a film touches on at breakneck speed. Riley takes the time-honored plot about an everyman who makes something of a Faustian bargain and twists expectations, especially with the main character of Cassius Green, played by nerd savant LaKeith Stanfield. (Apparently some of Stanfield's eccentricities are not just on screen, according to a profile in the New York Times).

Here's a basic synopsis, but I'll let other reviewers attempt to explain the final third of the flick:

Mild-mannered Cassius lives in his uncle's garage, drives an ancient, patched-together economy car, and needs a job to catch up on rent. His free-form, woke girlfriend Detroit (Tessa Thompson) twirls signs and creates performance art on street corners for a living. Desperate for a job, Cassius bullshits his way into a miserable telemarketing sales gig. When his uncle Sergio (Terry Crews with hair) is threatened with losing their home, Cassius decides to take the advice of a fellow phone-room veteran, played by a gleefully loose Danny Glover, and soon becomes a sales star who is promoted to the lofty penthouse area where "power callers" make megabucks deals. And in a surreal visual delight, with every call, we see Cassius, his desk and headset land from the ceiling with a bang into the habitat of his customers -- in their kitchens, while they're on the toilet, while making love, into their office, while smoking a joint.

His secret, as anyone who has seen the trailers knows, is to use his "white voice" on the calls. This is really no secret to people of color working within the confines of corporate America, who often find themselves code-switching in different situations. But Sorry To Bother You takes the concept to its absurdist extreme -- so much so that the "white voices" used by Stanfield and his Power Caller idol, played by Omari Hardwick in an inexplicable bowler, eyepatch and muttonchop sideburns combo, are actually dubbed by white actors.

Our hero (whose whole name is basically "cash is green") is more than willing to fake it to make it, and once he drinks the Kool-Aid of the Power Caller lifestyle, which comes with a hefty paycheck, he doesn't care that he is actually selling slave labor to global corporations. With a hip new apartment and a luxury car, and having saved his uncle's home with a fat wad of green, Cash shrugs off the Upstairs/Downstairs moral quandary when the phone room staff erupts into a full-scale work stoppage to protest low wages and lack of benefits. His "I'm with you in spirit, but this has nothing to do with me" attitude -- not to mention his increasing use of the "white voice" at all times -- drives a wedge between himself and the strikers, most importantly his best friend Salvador (Jermaine Fowler), and worse, his girlfriend Detroit, who is being pursued by Squeeze (John Yeun), the phone room's strike organizer. With Cash and other Power Callers crossing the picket lines with armed escorts every day, Detroit labels Cash a "morally emaciated" scab and bounces. One of the funnier moments of the film is when newly entitled Cassius arrives to work and engages in a rapidly escalating war of compliments with Salvador. It's absurdist humor at its best, when "I hope you have a great year, brother" and "You smell great, what are you wearing?" are challenges as heated and threatening as any game of The Dozens.

Meanwhile, Cash proves so good at his Power Caller game that his mentor Mr. ___ (Hardwick) informs him that he's been summoned to a party at the home of the company's CEO, a douchebag young gun named Steve Lift (Armie Hammer) whose oft-protested Worry Free company is basically a modern-day slave plantation (and I could write another whole essay on this concept). Cash attends the party, which is a cross between every Hollywood-style excess mansion bash and a scene out of "Eyes Wide Shut." Goaded by Lift into rapping for the party, simply because he's black (this scene is awkward and painful, though some will find it funny) Cash is later summoned to Lift's inner sanctum, where Cash inadvertently stumbles across a horrifying scientific experiment, which I won't divulge. Cash is then forced by Lift -- at gunpoint --to consider a multimillion-dollar paycheck to work with this still-developing faction of Lift's empire.

At this point, Sorry To Bother You makes a sharp turn from social satire straight into sci-fi, and it may be a hard leap for some in the audience to make. It's a film where the amusing eccentricities, quirks, and weirdness of the plot finally pile up so high that by the last 20 minutes, Freak Fatigue may set in. For a movie billed as a comedy, somehow the laughs are far and few between; certainly there are hilarious moments, such as the aforementioned compliment war, the Power Callers' elevator gags, and Cash's brief experience in the private room of a local club. There are also several deeply disturbing scenes, as when non-rapper Cash is forced to rap for a party of white folks and resorts to chanting the n-word; when Detroit holds a gallery opening and invites attendees to pelt her near-naked body with sheep's blood, cell phones and bullet casings as a piece of performance art; and several scenes of extreme violence involving a fictional TV reality show and confrontations between the police and striking workers. And then there is that certain ... scientific program.

The visual design and cinematography of the movie are stellar; the framing, explosion of colors, and set design are remarkable. A shot of Cash driving through the neighborhoods on his way to work and to pick up his girlfriend, as well as the club scenes, give us a true sense of the sights and sounds of Oakland. Detroit's candy-colored hair and message earrings, Cash's increasingly dapper suits, the high-five montage of Cash celebrating sales with his phone room supervisor, the crash landings into client's spaces, and the headshot of Cash in the phone room framed against the copyroom window, behind which two employees are confounded by a paper-spewing copier, are just a few of the dazzling visual setups. And the film earns high marks for its soundtrack, with some of the songs provided by director Riley's band.

Sorry To Bother You has to be seen to be believed. Do I encourage you to see it? Yes. Stanfield, with his stooped uncertain posture and expressive eyes, gives a great performance. There is a lot to unpack here about a number of issues. But I wouldn't take young children. It's more of a dystopian cautionary tale than anything else. As with most protagonists in the I-sold-my-soul-but-I-want-it-back plotline, Cassius regains his moral fiber, takes back his power, and goes all out to make things right. But even as a happy ending is dangled before us, full of love and sunshine, the last scenes take a darker twist.

* * * * *

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Ocean's Eight: Lady Rogues, Charms & Chuckles

Ocean's Eight (2018)
Directed by Gary Ross
starring Sandra Bullock, Cate Blanchett, Anne Hathaway, Helena Bonham-Carter,
Rihanna, Sarah Paulson, Mindy Kaling, Awkwafina, James Corden

Any subsequent entry into a film franchise suffers in comparison to the original.

The first Ocean's 11 that goes back to the swinging '60s is more famous for the off-screen antics of stars Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr., Angie Dickinson, Peter Lawford and Joey Bishop than its plot, which was a bit loose-limbed, awkward, and downright plodding at times. The charm of Ocean's 11 was the interplay between cast members, most of whom were top concert and film draws and were notorious for their drinking and carousing. As the epitome of that decade's idea of "cool," Sinatra easily led his merry band of funny, distinct hooligans to success at the box office.

It was this sense of wise-cracking cool that infused the 2001 reboot with George Clooney, Brad Pitt, Matt Damon, Bernie Mac, Casey Affleck, Scott Caan, Julia Roberts, Don Cheadle and others. So many decades had gone by since the original Sinatra vehicle that the premise seemed fresh. The script allowed each of the eleven to clearly sketch out the parameters of their individual characters, their relationships with each other, and their roles within the heist. Clooney had his winking, criminal-with-a-heart schtick down pat, in a way that seemed to echo the ring-a-ding-ding ease of Sinatra; we believed that he was always looking for the angles in any situation, come hell or high water. As Rusty, Pitt was his unruffled foil, dressed impeccably in every scene and always consuming some sort of edible, a great little actorly detail that defined his character as the one cool head amid chaos. Damon is introduced as a commuting pickpocket drafted by this big league of con artists; his nervousness while playing his part in the big Las Vegas swindle is palpable. And that's another thing the reboot had going for it -- Las Vegas in all its glitzy, ersatz glamour was definitely a character in the story, same as in the original. There are some great moments of verbal and physical comedy in the film: Bernie Mac gripping the hand of the auto dealer and spouting about skin softening agents is priceless (similar to a routine he does as an addled prisoner in the Eddie Murphy flick Life); and the squabbling Laurel & Hardy antics of Affleck & Caan are hilarious. When Danny Ocean pulls together his entire crew, you believe the relationships. There is an easygoing sense of bonhomie about them. They're professional criminals, and for them, pulling off the biggest robbery in Las Vegas is not only dangerous, it's also sheer, edgy fun.

Unfortunately, the new Ocean's Eight has not mastered the same sense of fun. It tries very hard, though.

Maybe I am so much a victim myself of society's harsh judgment of women taking on men's roles that this all-female take on the heist genre feels forced to me. It's a given that women can take on any role, perform any job, and carry a movie. But for this franchise, the question is: Can a woman, even one as attractive and popular as Sandra Bullock, play a charming rogue on the same scale as George Clooney? Should it be on the same scale? Because it purports to be from the same universe, Ocean's Eight sets up that expectation.

Bullock plays Debbie Ocean, who -- as her brother Danny Ocean did at the beginning of Ocean's Eleven -- starts the film being released from prison on parole. And while she is witty and slick, she is not exactly charming. Further, the tone of the film is dampened from the start by the news that Danny Ocean is dead. This fact is not explained, and it casts a pall over all that comes next. Maybe this detail is meant to sever any expectation the audience might have that we'll get to see Danny, and gives Debbie more authority as the spiritual inheritor of everything Danny was while also being a strong player in her own right. However you cut it, his demise is dispiriting. And while the audience comes to understand that the Oceans all have a touch of larceny in their souls, Debbie's interests lie not just in enriching herself and her crew, but revenging herself upon the former lover whose testimony about their art fraud put her in prison. As such, though her anger is justified, her scheme comes across as more crass and contentious than crafty. She wasn't exactly innocent of the crime she was convicted for, and now she seems to have no concerns about being convicted again.

The action of Ocean's Eight is transferred to New York City, which gives it a different feel from the trilogy that centered on Las Vegas and Cannes. And it features a great cast of ladies, no doubt. But as fabulous -- and fabulously dressed -- as Bullock is, she barely holds the center in scenes with smoldering Cate Blanchett as Lou, her restauranteur partner in love and crime. Helena Bonham Carter walks the line between daffy and shrewd as a bottoming out fashion designer who joins the crew, Anne Hathaway is both arch and needy as an A-level young actress who is their dupe, while Sarah Paulson seems a bit out of her element as Debbie's former associate, a con artist, fence, and property master who has retired to the suburbs to play wife and mother. It's nice to see Mindy Kaling on the big screen doing anything at all, but we learn nothing about her other than the fact that she works in a jewelry shop under the thumb of her shrewish mother, and in a scene with Bonham Carter, she mostly just stands there. Also given short shrift, scriptwise, are Rihanna as a dreads-rocking computer hacker named Nineball, and Awkwafina as a street-smart pickpocket. Character development and backstory are both left wanting here. We never find out how any of Debbie's crew first met Debbie or what their history together consists of, and while there was an element of that in the 2001 version, the chemistry between the players never comes together in this outing, and most never get to stretch out.

Also many of the plot elements seem rushed, coincidental, and too easily tied with a bow. Debbie and Lou gain the confidence of their desperate designer a bit too quickly. Sarah Paulson's character is hired on the spot as the "inside man" at Vogue, conveniently just in time to set the ball rolling. Does Lou really have the impeccable credentials as a vegan chef to get a last minute gig at The Met Gala? And the robbery scheme's complication -- the crew suddenly learns they need a unique magnetic tool to unlock the catch on the multimillion dollar necklace they're after -- is addressed so quickly that I completely missed it. And I was sitting there staring at the screen the whole time! The dialogue went rat-a-tat and was over. (A genius solution is apparently provided by Nineball's smarter than smart younger sister, who shows up on screen for less than two minutes then bounces, as Debbie remarks to Nineball, "What do your parents do?") The limits of time and space are circumvented time and again as the characters make costume changes and suddenly appear just where they need to be to pull off the heist. And while all the details must be carefully adhered to, none of the players seem to emit a single drop of sweat in the process.

OK, so it's a heist film. It's supposed to be cool, and outrageous, and it's supposed to test the limits of credibility. And it does all of that, while showcasing some jaw dropping high fashion in the process. The pace is fast and frenetic. There are a few twists. There are a few brief flickers of comedy. There are a couple of celebrity cameos and brief, surprise character tie-ins to the previous films. We are on the edge of our seats as the heist is put in motion. And when an insurance fraud investigator, played by the amiable James Corden, steps in to hunt down the perpetrators, it seems our heroines may be in trouble. (Personally, who is scared of Corden? I would have been more concerned for the girls if the investigator were played by, say ... ass-kicker Jason Statham or someone equally intimidating.) Ocean's Eight has its own charms and chuckles. In the end, as the Bard would say, all's well that ends well.

Until we are reminded, yet again, that Danny Ocean is dead.

Did we really need that coda? I think not. It only reminds us to compare this flick to the ones that came before. That makes the surviving Ocean sibling a Debbie Downer.



[Check out the previous review of Book Club HERE.}

Feel-Good Fluff or Insidiously Sexist Stuff? "Book Club"

Book Club (2019)
directed by Bill Holderman
starring Jane Fonda, Candice Bergen, Diane Keaton, Mary Steenburgen,
Andy Garcia, Don Johnson, Craig T. Nelson

Book Club is a movie that seems to be about the freedom, liberation, and wisdom of women of a certain age (over 60). With its casting of fabulous-looking senior actresses Jane Fonda (the most senior, at 80), along with blithe spirits Diane Keaton, Candice Bergen, and Mary Steenburgen, we have a powerhouse foursome of actresses who could pull off just about any script, never mind one bent on convincing audiences that age ain't nothin' but a number. These ladies look fit as a fiddle and ready for love (just ignore the fact that Candice seems stuffed to bursting in her stiff suits and that Diane Keaton's love of scarves in any weather belies either a pathological aversion to drafts or some serious wattle-neck).

Set in the sun-dappled upper-class enclave of Santa Monica, California, with a few side trips to upper-class enclave Scottsdale, Arizona (and the gorgeous vistas of Sedona), Book Club takes place in its own lovely and rarefied world of privilege, the plot floating along effortlessly on a tide of the wine the ladies continually guzzle down. During the opening credits, the film quickly short-hands the friendships and careers of these four friends, who are now incredibly successful (Fonda's character owns a major hotel); through the decades they have been gathering religiously for their book club meeting. The film would have us believe that their reading of the steamy S&M-light book series "Fifty Shades of Grey" unleashes some new level of sexual healing in their lives. This premise only serves as a shameless plug for the book series; thankfully, the script doesn't delve too deeply into the plot or characters of those books, but only uses them as a jumping off point. I think it would have been more effective to spoof the "Fifty Shades" and have the women read a series with an ersatz name that viewers would clearly be able to identify as a "Fifty Shades" clone. That would have been funnier and less bald-faced ad. And as it is, the book club meetings look like an excuse for the quartet to spout off about their lives and down copious amounts of wine.

For a 2018 film about successful women, Book Club still spouts some old-fashioned ideals about love and sex. These women are purportedly strong, accomplished, and self-directed, and yet the film seems to think they are nothing without a man. Yes, Sharon (Candice Bergen's character) is a respected federal court judge who has been abandoned by a weaselly husband for a much-younger woman. At 70, she is entitled to feel anger and bitterness; her initial stance eschewing romance seems perfectly reasonable. Deciding not to put oneself out there is a legitimate choice, but she is mocked and goaded by her friends into diving back into the dating pool.

Vivian (Fonda) is a love 'em and leave 'em hotel magnate who fears being emotionally manipulated or disappointed by love, a very real concern especially as an independent older woman with considerable financial assets. Yet, the real-talk speech she gives toward the end of the film about why she let a suitor go his way -- acknowledging the fact that older men can continue to woo and win younger women and often do -- is pooh-poohed in favor of having her risk all to chase True Love (never mind that her reunion with her ex consists of a rose garden fountain splash-off, a couple of drinks, and a nap).

Diane (Keaton, still rocking her signature Annie Hall menswear duds) is a well-off widow who ... I don't remember. She has two grown daughters (one of them Alicia Silverstone) who treat her like she's a doddering Alzheimer's patient in need of constant care, but she is devoted to her family and she worries that a new love will interfere with her responsibilities, overshadow memories of her dutiful husband, and upend her comfortable life.

And Carol (Steenburgen) is a thriving chef and restaurateur with a handsome husband with his own midlife crisis; her initial plan to fix things between them is to slip him a little Viagra mickey to spice up their sex life.

Book Club glosses over the real issues and impediments that dating over 60 may well present women today in favor of pat answers and ribald jokes. (Fonda's Netflix hit Grace and Frankie with longtime pal Lily Tomlin though also about rich white women, digs deeper, issues-wise.) Further, every suitor for these women is an AARP dreamboat, healthy, wealthy, and mostly younger. Sexy Don Johnson, 69 (and father of the Fifty Shades films' lead actress Dakota Johnson) shows up to romance Fonda years after their characters first tangoed; 62-year-old Andy Garcia plays an even-tempered pilot attracted to Keaton, a decade his senior; and a distinguished-looking Richard Dreyfuss (70) is a suitable match for Bergen (72). Even when one of Candice's dating-site suitors is the nerdy Wallace Shawn (whom Bergen memorably spurned in an episode of HBO's Sex & the City), he's still a successful doctor. And Steenburgen's spouse is hunky Craig T. Nelson, 74, who for a brief spell is more interested in riding his motorbike than her. Aside from the husband's temporary erectile dysfunction issues, and initial unwillingness to dance in public, these men appear problem and baggage-free.

Of the four actresses, it is Candice who bears the brunt of the film's most humiliating comic scenes: Taking her inert cat to the vet, the diagnosis about the state of her kitty is a withering barb(and gets one of the biggest laughs). Covered in a gloppy face mask, she is unexpectedly photographed by the dating website she finally signs up for; she gets pretzeled by punishing shapewear for all to see during a shopping trip; and she gets to look bedraggled (and a little desperate) in a sedan backseat when dating turns into mating.

This isn't to say that Book Club is without its charms or its laughs. Kudos to the scenery and cinematographer who captured it, the costume and makeup folks who made these ladies look like a million bucks. It is great to see this cast of accomplished older actresses stretch out in a major movie about romance, though I can't help but wonder what adding some diversity to the casting would have done (the addition of Fonda's Monster in Law co-star Wanda Sykes, the rebounding Leslie Uggams of Deadpool, or the regal Phylicia Rashad could have been really interesting). Because of its structure and premise, Book Club could be ripe for any number of prequels (the foursome in their younger years), sequels (another book, another set of "problems" for the ladies), and spinoffs (a completely different foursome reads the "Fifty Shades" books and embark on their own adventures).

And while the film is certainly intended as lighthearted comic fluff with the timeless message of "love conquers all," if you look too hard the message that sneaks through is that, whether women are 16 or 60, the fantasy ideal of finding a perfect love with a perfect man endures.