A visual feast with a soulful narrative to back it up, director Chris Sanders’ “The Wild Robot” is a rousing, if not completely unmitigated, success for mainstream animation.

Based on the book by Peter Brown, Sanders’ film takes place in a perhaps-not-so-distant future affected by environmental catastrophe, where artificial intelligence robots (created by a company called “Universal Dynamics”) assist humans with day-to-day tasks within the sleek cityscapes that remain. During a typhoon, one of Universal Dynamics’ cargo ships crashes on a remote island, dumping out its robotic occupant, ROZZUM-7134 (voiced by Lupita Nyong’o) in a strange land. “Roz,” as she’s later called, is a robot with a sleek, long-armed, vaguely ominous design who is immediately viewed as a “monster” by the island’s exclusively non-human inhabitants. After translating the local animals’ languages, she clumsily advertises her services to any and every critter she lays eyes on, who don’t take kindly to her outreach. Chaos ensues.

After a harrowing encounter with a bear (voiced by Mark Hamill) in which Roz tumbles from a cliffside, she ends up destroying a goose nest, killing the parent and cracking the unhatched eggs, except for one — bearing the wide-eyed, cute-as-a-button gosling who is later named Brightbill (first voiced by Boone Storm, then by Kit Connor). Brightbill imprints on her, seeing Roz as his mother. Brightbill also, conveniently, destroys Roz’s emergency transponder, which is the only ticket back home to the safety of sterilized automation.

Unsure what to do with this unfamiliar being following her around, Roz eventually bumps into a family of hilariously morbid possums, whose mother (Catherine O’Hara) “tasks” Roz with parenting Brightbill. Thus, Roz takes on her most challenging objective yet — helped along by a mischievous yet sympathetic fox named Fink (Pedro Pascal) — of teaching Brightbill to learn to feed himself, swim, and fly, in preparation for southbound migration come Winter. As time passes, Roz also develops a love for Brightbill that grows beyond her programming. She turns into an increasingly sentient being, powered by her previously-repressed heart, and ultimately brings her newfound family together to fight for their survival in a (sometimes) unforgiving world.

Indeed, “The Wild Robot” — reportedly the last in-house animated production from Dreamworks Studios — maintains an emotional purity that’s a breath of fresh air in our current times. Starting small and adding layer upon layer, Sanders’ film weaves numerous themes — the joys and travails of parenting, the search for purpose in an unfamiliar world, the rewards of breaking from tradition to follow one’s own path, and cooperation as an essential tool for survival — into a (mostly) cohesive whole, complemented by breathtaking animation and a stellar voice cast.

It’s difficult to do justice to the painterly, vibrantly alive animation on display here — eschewing naturalism for a more impressionistic, storybook quality that resembles hand-crafted concept art brought to life. Crisp sunsets blanket tree-covered skylines in warm hues, fog drenches imposing cliffsides kissed by turbulent (immaculately well-animated) waters, and multicolored butterflies wrap around tree trunks, unleashing vibrant splashes of fluttering wings upon takeoff. The visuals pair beautifully with Kris Bowers’ score, which lends a fitting sense of grandiosity to the well-choreographed set-pieces.

Character designs, rough around the edges in the best way possible, eschew photorealism for emotion and narrative symbolism: Roz’s appearance evolves as she evolves, becoming scratched and stained as a new life opens before her, gradually operating by her own designs rather than what’s been preordained for her. The various critters that surround her, both big and small, are bursting with personality, voiced by an exceptional cast that doesn’t throw in big names just for the sake of it. Each of these characters inhabits the same environment, side-by-side but in their own little worlds, not yet realizing that working together determines their survival.

As Roz raises the young Brightbill in her own unconventional ways — her robotic behaviors and inputs are mirrored by Brightbill, which “other” him from his peers — “The Wild Robot” overcomes its predictability with heart and charm to spare. Sanders and Brown’s screenplay buffets its occasionally heavy-handed messaging and slapstick humor with a sense of melancholy, and finally, of hope in the power of kindness, understanding, and community.

Nyong’o poignantly conveys Roz’s changing thoughts and mounting existential panic, lending emotional heft to Roz’s internal and external changes. “The Wild Robot” is ultimately Roz’s story, not Brightbill’s, zeroing in on the sacrifices of raising a child, the anxiety of releasing that child into the world, and embracing a new “home” far separated from her corporate, dystopian beginnings. It’s frustrating that the film’s uneven pacing doesn’t quite do justice to Roz’s arc, not fully allowing pivotal scenes in the latter half space to breathe and becoming schematic as a result.

Connor tugs heart-strings as the unconventional yet resilient Brightbill struggles to fit in and, over time, recognizes the deep love that his surrogate mother has for him. Pascal is nearly unrecognizable as the rascally, surprisingly complex Fink who’s looking for his own sense of belonging. Matt Berry is wryly funny as Paddler the beaver, while Bill Nighy as an elder goose named Longbill, is typically dignified but saddled with the screenplay’s more explanatory (a.k.a. eye-rolling) dialogue.

The finale — chaotic, action-packed, and delivering emotional moments that are easy to see coming — is too tidy and beholden to modern sensibilities, neglecting the film’s otherwise graceful attention to world-building and character development. It also requires a distracting suspension of disbelief in the denouement. 

Still, the otherwise exceptional storytelling on display overshadows most hiccups down the road. There’s real merit to Sanders’ direct call for unity going into an uncertain future. It’s the kind of soulful, all-ages experience we need more of right now, one that pairs spectacular visuals with a heartfelt story to match.

“The Wild Robot” is a 2024 animated family comedy-drama-science fiction film directed by Chris Sanders and stars Lupita Nyong’o, Pedro Pascal, Kit Connor, Boone Storm, Matt Berry, Bill Nighy, and Mark Hamill. It is rated PG for action/peril and thematic elements, and its runtime is 1 hour, 42 minutes. It opened in theaters September 27. Alex’s Grade: B+.

By Alex McPherson

Crowd-pleasing but toothless, director James Watkins’ “Speak No Evil” mixes potent themes into a sanitized experience that, when it’s not doing a shabby copy-and-paste job of Christian Tafdrup’s 2022 original, turns its powerful setup into easily-digestible fodder for the masses.

For its first moments, Watkins’ film replicates Tafdrup’s shot-for-shot and line-for-line, albeit changing the nationalities of its central players. We follow Ben and Louise Dalton (Scoot McNairy and Mackenzie Davis), an American couple living in London who are vacationing in Italy with their middle-school-aged daughter, Agnes (Alix West Lefler), and Agnes’ stuffed animal rabbit, Hoppy.

Amidst their wealth and privilege, Ben and Louise have a troubled marriage as they deal with the fallout from Ben’s recent unemployment and a marital betrayal bubbling to the surface. 

While relaxing at a pool, Ben and Louise are approached by the English Paddy (James McAvoy) and his wife Ciara (Aisling Franciosi) and they strike up a near-immediate friendship. Paddy is confident, charismatic, rowdy, and unafraid to make himself the center of attention.

The Daltons (especially Ben) are pulled into his orbit, both by their own accord as well as by Paddy’s not-so-subtle pushiness that they just can’t say no to. Paddy and Ciara are accompanied by their son Ant (Dan Hough), who is around Agnes’ age and has difficulty speaking. This is explained away as “congenital aglossia” by Paddy, who claims to be a doctor.

Shortly after the trip ends and the Daltons are back in gloomy, rain-soaked London, where their upper-middle-class contentment frays at the seams, they get a letter from Paddy and Ciara inviting them to their remote farmhouse in the English countryside. Although Louise is skeptical, she begrudgingly agrees with Ben — who sees a form of “alpha male” masculinity in Paddy that he craves in his own life — that a change of scenery would be good for them as well as for Agnes. 

Thus, against their better judgment and moviegoers yelling “No!” at the screen, the Daltons drive their Tesla to the in-your-face creepy house in the countryside. Everything is off from the get-go and proceeds to get worse: from Paddy and Ciara’s increasingly overstepping of boundaries (often of a sexual nature), to the concerning ways they treat Ant and Agnes, to the calm-and-collected explaining-away of any worries that the Daltons have about their vacation destination.

It’s just weird. And Ben and Louise — too uncomfortable and cowardly to stand up for themselves and what they believe in — are soon trapped in a hell of their own making. 

Indeed, in its interrogation of social niceties, malaise, toxic masculinity, and inaction in the face of evil, Watkins’ “Speak No Evil” speaks to our current political climate.

The Daltons’ predicament is not completely implausible; they’re led away from their normal lives by the allure of the unfamiliar, not unlike the followers of a cult leader, falling victim to impulses that they’re unwilling or unable to counter with rational thought.

Unlike Tafdrup before him, though — who fully gives in to the nihilistic, misanthropic leanings of the premise— Watkins definitely pulls his punches this time around.

Not even an unhinged performance from McAvoy can save a film that’s seemingly scared of what its characters are capable, or incapable, of doing.

That’s not to say 2024’s “Speak No Evil” doesn’t have its merits. McAvoy slides comfortably into making viewers uncomfortable every step of the way. It’s not exactly a “novel” performance for McAvoy, who’s played similar characters in the past, but he’s chilling and (more so than his 2022 equivalent played by Fedja van Huêt) darkly funny — pushing the Daltons’ buttons with mischievous pleasure.

Paddy’s smile and frat boy-esque behavior belies a propensity to lash out if his authority and “control” is questioned. Franciosi is suitably creepy and off-kilter, although Watkins’ screenplay gives her a new backstory that robs Ciara of her chilling ambiguity.

McNairy definitely embodies Ben’s insecure, “beta male” attitude, but it’s occasionally difficult to discern between what is an intentionally awkward delivery and what is just plain awkward. He doesn’t get enough chances to show the fire burning beneath Ben’s eyes, making it difficult to buy Ben’s attraction to Paddy. 

Davis fares marginally better, but, like the other characters, Watkins’ script doesn’t grant her much subtlety or ambiguity. Louise knows something’s very wrong from the outset, yet she remains hesitant to act on her beliefs out of guilt for her husband and a desire to keep the peace.

Hough shines brighter than McNairy and Davis as the damaged Ant. It’s too bad he’s forced into scenarios that, when they’re not outright copying what’s been done better before, turn Ant’s arc into a seen-it-before spectacle.

And this is emblematic of where 2024’s “Speak No Evil” falters more broadly. There’s a general lack of tension — the film’s editing is clunky and imprecise, only sometimes slowing down to let us get immersed in the at-times agonizing situations the characters find themselves in.

Gone from the new film is the memorably jarring score by Danny Bensi and Saunder Jurriaans, the no-holds-barred commitment to the bit, and the heartbreaking sensation of watching an inevitable catastrophe. 

Instead, by the time the third act rolls around, 2024’s “Speak No Evil” slides into derivative territory that leaves us cheering instead of disturbed, swapping poignancy for “fun” that is just that: disposable and disappointingly safe. 

It is, admittedly, amusing to experience in a crowded theater, where everyone can have a ball watching the film turn into a haunted house of cathartic set-pieces and slapstick violence. Watkins gives these characters far more agency than Tafdrup does.

Still, by altering the trajectory of their story so drastically, Watkins tones down the ballsiness that made Tafdrup’s telling memorable, almost rendering it a parody of what’s come before.

“Speak No Evil” ultimately doesn’t have much faith in viewers’ attention or ability to embrace the unexpected. It’s a frustrating, if campily enjoyable, remake that never quite proves its worth.

“Speak No Evil” is a 2024 horror-comedy written and directed by James Watkins and starring James McAvoy, Aisling Franciosi, Scoot McNairy, Mackenzie Davis, Alix West Lefler and Dan Hough. It is rated R for some strong violence, language, some sexual content and brief drug use, and its runtime is 1 hour, 50 minutes. It opens in theatres Sept. 13. Alex’s Grade: C.


By Alex McPherson

Messy and overstuffed, but bursting with personality, director Tim Burton’s “Beetlejuice Beetlejuice” is a worthy follow-up to the 1988 original that provides another excellent showcase for Michael Keaton’s comedic talents.

“Beetlejuice Beetlejuice” takes place 36 years after the events of the first film. It continues the story of Lydia Deetz (Winona Ryder), last seen dancing to Harry Belafonte with a ghostly football team. She has become a successful television host and essentially cashed in on her supernatural abilities to see ghosts, making a living off others’ trauma.

But she’s haunted by visions of “Beetle Breakfast” himself (Keaton), popping pills to keep them at bay. She’s accompanied by her TV show producer and romantic partner Rory (Justin Theroux), who barely conceals his toxicity behind platitudes and emotional manipulation, valuing money and external validation above all else.

Lydia is abruptly summoned to New York City by her stepmother, Delia (Catherine O’Hara), a vain yet lovable diva having now become a performance artist in the Big Apple. She informs Lydia that her father, Charles (Jeffrey Jones), has unceremoniously died en route to a bird-watching trip.

Lydia, Delia, and Rory decide to have Charles buried at the Maitland family house in Winter River, Connecticut (the Maitlands are abruptly written out of this story), picking up Lydia’s estranged daughter Astrid (Jenna Ortega) from boarding school along the way. Astrid is highly resentful of her mother, who cannot see the ghost of her deceased father, and immerses herself in climate activism to rebel against her family’s opportunistic ways.

In the Afterlife, the titular Beetlejuice, as unhinged as ever, has opened a call center for his “bio-exorcism” gig. He’s staffed his office with ghouls with shrunken heads and uses one poor lad, Bob, as his personal assistant. Beetlejuice seems pretty content with all that power, but his past has other plans.

An unlucky janitor (played by Danny DeVito) ends up accidentally unleashing Beetlejuice’s ex lover, Delores (Monica Belluci), upon the world — a literal soul-sucking badass who physically staples herself back together — and she’s out for revenge. Beetlejuice needs to find a way out of the Afterlife. 

Young love, a marriage proposal, betrayal, rebellion, alternative waiting room visits, and wacky, charmingly grotesque antics ensue as Beetlejuice enters the Deetz’s lives once again. 

Let’s just say, there is a lot going on in “Beetlejuice Beetlejuice,” too much for any single plot strand to get the attention it really deserves. But Burton’s sequel is more than the sum of its parts. Without sanding down the caustic wit of the original or sacrificing its visual pizazz, “Beetlejuice Beetlejuice” is an immensely fun watch, albeit an experience that works best if viewed purely as an excuse to get the gang back together to riff on old times.

“Beetlejuice Beetlejuice” largely captures the feel of Burton’s classic, from the gothic-inspired, lived-in set design (given a slightly too crisp digital sheen this time around), to Danny Elfman’s score, to its blunt satire of bureaucracy and greed, to the zany performances and a proud refusal to adapt to “modern” sensibilities. It’s just a fun time at the movies–-scattershot in its storytelling but knowingly so, retaining a distinctive style that only Burton’s mind can conjure. 

The entire ensemble of returning players and new faces seems to be having a ball on screen. Keaton is the obvious standout, slipping back into the iconic role with ease. Beetlejuice’s signature gross-out, form-breaking, shape-shifting antics are rendered as vividly as ever without relying on CGI. 

He’s alternately funny, likable, and squirm-inducing as the flamboyant trickster with surprises up his sleeve and havoc on his mind — manipulating anyone and everyone to his advantage. Keaton’s commitment to the bit makes one wish that he had even more screen time; however; the film has too much ground to cover to make him center-stage consistently.

Keaton steals his scenes all the same, delivering some genuinely shocking moments with sincerity, and taking part in some memorable set-pieces in the finale that really go for it. On his performance alone, the film soars.

Ryder excels yet again as Lydia, uptight and deflated but willing to fight for her family and what’s right. O’Hara, as before, is hilarious, particularly regarding the creation of artwork where she “deals with grief” in outlandish fashion. Ortega fits the role of the moody Astrid well, but stays within the bounds of her previous efforts in shows like “Wednesday.”

Arthur Conti as Jeremy, a neighborhood boy who sparks a romance with Astrid, is charming though mysterious. Theroux is enjoyably annoying, while Bellucci is threatening but disappointingly underused. (Delores is one of the most egregious sacrifices to the film’s narrative restlessness.)

Willem Dafoe, as movie-star-turned-Afterlife-detective Wolf Jackson tracking Delores’s reign of terror, is amusing, with some excellent makeup, but the screenplay ultimately doesn’t do much with him.

Indeed, much of “Beetlejuice Beetlejuice” doesn’t dig beneath the surface. And, to be fair, it didn’t need to. It’s as if Burton wants us to relinquish deeper thought and go along for the ride — playing into nostalgia while introducing new characters and environments into the “Beetlejuice” universe. 

The closer one looks at any particular thread of “Beetlejuice Beetlejuice,” the less it holds up, and the few instances where Burton aims for poignancy don’t quite land effectively, as do early set-up scenes in the real world that take a while to kick into gear. Fortunately, much of “Beetlejuice Beetlejuice” operates at too fast a clip to dwell on these shortcomings.

Many of the characters struggle with being authentic, both to themselves and others, and this truthfulness (or lack thereof) often determines their fates. “Beetlejuice Beetlejuice,” on the other hand, knows exactly what it is and largely embraces its instincts, remaining a wholly satisfying way to kick off the spooky season. It’s the rare legacy sequel that really delivers.

“Beetlejuice Beetlejuice” is a 2024 horror-comedy directed by Tim Burton and starring Michael Keaton, Winona Ryder, Jenna Ortega, Catherine O’Hara, Monica Bellucci, Justin Theroux and Willem Dafoe. It is rated PG-13 for violent content, macabre and bloody images, strong language, some suggestive material and brief drug use and the run time is 1 hour, 45 minutes. It started in theatres Sept. 6. Alex’s Grade: B+.

Featuring a captivating performance from Aaron Pierre, director Jeremy Saulnier’s suspenseful-but-restrained “Rebel Ridge” mixes throwback thrills with earnest social commentary in its story of injustice, heroism, and deep-seated corruption of institutions claiming to serve the greater good.

The film, taking place in the small town of Shelby Springs, Louisiana, centers around Terry Richmond (Pierre), who we first meet cycling en-route to the local courthouse to post bail for his cousin, Mike (C.J. LeBlanc), who is in jail for a drug-related crime. Terry is violently knocked off his bicycle by some Shelby Springs cops who take Terry’s money ($36,000 in cash) using the loophole of a “civil asset forfeiture.” This allows them to seize Terry’s bail funds, with no due process, under the pretense that he’s involved in criminal activity. They dare Terry to contest the “legal” theft in court before leaving him, scraped up from the fall, by the side of the road.

Furious, and recognizing that Mike doesn’t have much time remaining (he’ll likely be killed behind bars), Terry confronts the local police chief, Sandy Burnne (Don Johnson). Good ‘ol boy Sandy reveals that the police department has absolutely no intention of returning Terry’s life’s savings.

Although only a couple people are available and willing to help Terry scrounge up the money to post Mike’s bail (including the owners of a Chinese restaurant where Terry previously worked), he allies himself with a troubled court clerk named Summer McBride (AnnaSophia Robb). Knowing the risks involved but understanding Terry’s pain, Summer agrees to help him uncover a conspiracy that’s gripped the soul of Shelby Springs, finding that the lies and deceit go much further than even she thought possible. 

It doesn’t hurt that Terry is also an ex-Marine who ran the Marine Corps Martial Arts Program. He’s smart, determined, and violence-averse, willing to negotiate with his enemies before throwing hands (usually non-lethally). But, as Terry’s deals with Chief Burnne are struck and promptly broken, the game plan shifts. Terry is prepared to use his abilities to fight for Mike, Summer, himself, and the community of Shelby Springs overall.

“Rebel Ridge” is a departure from Saulnier’s previous down-and-dirty efforts “Blue Ruin” and “Green Room,” but no less potent. With a variety of genre influences, from action films like “First Blood” to Westerns to film noir, Saulnier mixes the cartoonish with the grounded amidst crackling dialogue, grim plot twists, and well-choreographed bursts of carnage, enriched by scenes of razor-sharp tension.

Indeed, contrary to other “one-man army” films of its ilk, “Rebel Ridge” is a thinking person’s thriller, rewarding our attention and being about something beyond its familiar framework. Saulnier targets actual legal procedures that protect those in power and take advantage of marginalized communities, trapping his characters in an environment where the only remaining solution is taking matters into their own hands – that is, if they’re willing to risk losing it all in the process. 

“Rebel Ridge” lingers on those consequences, and the fear that the authorities instill within the community; the police department itself grows increasingly desperate to maintain its stranglehold on the public through physical and psychological warfare. “Rebel Ridge,” then, for all its one-liners, wry humor, and expertly-calibrated suspense, isn’t a fantasy. Saulnier underlines the stakes while building towards that ever-important climactic showdown – we root for Terry and his allies each grueling, painful, tragic step of the way.

“Rebel Ridge” wouldn’t be anywhere near as engaging as it is without Pierre, who delivers one of the year’s strongest performances, and stepped in to fill the role after John Boyega’s controversial departure. His Terry is a quiet wrecking ball, coiled-up but patient – with a sense of Right vs. Wrong that he’s compelled to act on, no matter the costs. Pierre’s performance evolves as the film progresses, giving Terry a quiet yet commanding gravitas that doesn’t rely on dialogue. Terry’s anger, sadness, and ever-mounting rage is palpable, and when he’s finally operating at his full combative capabilities, it’s a sight to behold — almost machinelike in the deployment of his “particular set of skills.”

The supporting cast is capable without getting anywhere near as many moments to shine as Pierre. Robb has great chemistry with Pierre, giving Summer unexpected depth. Johnson chews scenery as the detestable Chief – putting on a show of “masculinity” and “strength” while being wholly unprepared for the chaos that Terry brings into the picture. Zsane Jhe is sympathetic yet mysterious as Officer Jessica Sims, who is undergoing her own internal moral battle, and David Denman is almost too effective as a racist cop out for blood.

Saulnier’s direction is lean, muscular, and precise, without relying on stylistic flourishes. David Gallego’s crisp cinematography helps suspense simmer, making the most of mirrors, and frames the action with an unflinching eye (albeit nowhere near as graphically as Saulnier’s previous efforts). Saulnier’s screenplay crackles with wit, mixing in the occasional moment of comedic relief, lending each hushed conversation and high-intensity standoff satisfying spice a la Quentin Tarantino and S. Craig Zahler, enriched by Bill and Will Blair’s pulsing score.

Saulnier doesn’t have a complete grip on pacing, however, and “Rebel Ridge” becomes a bit long-winded in its second half, relying heavily on exposition dumps to keep the story moving. The conclusion, too, powerfully ambiguous and subverting expectations, won’t deliver for those expecting a more traditional experience. But Saulnier operates on a different, far more interesting level. “Rebel Ridge” is his strongest effort yet, also cementing Pierre as a real talent to watch.

“Rebel Ridge” is a 2024 action thriller directed by Jeremy Saulnier and starring Aaron Pierre, Don Johnson, AnnaSophia Robb, David Denman, and Zsane Jhe. It is rated R for language, smoking, and violence, and is 2 hours, 11 minutes. It released on Netflix on September 6. Alex’s Grade: A-.

By Alex McPherson

With an impressive ensemble cast and an emotionally satisfying narrative, director Greg Kwedar’s “Sing Sing” is an earnest, occasionally programmatic tribute to the power of art, community, and resilience that foregrounds the humanity of the incarcerated and spotlights a program that deserves center-stage.

Kwedar’s film, shot across multiple decommissioned correctional facilities, takes place at the titular Sing Sing prison in New York, and revolves around the prison’s Rehabilitation Through the Arts program (RTA). The RTA gives inmates opportunities to express themselves artistically and grow personally, most often by performing theater (ranging from the classics to their own creations) to an audience of their peers and family, directed by the shaggy-haired Brent Buell (Paul Raci).

As the group reflects, practices, and performs together, the program offers a chance to get a brief respite from the claustrophobia of their confinement.

We primarily follow John “Divine G” Whitfield (Colman Domingo), a wise, patient, and determined “leader” of the RTA with a history as an actor who, imprisoned for a crime he’s trying to prove he didn’t commit, splits his time writing novels and plays with preparing for an upcoming clemency hearing.

Divine G radiates warmth and generosity but battles his own demons. He finds an essential element of escapism and fulfillment in the group, whose members are largely portrayed by actual alums of the RTA, playing themselves to powerful effect.

While scouting for talent and thinking of ideas for their new production — which ends up being a time-traveling epic featuring mummies, Hamlet, and Freddy Krueger — Divine G and his close friend Mike Mike (Sean San Jose) convince a live-wire inmate named Divine Eye (Clarence “Divine Eye” Maclin) to join the program.

Divine Eye, who has a concerning need to assert dominance and also casually quotes “King Lear,” adds a potentially dangerous element to the group, grappling with his deep-seated insecurities and butting heads with Divine G, who’s miffed when Divine Eye is cast as Hamlet in the new play. As the tight-knit group continues their preparations, Divine G and Divine Eye develop a friendship, teaching each other lessons about life and the power of art to persevere amidst grim circumstances.

Indeed, “Sing Sing” is a gripping experience — depicting a real-life program that changes lives, brought to life by performances that bring raw vulnerability to the table. Kwedar’s film emphasizes the ways that creative outlets can move, transport, and give meaning, without reducing its subjects to simplistic archetypes.

Perhaps most importantly of all, “Sing Sing” empathetically depicts those that society all-too-often defines by their worst instincts. It recognizes its subjects as flawed, but real individuals not seeking to be absolved for their crimes, but to reclaim their humanity within a dehumanizing system.

Based on John H. Richardson’s Esquire article “The Sing Sing Follies” as well as the real-life Divine G and Divine Eye’s experiences in the program, “Sing Sing” is poignant without becoming maudlin, and hopeful without sugarcoating the realities of prison life. Kwedar’s direction radiates authenticity, both emotional and literal, adopting a documentary-esque approach that (for the most part) helps scenes flow organically and with a sense of spontaneity.

Kwedar and cinematographer Pat Scola give ample time for scenes to breathe, observing RTA members as they reflect on their lives and hone their craft together in a manner that’s cinematic without being showy, aided by a moody score from Bryce Dessner. Given that many of the people we see on-screen are actual alums with the program, each performance in “Sing Sing” is memorable, no matter how little time we spend with anyone besides Divine G and Divine Eye. Their pain, yearning, and catharsis is vividly conveyed. 

Through Kwedar’s direction, we feel the claustrophobia, the pressure of always being watched, the sensation of time lost, and the potential for unexpected violence. In most cases, though, “Sing Sing” refuses to simplify, rendering its ideas through exceptional performances and a naturalistic screenplay by Kwedar and co-writer Clint Bentley that’s filled with drama, melancholy, and unexpected humor. It only sometimes sacrifices nuance to hammer home its main points.

Domingo is typically strong here, far more understated than his Oscar-nominated turn in last year’s “Rustin.” Divine G has an assured confidence that belies inner fear and rage at the system. He finds the RTA a sanctuary from the mounting pressure of his clemency hearing and the perils of prison life.

Domingo poignantly conveys Divine G’s psychological layers, often without voicing them outright, as Divine G’s façade gradually cracks and reforms; the RTA community helps him feel whole again even as reality seeks to hold him down. 

But the real star of “Sing Sing” is Maclin, whose performance as Divine Eye is downright masterful, alternating between uneasy and compassionate. Divine Eye’s gradual shift from fatalism is a familiar arc, for sure, but Maclin’s performance really sells the emotions on display, giving even the character’s formulaic moments necessary weight. 

Divine Eye’s burgeoning friendship with Divine G provides much of the film’s throughline. It never becomes sappy, and it evolves convincingly over the runtime. Divine G sees part of himself reflected in Divine Eye, and vice versa, as they grapple with that elusive feeling that is hope. Maclin stands tall alongside Domingo, worthy of serious awards consideration by year’s end.

“Sing Sing” is not immune from cliché in some respects, especially regarding some “climactic” moments that, while crowd-pleasing, come off as conventional in retrospect. A heavy-handed line of dialogue will occasionally rear its head, too, which feels out of place with the otherwise tight screenplay.

These quibbles do not detract much from the film’s impact overall, however, and “Sing Sing” is unquestionably worth watching, a timely reminder of the unifying power of art and community, and the strength of the human spirit.

“Sing Sing” is a 2024 drama directed by Greg Kwedar and starring Colman Domingo, Paul Raci, Sean San Jose and Clarence “Divine Eye” Maclin. It is rated R for language throughout, and is 1 hour, 47 minutes. It opened in limited theatres on Aug. 16, and is currently expanding into others, including Chase Park Plaza Cinema and AMC Creve Coeur Cine Aug. 23 and HI-Pointe Cinema Sept. 6. Alex’s Grade: A-.

Playing as part of the Webster Film Series

By Alex McPherson

A meditative reflection on death and grief, director Thea Hvistendahl’s “Handling the Undead” is a somber and richly atmospheric experience that eschews traditional thrills to make pertinent statements about the need for love, connection, and perseverance in a broken world.

Based on John Ajvide Lindqvist’s 2005 novel of the same name, the film centers follows three families in modern-day Oslo, as their recently-deceased loved ones rise from the dead suddenly and without explanation. 

There’s Anna (Renate Reinsve), a single mother grieving the loss of her young son, Elias (Dennis Østry Ruud). Anna goes about her days in a robotic, depressed haze and is prone to suicidal ideation. She has a strained relationship with her father, Mahler (Bjørn Sundquist), who wants to help Anna but doesn’t know how. When visiting the graveyard where Elias is buried, Mahler hears knocking coming from Elias’ casket underground, and he brings Elias’ reanimated body back home.

There’s David (Anders Danielsen Lie), an aspiring stand-up comedian living happily with his wife, Eva (Bahar Pars), and their children Kian (Kian Hansen) and Flora (Inesa Dauksta). Eva dies suddenly in a car accident on the eve of Kian’s birthday, and she returns to life in the hospital shortly thereafter; back, but not quite the same.

Finally, there’s the elderly Tora (Bente Børsum), who is rejoined by her late wife (Olga Damani) after returning home from her funeral. Her confusion shifts to happiness then to a different sort of grief, as she reckons with the reality that her wife, as she knew her, is gone.

Indeed, in its patient, quietly heartbreaking rhythms, “Handling the Undead” is a decidedly different kind of zombie film, inviting viewers into the throes of characters’ anguish and desperation with an unflinching eye that offers no easy answers. Without resorting to melodrama, Hvistendahl’s film pulses with a existential dread, a heaviness that blankets nearly every frame, as we watch these vulnerable people navigate the unthinkable in an empty metropolis, reduced to primal instincts for love that supersede logic. 

With its mostly non-sensationalized approach, “Handling the Undead” is less about the zombies themselves than what they mean to those  they impact. Driven by love, loyalty, and protectiveness, we see each group of characters struggling to hold onto what’s been lost, unwilling/unable to let go of what’s no longer their reality in an isolating, compartmentalized world.

Editors Thomas Grotmol and Trude Lirhus let scenes breathe, lingering on sensitive yet shattering performances that reflect the weight of grief that each character bears. Hvistendahl doesn’t spend much time giving backstory, trusting viewers to pay attention and connect with them as ordinary people grappling with tragedy and, eventually, working towards some semblance of inner peace. 

Hvistendahl’s understated approach works well here, emphasizing silence and unspoken pain in a manner that’s far more authentic and believable than other films of its ilk. Thanks to exceptional turns from the whole ensemble (Reinsve, especially, as a mother sacrificing much to protect the child she couldn’t protect before), “Handling the Undead” conveys its somber story efficiently, stripped down to its raw, emotional essence. 

The zombies themselves, too, are treated empathetically. Sure, they’re definitely capable of violence (they are zombies, after all), but the truly chilling aspect of them here is their warped emptiness: the people they once were are unable to communicate in their new vessels. 

The characters’ sense of isolation and emotional turmoil is reflected in Pål Ulvik Rokseth’s cinematography, which positions each family within a concrete desert. Everything is connected but, simultaneously, nothing is at all, which calls to mind still-fresh memories of 2020 lockdown. The Oslo that surrounds these characters further emphasizes just how important these characters’ bonds are to each other, making it almost impossible for them to accept the cruel hand of fate.

Suffice to say, “Handling the Undead” is quite a heavy watch, lacking much in the way of levity or “fun” moments of suspense that comprise most other zombie films. In place of that, however, Hvistendahl targets truths that hit home on a deep level. 

While “Handling the Undead” is a raw look into the depths of grief, it’s just as much a testament to the beautiful-yet-conflicted human spirit, and about the importance of accepting the past, no matter how painful it is, and finding our own way in a world that feels overwhelmingly bleak but still has the capacity for hope. For adventurous viewers, it’s not to be missed.

Rating: A-

By Alex McPherson

With chaotically fun set pieces and an enjoyable performance from Glen Powell, director Lee Isaac Chung’s “Twisters” seemingly checks off all the boxes for a summer blockbuster treat, but it doesn’t surpass the 1996 original.

Set in the same universe of Jan de Bont’s “Twister,” but featuring a different set of characters filling in similar archetypes as before, Chung’s film begins with a flashback showing a bright-eyed group of Oklahoma college students — led by Kate Cooper (Daisy Edgar-Jones) — storm-chasing with the ultimate goal of “taming” a tornado.

In a surprisingly dark turn of events, Kate and her squad misjudge the type of tornado they’re dealing with (it’s an F5, not an F1), and tragedy ensues. The twister claims the lives of three of the group, including Kate’s boyfriend, Jeb (Daryl McCormick), with only Kate and tech wiz Javi (Anthony Ramos) managing to survive the ordeal. Both Kate and Javi are mentally scarred, and Kate, wracked with guilt, vows to leave her storm-chasing behind.

Five years later, Kate works as a meteorologist in Manhattan, going about her days deflated and depressed. That is, until Javi shows up, urging her to join his team of scientists researching tornadoes in Oklahoma. Javi works for Storm Par, a mobile radar company that may or may not have shady motives beneath their “for the greater good” appearance.

He offers Kate a short-term position on the team. She reluctantly accepts, recognizing that extreme weather events are becoming increasingly common — but neither Kate nor any other character mentions climate change outright. Thus, she’s back in the field, tagging along with some straight-laced scientists (one played by future “Superman” actor David Corenswet) hunting down the weather phenomena that’s both her passion and trauma manifested. 

Also on-the-scene is professional “Tornado Wrangler” and YouTuber Tyler (Powell), a rambunctious chap running into danger for “views,” with country music blasting nonstop. He’s joined by a band of tech-savvy nerds played by Sasha Lane, Katy O’Brien, and Tunde Adebimpe, among others, including Harry Hadden-Paton as a clumsy British journalist whose main purpose is comedic relief and not much else.

As both parties compete to reach the tornadoes first, Kate and Tyler develop an inevitable will-they-won’t-they romance. Both must confront their pasts, doubts, and motivations as they seek to make a difference in the world, and in each other’s lives, as they spout quippy dialogue and survive catastrophic incidents thanks to their plot armor.

Indeed, “Twisters,” like “Twister” before it, isn’t trying to be high art. But Chung, who directed 2020’s masterful “Minari,” still tries to inject pathos and stakes into the proceedings, tackling themes of trauma, rebirth, and corporate corruption amid the cheesiness and CGI-laden sequences of carnage. 

It’s a tonal mishmash that doesn’t quite work in Chung’s favor. “Twisters” lacks the commitment to make any meaningful statements on the topics it brings up — which, notably and puzzlingly, does not include climate change — and awkwardly sandwiches sincere attempts at poignancy between the more cartoonish and “thrilling” moments we expect. 

This is made all the more frustrating by the fact that Chung and screenwriter Mark L. Smith prove that they’re willing to address serious, albeit formulaic, ideas about managing trauma and capitalism’s nasty influence on morals. It turns out that the most important and obvious topic of all for this story — climate change — is too controversial for them. 

To make matters worse, “Twisters” ultimately embraces the idea of “conquering” nature more than understanding it, further reducing its premise to popcorn fluff that, by actively resisting taking a stand on much of anything beyond convention, is frustratingly, distractingly out-of-touch with our current moment.

That’s not to say all is lost, though. There’s still individual moments in “Twisters” that pop, and Powell’s star power is more than enough to make the film entertaining on its own lesser merits. 

Powell gives the film much-needed bursts of energy whenever he’s on screen, portraying a raucous individual who disguises his intelligence behind a rowdy, boyish veneer. With his well-sculpted physique and easy charisma, Powell steals the spotlight from Edgar-Jones who, to the film’s credit, portrays a strong, determined character in her own right, albeit one who seems to be in a completely different film from Tyler at certain points.

Kate is far less engaging to watch than Tyler, being saddled with a tragic backstory and comparatively bland personality. Edgar-Jones’ performance lacks impact as a result. The rest of the ensemble is uneven, with Ramos not quite being able to deliver Javi’s heavy-handed dialogue convincingly, and others are barely given enough time to register as fully-formed characters.

“Twisters” fares better in terms of pure production value, however. Cinematographer Dan Mindel artfully frames the Oklahoma prairies, even though there’s less dynamism to the camerawork here than de Bont’s previous effort.

Chung stages sequences of destruction effectively, especially in the opening minutes. He seems to take some glee in showing cars, buildings, and (usually unnamed) people being sucked up into their orbits. It’s loud, scary, and thrilling, for a while, but becomes repetitive as the film goes along.

When the storm has passed, “Twisters” is a decent-to-good experience, held back by its inconsistent tone. But what’s here suffices if we can turn off our brains and let deeper thought be swept away in the wind of mainstream entertainment.

“Twisters” is a 2024 action-adventure directed by Lee Isaac Chung and starring Glen Powell, Daisy Edgar-Jones, Anthony Ramos, Maura Tierney, David Corenswet, Brandon Perea, Sasha Lane, Tunde Adebimpe, Katy O’Brian and Harry Hadon-Patton. It is rated PG-13 for intense action and peril, some language and injury images, and run time is 2 hours and 2 minutes. It opened in theatres July 19. Alex’s Grade: B-.

By Alex McPherson

Tonally uneven and overlong, but floating above mediocrity thanks to the chemistry of its leads and crowd-pleasing sensibilities, director Greg Berlanti’s “Fly Me to the Moon” maintains a steady, low-key appeal.

Berlanti’s rom-com-meets-political-satire unfolds during the lead-up to NASA’s Apollo 11 lunar landing in 1969. Public support for NASA is waning, and it’s in desperate need of funding from a reluctant Congress. Kelly Jones (Scarlett Johansson), a PR professional from Manhattan who wields her powers of marketing spin like a super power, is hired by shady government operative Moe Berkus (Woody Harrelson), under orders from President Richard Nixon, to boost NASA’s public image and get the program back on its feet.

Kelly, who is both a genius and a scam artist, is up to the task, but carries personal demons from her past that Moe threatens to unearth should she not play along with Nixon’s schemes.

Kelly and her assistant Ruby (Anna Garcia) travel to the Kennedy Space Center from New York. Kelly bumps into Cole Davis (Channing Tatum) at a local diner, and the two quickly hit it off. Cole says she’s “on fire,” which Kelly thinks is just a bad pick-up line until she realizes that the book she’s reading is literally on fire — sparks fly in a different sense. 

Both parties think this meet-cute won’t amount to much, but neither of them know that they’ll be working together; Cole, a Korean War veteran, is actually the NASA flight director, and he’s not too thrilled about Kelly’s tactics to boost NASA’s image.

Whereas Kelly seeks to harness the powers of manipulation to sway public perception of NASA, shamelessly and effectively pandering to her targets, Cole is an idealist, carrying the guilt of those who perished in the Apollo I tragedy and unwilling to jeopardize his values for the shrewdness of advertising.

Still, Cole can’t deny his attraction to the opportunistic Kelly, who, right when she begins working at NASA, is getting employees to pretend to play Cole and his colleagues on TV, and swiftly gets major brands on board to support NASA.

It’s all about image and playing to people’s biases, which Cole initially refuses to go along with. Eventually, though, especially when convincing congresspeople to support the cause, he realizes Kelly’s way is the only way, while also falling for her for good measure.

Things are complicated when Moe insists Kelly film a fake version of the moon landing as a contingency plan should the actual mission not succeed. Realizing she has no choice, Kelly follows through, hiring the flamboyant director Lance Vespertine (Jim Rash) to helm the recording.

As the launch date nears and Kelly and Cole’s romance continues to develop, Kelly must choose between truth and lies, as America approaches an historical turning point, if only we’re allowed to see it.

Despite its star-studded fluffiness, “Fly Me to the Moon” aims higher than just being an old-fashioned rom-com. No matter how entertaining it is moment-to-moment, though, Berlanti’s film suffers an identity crisis, abruptly veering from goofy to somber and back again.

It fails to fully commit to any one style — remaining frustratingly half-baked, but never less than amiably enjoyable, as the 132-minute runtime chugs along.

Still, “Fly Me to the Moon” has its charms. Johansson and Tatum’s alternately playful and combative dynamic is fun to watch. Johansson, fast-talking and able to sway minds with ease, convincingly lends Kelly both confidence and vulnerability, with eye-popping costuming and hairdos to match.

Johansson is ultimately the reason to see “Fly Me to the Moon” — her Kelly is a force to be reckoned with, and it’s satisfying to watch her play people and persuade them to believe the unbelievable, until she gradually becomes disillusioned with her own twisted, but highly successful, ethical code.

Tatum does well enough portraying the uptight, damaged Cole. His sometimes awkward screen presence is more of a benefit than a hindrance in Cole’s case. Johansson and Tatum have solid chemistry, and “Fly Me to the Moon” shines brightest when they’re allowed to verbally spar and bounce their competing ideologies off each other to chuckle-worthy effect via Rose Gilroy’s ambitious, uneven screenplay.

Indeed, Gilroy’s script aims higher than the traditional beats we expect from this genre. It twists tropes, and history, to convey some surprisingly prescient ideas about truth, nationalism, love, and scientific advancement within its enemies-to-lovers formula — packaging some timely takeaways alongside the usual heart-warming clichés we’ve come to expect. 

However, not all the pieces Berlanti presents coalesce smoothly, leaving us with an experience that’s tonally all over the place, and neither as biting, poignant, or sexy as it could have been.

“Fly Me to the Moon” is at once a satirical comedy about the all-powerful nature of Spin, a family-friendly rom-com, and a sincere ode to the men and women who put us on the Moon (using the Apollo I tragedy as narrative fodder for Cole’s trauma and determination).

Characters run the gamut from flat-out cartoonish to sincerely grounded in reality, with Berlanti ultimately trying to prompt awe and appreciation for the bravery and hard work of those at NASA.

It’s all a bit much, with Berlanti’s direction showing hints of stylistic flair (including split screens and time-lapse editing), but otherwise remaining languid and conventional, along with editing by Harry Jierjian that lacks snappiness, leaving certain sequences — such as prepping for the staged moon landing — floundering without much momentum.

The production design is stellar, at least, capturing the time period with high attention-to-detail, and Dariusz Wolski’s cinematography is eye-catching, worthy of the big screen treatment.

 The film’s jokes, including several references to Stanley Kubrick and a black cat that keeps disrupting proceedings, are amusing without being in any way surprising. Supporting players like Ray Romano, Donald Elise Watkins, Gene Jones, and Colin Jost (in a brief cameo playing a senator that needs convincing) are serviceable without being given enough screen time to fully shine.

Daniel Pemberton’s score, alternating between jazzy rhythms and soaring strings, does much of the heavy lifting in the third act, giving the requisite exposition dumps and “heartstring-tugging” sequences of human achievement some weight. 

Clunky storytelling aside, though, “Fly Me to the Moon” fits the bill as a breezy, lightly enjoyable romp that’s at least trying to tackle something beyond itself. As current events have shown, presentation matters, but what’s truthful should matter even more — a call to common sense that the flawed yet well-intentioned “Fly Me to the Moon” hammers home, not to the stars, but to us on Earth.

“Fly Me to the Moon” is a 2024 comedy-drama directed by Greg Berlanti and starring Scarlett Johansson, Channing Tatum, Ray Romano, Jim Rash, Lisa Garcia, and Woody Harrelson. It is rated PG-13 for some strong language, and smoking, and the run time is 2 hours, 12 minutes. It opened in theatres July 12. Alex’s Grade: B-

By Lynn Venhaus

Bursting with style and verve, director Ti West’s “MaXXXine” features yet another outstanding Mia Goth performance, but sacrifices heart in its unwieldy embrace of the past.

Taking place in 1985, West’s film continues the story of Maxine Minx (Goth), the sole survivor of the horrific massacre detailed in the 1979-set “X,” in which octogenarian psycho-killer Pearl (also played by Goth) and her husband Howard (Stephen Ure) murdered the cast and crew of a pornagraphic film shooting on their Texas farm.

Having fled the scene before police arrived, and after squashing Pearl’s head like a pumpkin under the wheel of a pickup truck, Maxine is now trying to make a name for herself in Hollywood, an epicenter of the Satanic Panic. She’s built a robust career in the adult film industry, distancing herself as much as possible from the Texas bloodbath and her televangelist father. 

Tough, hardened, and almost scarily determined, Maxine works ‘round the clock to pay the bills and make a name for herself, rushing from strip clubs to porn shoots to downtown peep shows in her white, vanity-plated convertible. Ultimately, Maxine seeks mainstream stardom, and when we first meet her, she’s crushing an audition for a lead role in an upcoming horror film called “The Puritan II,” helmed by no-nonsense director Elizabeth Bender (Elizabeth Debicki).

It’s not getting the part that’s the challenge, though; it’s keeping it, as Maxine’s friends and co-workers start dying grotesque deaths, possibly at the hand of the Night Stalker, who led a very-real reign of terror over LA. The situation is further complicated by the arrival of gold-toothed private eye John Labat (Kevin Bacon), who seemingly works for the killer and threatens to unearth Maxine’s traumatic history, as well two local cops (Michelle Monaghan and Bobby Cannavale) who grow increasingly suspicious about Maxine’s involvement in the murders. 

Maxine wants to leave it all behind and pursue her dreams, but she can only outrun her past for so long. Eventually, she must confront it head on, fighting to transform into the Star she’s yearned to become, no matter the cost.

Indeed, “MaXXXine” is a vastly different film from its predecessors, eschewing the ‘70s grittiness of “X” and the technicolor nightmare of “Pearl” to pay tribute to the Video Nasty era of the 1980s, leaning into B-movie tropes. For no matter how engaging “MaXXXine” is in the moment — with immersive scene-setting and plenty of memorable kills — it becomes a disappointingly emotionless experience. 

Its numerous threads (each potentially compelling on their own) aren’t given time to breathe or leave a lasting impact. But there’s still an irresistible quality to “MaXXXine” that grows upon further reflection. West’s film is fully committed to its influences, and it takes big swings that, if only intermittently successful, are always interestingly flawed.

Goth gives a typically excellent performance, portraying Maxine as a damaged, fiercely determined anti-hero who wants to leave her trauma behind and carve a bloody new path for herself in the name of pure ambition. There’s little doubt that West and Goth want us to root for Maxine despite her actions (like a run-in with a Buster Keaton look alike that gives new meaning to the name). Goth commands her scenes brilliantly, dishing out her own type of gory empowerment.

The film rarely slows down to let Maxine, or viewers, reflect on all that’s happened, though. And perhaps that’s intentional, as Maxine fears her own memory. Her PTSD pops to the surface in the brief moments when the chaos of her daily life subsides, and she fights to push it down.

West’s approach also reflects a broader issue with “MaXXXine,” however. It’s missing the heart of “X” and, especially, “Pearl,” which were willing to take their foot off the gas to let viewers sit with the characters and help flesh them out beyond their familiar archetypes.

Scenes like Brittany Snow’s rendition of Fleetwood Mac’s “Landslide” in “X” – with a split-screen contrasting the group’s youthful exuberance with the tragedy of Pearl’s missed opportunities —  or Goth’s long-take, confessional monologue in “Pearl,” help humanize these characters, breaking conventions to give unexpected emotional weight to outcomes we know will happen anyway. 

“MaXXXine” has a couple of those instances, but they’re positioned within a film that’s content to dazzle rather than provoke deeper thought, rushing along to the next kill or reveal without letting these scenes breathe. West surrounds our anti-hero with disposable characters of varying morality and sends us down a predictable rabbit hole of carnage that’s strangely empty, but never boring. 

Much of the film’s fun is due to its maximalist style, which echoes the work of Brian de Palma and the giallo genre, with Eliot Rockett’s cinematography drenching scenes in neon hues and creating a tactile grunginess that practically emanates from the screen, supported by a punchy soundtrack, authentic production design, and tongue-in-cheek dialogue that (mostly) fits the lurid, cartoonish rhythms.

The film’s cinematic references are usually amusing, but sometimes little more than novelty, such as multiple visits to the set of “Psycho” that may or may not allude to some sort of meta-commentary.

Supporting players like Bacon and Debicki bring lively energy to their characters, with Bacon appropriately sleazing it up and Debicki depicting her director as someone who’s had to sacrifice much to get to where she is.

Debicki delivers some of the film’s most heavy-handed dialogue – making a “B-movie with A material,” as Elizabeth puts it – but her character maintains a compelling dynamic with Maxine, whose present-day goals keep getting hijacked by figures and memories from her past. 

Giancarlo Esposito steals scenes as Maxine’s sketchy “entertainment lawyer” willing to go to extreme lengths to help his clients. Moses Sumney, as Maxine’s friend who runs a video store beneath her apartment, does what he can with a rather thankless role, while Monaghan and Cannavale are only fitfully effective with their good cop/bad cop schtick.

Lily Collins is sadly underutilized as a darkly funny star of the first “Puritan” film, while Halsey, as one of Maxine’s co-stars, with a bizarre accent to boot, is thankfully only around for a scene or two.

Maxine herself is the real star of the show, which she would be happy with. But by oversimplifying the world around her, West makes the moral gray area that made “X” and “Pearl” so exciting practically non-existent here, following through on its predecessors’ themes in unsurprising ways.

The mystery of who’s behind the killings in “MaXXXine” is also eye-rollingly predictable. West hits us over the head with messages regarding societal attitudes towards sex and violence that come across as more in-your-face than involving, complete with a conclusion that goes wildly off the rails and doesn’t feel entirely earned. 

Despite all this, “MaXXXine” is still highly entertaining thanks to its direction and Goth’s performance. It’s just an uncharacteristic letdown from West, who presents us with a B movie with B ideas, and an enjoyable albeit undercooked conclusion to his otherwise fantastic trilogy.

“MaXXXine” is a 2024 horror film directed by Ti West and starring Mia Goth, Elizabeth Debicki, Kevin Bacon, Giancarlo Esposito, Bobby Cannavale, Michelle Monaghan, Moses Sumney, Halsey, Lily Collins, and Simon Prast. It is rated R for strong violence, gore, sexual content, graphic nudity, language and drug use, and has a 1 hour, 44-minute runtime. It opened in theatres July 5. Alex’s Grade: B.

By Alex McPherson

Richly atmospheric and suspenseful, yet frustratingly conventional, director Jeff Nichols’ “The Bikeriders” can’t quite connect its engaging performances and visceral thrills with a story that’s on the same level.

Nichols’ film is inspired by a book of the same name by acclaimed photographer Danny Lyon (a version of him is played here by Mike Faist). It begins in the mid-1960s and charts the story of the Vandals, a fictionalized Chicago motorcycle club of ragtag, chopper-loving misfits.

They come together to drink, fight, and assert dominance over their territory, like an idiosyncratic family that’s alternately affectionate and combative. As they ride down the open road, engines blasting in their ears, they’re in their own powerful element.

Led by the brooding and volatile Johnny (Tom Hardy), a truck driver and family man who was inspired to form the group after seeing Marlon Brando in “The Wild One,” the Vandals aren’t an outright “gang,” although threats of violence are ever-present if anyone’s ego is threatened.

Rather, they’re  like-minded souls looking for a sense of community and freedom from what mainstream society expects of them. They’re just willing to engage in the occasional beat down and destruction of property if the mood or situation calls for it.

Their makeshift brotherhood simultaneously satiates a need for togetherness and an outlet to embrace their (often misguided) sense of “manliness.” The rough-and-tumble crowd includes, among others, a mechanic named Cal (Boyd Holbrook), a perpetually drunk outcast named Zipco (Michael Shannon), and a man named Cockroach (Emory Cohen) who prides himself on eating bugs.

There’s also the tatted-up, enigmatic, and stereotypically handsome chap named Benny (Austin Butler), who mild-mannered Cathy (Jodie Comer) – the film’s narrator – falls for after stumbling into him and the Vandals at a local bar and marries soon after.

“The Bikeriders” largely unfolds through photographer Danny’s interviews with Cathy and various members of the Vandals. Cathy, with a sarcastic, amused, but exasperated attitude, brings us into the Vandals’ orbit as an outsider.

Through flashbacks, she takes us through her experiences from her initial lusty courtship with Benny, to the group’s evolution and de-evolution over time, as a new generation — partly symbolized by The Kid (a frighteningly effective Toby Wallace) —  threatens Johnny’s reign and risks transforming the Vandals into a different beast altogether. 

Cathy also battles with Johnny over Benny’s soul, as Benny (a wildcard prone to impulsive behaviors) is forced to choose between his life as a Vandal and his future with Cathy. All the while, Nichols presents a nostalgic vision of the past, attempting to help us empathize with a troubled but misunderstood group on the margins of American society.

Indeed, “The Bikeriders” tries to tackle quite a bit during its 116 minute runtime — perhaps too much for its own good. For all the immaculate scene-setting, compelling performances, and armrest-gripping moments of suspense, Nichols’ film is ultimately a surface-level portrait of its subjects. 

Despite this, however, the film is consistently entertaining, coasting on the strength of its performances and  “Goodfellas”-lite conceit to deliver scenes of smoke-filled machismo, camaraderie, and wry humor mixed with bursts of startlingly graphic violence that keeps us on our toes moment-to-moment. 

Julie Monroe’s editing is alternately breezy and jagged, reflecting the film’s juxtaposition of fantasy and reality, confidence and vulnerability — letting us sit in on exchanges that could go from peaceful to shocking at any given moment.

These scenes are counterbalanced by Kathy’s narration that finds absurdity, childishness, as well as poignancy in the Vandals’ efforts to maintain a semblance of control over not only their territory but their individual lives.

Nichols clearly has a reverence for the Vandals, but he’s careful to not overly romanticize them; their fierce dedication builds a group identity that’s both freeing and limiting, should they ever decide to leave.

The actors, across the board, take big swings that almost always pay off, barring some questionable accents that veer into cartoonish from time to time. Comer definitely goes for it, and while her performance will likely prove divisive, her delivery and narration is a good fit for Nichols’ screenplay, which buoys its darker edges with sarcastic humor that effectively takes the Vandals down to size. Cathy, naive though she sometimes is, takes no bullshit, and is willing to stand up to Johnny to fight for Benny’s safety.

Butler provides the bulk of the film’s eye-candy as Benny, portraying the film’s mysterious rebel-without-a-cause. We don’t learn much about Benny or his past, but he’s clearly damaged, looking for a way to express himself and make his mark on the world, a troublemaker with a thirst for danger whose worldview is slowly shifting with the introduction of Cathy into his life.

Benny is pulled back and forth between fantasy and reality, danger vs. safety, the thrill of the unknown vs. the security of Cathy. Butler suitably commands attention even with his limited dialogue, brimming with pure, unadulterated star power that Nichols happily emphasizes, particularly in his sizzling first scenes with Comer.

Johnny, with a nasally drawl and intimidating physique that Hardy expertly embodies, lashes out against any threat to his power, partly because he knows the Vandals cannot last without his guidance, and that his reign is nearing its end. There’s much pathos to be found here, brought to life by Hardy, as Johnny fights (scarily, in some cases) to hold onto the group as it threatens to slip through his fingers.

Hardy gives the film’s standout performance, lending Johnny a melancholy beneath his tough exterior and communicating his inner turmoil in a much subtler fashion than the screenplay permits the rest of the characters.

Through Johnny’s arc, “The Bikeriders” reveals itself to be a meditation on masculinity, on the affectionate yet unsustainable bonds that hold these men together as they attempt to outrun their problems on the open road, motorcycle engines blaring, even as reality and changing times are right on their heels. 

With Nichols’ confident, classically-inspired direction in full swing — featuring freeze frames, time jumps, and tactile, lived-in cinematography by Adam Stone that admires the motorcyclists without shying away from their brutality — “The Bikeriders” is always engaging in-the-moment, but, when the sheen of star power wears off, the story’s ultimate simplicity is revealed. 

It’s disappointing that, in the rearview mirror, so many side characters are reduced to archetypes that function more as ideas and symbols than tangible human beings. This is made more frustrating by a screenplay that lacks the depth necessary to explore their psyches and help us feel their motivations on a more memorable level. 

It’s difficult, for example, to buy Kathy’s continued devotion to Benny. Framing the film through her perspective (at a remove) also misses an opportunity to explore the Vandals’ heights and struggles with more depth. The film claims to celebrate Lyon’s journalistic efforts (with a one-note performance from Faist that’s more irritating than involving) whilst cramming the diverse stories of its subjects into a neat, tidy, sub two-hour film for a mass audience. 

Viewers well-versed in crime film tropes can predict beat-for-beat where the plot is headed, sending its individually compelling (but largely underdeveloped) characters down a formulaic road, as well as zeroing in on a relationship that’s difficult to become fully invested in. This is all at the expense of a more balanced portrait of characters worthy of closer looks that wouldn’t want to be pigeonholed into convention in the first place.

These issues hold “The Bikeriders” back from greatness, and make it somewhat superfluous in the crowd of films of its ilk that have come before. But there’s enough directorial craft and potentially awards-worthy acting on display that it’s still difficult to resist.

‘The Bikeriders’ is a 2023 crime drama directed by Jeff Nichols and starring Tom Hardy, Austin Butler, Jodie Comer and Michael Shannon. It is rated R for language throughout, violence, some drug use and brief sexuality, and the run time is 1 hour, 56 minutes. It opened in theatres June 21. Alex’s Grade: B.