‘After Yang’ is Emotionally Intelligent Sci-Fi About an Android’s Impact

‘After Yang’ is Emotionally Intelligent Sci-Fi About an Android’s Impact

By Alex McPherson

Patient, meditative, and pulsing with feeling beneath its calming atmosphere, the latest effort by video-essayist-turned-film-director Kogonada, “After Yang,” poses profound questions in quietly gripping fashion.

The film, based on the short story “Saying Goodbye to Yang” by Alexander Weinstein, is set in an unnamed futuristic city — presumably after a war or natural catastrophe — where slightly heightened technology has permeated daily life, and East Asian stylistic influences abound, cleanly melding the ecological with the manmade.

Everyone speaks in muted, passionless tones. We follow a family encountering a shattering loss. Jake (Colin Farrell) owns a tea shop lacking customers, going about his days with isolated remove. Kyra (Jodie Turner-Smith) is constantly busy as a corporate executive. Neither are as present as they should be with their young adopted Chinese daughter, Mika (Malea Emma Tjandrawidjaja), who spends much more time with Yang (Justin H. Min), a “technosapien” they purchased to help educate Mika about her cultural heritage. Over time, though, shown in flashbacks, Yang becomes less of a “Chinese Fun Fact” distributor for Mika and more of a brother figure, rendering his untimely malfunction all the more traumatic. 

Trying to console a distraught Mika, Jake tries to get Yang repaired. Before long, a paranoid mechanic (Ritchie Coster) finds a box within Yang that contains memory clips of what Yang found meaningful while he was online. As Jake views the recordings — thanks to a museum curator (Sarita Choudhury), who provides him the ability to view them in exchange for permission to create an exhibit about Yang’s life — he begins to value Yang on a whole new level while neglecting to tell his wife and child the full truth.

Yang’s memories are visualized as stars comprising a galaxy, within which lie resonant snippets of time Yang chose to preserve. Jake also learns about his own flaws, imperfections, and potential to develop as an aimless entity in search of meaning in our chaotic universe. He eventually encounters a strange woman in Yang’s memories (Haley Lu Richardson), who unearths more of Yang’s secrets.

Although some viewers might find “After Yang” too subtle and ponderous for its own good, part of what makes Kogonada’s film so moving is how gentle it is — letting plot developments unfold with a dreamlike rhythm that percolates into a rich, textured whole upon later reflection. 

The opening, however, where the central family competes in an intensive dance competition from their living room, is bursting with infectious energy. The rest of the film’s melancholic tone underscores the void left behind by losing Yang, and a family dynamic that Jake and Kyra have difficulty recapturing. Despite their relative privilege and open, spacious house — with a large tree growing in their central courtyard — they’re missing something crucial and comforting, stuck in a sort of limbo not unlike the confusion Yang feels about his own being.

Indeed, although Yang himself possesses a warmth and compassion that’s instantly endearing, it’s much harder to connect with either Jake or Kyra — especially Jake, who isn’t by any means a bad person, but someone drifting through life not fully appreciating those around him. Farrell gives an incredible, understated performance, where viewers observe — through small, yet meaningful shifts in attitude and behavior — a man reckoning with his own memories, by viewing Yang’s, and recognizing the messy, conflicted entity bubbling beneath his programming.

We don’t spend as much time with Kyra, who wants to tell Mika the truth about Yang’s death and move on, but as the story unfolds, she too recognizes a trapped soul searching for more. “After Yang” also paints an emotionally affecting contrast between Mika’s current despondence and her happiness alongside Yang, who gave her attention lacking from her adoptive parents. Yang himself, basically forced to take on a particular Asian identity sans much free will, is performed expertly by Min, who movingly conveys the android’s heartache and yearning through simple, powerful line delivery and facial expressions.

In terms of visuals, Kogonada infuses “After Yang” with depth that perfectly complements the subject matter. The cinematography by Benjamin Loeb features wide, static shots of this plausible world, conveying the ennui faced by Jake and Kyra with effective chilliness. When watching Yang’s memories play out, “After Yang” takes a more documentary-esque, arty approach reminiscent of Terrence Malick’s films, where we get colorful snippets of the natural world and human connection that gradually form a grander portrait. Additionally, when Jake and Kyra look back on specific conversations with Yang, Kogonada repeats lines of dialogue with different tones and camera angles, illustrating how the simple act of remembering has unmoored them to an extent, adding dimension previously overlooked.

The score, by Aksa Matsumiya and Ryuichi Sakamoto, is at once relaxing and raw, elegiac while also accentuating the eeriness of not truly “understanding” technology, or even our loved ones, or ourselves. Within a world over-reliant on technology, “After Yang” depicts the ways that it can benefit our lives if used properly, and how confronting grief can ultimately prove liberating. 

Kogonada’s film isn’t perfect — expository dialogue and simplistic characterizations of certain side characters stand out — but it’s one of 2022’s most thought-provoking films thus far, and one that rewards viewers eager for the unexpected.

“After Yang” is a 2021 American sci-fi drama directed by Kogonada and starring Colin Farrell, Jodie Turner-Smith, Justin H. Min, Malea Emma Tjandrawidjaja, Haley Lu Richardson, Ritchie Coster, and Sarita Choudhury. It is rated PG for some thematic elements and language, and the run time is 1 hour, 36 minutes. It started streaming on Showtime and its channels, and DirecTV on March 4. Alex’s Grade:: A- 

‘Texas Chainsaw Massacre’ is Far From a Clean Cut

‘Texas Chainsaw Massacre’ is Far From a Clean Cut

By Alex McPherson

Crass and packed with enough blood to fill a swimming pool, director David Blue Garcia’s “Texas Chainsaw Massacre” leaves behind a bitter aftertaste, despite moments of hyper-violent enjoyment.

Taking place nearly 50 years after Tobe Hooper’s 1974 masterpiece — as well as retconning the seven other “TCM” films released since then — the latest entry finds a group of Gen-Z entrepreneurs venturing out into the remote area of Harlow, Texas, and having a grand ol’ time.

Dante (Jacob Latimore), Ruth (Nell Hudson), and Melody (Sarah Yarkin) want to gentrify Harlow and turn the ghost town into a hipster haven, or something like that. Melody brings along her depressed sister, Lila (Elsie Fisher), who recently survived a school shooting. 

As the naive younglings encounter various slimy locals, Dante and Melody find a woman inhabiting a former orphanage (Alice Krige), who refuses to leave. Being the cutthroat capitalists they are, they evict her, creating an unfortunate domino effect. Guess who else happens to be living there, in hiding from the authorities? Couldn’t be Leatherface (Mark Burnham), could it? The porky cannibal who’s since become something of a Texas celebrity?

Attempting to replicate the grungy, unforgettable thrills of Hooper’s effort, “Texas Chainsaw Massacre” lacks the craft and inventiveness needed to carve a name for itself. Rather, Garcia’s film is woefully miscalculated, bringing in a huge swathe of cultural talking points only to toss them aside, providing only sporadically engaging genre thrills.

Topics of post-traumatic stress, liberal guilt, cancel culture, gun control, and more are treated with very little subtlety: they’re designed to provoke rather than enlighten or add any meaningful subtext, like Hooper’s vision attempted. The film’s 83-minute runtime limits how much time any particular theme can develop, so the overall impression is woefully tone-deaf and disgustingly offensive, especially in regard to gun violence. 

Indeed, it’s difficult to ignore just how profoundly mean-spirited the film is, painting its young protagonists as semi-antagonists from the get-go, reducing them to basic characterizations aggressively foregrounding their “wokeness” without any real soul. The actors try their best with the material, especially Yarkin and Fisher, but there’s only so much they can do with people making one bone-headed decision after another, playing into horror movie tropes that viewers have likely seen time and time again. 

To their credit, Garcia and screenwriter Chris Thomas Devlin try to give Lila some development — it’s just pretty damn insensitive how the film uses her trauma as a set-up for her own acts of violence against the iconic face-wearer. Without spoiling too much, “Texas Chainsaw Massacre” exploits America’s gun violence epidemic to gross, confused ends.

Similarly, the film’s most promising thread — bringing back Sally Hardesty (Olwen Fouéré), the sole survivor of the 1974 bloodbath — is largely neglected until the conclusion. Even then it resembles a pale imitation of what director David Gordon Green achieved with Laurie Strode in his far superior horror sequel, 2018’s “Halloween.”

Fortunately, being a slasher film, “Texas Chainsaw Massacre” doesn’t require anyone to latch onto emotionally, so long as they die in entertaining fashion. And on those merits, it delivers the goods. Although Leatherface’s scare factor is neutered this time around due to the film’s reliance on formulaic jump scares, Garcia stages some blackly comic set-pieces that leave a satisfyingly queasy impact.

One sequence involves a busload of social media influencers being graphically slain while livestreaming the whole ordeal on their smartphones after threatening to “cancel” Leatherface. It goes on for a ridiculously long time, and fits the tone well as a sick, apathetic joke.

Additionally, Ricardo Diaz’s cinematography contains several aesthetically pleasing compositions, albeit abandoning the documentary-esque stylings of Hooper’s film that helped give it such an uncomfortable atmosphere. Colin Stetson’s score features growling rhythms that add some welcome suspense when the scenarios themselves remain generic.

If viewers go into “Texas Chainsaw Massacre” with the absolutely lowest of expectations, there’s enough flashes of sadistic slasher glee to briefly divert. For everyone else, however, there’s little here that stands out, and far better cinematic offerings to grab from the toolshed.

“Texas Chainsaw Massacre” is a 2022 film directed by David Blue Garcia and starring Sarah Yarkin, Elsie Fisher and Mark Burnham. Rated R for strong bloody horror violence and gore, and language, the runtime is 1 hour, 21 minutes. Streaming on Netflix beginning Feb. 18. Alex’s Grade: C-

Jennifer Lopez and Owen Wilson Spruce Up Sweet-Yet-Shallow Rom-Com ‘Marry Me’

Jennifer Lopez and Owen Wilson Spruce Up Sweet-Yet-Shallow Rom-Com ‘Marry Me’

By Alex McPherson

A glossy, warm-hearted romantic comedy that slightly exceeds expectations, director Kat Coiro’s “Marry Me” ticks all the necessary boxes while being elevated by the charming chemistry of its leads.

Based on Bobby Crosby’s graphic novel of the same name, the plot involves an unlikely romance between a celebrity superstar and an ordinary plebeian. Kat Valdez (Jennifer Lopez) is a pop music sensation, strutting her stuff onstage while singing basic, yet still kinda catchy, lyrics. She’s preparing to marry her bad-boy fiancé, fellow singer Bastian (Maluma), at a concert before legions of fans, mostly to promote their new single, fittingly titled “Marry Me.”

On the opposite end of the spectrum, there’s divorced dad and high-school math teacher Charlie Gilbert (Owen Wilson), who lives a mundane existence spending time with his daughter, Lou (Chloe Coleman), boisterous co-worker Parker (Sarah Silverman, delivering some toned-down raunch), and his trusty canine companion. He’s also preparing for a school mathalon with a group of adorably geeky kiddos unafraid to indulge in some blatant product placement. Having been accused of being “boring,” Lou reluctantly agrees to attend Kat’s concert with Lou and Parker.

Mere seconds before their big moment, Kat learns that Bastian’s been cheating on her with her assistant. In a defiant, impulsive leap of faith — after speechifying about the importance of following new paths when what’s assumed and expected fails — she picks out Charlie from the crowd, who happens to be holding a “Marry Me” sign, and asks him to marry her. Charlie, shocked, takes pity on Kat and wants to impress his daughter, so he agrees. Afterwards, even though both Kat and Charlie aren’t serious about starting a relationship, they somehow agree to keep the act going until the media storm dies down, with some encouragement from Kat’s manager, Collin Calloway (John Bradley). And guess what? They start falling for each other. Wow.

Although “Marry Me” has an opportunity to explore the tumultuous realities of celebrity culture, Coiro’s film largely bypasses nuance in favor of providing rom-com fans exactly what they hope for. Wilson and Lopez keep this decidedly old-fashioned narrative on-track, making the film’s shallowness easy to overlook.

Lopez and Wilson help buoy the film through its predictable framework, each giving just enough effort to lend their characters likability beneath the generic archetypes. Lopez — effectively playing a version of her real-life persona — slips into the role of Valdez easily, bringing some self-aware gusto to a person who secretly wants to follow her own path, away from the ever-present cameras and glow of smartphone screens. In elaborate concert sequences and numerous musical interludes — interrupting the action for some literal self-promotion — Lopez shines, even though she’s never really allowed to be vulnerable due to the film’s insistence on remaining upbeat above all else. 

Wilson is his expected, laid-back self, possessing an everyman charisma that nicely contrasts with Lopez’s initial bombast. There’s not really much to his character, and we never learn much about his previous marriage, but Charlie’s a simple man who wants to be there for his amusingly blunt daughter. Charlie has absolutely zero interest in Kat’s way of life, but as the two of them become friends and then, unsurprisingly, fall in love, their improbable romance ends up being relatively low-key and wholesome, even as Bastian tries to barge in to take back Kat. Indeed, it’s pleasing how the ludicrousness fades into wholesomeness by the conclusion, with a properly schmaltzy finale.

Regarding the omnipresent grip of technology, “Marry Me” depicts it aggressively, erratically framing scenes through paparazzi cameras and copious amounts of smartphone screens. It’s all a bit garish, and the film makes a few basic jabs at how little privacy celebrities like Valdez are given in their daily lives, where the music itself is sometimes an afterthought in the public eye. In these moments, we see the film that could have been, but who expects any sort of meaningful commentary in a story as absurd as this?

As far as rom-coms go, “Marry Me” isn’t revolutionary in the slightest, but it should fit the bill nicely as a Valentine’s Day watch, where love triumphs over all.

“Marry Me” is a 2022 romantic comedy directed by Kat Coiro and starring Jennifer Lopez, Owen Wilson, Sarah Silverman, John Bradley, Chloe Coleman and Maluma. It’s rated PG-13 for some language and suggestive material and the run time is 1 hour, 52 minutes. Starts streaming on Peacock and in theaters on Feb. 11. Alex’s Grade: B-

Not Quite ‘Gucci’ in True Crime Tale

Not Quite ‘Gucci’ in True Crime Tale

By Alex McPherson

Overlong, goofy at some points and deadly serious at others, not even a star-studded cast can save Ridley Scott’s “House of Gucci” from mediocrity.

This true-crime drama, beginning in the late 1970’s, centers around Patrizia Reggiani (Lady Gaga), a confident woman born into a poor family in Northern Italy who profits generously from her stepfather’s trucking business in the present-day. She meets Maurizio Gucci (Adam Driver) at a glitzy party, and the two soon fall for each other.

Reggiani is attracted both to Maurizio and the Gucci company itself. Maurizio wants to distance himself from the spotlight and follow his own path. Soon enough, they’re married, to the anguish of Maurizio’s father, Rodolfo (Jeremy Irons), who’s aghast that his son would wed such a peasant.

Maurizio’s uncle, Aldo (Al Pacino), sees an opportunity to lure Maurizio back into the family business through Patrizia; he shuns his immature, resentful son, Paolo (an unrecognizable Jared Leto), who desperately wants to be recognized as worthy of the family name. As time progresses, Maurizio is reluctantly brought back into the fray, and Patrizia grows increasingly conniving as she seeks to make herself “successful,” no matter who gets in her way.

The soapy drama that ensues involves backstabbing, manipulation, and cold-blooded murder. Sadly, “House of Gucci” doesn’t develop its central players enough to make its narrative compelling from an outsider perspective, but there’s still some fun to be had in watching Gaga, Leto, and Pacino go all-out on their respective roles, cringe be damned. Contrary to what the film’s marketing indicates, though, this is a ponderous, disjointed, messy affair that — despite a few memorably over-the-top sequences — remains unfortunately dull.

At least the actors involved are up to the task. Gaga, carrying herself with gusto, lends a formidable power to the role of Patrizia, devolving into ferocious, animalistic mentalities as her greed envelops her. Frustratingly, Scott attempts to cover so much ground during the 2-hour-45-minute runtime that Patrizia’s arc is sped through, particularly regarding her infatuation with the Gucci brand early on and her slide into madness. With a thick Italian (Russian?) accent, eye-catching outfits, and a fiery temper, she’s entertaining to watch, but it’s difficult to ultimately care about what happens to her. Indeed, Patrizia is always dialed up to 11, for better and worse.

Carried by Gaga’s charisma, the other actors are seemingly unsure whether to ham-it-up or keep themselves down-to-earth. Irons has one delicious verbal takedown that wouldn’t be out of place in “Succession,” and Pacino exudes warm, fatherly vibes while scheming behind the scenes.

Driver’s Maurizio represents the voice of reason in most situations, and his emotional expression is considerably downplayed compared to the others. On the complete opposite side of the spectrum is Leto, whose go-for-broke approach calls to mind Tommy Wiseau of “The Room,” to uneven levels of success (there’s a scene where he pisses on a scarf). Salma Hayek leaves a positive impression as an unhinged, upper-class psychic.

This inconsistency extends to the film’s screenplay, co-written by Becky Johnston and Roberto Bentivegna. Highlight-reel lines like “Father, Son, and House of Gucci” are amusingly self-aware, but dry discussion of the company’s inner-workings is far less engaging. In terms of editing, “House of Gucci” also feels jumbled, cutting between scenes abruptly without giving each exchange a satisfying climax or providing viewers time to reflect as the film lunges forward. 

Stylistically, Scott misses an opportunity to capitalize on the peoples’ loony psyches. The image is often bathed in a muted, gray filter — perfect for Scott’s own, far superior “The Last Duel,” but out-of-place here — and only sometimes embraces the campiness inherent in the subject matter, inserting a few bluntly effective musical cues that put a smile on my face. 

Generally, “House of Gucci” seems unsure of what it’s trying to be. Brisker pacing, an hour-shorter runtime, and more focus on Patrizia in all her malevolent glory could have rendered it gleefully dark escapism. In its current state, however, viewers would be better off watching Scott’s criminally underseen epic “The Last Duel” instead.

“House of Gucci” is a 2021 crime drama directed by Ridley Scott and starring Lady Gaga, Adam Driver, Al Pacino, Jared Leto, Jack Huston, Jeremy Irons and Salma Hayak. It is rated  R for language, some sexual content, brief nudity, and violence and is 2 hours, 37 minutes long. In theatres Nov. 24. Alex’s Grade: C


‘After We’re Over’ Is A Passionate, Bittersweet St. Louis-Set Romance

‘After We’re Over’ Is A Passionate, Bittersweet St. Louis-Set Romance

By Alex McPherson

An earnest tribute to St. Louis and the people who live there, St. Louis native Nate Myers’ “After We’re Over” is a beautifully filmed love story, featuring a star-making turn from Adrienne Rose White.

One year after a devastating breakup, social justice activist Zelzah (Adrienne Rose White) gets a call from her ex, an abstract artist named Sazerac (Chris Mollica), who moved to Long Island. She reluctantly agrees to meet up with him for coffee, and the duo wind up traversing St. Louis together — visiting iconic landmarks like the Arch, the City Museum and the Missouri Botanical Garden — while reflecting on the highs and lows of their relationship.

As they visit their old haunts, the film turns back the clock to illuminate shared moments from their romantic past, creating a melancholic, trancelike flow throughout, as both characters evaluate the time they spent together, ultimately trying to determine whether or not to try again.

Although the central narrative is fairly standard, “After We’re Over” successfully captures the pulsing core of its central dynamic and shines as a love letter to a place that deserves more cinematic representation. For non-St. Louisans, there’s still universal themes at play, revolving around co-dependence and independence, the weight of societal expectations, the messy nature of memory, and the importance of authoring one’s own future.

With flashbacks galore, “After We’re Over” almost feels impressionistic, focused on conveying moods and feelings above all else. Indeed, while this approach robs the material of opportunities to sit with these characters during quieter scenes, the film plays like a dewy-eyed ghost story. Sometimes, Zelzah and Sazerac can literally see their old selves, fondly remembering those instances where all anxieties faded away and they just enjoyed each other’s company. As they slowly rekindle their old dynamic and explore a city with a troubled history but holding promise for what’s yet to come, we simultaneously watch them drift apart in the past, unearthing details about what happened between them.

Cinematographer Thaïs Castralli’s camera films the characters’ surroundings with an affectionate gaze. Stylized, red and blue lighting during key discussions provides an effective backdrop to the push-pull dynamics at play — a tug-of-war between comfort and fearful uncertainty.   

It doesn’t hurt that White and Mollica give strong, authentic performances as the two leads. White is downright wonderful as Zelzah — a deeply empathetic woman who wants the best for her loved ones and for St. Louis, but doesn’t have an adequate support system to weather doubt and anxiety. White is such an energetic, expressive performer that Zelzah radiates vitality and passion for what she holds dear. Myers wisely recognizes her scene-stealing ability, pausing the action to focus on her face as she delivers dialogue, slam poetry-style, regarding the city’s economic inequality and grief from her own difficult past. Mollica is also exceptional, but Sazerac isn’t as interesting as Zelzah, embodying the sort of “troubled artist facing an existential crisis” archetype that falls into convention. Mollica has solid comedic timing, though, and his chemistry with White is apparent from their first conversation onwards.

The pair’s dialogue — aiming for lyricism — is intermittently sappy and pretentious (cue eyerolls from phrases like “Do you think we leave energy wherever we go?”), but more often than not poetically apt, adding weight to the couple’s exchanges that symbolically stretches across St. Louis’ own turbulent streets. At times, it feels sensual, spoken by White with smooth, performative cadences that immediately capture attention, setting aside the words’ hit-or-miss impact.

As details about their breakup are gradually meted out, we see both characters adapt (or fail to adapt) in the present, which in theory should be compelling to watch unfold. Frustratingly, however, the 80-minute duration doesn’t always leave enough time for scenes to sink in, particularly during the emotionally fraught finale. A few flashbacks, like a scene involving a spaghetti taste test, aren’t essential to the tale at hand, adding levity to the mournful tone, yet remaining jarring.

Issues notwithstanding, St. Louisans owe it to themselves to check out “After We’re Over” whenever it finally finds a distributor. While Myers’ film doesn’t break the mold of similar romances, he has a keen cinematic eye, and White’s performance is so pure, heartfelt, and true, that it will win over even the most cynical among us.

“After We’re Over” is a 2020 romantic drama directed by Nate Myers. It stars Chris Mollica and Adrienne Rose White and runs 80 min. It premiered at the St. Louis International Film Festival on Nov. 13. Alex’s Grade: B

‘The Grand Bolero’ is a Musically Engrossing Experience

‘The Grand Bolero’ is a Musically Engrossing Experience

By Alex McPherson

Fueled by isolation, passion, obsession, and music booming with magisterial grandeur, director Gabriele Fabbro’s “The Grand Bolero” demands the biggest screen possible.

This genre-bending tale unfolds in Northern Italy during the early days of the COVID pandemic, and it primarily takes place in a single location — a massive church dating back to 1700. Residing within are a jaded pipe-organ restorer named Roxanne (Lidia Vitale) and Paolo (Marcello Mariani), who maintains the church, continually ringing “the death bell” as pandemic casualties increase. After Roxanne’s assistant dies, Paolo insists that Roxanne take on a 20-year-old, mute helper named Lucia (Ludovica Mancini) to nurse the aging instruments back to life in exchange for giving Lucia food, music lessons, and a place to sleep. Roxanne treats Lucia like a subhuman, strictly enforcing rules and waking her up each morning by blasting the organs with all her might. Still, Lucia is a bubbly, persistent soul, and she’s quite the musician herself, catching Roxanne off-guard and building a possibly romantic connection with her. As Roxanne’s attachment grows, “The Grand Bolero” evolves into something altogether more sinister — for each party has their secrets, bubbling to the surface in sometimes explosive fashion.

Although Fabbro’s film becomes unwieldy in its last act, “The Grand Bolero” captures a rich sense of place with intriguing characters brought alive by excellent acting and one of the best soundtracks of the year.

Indeed, “The Grand Bolero” thrives on mood-setting. We hear wind blowing through groaning walls, the tactile creak of floorboards baked in history, and boisterous organs creating fleeting moments of harmony and elation craved by Roxanne in particular, all while Fabbro skillfully guides us through the spacious yet claustrophobic structure. COVID is rendered more as a backdrop to the proceedings, but in the sequences where the characters leave the church, cinematographer Jessica La Malfa’s camera presents their environment as downright post-apocalyptic, with grey skies, thick fog, and ambulance sirens quietly singing in the background. 

The score — by Sean Goldman, Martino Lurani Cernuschi, and Paolo Sanvito — is adapted from works by classical composers, including Ravel, Wagner, and Tchaikovsky, among many others, and is a splendid accompaniment to the onscreen drama, channeling the central duo’s burgeoning love for one another, as well as lending Shakespearean weight to the craziness in the latter half. This music is its own character in the film, capitalizing on the animalistic impulses of the characters as if, in some strange way, judging them.

In terms of characterization, “The Grand Bolero” doesn’t shine quite as brightly, but there’s some welcome complexity nevertheless. Roxanne remains a mysterious presence to the end, possessing a misanthropic view of humanity that lends itself both to moments of dry wit and immoral decisions. Vitale, a legendary Italian star, expresses Roxanne’s sassy demeanor and inner demons with a weathered, mysterious performance in which we’re never really sure what Roxanne will do to achieve her goals. Mancini, given less material to work with, also gives an impactful turn as Lucia, an energetic, upbeat young woman who’s somehow been able to survive while stripped of resources and the ability to effectively communicate with those around her. We don’t get much information about either characters’ backstories — ultimately to the film’s detriment — but “The Grand Bolero” renders their relationship satisfying to watch develop, always buoyed by their shared adoration of the pipe organs they look after.

It’s therefore disappointing that the slow-building, contemplative approach of the first half devolves into chaos that’s too melodramatic and self-serious for its own good. Without having enough grounding for Roxanne’s character especially, life-altering decisions come across as clumsy and overly exaggerated. No spoilers here, but the film’s detour into thriller territory is difficult to take as seriously as Fabbro and co-writer Ydalie Turk likely intended.

Gripes aside, however, “The Grand Bolero” is a technically impressive, thoughtfully put-together production. Few films this year have used music to such expressive heights, and there’s definitely merit in a narrative that doesn’t use COVID as a means to talk down to audiences. While the emotional core isn’t as strong as it could have been, there’s much to appreciate within this sensual, sensorial story for our times.

“The Grand Bolero” is a 2021 Italian film with English subtitles directed by Gabriele Fabbro and starring Lidia Vitale, Ludovica Mancini and Marcello Mariani. It is not rated and runs 1 hour, 30 minutes. It is available virtually at the St. Louis International Film Festival through Nov. 21. Alex’s Grade: B+

‘Belfast’ Is Earnest Tribute to Home

‘Belfast’ Is Earnest Tribute to Home

By Alex McPherson

Accessible and brimming with directorial skill, Sir Kenneth Branagh’s future awards hopeful, “Belfast,” is an affecting coming-of-age story set amidst civil conflict.

Taking place during the summer of 1969 in Northern Ireland, “Belfast” functions as a cinematic memoir for Branagh — looking back at a seemingly idyllic stage in his life beset by the brutality of The Troubles between Protestants and Catholics. Buddy (a revelatory Jude Hill) is a boy nearing adolescence, possessing a wide-eyed curiosity and playfulness in his small, mostly Protestant neighborhood. He’s surrounded by his courageous mother (Catríona Balfe), his father (Jamie Dornan) who works in England, brother Will (Lewis McAskie), his rebellious older cousin Moira (Lara McDonnell), his lovably sardonic grandmother (Dame Judi Dench), and his grandfather (Ciarán Hinds), who remains Buddy’s primary confidant.. 

As destructive riots begin to take place within and around his community, Buddy (a Protestant) struggles to make sense of what’s happening, if one can even make sense of it to begin with. What matters most to him is having fun and attempting to build up the courage to talk to his school crush (a Catholic girl). The adult world creeping steadily upon his doorstep threatens to permanently influence the person he will become — forcing him to grow up as his parents debate whether or not to leave the only place they’ve called home.

“Belfast” could arguably be faulted for not painting a comprehensive picture of The Troubles, but Branagh’s film remains both uplifting and heartbreaking in equal measure. Seeing the story play out through Buddy’s eyes lends the proceedings a wistful edge, as we observe this young soul — full of life — navigate an increasingly perilous environment with loved ones by his side.

After an in-color introduction showcasing present-day Belfast, the film swiftly transitions to crisp black-and-white photography, evoking the sense of being transported back to an era both fantastical and menacing. The sequence that follows is one of 2021’s best. Buddy’s street devolves from safe and peaceful into utter chaos when a Protestant mob attempting to expunge any remaining Catholics from the neighborhood rounds the corner. The camera swirls around Buddy frozen in fear as the crowd approaches, and we’re launched into an intense situation not completely unlike a horror film. It’s reflective of Branagh’s fusion of tenderness and harsh reality that continues throughout, which makes each moment of grace between the characters all the more meaningful.

Composed largely of small conversations between Buddy and his family, “Belfast” gives the titular setting both a welcoming, lived-in feel, as well as the sense that unexpected violence could strike at any point. Indeed, thanks to the absolutely incredible cast and imaginative direction from Branagh, viewers can feel his passionate longing for those days gone by.

Even though the looming carnage casts a dark shadow over most scenes, there’s still plenty of humor to be found here, particularly in regard to Buddy’s heart-to-heart discussions with his grandma and grandpa about everything from the moon landing to how to woo girls to what to make of the outside world that’s seemingly falling apart.

Moments like these, given added texture through Hinds’ and Dench’s wise, knowing auras, pull at viewers’ heart strings and underline the fact that this resilient family can weather any obstacle if they stick together. Hill is a spectacular performer for someone 11 years old, conveying Buddy’s confusion, wonder, and eventual sadness in completely believable fashion.

The rest of the actors are just as excellent. Balfe is blindingly good as a beautiful, caring, deeply concerned parent who wants to protect her children and is strongly attached to her home base in Belfast. Dornan gives a rich performance as Buddy’s father, a man fiercely against viewing people in absolutes, who faces pressure from a radical acquaintance (Colin Morgan) to join a Protestant gang. The stressed couple fight over barely being able to pay rent and whether to move away, all while Buddy listens nearby, the sparkling glint in his eyes turning to tears.

Cinematographer Harris Zambarloukos does an admirable job depicting Buddy’s community as an interconnected unit teeming with energy where everyone knows each other, implementing tracking shots galore. Characters might be conversing quietly only to be interrupted by someone sitting in the corner of the frame, resembling a stage production. “Belfast” also reverts back to color photography when Buddy and company view a play or film together, likely emphasizing the profound impact that the arts had on Branagh as a child, but simultaneously feeling a bit on-the-nose.

With a soundtrack by Van Morrison accentuating moments of euphoria and tragedy among the characters, and a mournful, jazzy original score, “Belfast” depicts the city and Buddy’s family with a nostalgic glow tinged with sadness and regret. A few scenes feel too far separated from reality, and the film follows a relatively predictable framework, but the power of Branagh’s passion project is difficult to refute, and absolutely worth experiencing.

“Belfast” is a 2021 drama directed by Kenneth Branagh and starring Jude Hill, Caitriona Balfe, Jamie Dornan, Judi Dench, Ciaran Hinds Lewis McAskie, and Colin Morgan. Rated PG-13 for some violence and strong language and runs 1 hour, 38 minutes. Alex’s Grade: A-   

‘The Beta Test’ Is Blistering Comedy

‘The Beta Test’ Is Blistering Comedy

By Alex McPherson

Watching a nervous breakdown unfold has rarely been as fun as it is in Jim Cummings’ and PJ McCabe’s “The Beta Test.”

Set within a smarmy world of Hollywood agents willing to manipulate and asskiss their way to wooing prospective clients, “The Beta Test” zeroes in on one distasteful chap named Jordan Hines (Cummings) willing to spend thousands of dollars to do just that. Despite having a well-paying job and a beautiful fiancée, Caroline (Virginia Newcomb), Jordan can’t help but feel that he’s becoming obsolete. The macho, alpha dog persona he once embodied pre-Weinstein can’t exist anymore, changing power dynamics in his personal and professional bonds. 

 Meanwhile, Jordan’s company (A.P.E.) is on the defensive from the Writers’ Guild of America, who claim A.P.E.’s use of talent “packaging deals” rips off writers while connecting them with industry higher ups. Repeating the same fake pleasantries minute after minute, along with planning for his wedding, Jordan is eager for a release from the colossal burden of his daily existence — a chance to indulge his entitlement. Soon enough, he receives a fancy letter inviting him to a no-strings-attached, blindfolded sexual encounter at a lavish hotel. Jordan, despite his early attempts to ignore the temptation, soon gives in, and has the time of his life. 

Afterwards, though, his actions start to gnaw at him: Who was the woman in the hotel room? Is he being blackmailed? Could Caroline have set him up? With his job and home life at stake, Jordan embarks on a farcical mission to uncover the truth — which holds far more paranoia and laugh-out-loud moments than viewers might expect. Plus, other people receiving the letters start turning up dead.

Indeed, Cummings’ and McCabe’s film is compulsively enjoyable, as we observe an abhorrent character get the reckoning he deserves, digging himself further and further into a Hell of his own making. Lampooning toxic masculinity, societal expectations of relationships, and the uncompromising access we permit online, sometimes unknowingly, “The Beta Test” excels in immersing viewers into Jordan’s crumbling headspace, all the while putting him in deliciously humorous situations that showcase just how truly pathetic he is.

Cummings — who previously directed the greenlit indie flicks “Thunder Road” and “The Wolf of Snow Hollow” — brings a finely calibrated chaotic energy to Jordan’s interactions. He tries to gain the upper hand through blatant lies, but more often than not winds up lashing out at those around him, brute-forcing his way to his goals. He’s extremely reluctant to appear vulnerable in front of anyone, including Caroline, only able to talk semi-honestly with his colleague, PJ (McCabe). In practically every scene, his pent up tension seems poised to explode at any point, but how long can he keep up the trickery and misdirection before it comes back to bite him? From posing as a detective to interrogating an innocent hotel clerk who refuses to take his frantic B.S., Jordan remains an aggravating presence from beginning to end, but a protagonist who’s so unlikable he’s almost endearing.

Similarly, the film’s editing, also done by Cummings, creates the sense that we can’t always trust what we see. A brief locking of eyes from across a room could spark Jordan’s suspicions, and the film lets us see the inner workings of his pervasive fixations. Absurd yet unsettling hallucinations, such as a Neanderthal-esque mating ritual, and dizzying montages ratchet up anxiety to a boiling point by the conclusion. Ben Lovett and Jeffrey Campbell Binner’s score expertly complements the heightening stress, while adding a touch of ironic melancholy at Jordan’s dying way of life, drenched in outdated workplace norms that, one hopes, will die off.

Side characters aren’t as well developed, but they add a welcome dose of groundedness to Jordan’s wild delusions. “The Beta Test” doesn’t spend much time at all with Caroline, probably by design, yet Newcomb’s acting effectively demonstrates her deep frustration at being constantly patronized and ignored. PJ, himself a successful agent who’s better able to pull off Jordan’s workplace schtick, is a loyal confidant, and his friendship with Jordan is easy to buy into. Jacqueline Doke gives a memorable turn as Jordan’s office assistant, Jaclyn, who is willing to maintain an illusion herself to advance her career.

The final reveals don’t pack as much of a cathartic punch as Jordan’s de-evolution, and some scenes of brutality aren’t necessary to get the story’s points across (particularly in a vicious opening that feels tonally separated from what follows). Still, “The Beta Test” is a scathing piece of work. My eyes were plastered to the screen, eager to see where the film would take me next. That “The Beta Test” is somehow able to remain comedically deft while tackling serious issues is undoubtedly impressive. So go ahead, I insist you give it a shot.

“The Beta Test” is a 2021 comedy directed by stars Jim Cummings and PJ McCabe. The film also stars Virginia Newcomb and Jacqueline Doke. It is not rated and runs 1 hour, 33 minutes. It opens in theaters and is available video on demand on Nov. 5. Alex’s Grade: B+ 

Nostalgia Unleashed in ‘Last Night in Soho’

Nostalgia Unleashed in ‘Last Night in Soho’

By Alex McPherson

A lusciously stylish descent into nostalgic madness, director Edgar Wright’s new film, “Last Night in Soho,” can’t match its technical brilliance with satisfying storytelling.

The film follows Eloise (Thomasin McKenzie), a naive soul obsessed with the 1960’s who leaves her rural village to study at the London School of Fashion. She’s haunted by ghostly apparitions, including her mother, a fashion designer who died when Eloise was seven.

Out of a desire to make it big and follow in her mother’s footsteps, Eloise arrives in the big city, unprepared for what she’ll find — social alienation. Her roommate, mean girl Jocasta (Synnove Karlsen), and others judge her for her supposedly antiquated interests, while pervy men casually harass her. To get away, Eloise rents a West London apartment maintained by a wryly funny landlady (the late Diana Rigg, giving a glorious performance in her final role). The room Eloise rents — bathed in flashing red and blue neon light — seems pleasant enough, if a bit creepy. 

One night in her slumber, Eloise is transported back to the 60’s to live in the shoes of Sandie (Anya Taylor Joy), an up-and-coming singer who wants to become the next Cilla Black. An embodiment of the sort of confident, ambitious woman that Eloise hopes to become one day — and a chanteuse able to sing a killer rendition of “Downtown” — Eloise quickly becomes infatuated with her. However, darker truths are revealed when Sandie gets involved with an alluring, slimy bugger named Jack (Matt Smith) who promises to make her a star. Sandie’s traumatic experiences start bleeding into Eloise’s present as increasingly morbid visions impact her waking life.

This storyline represents an interesting deviation from Wright’s male-driven comedy background. Unfortunately, “Last Night in Soho” feels jumbled, with a spellbinding first half that devolves into clichés by the conclusion. Still, the film is invigorating thanks to its deft craftsmanship and wholehearted performances from the entire cast, McKenzie and Taylor-Joy especially.

Indeed, Eloise is a sympathetic protagonist, a youthful fish-out-of-water struggling to fit in. McKenzie’s acting lends her an innocent vulnerability, making her rapid infatuation with Sandie somewhat believable, and her later descent into paranoia all the more disturbing. The last third requires McKenzie to be in constant panic mode, yet she keeps emotions grounded when the script proceeds in absurd directions.  

Eloise’s initial time-traveling visions are utterly fantastic — throwing her (and viewers) into a decadent world of glitz and glamour that blocks out the darkness lurking beneath the flashiness, featuring the pervasive pop culture references that Wright specializes in. With shimmy-worthy tunes blaring in the background, these sequences are a pure joy, most notably a hypnotic dance sequence involving Taylor-Joy and McKenzie being swapped back-and-forth mid twirl.

“Last Night in Soho” shines in these instances, where Eloise and Sandie are experiencing the euphoric bliss of realizing their dreams with sky-high hopes for the future. This idea of escaping into an idealistic version of the past is, in fact, a key theme in “Last Night in Soho.” Eloise gradually sees the cracks in the facade, observing how the sexism of the time continues to infest the London of today, rendering her deeply traumatized. 

Although Wright and co-writer Krysty Wilson-Cairns aren’t able to massage this concept into something truly impactful, Wright deploys nearly every cinematic tool at his disposal to catch viewers off-guard in the grim second half, in which the film shifts from a coming-of-age tale to a mystery to outright horror. Combining giallo-inflected, fever-dream lighting and camera movements with a soundscape mixing together classic tunes and foreboding ambiance with whispers of dialogue, “Last Night in Soho” depicts Eloise’s mental turmoil with immersive aplomb.

However, this jack-of-all-trades approach sacrifices the dramatic pull that could have elevated it to another level. Firstly, we don’t get to spend enough time with Sandie for her to feel like a fully developed character. Taylor-Joy brings a confident energy to her performance that’s always entertaining to watch, but Sandie is kept frustratingly distanced from viewers throughout. We only witness snippets from the highs and lows of Sandie’s burgeoning career, eschewing nuance to keep the story moving forward at an overly brisk pace. 

Additionally, when the horror arrives, “Last Night in Soho” has predictable jump scares and generic-looking baddies. It also lacks much of the clever self-awareness that helped make Wright’s other films so successful. Moments of dark comedy are certainly here — Terence Stamp chews scenery to a pulp as a sketchy creep who would fit in well among the “Greater Good” crowd — but “Last Night in Soho” takes itself quite seriously, even in its ludicrous finale, in which Sandie takes center-stage and Eloise’s arc is left frustratingly streamlined.

Along with a token Black character willing to risk his life for Eloise despite barely knowing her and an unnecessary slasher detour in the climax, the film becomes ever-more trippy, losing sight of the real societal issues that Wright and Wilson-Cairns obviously care so much about.

“Last Night in Soho” is easy to get lost in. When you peel back the curtain, though, it’s a cinematic ride built on a rickety foundation.

Thomasin McKenzie

“The Last Night in Soho” is a 2021 psychological mystery-thriller directed by Edgar Wright and starring Thomasin McKenzie, Anya Taylor-Joy, Diana Rigg, Terence Stamp, Matt Smith. Its run time is 1 hour, 56 minutes, and it is rated R for bloody violence, sexual content, language, brief drug material and brief graphic nudity. It opened in theatres Oct. 29. Alex’s Grade: B.

‘The French Dispatch’ Is An Extremely Rich, Tasty Concoction

‘The French Dispatch’ Is An Extremely Rich, Tasty Concoction

By Alex McPherson

Wes Anderson’s “The French Dispatch” is an experience as eye-popping as it is utterly overwhelming.

“The French Dispatch,” largely inspired by writers at The New Yorker magazine, including James Thurber, James Baldwin, Mavis Gallant, and others this Gen Z critic has never heard of, recounts the experiences of four writers at the French Dispatch of the Liberty, Kansas, Evening Sun newspaper based in a fictional French town. These writings take place within “Ennui-sur-Blasé” (Boredom-on-Blasé), which proves to be far from boring. The editor-in-chief, a strict yet sentimental chap named Arthur Howitzer Jr. (Bill Murray), has just died, leaving behind one final issue of the paper filled with eccentric happenings and colorful characters. 

Anderson’s film is structured like an anthology narrated by the author of each “article,” opening with a biography of Howitzer and ending with his obituary. We get a scene-setter from a beret-wearing cyclist, Herbsaint Sazerac (Owen Wilson). Sazerac sets the scene, showcasing a French town packed with people of all sorts, as well as hundreds of rats and cats. We then delve into an arts report by JKL Berenson (Tilda Swinton) as she gives a PowerPoint presentation on an (in)famous incarcerated painter named Moses Rosenthaler (Benicio Del Toro), his muse/prison guard Simone (Léa Seydoux), and a greedy art collector named Julien Cadazio (Adrien Brody) wanting to capitalize on Moses’ works.

Afterwards, viewers are launched into a rather intimate profile, written by Lucinda Krementz (Frances McDormand), of a young, insecure revolutionary named Zeffirelli (Timothée Chalamet), who amid the student uprising in 1968 engages in high-stakes chess matches with authority figures. “The French Dispatch” saves the best for last, however, as food columnist Roebuck Wright (Jeffrey Wright) — a gay Black man — discusses on a talk show a profile he wrote of Lt. Nescafier (Stephen Park), an esteemed chef of a local police chief The Commissaire (Mathieu Amalric). Both Wright and Nescafier are dragged into a life-or-death situation. 

Timothee Chalamet as Zefferelli

If this sounds like a lot to digest, you’d be correct. There’s so much movie here that it’s hard not to be mentally swamped. This lessens the impact of individual vignettes that are, by themselves, quite profound. Nevertheless, “The French Dispatch” provides a nonstop barrage of aesthetically pleasing eye candy that holds attention even as the overstuffed whole threatens to undermine the compelling characters on display.

Ennui-sur-Blasé is a meticulously crafted setting, a cinematic dollhouse that refuses to be categorized in simple terms. In typical Andersonian fashion, everything moves like a clockwork machine coming to life. A quiet neighborhood suddenly fills with activity upon the rising sun, sets transition between one another as characters walk from room to room, and elegantly symmetrical shot compositions are once again used in full force. Interestingly, “The French Dispatch” also alternates between black-and-white and color photography shot-to-shot — perhaps representing timeless bursts of humanity that transcend the written word. 

Each section utilizes Anderson’s style in different ways, paying homage to French filmmakers like Jacques Tati and François Truffaut, as well as cartoonists from The New Yorker. That being said, “The French Dispatch” knows when to subvert its rules to emphasize the darker elements of this charming, albeit troubled dreamworld, particularly concerning the existential threats that tinge Wright’s perspective with sadness and dread. For brief moments, the madcap fades away to zoom in on true, deeply felt emotions. Alexandre Desplat’s score perfectly accompanies the action, eliciting joy and melancholy.

Of course, there’s an outstanding amount of acting talent here (including some cameos I won’t spoil), and everyone brings their A-game, even if we only spend a few minutes with them. Murray, Del Toro, and Wright are standouts — lending their characters a sense of three-dimensionality that’s all the more meaningful in such cartoonish locations. Although some performances are more effective than others — Chalamet is somewhat one-note, for example — they’re perfect vessels to deliver Anderson’s signature playful, occasionally irreverent dialogue that seems even more obsessive than usual.

Although some might say “The French Dispatch” is style over substance, Anderson’s film grows more meaningful the more I think about it, stretching my Film Studies muscles to approach coherent conclusions. We see a literal tortured artist being exploited for profit, an aging journalist mourning her youth, childish revolutionaries blinded by idealism, and outsiders seeking comfort in an alienating world. While the second portion featuring McDormand and Chalamet comes across as a bit precious and rushed in places, there’s rarely a dull moment. Despite the sections’ differences, they’re thematically bonded through exploring concepts of belonging, passion, storytelling, and the creation of art itself with a whimsical edge that likely benefits from repeat viewings. 

Additionally, the notion of this newspaper traveling all the way back to corn-covered Kansas holds its own significance. Stories should be universal, after all, and “The French Dispatch” underlines how this form of humanistic journalism shouldn’t be discarded amid the changing media climate. As a tribute to artists of all kinds and a wistful thesis on the future of print, this is a film that deserves to be mulled over, and I’m eager to research the people who influenced it. Tighter pacing and more focus could have made it one of Anderson’s best, but “The French Dispatch” is most assuredly worth opening up.

Jeffrey Wright and Liev Shreiber

“The French Dispatch” is a 2021 comedy-drama directed by Wes Anderson and starring Bill Murray, Benicio del Toro, Lea Seydoux, Timothee Chalamet, Frances McDormand, Tilda Swinton, Adrien Brody, Jeffrey Wright, Owen Wilson and Elisabeth Moss. It’s run time is 1 hour, 48 minutes and is rated R for graphic nudity, some sexual references and language. In theaters Oct. 29. Alex’s Grade: B+.

Benicio del Toro, Lea Seydoux