‘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

 

‘Mass’ Is Hard-Hitting, Honest Drama

‘Mass’ Is Hard-Hitting, Honest Drama

By Alex McPherson 

Unrelenting and riveting, director Fran Kranz’s directorial debut, “Mass,” provides a complex meditation on grief and healing, as well as a mesmerizing showcase of acting talent.

The story largely takes place within a rural Episcopalian church, where the parents of two children gather to have a discussion concerning an incident that’s haunted them for six years. One of these children, named Evan, was slain in a school shooting by the other, named Hayden, who then killed himself. The parents attempt to gain greater insight and reach emotional catharsis after their lives were permanently changed. 

Following an opening where church employees Judy (Breeda Wool) and Anthony (Kagen Albright) anxiously prepare the sterile room for the meeting, all the while supervised by social worker Kendra (Michelle N. Carter) and a large crucifix on the wall, parents Jay (Jason Isaacs) and Gail (Martha Plimpton) arrive. Jay puts up a veneer of strength and stability, but there’s a simmering anger bubbling within that threatens to break loose at any moment. Gail is nearly monosyllabic and often requires Jay to speak for her, only growing more cagey when Hayden’s parents — uptight, sharply dressed Richard (Reed Birney) and deeply earnest Linda (Ann Dowd) — show up. As the conversation shifts from awkward pleasantries to burning anger, rage, sorrow, and compassion, we’re forced to sit with these people in their raw exchanges, authentic in their relatable contradictions. 

Indeed, “Mass” is a harrowing, bleak, and profoundly real story, unfolding at an almost real-time pace. Kranz’s first feature plays like a horror film. It leaves viewers with the ideas that grief can’t always be overcome, that fighting for clear-cut answers can itself victimize, that communicating anguish is a messy and unpredictable task, and that true empathy is all-but-required to make peace with a world that refuses to make sense.

Needless to say, “Mass” isn’t an easy watch, but it’s impossible to avert your eyes from the screen once it begins. We feel the parents’ claustrophobia and vulnerability in being molded from the horrific act of violence all these years later. There’s no tidy resolution to this meeting of four broken souls, presented with the best acting I’ve seen all year so far. Each of them approaches the situation with different attitudes and perspectives, which gradually erode and evolve as their conversation carries on. 

Isaacs brilliantly depicts Jay’s internal battle of impatience, lending the film considerable tension as tempers escalate. Plimpton shines as a mother who has experienced irreparable loss and who enters the conversation unsure of what exactly she wants to get out of it — retribution or forgiveness? Richard and Linda, the parents of the shooter, are just as layered. Richard’s initial defensiveness belies the guilt he harbors, blaming himself for Hayden’s decisions. Linda, gestures of goodwill notwithstanding, is also self-loathing — torn between her motherly love for Hayden and the act that forever harms his memory. Portrayed by Dowd with heartbreaking power, Linda at one point states that she continues to mourn her son even as her community doesn’t.

Kranz, who wrote the screenplay in addition to directing, excels in giving his subjects naturalistic dialogue that never once loses its authenticity. Hot button topics are brought up briefly, but the film doesn’t jam them into the narrative. Rather, by focusing on a small group of individuals confronting a deeply personal disaster, “Mass” handles its sensitive subject matter in a respectful manner without talking down to viewers. Additionally, religious aspects of the plot are used for subversive means. The difficulty of confronting the unspeakable and practicing forgiveness can’t be done through belief alone, after all, but through individual determination and perseverance.

Although “Mass” would likely work equally as well as a stage production, Kranz and editor Yang Hua Hu deploy cinematic stylings that, for the most part, amplify the proceedings. The editing gives Isaacs, Plimpton, Birney, and Dowd each their time in the spotlight, while the camera work progresses from static to handheld, and the aspect ratio condenses with new revelations. Kranz also brings the camera outside the church at brief intervals, emphasizing critical moments while not always feeling totally necessary.

Jason Isaacs and Martha Plimpton appear in Mass by Fran Kranz, an official selection of the Premieres section at the 2021 Sundance Film Festival. Courtesy of Sundance Institute | photo by Ryan Jackson-Healy.

In the end, “Mass” is tough to recommend to general audiences, but a film that’s difficult to fault in any particular area. It’s a near-perfectly constructed drama, one that refuses to sugarcoat life’s uncompromising reality, and that remains all the better for it. 

“Mass” is a 2021 drama written and directed by Fran Kranz. It stars Ann Dowd, Martha Plimpton, Reed Birney and Jason Isaacs. It is rated PG-13 for thematic content and brief strong language, and the runtime is 1 hour, 50 minutes. In theaters Oct. 22. Alex’s Grade: A

‘The Last Duel’ is High Stakes Game of Misplaced Righteousness

‘The Last Duel’ is High Stakes Game of Misplaced Righteousness

By Alex McPherson

An ambitious historical epic with powerful performances, hard-hitting action sequences, and an intelligent condemnation of systemic injustice, director Ridley Scott’s “The Last Duel” approaches glory, but falls slightly short of achieving it.

Based on actual events and taking place in 14th century France, the film, broken into three sections, begins with Jean de Carrouges (Matt Damon, sporting an unfortunate hairdo), a valiant fighter serving under the cuckoo Count Pierre d’Alençon (Ben Affleck). De Carrouges, having lost his first wife and child from the plague, sees an opportunity to father an heir and inherit a large dowry, which includes a huge swathe of land. He weds Marguerite de Thibouville (Jodie Comer), the daughter of a wealthy-yet-disgraced nobleman. However, through a series of political maneuvers, longtime friend Jacques Le Gris (Adam Driver) ends up possessing a large portion of de Carrouges’ new land, gets promoted to captaincy over him, and rapes Marguerite when she’s alone at home. De Carrouges files lawsuit after lawsuit, eventually requesting a last duel to the death. Retribution for Marguerite’s rape isn’t de Carrouge’s primary motivation — it’s his own pride and “honor” that’s at stake.

We then see the same events from Le Gris’ point of view: he observes as the handsome, fun-loving squire who parties with the Count and helps him improve his fortunes (Le Gris can read and handle basic accountancy). He betters his own lot in life by currying favors. In this version, de Carrouges isn’t a brave warrior, but a bumbling fool. It’s all rather smooth sailing for Le Gris who, after the assault, is reassured from the Count and the clergy that there’s no way that Marguerite’s claims will be taken seriously. 

Jump to section three, the most resonant of them all, and we watch the happenings unfold from Marguerite’s vantage point, getting a more intimate look at the horrible situation she’s become stuck in. She’s left feeling dehumanized and at the mercy of arrogant men whose final battle risks not only their lives, but her own as well.

Suffice to say, there’s plenty of anxious tension headed into the climactic confrontation, a bloody brawl that’s undoubtedly one of the best scenes of 2021. Beforehand, “The Last Duel” takes a creative approach to storytelling that fully fleshes out its subjects — the courageous Marguerite in particular. While Scott’s film isn’t especially profound in revealing that 14th century France was, in fact, horrendously unjust towards women, it slyly demonstrates how shifts in perspective can alter how we perceive the world, and the self-serving ways in which we might perceive ourselves.

Indeed, “The Last Duel” invites viewers to compare and contrast each party’s accounts of what took place, illustrating pertinent differences between them. Alterations in music, camera angles, and dialogue reveal the truth layer by layer, depending on who’s telling it, both serving to fill in narrative gaps and make the film feel decidedly stretched-out by the sword-clashing finale. The costuming and production design are incredibly detailed and period accurate, to be expected. The screenplay — co-written by Damon, Affleck, and Nicole Holofcener — highlights the egomania of de Carrouges and Le Gris, while occasionally throwing subtlety to the wind.   

This episodic structure wouldn’t work if the actors weren’t in top form, and luckily, the whole cast delivers. Comer, bringing to life Marguerite’s kindness, trauma, and steadfast bravery in facing a system designed to subordinate her, is wholly deserving of accolades come awards season. Until the final act, she’s mostly relegated to the sidelines, but she conveys Marguerite’s weathered fearlessness through her facial expressions alone, infusing the film’s final stretch with true emotional gravitas. 

Damon and Driver are similarly effective, albeit portraying more straightforward characters. There’s little redeeming either of them, no matter if we’re seeing through their eyes or not, but “The Last Duel” takes great lengths to show the patriarchal structures that inform their worldviews. Affleck almost seems like he’s in a different film, but it’s entertaining watching him embrace a demented frat boy persona as the Count, drunk on power along with alcohol.

Where the film stumbles involves Scott’s lack of restraint. Witnessing Marguerite’s assault — twice — comes across as exploitative rather than necessary. On one hand, “The Last Duel” paints similarities of Le Gris’ monstrous actions to the “playful” nights he enjoys with women in the Count’s chambers. On the other hand, when shown again through Marguerite’s frame of reference, it serves little purpose beyond shock value, fueling our anger leading into the titular showdown. In this case,“The Last Duel” uses her violation to artificially amplify dramatic stakes.

Although the film is ultimately uneven in execution, there’s still enough compelling characters to carry it through to its squirm-inducing conclusion. “The Last Duel” succeeds in demonstrating how the past informs the present, and the importance of recognizing how a core issue of the time — viewing women as property rather than human beings — continues in various insidious forms today. It’s also just a bone-crushing, suspenseful medieval thriller that prizes at least some brains over pure brawn.

Jodie Comer in “The Last Duel”

“The Last Duel” is a 2021 drama directed by Ridley Scott and starring Matt Damon, Ben Affleck, Adam Driver and Jodie Comer. The run time is 2 hours, 32 minutes, and it is Rated R for strong violence including sexual assault, sexual content, some graphic nudity, and language. Alex’s Grade: B+

‘Titane’ is Full-Throttle Showstopper

‘Titane’ is Full-Throttle Showstopper

By Alex McPherson

Nothing can prepare you for director Julia Ducournau’s “Titane” — a profane, sentimental, horrific work of art. It’s also a film that benefits from viewers knowing as little as possible about going in. Rest assured, this gem is A+ quality, but if you don’t mind some mild spoilers, feel free to continue reading.

Set in Southern France, “Titane” focuses on Alexia (Agathe Rousselle), an erotic dancer with some peculiar kinks and murderous inclinations. As a child, she was in a car accident that required surgery and the doctors implanting a slab of titanium in her skull. This presumably explains her love for automobiles and all things metallic, as well as her aversion to fellow humans. The movie starts with an elaborate sequence leading to Alexia writhing passionately upon the hood of a flame-streaked Cadillac to the sound of “Doing It To Death” by The Kills. Later on, she’s summoned by the vehicle to, well, have unprotected sex. Alexia finds out she’s pregnant, and it’s only a matter of time before the police put her behind bars for some vicious killings.

She impulsively decides to assume the identity of a boy, named Adrien, who has been missing for a decade. She’s unexpectedly picked up by Adrien’s father, Vincent (Vincent Lindon), a fire chief willing to overlook glaring implausibilities to achieve a sense of long-lost comfort. Alexia/Adrien, straining to conceal her identity, finds a purpose missing from her former way of life.

Indeed, “Titane” takes the cake as the boldest, most unforgettable film I’ve watched this year. When you wade through all the blood, guts, and body horror, the central plot winds up strangely wholesome and life-affirming. Just like with “Raw,” Ducournau’s previous masterpiece, shock value is paired with fascinating characters that yield layer upon layer of complexities, even as viewers avert their eyes in disgust.

And there are graphic images aplenty, particularly during the first 30 minutes or so. The film’s relentless introduction immerses viewers into Alexia’s no-holds-barred approach to living with visceral, at times stomach-churning impact. Bathed in vivid neon light and captured with smooth, mesmerizing long takes forcing us to view the brutality up-close-and-personal, “Titane” throws viewers into the muck with zero time to breathe. We don’t completely understand what’s motivating Alexia’s decisions, but Rousselle’s performance is so magnetic — forgive the pun — that she commands viewers’ undivided attention whenever she’s on screen. Her inhumane actions, to put it lightly, are based in a deep sense of discontent with the world at large, as well as with her own body, which the pregnancy impacts day by day.

When she encounters Vincent, though, “Titane” becomes a wholly different beast. We go from observing an abhorrent character in Alexia to spending time with a broken, haunted man. Leading a crew of hyper-masculine men, Vincent puts on the appearance of strength, but remains deeply vulnerable. He will grasp at anything to appease his grief-stricken psyche and is able to suspend his disbelief to feel whole once again. Lindon’s performance is soulful, earning our sympathy from the outset. As they grow closer, and as Alexia/Adrien navigates intense scrutiny from Vincent’s crew and beyond, “Titane” provides some surprisingly warm-hearted, tear-jerking moments — finding humor, beauty, and compassion in the grotesque and uncertain.  

Ducournau’s film is anything but static, gliding between genres and tones with such confidence that it’s practically impossible to predict what will happen next. In a sense, this refusal to be categorized extends into the themes Ducournau explores — largely revolving around agency of one’s body, the rigidity of societal norms, the fluidity of gender, and the messy, chaotic lengths some will go to feel love and belonging. The trials Alexia/Adren and Vincent endure strip them down to their base drive for connection, struggling against man-made machinations and preconceptions that seek to control their ways of being.

Add to this a perfect soundtrack and original score on par with “Raw,” along with minimalist dialogue that sparkles with darkly comic wit, and “Titane” emerges as a film that deserves to be cherished by anyone brave enough to weather the storm. Sure, some more insight into Alexia’s backstory could have fostered a greater emotional attachment early on, but by the conclusion, we’ve witnessed something special — brought to life by talented actors and a director in absolute command of her craft.

“Titane” is a drama-sci-fi-thriller in French with English subtitles, directed by Julia Ducournau It stars Agathe Rousselle, Vincent Lindon, Garance Mariller and is rated R for strong violence and disturbing material, graphic nudity, sexual content, and language. Its runtime is 1 hour, 48 minutes. It was released in the United States on Oct. 1 in theaters. Alex’s Grade:: A+.  

Mysterious ‘Lamb’ from Iceland is ‘Shear’ Brilliance

Mysterious ‘Lamb’ from Iceland is ‘Shear’ Brilliance

By Alex McPherson  

Director Valdimar Jóhannsson’s offbeat, poetic, and emotionally complex “Lamb” stands in a league of its own, adding yet another gem to A24’s ever-expanding oeuvre.

This bleakly twisted fairy tale unfolds within a secluded Icelandic mountain range bathed in thick fog that reflects the quiet gloom of our main characters, sheep farmers María (Noomi Rapace) and Ingvar (Hilmir Snær Guðnason). One night, an unseen, heavily breathing presence startles nearby horses and farm animals, targeting one sheep in particular. Meanwhile, María and Ingvar go about their days, which involve maintaining crops and caring for their animals, with subtle detachment. Even though they enjoy each other’s company, an unspoken rift exists between them. Something’s missing in their relationship, casting a dark shadow over their household. 

When one of their sheep gives birth to an odd hybrid that has to be seen to be believed, María creates a motherly bond with this creature, whom she names Ada. Ingvar, initially shocked but determined to ensure his wife’s happiness, gradually slips into his new role as a father. Much to the dismay of Ada’s birth mother, who bleats outside their bedroom window every night, Ada has rendered both María’s and Ingvar’s lives more fulfilling. However, as Ada grows up and the film progresses through three distinct chapters in her life, a sense of dreadful anticipation looms — reaching a boiling point when Ingvar’s rowdy and unpredictable brother, Pétur () shows up on their doorstep.

A cinematic morality tale confronting humankind’s flawed connection to nature and the perils of motherhood, “Lamb” is difficult to describe, but an absolute treat to witness. The film takes viewers on a mesmeric trip through valleys of sadness, joyfulness, and fear. It’s utterly impressive that the plot’s crazier elements don’t hijack its dead-serious heart.

“Lamb” exudes patience, nearly to its detriment — in shot compositions, pacing, and vague nuances in character interactions — to set a disquieting mood. For the first 20 minutes or so, dialogue is kept to a bare minimum, letting us observe María’s and Ingvar’s ennui along with them. Jóhannsson forces us to sit in their melancholy, surrounded by their sheep and pets who seemingly question their decision to adopt Ada, providing some of the best animal acting I’ve ever seen. 

Neither María nor Ingvar question the creature’s origins — they have a new purpose in life and a chance to rekindle what they lost in the past. Guðnason beautifully conveys Ingvar’s transformation into a loving father, but this is truly Rapace’s film, and we can see through her eyes that she will not, under any circumstances, lose this opportunity to be a mother. As a result, her uncompromising love for Ada seems wholly believable, and even heartbreaking, for Ada’s arguably not hers to begin with. 

This dichotomy between nature vs. nurture fuels the drama, as we want this family to thrive, but recognize the moral ambiguity of rearing Ada away from her kin and robbing her of agency. Indeed, “Lamb” explores the humans’ connection to Ada more than Ada herself, but perhaps that’s intentional. She’s inhabiting two different, opposing worlds, and Jóhannsson emphasizes her inability to truly fit in.

Pétur’s arrival brings with it some welcome comedic relief, but “Lamb” soon slips back into a slow-burn dread leading into its inevitable but nevertheless shocking conclusion. In keeping with Jóhannsson’s folkloric inspirations, the film resembles a potent mix of the fantastical and the grounded, basking its absurdism in a cautionary reminder of nature’s colossal power and the extreme lengths some take to assuage grief, no matter the repercussions.

“Lamb” would have benefited from tighter editing here and there, particularly surrounding a somewhat unnecessary love triangle that Pétur initiates, shifting focus away from Ada, but this is a wild and wooly debut feature. If viewers give themselves over to the film’s unorthodox premise, they’ll find one of the most memorably unnerving stories of the year. 

“Lamb” is a horror-mystery-drama from Iceland, directed by Valdimar Jóhannsson and starring Noomi Rapace, Hilmir Snær Guðnason and Björn Hlynur Haraldsson, Rated R for some bloody violent images and sexuality/nuditym its runtime is 1 hour, 46 minutes. In theaters Oct. 8. Alex’s Grade: A-