I join “CTV News Toronto at Five” with guset anchor Sean Leathong to talk about new movies in theatres including the bullet ballet of “Ballerina,” fishy thriller “Dangerous Animals” and the exorcism flick “The Ritual.”
Watch the whole thing HERE! (Starts at 16:10)
I join CTV Atlantic anchor Stephanie Tsicos to talk about the the bullet ballet of “Ballerina,” fishy thriller “Dangerous Animals” and the exorcism flick “The Ritual.”
Watch the whole thing HERE! (Starts at 28:18)
I join CP24 to talk about the big movies hitting theatres this week including the bullet ballet of “Ballerina,” fishy thriller “Dangerous Animals,” the horror comedy “I Don’t Understand You,” the animated “Predator: Killer of Killers” and the exorcism flick “The Ritual.”
Watch the whole thing HERE!
I sit in on the CFRA Ottawa morning show with host Bill Carroll to talk about the new movies coming to theatres including the bullet ballet of “Ballerina,” fishy thriller “Dangerous Animals,” the horror comedy “I Don’t Understand You,” the animated “Predator: Killer of Killers” and the exorcism flick “The Ritual.”
Listen to the whole thing HERE!
SYNOPSIS: Based on the true story of Emma Schmidt’s 1928 exorcism, “The Ritual,” a new horror film starring Al Pacino and Dan Stevens, and now playing in theatres, sees two priests battle their personal demons and the malevolent demon possessing a young woman. “We are the Lord’s army in this battle,” says Father Theophilus Riesinger (Al Pacino). “The devil will do whatever it takes to foil our plans. We must be resolute.”
CAST: Al Pacino, Dan Stevens, Ashley Greene, Abigail Cowen, Patrick Fabian, Patricia Heaton, Directed by David Midell.
REVIEW: The devil must have made them do it. There can be no other explanation for “The Ritual,” a movie so endlessly unentertaining only the Angel of the bottomless pit could be held responsible. I mean, how much evil fun can possessed teen Emma be if the worst thing she does is dish out some sick Latin burns and do some demonic hair pulling?
“The Ritual” flips the usual exorcism movie script. There are the customary tropes, the demonic barfing, the levitations and a seemingly innocent child saying terrible things in different languages, but screenwriters David Midell and Enrico Natale focus on the effect of demonic possession on those performing the rituals. The moments of doubt, the crises of faith, the physical and psychological effects suffered by the priests and nuns are front and center, although don’t add up to much. Mostly, the characters sit, shrouded in shadows, looking tortured before Midell, who also directs, quickly cuts away as though he’s embarrassed to show his characters in crisis.
“The Ritual” feels like a missed opportunity to do something different in the genre, as does the quarrel between the priests, Father Joseph Steiger (Dan Stevens) and Father Theophilus Riesinger (Al Pacino) as to whether Emma’s circumstance is psychological or demonic. What could have been an added layer of complexity, the battle between science and faith, between new-fangled ideas and ancient traditions, is instead an unexplored muddle, like so much else in this bland story of good vs. evil.
Considered one of the most thoroughly documented exorcisms in American history, the story of Schmidt not only inspired “The Ritual,” but also “The Exorcism of Anna Ecklund” and, to a lesser extent, the grandaddy of the genre, “The Exoricist.”
So, I suppose, given how documented the case is, it makes sense to shoot it in a cinéma verité (“cinema of truth”) style, but one must wonder what possessed cinematographer Adam Biddle to keep his handheld camera in almost constant motion. It is, perhaps, meant to bring some kinetic energy to a script laden with exposition, clichés, anachronistic dialogue (did anyone ask for a “safe space” in 1928?) and lame jump scares but mostly the shaky camerawork feels erratic, distracting from the performances and story.
There is a certain camp appeal in Al Pacino holler, “Attention Beelzebub!” as he summons Emma’s inner demon, but even that is not enough to earn “The Ritual” a recommend.
Richard joins guest host Tamara Cherry and Jay Michaels of the NewsTalk 1010 afternoon show The Rush for Booze and Reviews! Today he talks about Rob Roy, the drink, not the movie, and reviews the Disney+ doc “The Beatles: Get Back,” the animated “Encanto” and Lady Gaga in “House of Gucci.”
Listen to the whole thing HERE!
“I want to see where this story goes,” says Patrizia Reggiani (Lady Gaga) in the early moments of “House of Gucci,” the new dynastic family drama from director Ridley Scott now playing in theatres.
I don’t blame her. It is quite a story.
A Machiavellian mix of love, in-fighting, ambition, fake Guccis, and income tax fraud, “House of Gucci” is almost as outrageous as the accent Jared Leto adopts to play Paolo Gucci, the wannabe designer and, according to his Uncle Rodolfo Gucci (Jeremy Irons), “triumph of mediocrity,” who helped create Gucci’s famous double “G” logo.
But is the inspired-by-a-true story movie as attention-grabbing as the designs that made Gucci a household name?
The story begins with a meet cute between Patrizia, a twenty-something who works for her father’s transportation company, and Maurizio Gucci (Adam Driver), the sweetly naïve grandson of Guccio Gucci, founder of the fashion house House of Gucci, and son of actor and designer Rodolfo.
Rodolfo doesn’t approve of Patrizia—“The Reggiani’s are truck drivers!” he snarls—but Maurizio is smitten, and, even at the risk of being written out of his father’s will, marries her at a lavish ceremony where the Gucci side of the church is noticeably empty.
In the beginning they are happy. Maurizio, who has been disowned by his father, is as awkward as Patrizia is confident and when Uncle Aldo Gucci (Al Pacino), who owns 50% of the company, appears in their life, she turns on the charm. “Strong family,” she says, “makes strong business.”
Maurizio is wary of getting involved in the family trade. He doesn’t like the pomp and circumstance that goes along with the name—“We’re not royalty,” he says—and he’s happy doing his own thing, but his wife tries to orchestrate a new era at Gucci, regardless of the strife it will cause in the family.
Soon Maurizio is in charge, the family is at war and cracks begin to show in Patrizia and Maurizio’s marriage. As resentments grows, Maurizio scolds his wife, “The only thing I need from you is to stay away from Gucci before you cause any more damage.” He also distances himself from her personally, beginning an affair with Paola Franchi (Camille Cottin). Divorce looms and, as her anger turns lethal, Patrizia hires a hitman.
“House of Gucci” is one of the rare, recent two-and-a-half-hour movies that earns its running time. Equal parts serious and satirical, it isn’t perfect, but the story of high style betrayal is entertaining. Gaga and Driver have great chemistry and anchor the movie’s chaotic plotting and flights of fancy. I’m looking at you Jared Leto. But more on that later.
As Patrizia, Gaga brings the goods. Simultaneously sweetly charming and ferociously ambitious, she is Gina Lollobrigida mixed with Lady Macbeth, and her performance provides many of the movie’s best moments.
Maurizio’s journey from idealistic to cold-hearted capitalist is handled nicely by Driver and Pacino adds some spice to Uncle Aldo, but the performance everyone will be talking about, for better and for worse, belongs to Leto.
The Oscar winner, known for his transformational roles, is almost unrecognizable as the too- dumb-to-know-how-dumb-he-is Paolo. Looking as though he’s auditioning for the Italian language version of the “Jeffrey Tambor Story,” he is heightened to the point of parody. Paolo longs to be a designer, but is stymied by his lack of talent and judgement. No one will accuse Leto of having no talent, not at all, but some may question his judgement. It may be tough to deliver lines like, “I could finally soar… like a pigeon,” but Leto digs in, chewing the scenery like every line will be his last meal. It’s entertaining, but tips the scales from serious drama to satire in a way Sir. Ridley may not have intended.
With some uneven storytelling, bigger-than-life performances and wealth porn, “House of Gucci” sometimes plays like a high fashion soap opera, but like soap operas, it knows how to keep its audience coming back for more.
“The Irishman,” starring septuagenarian powerhouses Robert De Niro, Joe Pesci and Al Pacino, is based on “I Heard You Paint Houses” Charles Brandt’s book about a man who claims to have offed mobster Crazy Joe Gallo and Teamster Jimmy Hoffa. It’s familiar territory for the trio of stars, all of whom have made a career out of playing wiseguys, and for director Martin Scorsese, but it feels different. The heady, rambunctious filmmaking of “Goodfellas” and “Casino” is gone, replaced by the richly, contemplative tone of a man at the end of his life wondering if he did the right thing.
De Niro is Frank “The Irishman” Sheeran, an 82-year-old World War II veteran, truck driver, union leader and hitman. He developed his deadly skills as a combat veteran in Italy, talents he put to use as an associate of Russell Bufalino (Joe Pesci), head of a notorious crime family.
Now wheelchair bound in a retirement home Frank recounts, in flashback, how he rose from smuggler to hitman to Bufalino’s inner circle. “It was like the army,” he says. “You followed orders.” It’s a wild story that reads like it was torn out of the pages of a colorful twentieth century history book. In Frank’s tale crime and politics are bedmates, bound together by power struggles between the underworld and Washington, involvement in elections and even the Bay of Pigs fiasco.
Frank rise is accelerated when Bufalino gives him the job of overseeing Teamster leader Jimmy Hoffa (Pacino). Hoffa ushers Frank through the corridors of power and becomes a family friend but when the Teamster’s actions threaten to expose his mafia co-conspirators Frank is pressed to choose between his loyalty to Hoffa and Bufalino.
Much has been written about “The Irishman’s” three-and-a-half-hour running time and the movie hocus pocus that de-ages the leads, allowing them to play their characters from cradle to grave. Don’t buy into the distractions. Scorsese wrestles the story and technology into shape, making a film that plays like a requiem for the kind of characters that made him famous. Unlike the cocky “Goodfellas,” which is all about the rush, “The Irishman” is ripe with themes of loss and legacy, regret and mortality. It’s about the consequences of the life Frank chose for himself and is a devastating portrait of a forgotten man who did terrible things out of a sense of duty.
Lead by the trio of marquee actors, the cast is uniformly fine. Anna Paquin as Frank’s daughter takes a role made up of sideways glances and terse dialogue and turns it into a damning condemnation of Frank’s work. She conveys depths with just a turn of her head. Bobby Cannavale as the colourfully named Felix “Skinny Razor” DiTullio and Ray Romano as a mob lawyer add interesting hues to an already colorful story.
The holy trinity, De Niro, Pesci and Pacino, hand in late career work that feels like the culmination of a lifetime of character studies. This is an examination of men who live by a brutal code that leaves little wiggle room for mistakes and disrespect but each actor find ways to humanize their characters. Rich in detail, these actors riff off one another, finding internal rhythms in the repetitious way they speak to one another.
Pesci lets go of his famous “Like I’m a clown? I amuse you?” film persona to present understated work that is equal parts loyalty and menace. Pacino plays an over-the-top character with an unhinged gusto that breathes life into someone who is now a name from the history books but was once, as is said in the film, as popular as Elvis with the working man.
Strong work abounds but De Niro has the resonate moments. The look on his face as (MILD SPOILER ALERT) he makes the grim trip to Detroit to kill his friend is stoic but pained. Placed in an unthinkable position he grims up but you can sense the wheels turning in his head. He fuels a remarkably tense thirty-minute lead up to a senseless act of violence that will have you leaning forward in your seat.
It’s in the film’s elegiac final moments that De Niro brings all of Franks humanity to the fore. “You don’t know how fast it goes until you get there,” he says. It’s a quiet, unhurried analysis of a man’s final days as he looks back that erases the memory of De Niro in movies like “Dirty Grandpa,” reminding us why he was thought of as the best actor of his generation.
“The Irishman” is an event, a movie that feels like the obvious conclusion to the gangster stories the director and cast have been telling for decades.
I went to see “Pulp Fiction” on its October 1994 opening weekend at a 2:30 pm screening. I arrived at 2:15 pm, stood in line and waited. And waited. The shows were delayed because audiences weren’t leaving after the credits. They were sitting in their seats talking about what they had just seen. Months of hype in the newspapers and on shows like “Entertainment Tonight” ignited curiosity and the movie delivered, using a broken timeline, ultra-violence and witty dialogue to bend the idea of what a movie could be. Just after 3 pm the movie finally started. Later, mind blown, I didn’t stick around the theatre to discuss the movie with anyone. I ran to the box office, bought a ticket for the next screening and got back in line.
Quentin Tarantino’s new film, “Once Upon a Time… in Hollywood,” doesn’t have quite the same impact as “Pulp Fiction” but it digs deeper, expanding on themes the director has spent a career exploring. “Pulp Fiction” was a seismic shift, a movie changed the face of 1990s cinema, while “Once Upon a Time… in Hollywood” is an allegory for changing times.
As the title would suggest “Once Upon a Time… in Hollywood” has dark fairy tale elements. Set in sun dappled 1969 Los Angeles, it focusses on two almost down-and-outers, Rick Dalton (Leonardo DiCaprio) a former series star now reduced to doing episodic television—“It’s official old buddy. I’m a has-been.”—and stuntman Cliff Booth (Brad Pitt), a self-described “old cowboy.” Both are on a race to the bottom in an industry they don’t understand anymore.
Next to Dalton’s luxury Cielo Drive home is a mansion owned by starlet Sharon Tate (Margot Robbie) and director Roman Polanski (Rafał Zawierucha), party place to L.A. luminaries like heiress Abigail Folger (Samantha Robinson) and hairdresser to the stars Jay Sebring (Emile Hirsch). As Dalton and Booth’s Hollywood era comes to a close, another is blossoming next door and further on down the road at Manson Family HQ and former western movie set Spahn Ranch.
There will be no spoilers here. I can say the various narrative shards dovetail together in a frenzy of grindhouse violence near the end, but “OUAT… IH” isn’t story driven as much as it is a detailed portrait of a time and place, the moment when the sea change was coming. Piece by piece Tarantino weaves together a nostalgic pastiche of b-movie tropes and expertly rendered sights and sounds to create a vivid portrait of a time and place. With the setting established, he plays mix and match, blending fact and fiction, creating his own history that feels like a carefully detailed memory play.
Pitt screaming down Hollywood Boulevard in a powder blue sports car is the essence of what the movie is about. The propulsive energy of Hollywood, dangerous, glamorous with the promise of ending up who knows where. The characters may all be headed for uncertain futures but an air of optimism hangs over the story. Dalton is down on his luck but when he realizes his neighbor is a world-famous director he says, “I could be one pool party away from starring in the next Polanski movie.” He’s a man out of time but still feels there might be a place for him in that world and that is the lifeblood of Hollywood, the city built on dreams.
One such dreamer is Tate. Robbie has a lovely scene as the actress enjoying her own movie in a darkened theatre. It does away with the stylized dialogue Tarantino is known for and instead focusses on the pure joy the character feels at watching her dreams come true on the big screen. It’s a lovely scene that speaks to the excitement of the first blush of success, untouched by cynicism in an increasingly cynical world.
“Once Upon a Time… in Hollywood” is unique in its feel. Tarantino has always been singular in his filmmaking but this one feels different. It’s clearly rooted in the b-movies that inspire his vision but here he is contemplative, allowing his leads—DiCaprio and Pitt in full-on charismatic mode—to channel and portray the insecurities that accompany uncertainty. The film is specific in its setting but universal in portrayal of how people react to the shifting sands of time. Funny, sad and occasionally outrageous, it’s just like real life as filtered through a camera lens.
