SYNOPSIS: In “Blink Twice,” a psychological drama directed by Zoë Kravitz, and now playing in theatres, disgraced tech billionaire Slater King (Channing Tatum) invites cater waiter Frida (Naomi Ackie) to join him and his friends for an idyllic get-a-way on his private island. “Are you having a good time?” he repeatedly asks her as champagne flows, and she is… until, in the blink of an eye, she has a startling revelation.
CAST: Naomi Ackie, Channing Tatum, Christian Slater, Simon Rex, Adria Arjona, Haley Joel Osment, Kyle MacLachlan, Geena Davis, Alia Shawkat. Directed by Zoë Kravitz.
REVIEW: A dark psychological thriller with elements of rage, humour and danger, “Blink Twice” is a confident, if scattered, directorial debut from Zoë Kravitz. A violent riff on “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind’s” memory erasing, it asks the question, Is it best to live with only good memories, burying the bad so deeply they never resurface?
A fantasy island trip gone wrong, “Blink Twice” takes a while to get where it is going, to let the Twilight Zone-ness of the situation sink in. It’s decadent and drug fueled, set to a soundtrack of dance tunes and King’s constant query, “Are you having fun?” Nothing matters except hedonism, and soon (NO SPOILERS HERE), but not soon enough, we find out why.
At this point “Blink Twice” flicks the switch. What begans as Jordan Peele style exploration of the ultra-wealthy, of the lingering, intergenerational effects of trauma and violence against women, becomes a revenge drama tinged with horror. After a long lead up, however, the transition feels rushed as the true cruelty of the party island, and the men who run it, is revealed.
Kravitz and co-writer E.T. Feigenbaum have a lot on their minds, but more isn’t always better. From the apology tours of cancelled celebrities and sexual violence against women to the price of trauma, white patriarchal privilege and gender disparity, it touches down on a litany of hot button topics. Add to that a private island with a Jeffrey Epstein vibe and a misbehaving billionaire and you have an overload of Twitter/X trending topics. With so much happening, “Blink Twice” feels like it is hop-scotching around its themes and doesn’t add much new to the discourse of any of them.
Still, as tightly packed as the movie is—no shrinkflation here—Kravitz keeps the pace up, nimbly navigating her way through to the film’s finale with style to burn. The direction trumps the storytelling, as Kravitz knows how to stage effective scenes that will entertain the eye and, perhaps even move you toward the edge of your seat.
She is aided by strong performances from the three leads, Ackie, Tatum and “Hit Man’s” Adria Arjona. Tatum is all charm as the romantic lead (for a while anyway) before revealing his true nature in a terrific turn-around for the character.
Ackie and Arjona enjoy the best-written roles and make the most of them. As Frida, Ackie (last seen playing the title role in “Whitney Houston: I Wanna Dance with Somebody”) is relatable as someone who finds themself in an unimaginable situation, before tapping into a newfound iron will.
Arjona takes a role that could have been one-note—a reality show warrior with her eye on the billionaire’s affections—and makes her multi-faceted, kick-ass and very funny.
“Blink Twice” doesn’t entirely work, but as a story about the nature of memory, it is memorable enough to earn a recommendation.
“Being the Ricardos,” the new Aaron Sorkin directed look at the most famous television couple of the 1950s, in theaters this weekend and on Prime Video December 21, is a character study that examines one very bad week on the sitcom set of “I Love Lucy.”
In 1953 “I Love Lucy” was watched by 60 million people a week. The show was so popular that department stores had to change their hours. The big box stores used to stay open late on Mondays but switched to Thursdays because no one shopped on Monday nights while Lucy, Desi, Fred and Ethel were on.
Real life couple Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz, played in the film by Nicole Kidman and Javier Bardem, are television’s biggest stars as they prepare to shoot episode four of their second season. Tension hangs heavy over the set, the result of two news stories about the couple.
First is Confidential Magazine, a sleazy tabloid that specializes in scandal and exposé journalism, who accuses Desi of having an affair in a lurid article titled “Desi’s Wild Night Out.” More damningly, another report suggests Lucy is a communist, under investigation by the FBI and the House Un-American Activities Committee.
The accusation against Desi causes trouble at home but even a whiff of communism around Lucy could lead to a stink that could ruin both their careers. The Hollywood blacklist looms.
“You and me have been through worse than this,” Desi says reassuringly.
“Have we?” she asks.
“No.”
Set up like a pseudo-documentary, modern day talking heads keep the story moving forward while flashbacks flesh out the action. We learn about how the couple met, their volatile relationship—”They were either tearing each other’s clothes off,” says writer Madelyn Pugh (Linda Lavin), “or tearing one another’s heads off.”—and how the show and Lucy’s perfectionism are more than just a professional concern. “I Love Lucy” was the glue that held her marriage together, especially during troubled times.
It can be tricky portraying familiar figures on screen. Through endless re-runs Lucille Ball’s face and comedy are iconic, but Kidman and Bardem, wisely chose not to do imitations of the stars. They have the mannerisms and a passing resemblance to Lucy and Desi but this is about character not caricature. For the most part this is a backstage drama, and wisely stays away from restaging scenes from “I Love Lucy” that are burned into people’s imaginations. What we get instead are interpretations of these characters that corral their collective charisma, hot tempers and talent.
What emerges is a scattershot portrait of fame, creative control and the power of the press. Sorkin juggles a lot of moving parts, but by the time the end credits roll it’s difficult to know exactly what point he is trying to make. Ball is given the credit she deserves as a trailblazer and Arnaz’s business acumen is celebrated, but the other, colliding plot points feel cobbled together. Any one of them—the communism scare, Desi’s alleged infidelity, Lucy’s pregnancy or the cast in-fighting—could have sufficed as a compelling backdrop to the Lucy and Desi story. Instead, the movie feels overstuffed.
“Being the Ricardos” does justice to the legacy of its subjects, and features pages of Sorkin’s trademarked snappy dialogue, but splinters off in too many directions to be truly effective.
Early on in their relationship Blaze Foley’s (Ben Dickey) girlfriend and muse Sybil Rosen (Alia Shawkat) asks, “Are you going to be a big country star, like Roger Miller?” The singer-songwriter replies, “I don’t want to be a star. I want to be a legend.”
Texas singer, songwriter Foley did indeed lead a legendary life. The “Let Me Ride in Your Big Cadillac” singer, who died at in obscurity age 39, wore duct tape on the toes of his boots to mock wannabe cowboys with silver-tipped cowboy boots. Later, the master tapes from his first studio album were confiscated by the DEA. Lucinda Williams dedicated the tune “Drunken Angel” to him and Ethan Hawke was inspired to co-write and direct the movie “Blaze” based on the novel “Living in the Woods in a Tree: Remembering Blaze” by Rosen.
“Blaze” is as non-traditional as its subject. Non-chronological and bold, it’s a study of creativity, relationships and struggle. The backbone of the story is a radio interview with Foley’s friend, musician Townes Van Zandt (Charlie Sexton). Chain-smoking, he details the events of Foley’s life as a musician and companion to Sybil. As mythmaking takes over Van Zandt’s storytelling another friend, Zee (Josh Hamilton), jumps in, bringing the story back to earth. Zee’s influence grounds the story. Far from justifying the usual bad behaviour essayed in music bios, “Blaze” looks to examine why Foley acted out.
Playing Foley in the flashback scenes is newcomer Dickey. The heavyset Dickey captures Foley’s lost soul status in a performance that is equal parts charisma and kindness. Because the singer died in virtual obscurity for most audiences there is no deeply etched idea of who Foley was. That gives Dickey the opportunity to take all the elements that formed Foley—creativity, a vein of self-destruction tempered by sweetness and talent—and bundle them into a portrait that captures what the singer was all about. It’s a lovely, edgy performance that is the soul of the film.
Like the man himself, there is nothing standard about “Blaze,” the story of his life. Hawke takes chances narratively and stylistically, fracturing the timeline of Foley’s life to make a film that proves, once and for all, that music biopics don’t just have to be about famous people.
When I think of Patrick Stewart I think of heroes. I picture Jean-Luc Picard, stern faced on the bridge of the USS Enterprise, courageously going where no man has gone before. Or I see the chrome-domed Professor Charles Xavier telepathically (and once again heroically) reading and controlling the minds of others.
“Green Room,” a grisly new survival horror flick from Jeremy Saulnier presents a new, but not necessarily improved Patrick Stewart. Don’t get me wrong, he’s great in the film, but heroic he is not.
The action begins with The Ain’t Rights (Anton Yelchin, Alia Shawkat, Joe Cole, Callum Turner), a punk rock band struggling to make money for gas after a failed tour of the Pacific Northwest. Existing on the kindness of strangers, siphoned gas and Ramen noodles, hoping for a quick payday they take a gig at a skinhead bar in remote Oregon. “Don’t talk politics,” they’re warned by the promoter. Run by the homicidal white supremacist Darcy (Stewart), it’s a hellhole of a place that hosts Racial Advocacy Seminars when they aren’t hosting a hard-core punk shows. Following a contentious set, kicked off with a song called “BLEEP Off, Nazi BLEEPS,” the band grabs their money and gear but just as they are about to leave witness the aftermath of a murder in the club’s dingy green room. While Darcy and his jackboot lieutenants figure out how best to dispose of the band The Ain’t Rights and a friend of the dead woman (Imogen Poots) have to fight for their survival.
Like his Saulnier’s previous film, “Blue Ruin,” the new movie is a stripped down thriller with a focus on the gore and the characters. He takes his time getting to the gruesome stuff, setting up the story as we get to know and like the members of the band. Why else would we care when they (NOT REALLY A SPOILER) start to get picked off one by one? Otherwise it would just be torture porn, and while there are some unpleasant images that wouldn’t be out of place in one of the “Hostel” movies, the point of the story is survival not icky deaths.
The band’s life and death struggle is at the center of the film but the chilling malicious force that propels the movie forward is Stewart’s coldly methodical Darcy. At first he seems reasonable—well, as reasonable as a neo Nazi can be—but by the time he says, “We’re not keeping you, you’re just staying,” you know he lives in a world of his own construction; a world where his acolytes will do almost anything to protect him and their cause, no matter how wet and wild. Stewart is icy calm, a coiled spring capable of anything. Images of Professor X and Jean-Luc Picard will be forever erased from your memory.
“Green Room” is a nasty piece of work, a tense Tasmanian Devil tornado of a movie with solid performances and a DIY feel that meshes perfectly with its punk rock heart.
