I join the CTV NewsChanel to talk about the return of the king in “EPiC: Elvis Presley in Concert,” the dark comedy “How to Make a Killing,” the heist film “Crime 1201” and the inspirational “I Can Only Imagine 2.”
Watch the whole thing HERE!
Fast reviews for busy people! Watch as I review three movies in less time than it takes to sing “Hm, ooh, yeah-yeah, yeah” Have a look as I race against the clock to tell you about the return of the king in “EPiC: Elvis Presley in Concert,” the dark comedy “How to Make a Killing” and the horror movie “Diabolic.”
Watch the whole thing HERE!
SYNOPSIS: In “How to Make a Killing,” a new class satire now playing in theatres, a man whose mother was disowned by his wealthy family decides to “prune a few branches of the family tree” and reclaim the family fortune. “Since the day I was born my mother told me we were different. Yes, she had been disowned by her family but someday I would become the sole heir. I just had to wait… for all of them to die.”
CAST: Glen Powell, Margaret Qualley, Jessica Henwick, Bill Camp, Zach Woods, Topher Grace, Ed Harris. Directed by John Patton Ford.
REVIEW: A riff on the coal black 1949 British comedy “Kind Hearts and Coronets,” “How to Make a Killing” is a lighthearted look at revenge and murder.
The thin line between life and death is all that stands between 9-to-5er Becket Redfellow (Glen Powell) and a windfall inheritance. When he was born out of wedlock, his mother was disowned by her obscenely wealthy family. Broke, and wanting to live the “right kind of life” promised by his late mother, he hatches a plan to stage “accidents” to knock off the family members standing between him and the cash. “There were seven of them,” he says. “Seven rich pricks between myself and $28 billion.”
Told mostly in flashback with narration, “How to Make a Killing” is tightly composed. Perhaps too tightly. Swiftly paced, it rips along at top speed, never pausing long enough to allow the impact of the killings to sink in. In keeping with the movie’s pedal to the metal pace, Becket’s fall into murder and mayhem happens in the blink of an eye. As the bodies quickly pile up, the murders feel a little easy, a little too no-muss-no-fuss, to build any palpable tension.
The movie wants the audience to relate to Becket’s tough luck, but his overall demeanor is so stoic it’s hard to root for him, even as an anti-hero. Powell’s megawatt grin conceals Becket’s psychopathy, but the character is too glib to be funny, too offhand to be dramatic.
It’s in that mushy middle that Becket and the film sit. Not funny enough to be a comedy, it’s not quite dark enough to be a full-on drama.
It does comes loaded with ideas about class mobility, moral ambiguity and plays up the lengths Becket will go to gain social status, but the rapid pacing doesn’t provide time for meaningful exploration.
Some of that exploration may have disappeared in the movie’s plot holes. Large enough for Powell to fly the Boeing F/A-18E Super Hornet he piloted in “Top Gun: Maverick” through, they are black holes that suck logic (particularly surrounding the final killing) into the void.
If you buy a ticket, check your suspension of disbelief at the concession stand.
“How to Make a Killing” has an intriguing premise, some fun performances—mainly Jessica Henwick as Ruth, Becket’s grounded girlfriend, the ever-reliable Bill Camp as a mentor figure and Zach Woods as the irritating cousin Noah—but its ambition, like its main character’s, exceeds its grip.
Set in 1999, “Drive-Away Dolls,” a new LGBTQ2+ b-movie wannabe from director Ethan Coen in his first solo outing, feels like it emerged, untouched from the time before Y2K.
A loving throwback to the kind of independent, verging on experimental, filmmaking that made the Coen brothers famous, “Drive-Away Dolls” is a queer caper film whose action, after a brief but memorable prologue, begins when the uninhibited Jamie (Margaret Qualley) cheats on girlfriend Sukie (Beanie Feldstein) and gets thrown out of their apartment.
“I’ve had it with love,” Jamie says. “It might be alright for the bards and the troubadours, but I don’t think it works for the twentieth, soon to be twenty-first, century lesbian.”
Looking for a change of pace, Jamie decides to hit the road, along with Marian (Geraldine Viswanathan), a reserved friend who is bored of her job and her life. They acquire a drive-away car (a vehicle that needs to be delivered from one city to another) and head off for a fresh start in Tallahassee.
Trouble is, the car they were given contains very valuable cargo that kingpin Chief (Colman Domingo) and his dopey henchmen Arliss (Joey Slotnick) and Flint (C. J. Wilson) need to get their hands on.
“Drive-Away Dolls” has many of the trademarks of the kind of 90s indie cinema the Coens and Tarantino left in their wake. There’s smart-alecky dialogue, over-the-top, bickering bad guys, a mysterious briefcase, a preposterous crime and “not your garden variety decapitation,” all wrapped in a tidy 84-minute package.
Unfortunately, it’s not an entirely welcome u-turn to 90s form for Coen. For all the free-wheeling vibes the movie emits, it’s a bit of a slog, even at its abbreviated runtime. Choppy storytelling, low stakes and an emphasis on quirky caricatures over real characters slow the roll of what could have been a fun road trip romp. The pitch perfect sweet spot between serious and silly, Coen achieved (with brother Joel) in “O Brother, Where Art Thou?” and “The Big Lebowski” is sadly missing here.
The performances are amiable. Qualley’s intermittent Texas accent is distracting, but Viswanathan brings the nerdy charm to Marion. The great Bill Camp steals scenes as Curlie, the crusty drive-away clerk, and Pedro Pascal has a memorable cameo.
“Drive-Away Dolls,” written by Coen and his wife, and long-time editor, Tricia Cooke is about hitting the road and cutting loose but never puts the pedal to the metal.
“The Burial” is an old-school fist-in-the-air Hollywood crowd-pleaser, now streaming on Amazon Prime, whose winning performances from Tommy Lee Jones and Jamie Foxx and courtroom shenanigans are way more interesting than its downbeat title might suggest.
Based on true events, the movie sees Jones as funeral home owner Jeremiah O’Keefe, proprietor of a legacy Mississippi funeral home and burial insurance business. The once successful enterprise has hit a rough patch, and fearing he’ll have nothing left to pass along to his kids and grandchildren, O’Keefe decides to sell off assets.
One handshake deal to sell off three of his funeral homes to the slick-talking Canadian billionaire Ray Loewen (Bill Camp) of the Loewen Group conglomerate, and O’Keefe thinks his financial problems are a thing of the past.
When the deal goes sour, O’Keefe sues, but instead of trusting the case to his longtime attorney (Alan Ruck), he opts for hotshot personal injury lawyer Willie E. Gary (Foxx). Gary is a flamboyant character, with a private jet (named “Wings of Justice”) and a profile on “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.”
He’s wealthy, well-known, and has never lost a case. But there’s always a first time.
The Loewen team, with their high-powered Ivy League attorney Mame Downes (Jurnee Smollett) at the helm, will require more than Gary’s usual courtroom theatrics.
“The Burial” has a definite 90s vibe. It is based on Jonathan Harr’s 1999 New Yorker article, and could sit on the shelf next to “A Time to Kill,” “Primal Fear” or “The Client.” There’s even a satisfying “You can’t handle the truth” style gotcha moment.
Most of all though, it has the Jones and Foxx odd couple.
Jones leaves his crusty old man persona in the bag for this one, instead, busting out a quiet performance, informed by his character’s deeply held faith, general decentness and his determination to leave a legacy for this family.
It is, however, Foxx’s show. In his best role in recent memory, he is larger-than-life, a kind of Baptist preacher in the courtroom, and while it is a blast to watch Foxx in full flight, it is in the quieter moments that Gary really comes to life. He has bluster to burn, but as the son of a sharecropper and the middle child of 11, it is his backstory that deepens the characterization and prevents him from becoming a sharp-tongued lawyer caricature.
“The Burial” takes time to reflect on the details of the 1995 case, like how funeral companies financially took advantage of marginalized communities at a time of grief, but for all its Sydney Lumet style social commentary, it is the David and Goliath nature of the story that is so appealing.
Set during the 1920s Harlem Renaissance, “Passing,” a new drama starring Tessa Thompson and Ruth Negga and now streaming on Netflix, is a story of childhood friends whose bond is threatened when they reconnect twelve years after school.
Based on the 1929 novel of the same name by Nella Larsen, “Passing” begins as Irene (Thompson), the upper-middle-class wife of Harlem doctor Brian (André Holland), is approached by former schoolmate Clare (Ruth Negga) in the lobby of a fancy hotel on a steamy hot New York afternoon. “Pardon me,” Clare says, “I don’t mean to stare, but I think I know you.” At first Irene doesn’t recognize her old friend. It has been years since they’ve spoken and Clare, with her bleached hair and eyebrows, is almost unrecognizable.
They get caught up, exchange stories, but time has passed and the former friends find they have little in common. Irene spends her time working as a volunteer fighting for the rights of Black people in her community. Clare, on the other hand, has been “passing” as white. Her husband John (Alexander Skarsgård) is a loudmouthed racist who has no idea about his wife’s racial identity. “Have you ever thought of what you’d do it John ever found out?” Irene asks.
Sensing trouble, buttoned-down Irene isn’t keen to rekindle the friendship but the charismatic wild card Clare ingratiates herself into the fabric of Irene’s carefully cultivated life with devastating results.
Director Rebecca Hall has carefully reconstructed the era of almost a century ago with exquisite period details, beautiful black-and-white photography and old fashioned, boxy 4:3 aspect ratio to examine very current explorations of race, identity and societal position. Thompson and Negga inhabit that world as they both deliver nuanced, introspective performances that are never overwhelmed by the film’s high style or themes.
“Passing” is an elegant, quiet film that allows for the leads to fully inhabit the characters and explore the interpersonal undercurrents that keep the story afloat. A fine mix of craft and emotion, “Passing” should appeal to the head and heart.
Set in 1970s Hell’s Kitchen, New York and based on the DCVertigo comic book title of the same name, “The Kitchen” stars Tiffany Haddish, Elizabeth Moss and Melissa McCarthy as mobster wives who take care of business when their husbands are sent to jail.
McCarthy, Haddish and Moss are Kathy Brennan, Ruby O’Carroll and Claire Walsh, wives of mid-level Irish mobsters. When their husbands are scooped up by the FBI the local mafia boss guarantees they’ll be looked after—“We’re going to take care of you,” Little Jackie (Myk Watford) says. “You girls are going to be just fine.”—but when it comes time to help he gets stingy. “I can’t even make the rent with what they gave me last night,” complains Claire.
With no source of income, the three decide to take matters into their own hands. “They’re just a bunch of guys who don’t even remember what family means,” says Kathy. “So, we remind them.”
Kathy is reluctant to enter the family business, but with two kids to look after she doesn’t have many options. Ruby feels like an outsider in the tightly knit Irish community and needs to provide for herself while Claire takes naturally to the wild ways of the streets. “I’m good at the messy stuff,” she says.
Before you can say, “I’m gonna make him an offer he can’t refuse,” the three have taken over Little Jackie’s Hell’s Kitchen neighborhood with an eye to expanding their empire to the rest of the city, all before their husbands get out of jail.
The powerhouse trio at the center of “The Kitchen” can’t sell the film as an effective mob movie or feminist thriller. The characters are quick change artists, morphing from stay-at-home mob wives to stone cold killer criminals seemingly overnight. It’s jarring as are many of the film’s myriad plot twists and turns. Nothing quite adds up, character or story wise, and what might have been an interesting and timely look at dismantling of patriarchal structures it instead finds its female empowerment within violence.
Paul Dano needs no introduction as an actor. In front of the camera the Golden Globe nominee has impressed with powerful performances in films like “There Will Be Blood,” “Little Miss Sunshine” and “Love & Mercy.” He brings a similar quiet intensity to his directorial debut, “Wildlife,” a dysfunctional family drama adapted from Richard Ford’s disquieting 1990 novel of the same name.
Set in 1960s Montana, the story focuses on the frustrated Jeanette Brinson (Carey Mulligan), alcoholic husband, Jerry (Jake Gyllenhaal), and 14-year-old son Joe (Ed Oxenbould). When Jerry gets fired from his golf pro country club gig he’s forced to take a job fighting wildfires, a dangerous occupation that only pays $1 an hour. With her husband gone most of the time Jeanette wanders, beginning an affair with car dealership owner Warren Miller (Bill Camp). “You’re mother is a very passionate dancer,” says Miller. “Did you know that Joe?” With his parents occupied Joe becomes a de facto parent to them both, struggling to keep them together as their relationship hits the rocks.
Dano, who co-wrote “Wildlife” with actress and significant other Zoe Kazan, provides an elegant showcase for Mulligan’s soul-searching performance. The story of this quickly unraveling family is meted out slowly, deliberately low key, in an effort to allow the audience to get under the skin of the three main characters. Bonded by blood and marriage they struggle with unity in an era of change.
At the heart of it is Mulligan. As an Eisenhower Era wife and mother she projects an aura of calm but is actually a churning vessel of emotions; a person clamouring for more. The cracks in her Norman Rockwell façade are beginning to show. “Do you like Mr. Miller?” asks Joe. “Not very much,” she replies. “Things do happen around him though. He has that feel about him.” Mulligan breathes life into Jeanette, subtly and believably portraying a woman coming of age.
Oxenbould as Joe, the son forced to become both protector and confidant to his mother—“This is my desperation dress,” she says to him, modelling a revealing frock—is also very good, effectively showing us the dissolution of his parent’s bond through his eyes. His character doesn’t grow, he is an observer, a conduit for the audience’s sympathy.
Despite the title “Wildlife” doesn’t exactly kick up its heels. It’s a chilly tale with a few unnecessary detours—like Joe’s after school job and his friendship with a female classmate—but its story of survival hits home.
If “Molly’s Game” wasn’t a true story it would be unbelievable.
Jessica Chastain plays Molly Bloom, a one-time Olympic class skier sidelined by injury. Leaving the slopes behind she found her way into the world of high stakes poker but not as a player, as a purveyor. In Los Angeles and then again in New York she cultivated a guest list of rich and powerful men of movie stars, Russian mobsters and Wall Street hedge funders. They bet, lost (and sometimes won) millions of dollars, catered to by drink slinging models and Bloom’s huge line of credit. With the game come wealth, drug addiction and ultimately, an FBI arrest for a variety of charges. Money seized, drug addiction kicked, all the Poker Queen has left is her integrity and a supportive criminal defense lawyer in the form of Charlie Jaffey (Idris Elba).
Written by ninety-words-a-minute screenwriter Aaron Sorkin (who also directed), coats the unlikely tale of a dedicated athlete who uses the dedication an skill she developed in her sport to create a new life for herself with an elegant sheen. The dialogue is top notch, the performances very good but it’s all surface. The psychology—her father (Kevin Costner) is a pontificating psychologist—doesn’t provide the kind of depth we need to truly care about Molly, before or after her downfall. She’s all ambition and little else. Chastain breathes life into her, rattling off Sorkin’s impressive dialogue, ripe with pop culture references, mythology and bon mots, but it’s the performance that illuminates the character for the audience, not the script.
Sorkin doesn’t exactly deal “Molly’s Game” a bad hand but he does bog down the story with clever asides and details instead of moving the plot forward. Aside from Bloom, his characters are all sharp-tongued creations whose personalities are become increasingly interchangeable as the same Sorkin-esque style of witty dialogue spills from all their lips.
In many ways “Molly’s Game” overplays its hand. It’s neither a searing indictment of high-stakes illegal gambling nor a psychological study of its main character. Instead it’s a pair of deuces when it should have been a full house.
