LOGLINE: Bobby Cannavale plays Max Brandel, a stand-up comedian struggling to co-parent his autistic 10-year-old son Ezra (William Fitzgerald) with ex-wife Jenna (Rose Byrne). Since the divorce Max has spiraled, his once thriving career is in tatters. When he isn’t on stage oversharing about his personal life, he’s living with father Stan (Robert De Niro), a plain-spoken man, nicknamed Pop Pop, who Max barely tolerates. “Pop Pop,” says Max, “that’s appropriate. He’s like two gunshots, one to the head, one to the heart.”
When a doctor suggests treating Ezra’s impulsive behavior with medication and special schooling, Max uses an audition for a spot on “Jimmy Kimmel Live!” as an excuse to take Ezra, without Janna’s permission, on a cross-country road trip from New York to Los Angeles.
“I don’t want him in his own world,” Max says. “I want him in this world!”
CAST: Bobby Cannavale, Rose Byrne, Robert De Niro, Rainn Wilson, Vera Farmiga, Whoopi Goldberg, Jimmy Kimmel, Tony Goldwyn (who also directs).
REVIEW: This fractured family story, while episodic in nature, is bolstered by two stand-out lead performances and a strong supporting cast. Fitzgerald, who is neurodivergent, delivers natural work without the precociousness that sometimes mars the performances of younger actors.
As Max, a jittery comic with a short fuse and a big heart, Cannavale hands in career best work that both captures the cadences of a seasoned stand-up and the desperation of a loving father who makes bad decisions.
Together, their work feels honest and raw, a perfect match with the film’s weather-beaten tone.
Outside the main performances, the movie thrives off the small details. The way Vera Farmiga, as Max’s childhood friend, greets him after not seeing him for years, is all warmth and cuddles. Byrne’s gentle interactions with Ezra provide welcome tender moments, even when she is faced with the difficult decisions surrounding the institutionalization of her son.
Less effective is the story’s tendency toward emotional exploitation. The film’s road trip may be its liveliest portion, but as it winds through to its conclusion in Kimmel’s studio, screenwriter Tony Spiridakis and director Goldwyn, unleash a cascade of emotionality that threatens to wash away the more interesting, perceptive family drama that came before.
The result is a somewhat manipulative, but heartfelt look at the extremes parents will go to get the best for their children.
Ambitious, audacious and just a little messy, “Origin,” the new film from director Ava DuVernay, now playing in theatres, is a study of the caste system told through the lens of a writer played by Aunjanue Ellis-Taylor. Part biography, part intellectual journey, it mixes the emotional with the academic.
Ellis-Taylor is bestselling author Isabel Wilkerson, who, in real life is the first woman of African-American heritage to win the Pulitzer Prize in journalism. Happily married to Brett (Jon Bernthal), she is considering taking some time off writing and lecturing to look after her aging and ailing mother.
But tragedy and her restless intellectual curiosity push her into exploring how the unspoken caste system has shaped America, and how people are still classified to this day by a pecking order of human classifications. To that end she travels the world and history, making stops in the American South, Berlin, and India to study which groups of people have power, and which do not.
Based on Wilkerson life and the writing of the book “Caste: The Origins of Our Discontents,” “Origin” is narrative film that feels stuck between two worlds. The blend of Wilkerson’s biography, mixed with dramatic re-creations of the historical events that feed into her research, is a mix of personal and the political, but it seems as if the film is trying to decide if it is a narrative or a documentary.
Still, the choppy presentation is chock full of thought-provoking ideas. DuVernay, who also wrote the script, crafts a unique movie about connectivity, one that isn’t afraid to swing for the fences. As the film skips through world history and Wilkerson’s life, a portrait of systemic subjugation eventually comes into focus, against a backdrop of personal loss. The film’s two prongs don’t feel like a natural fit, but Ellis-Taylor’s rock-solid performance anchors the film, providing a bridge between the emotional and intellectual.
“Origin” is an interesting movie, one that bristles with the spirit of discovery, but sometimes gets allows lucidity to get lost in its execution.
“The Many Saints of Newark,” the sprawling big-screen prequel to the iconic television series “The Sopranos,” feels more like a pilot for a new show than the origin story of one of television’s most famous families.
Broken into three parts, “The Many Saints of Newark,” uses narration, courtesy of Tony Soprano’s late associate Christopher Moltisanti (Michael Imperioli), to break down the movie’s interconnected story shards.
Firstly, there is Dickie Moltisanti (Alessandro Nivola), Soprano Family soldier, father of Christopher, cousin to Carmela Soprano, uncle to Tony. He’s hooked up, wily and impulsive but also treacherous. When his father, the slick sociopath ‘Hollywood Dick’ (Ray Liotta), returns from Italy with a new bride (Michela De Rossi), it triggers chaos in the Moltisanti family.
In Dickie’s orbit is Harold McBrayer (Leslie Odom Jr.), an African-American numbers runner for the Mob, galvanized by the 1967 Newark race riots to go out on his own and, finally, Tony Soprano, played by William Ludwig as a youngster, Michael Gandolfini, the late James Gandolfini’s son, as a teenager. As Dickie’s thirst for power spins out of control, he becomes a surrogate father to Tony, hoping to pass along something good to the impressionable younger man as a way to atone for his sins.
“The Many Saints of Newark” is vivid in its portrayal of the period. Covering roughly four years, from 1967 to 1971, it uses the turmoil of that time in American life as a backdrop for the explosive nature of Dickie’s world. That atmosphere of uncertainty makes up for a story that, despite some glorious moments, often feels rushed as it careens toward an ending that doesn’t mine the rich psychological landscape of these characters, which is what we expect from David Chase and “The Sopranos.”
The actors are game.
Nivola brings equal parts charisma, danger and depth to a flawed character who is the ringmaster to the action. Unlike many of the other characters, like the conniving Junior Soprano (Corey Stoll), henchman Paulie Walnuts (Blly Magnussen) or consigliere Silvio Dante (John Magaro), who come with eighty-six episodes of baggage, Dickie is new and can be viewed through fresh eyes.
Michael Gandolfini takes on the Herculean task of revisiting a character his father made one of the most famous in television history and brings it home by showcasing the character’s volatility and, more importantly, his vulnerability. He’s a troubled kid, on the edge of turning one way or the other, and even though we know how the story goes, Gandolfini’s performance suggests there is more to know about Tony Soprano.
If there is a complaint, it’s that both Tony and McBrayer, two of the main cogs that keep this engine running, get lost in “The Many Saints of Newark’s” elaborate plotting. Ditto for the female characters. Despite tremendous work from Vera Farmiga as Tony’s poisonous mother Livia and De Rossi as Dickie’s step-mom, the women often feel peripheral to the tale, in service only to the men’s stories.
“The Many Saints of Newark” brings with it high expectations but falls short of coming close to the greatness of its source material. “The Sopranos” broke new ground, changing the way gangster stories (and all sorts of other stories) were told on television. “The Many Saints of Newark” settles for less as an exercise in nostalgia.
Eight movies into “The Conjuring” franchise the ghostbusting Warrens, Ed and Lorraine, played by Patrick Wilson and Vera Farmiga, face their most daunting adversary yet. They’ve battled evil in the form of haunted houses, supernatural spirits and a nasty doll named Annabelle, but in “The Conjuring: The Devil Made Me Do It,” now playing in theatres, the married demonologists investigate a murder and a suspect who claims the devil made him do it.
Set in 1981 Connecticut, “The Devil Made Me Do It” is based on the trial of Arne Cheyenne Johnson, the first case to attempt a defense claim of demonic possession.
The movie begins with a priest and the Warrens performing an exorcism on eight-year-old David Glatzel (Julian Hilliard) that would give Regan MacNeil a run for her money. As all hell breaks loose, the demon leaves the youngster’s body and, after Arne Johnson (Ruairi O’Connor), the boyfriend of David’s sister taunts it, takes control of the older man. “Leave him alone!” Arne says to the demon. “He’s just a little boy you coward! Leave him alone and take me!”
Soon Arne’s behaviour changes and when he stabs his landlord twenty-two times, the Warrens set out to prove he is not guilty by reason of demonic possession. “The court accepts the existence of God every time a witness swears to tell the truth,” Ed says. “I think it’s about time they accept the existence of the Devil.”
When Arne is charged in a Death penalty case, the Warrens spring into action to prove his innocence. “We won’t let him down,” Ed says. As the couple work to discover what is real and what is not, the case presents ever increasing personal danger.
“The Devil Made Me Do It” is more a procedural prompted by Arne’s actions than Arne’s story. He disappears for forty-five minutes or so as the Warrens decipher the mystery surrounding his crime. Director Michael Chaves keeps up the atmosphere of dread with a series of well-executed lighting effects, jump scares and eerie sound cues but, while he delivers some shocks, he knows that the real reason the “Conjuring” movies work is the relationship between Wilson and Farmiga. As the Warrens they are the earthbound anchor who add humanity to the supernatural goings on.
Sure, there is a devilish waterbed—anyone who grew up in the 70s and 80s already knew waterbeds were bad, but the movie makes a convincing case for them as evil as well—and lots of Satanic Panic, but “The Devil Made Me Do It” isn’t all pentagrams and inverted crosses. It flags in the midsection, but by the time the end credits roll the relationship between the demon hunters is front and centre, a testament to the power of love. It may be a cliché but it adds some light to the film’s dark elements and gives Wilson and Farmiga some nice character-building moments.
The Warrens are unlikely horror heroes, but “The Devil Made Me Do It” proves you don’t have to be creepy to deliver the thrills.
Toys rule at the box office these days. “Toy Story 4” and “Child’s Play” made big bank last weekend. This week marks the return of Annabelle, the $1 billion devil dolly. The wickedest toy since Chucky she’s the creepy, glassy-eyed star of “The Conjuring” prequels.
On screen Annabelle, an old-fashioned doll possessed by evil spirits, has raised all manner of havoc. Before she was captured by “self-described “demonologists, ghost hunters and kooks” Ed and Lorraine Warren (Patrick Wilson and Vera Farmiga) she terrorized orphans and haunted children. “The doll,” says Lorraine, “is a beacon for other spirits.”
To keep the world safe from the demonic doll the Warrens stored her in a glass box at their Occult Museum (a basement that looks like a prop warehouse run by Bella Lugosi) in Connecticut. There she is controlled by chapel glass from an old church blessed by a priest to prevent her from causing any more trouble. But what happens if the spell wears off?
In “Annabelle Comes Home” a babysitter’s (Madison Iseman) snooping friend (Katie Sarife) upsets the spiritual balance of the museum, allowing the artefacts to do what they’re meant to do, cause trouble. Now everyone in the house, including the Warrens’ ten-year-old daughter, Judy (McKenna Grace), is a target of evil. “Annabelle. She’s doing all this,” says Judy. “She wants a soul today.”
As with all other “Conjuring” universe movies “Annabelle Come Home” takes its sweet time building an atmosphere of dread to leave you queasy and uneasy. For much of the running time the weirdest thing that happens is an invisible, ghostly hand breaking a glass of milk and starting the stereo. There are jump scares but they don’t deliver much of a payoff. Nothing is singularly shocking, it’s more the cumulative effect of evil versus innocence that disturbs. Director Gary Dauberman knows that the long game, the gradual reveal of evil, complete with the old-school now-you-see-them-now-you-don’t-theatrics, is creepier than overt scares.
“Annabelle Comes Home” works because it creates a mini universe with its own set of rules and God help you if you break them. Best of all it’s an old-fashioned film that doesn’t rely on gore to sell the thrills. Instead there’s lots of laboured breathing, wide eyed disbelief, low-fi drive-in thrills and characters you want to survive.
If Blue Öyster Cult were to write the hit song “Godzilla” today they’d have to change the lyrics. In 1977 they sang, “Oh, no, there goes Tokyo.” Today the prehistoric sea monster has expanded his worldview beyond Asia and is now concerned with the entire planet.
The action in “Godzilla: King of the Monsters” begins when paleo-biologist Dr. Emma Russell (Vera Farmiga) and her daughter Madison (Millie Bobby Brown) are kidnapped by terrorists. What would these bad people want with this Emma and Madison? Turns out Emma belongs to the crypto-zoological agency Monarch, a scientific watchdog group who study the Titans, creatures long believed to be myths. Along with her ex-husband Dr. Mark Russell (Kyle Chandler) Emma invented “the Orca,” a device that allows communication with these mysterious beasts. More importantly, for the bad guys at least, it can also “control them using their bioacoustics on a sonar level.”
As reluctant hero Mark teams with Dr. Serizawa (Ken Watanabe) and Dr. Graham (Sally Hawkins) to save Emma and Madison from the kidnappers the Titans, Mothra, Rodan, the three-headed King Ghidorah and others, rise, threatening to destroy the earth. It’s the ultimate clash of the Titans as Godzilla (who now appears to have a beer belly) stomps in to level the playing field. Cue the Blue Öyster Cult: “Go, go, Godzilla (yeah).”
“Godzilla: King of the Monsters” is a remarkable achievement. It’s one of the most incomprehensible movies in the “Godzilla” franchise and that is really saying something. This story of restoring harmony to the world by releasing these angry monsters is pure codswallop and remember, this is the series that once devoted an entire movie to the king of the monsters teaching his dim-witted son how to how to control his atomic breath.
I’ll start with the script, and I only call it that because it contains words and was presumably written by people and not some kind of Kaiju-Auto-Cliché generating device. Ripe with pop psychology (“Moments of crisis can become moments of faith.” #Deep), horrible dialogue (“We’ve opened Pandora’s Box and there is no closing it!” #howmanytimeshaveweheardthat?) and several big emotional moments you won’t care about because the characters are walking, talking b-movie stereotypes, the movie is as clumsy as the script is dumb.
But you don’t go to a Godzilla movie for the human content; you go to see Titans battling it out and on that score “Godzilla: King of the Monsters” delivers. Unlike the 2014 Gareth Edwards reboot the new film wastes no time in introducing the radioactive monsters. We then sit through a bunch of pseudo-scientific pontification until the main event, the cage match between G-zil and his three-headed foe. In those moments the film improves, mostly because these characters don’t spout endless exposition about saving the world. They simply fight. It’s WrestleMania with fire-breathers and when they’re wreaking havoc it’s a good, fist-pumping time.
“Godzilla: King of the Monsters” is in 3D—Death, Destruction and Decibels—and has a certain kind of cheesy appeal. Watching the cast of good international actors try and play it straight as they muddle through the nonsense leading up to the climax is fun for a short time but next time I hope we get more actual monsters and less monstrous scripting.
“The Front Runner” is a story of scandal that destroyed a man’s public life in 1988 that seems almost genteel given the tone of today’s politics. Four years after Gary Hart (Hugh Jackman) lost the Democratic leadership convention to Walter Mondale he entered the presidential race with a giant lead. He was the front-runner. Three weeks later it was over.
By 1988 Gary Hart had served in the United States Senate for thirteen years. A intellectual, he sought to reignite the Democratic party, a group experiencing a slump in popularity and in ideology. His was a campaign of ideas with one of his managers marvelling at the candidate’s gift of untangling the bull**** of politics.” Unlike his opponents, however, he didn’t like to smile for photos like “some sort of game show host.” “If I pose for photos what’s next,” he wonders, “a swimsuit competition?” Discussing his personal life, says one of his aides, is not in his comfort zone and yet it was his personal life that torpedoed his chance at the White House.
His undoing came in the form of Donna Rice (Sara Paxton), a woman who wanted to work on the campaign and ended up in an extra marital affair with Hart, who was then married to Lee (Vera Farmiga). “I wanted to work for Senator Hart,” she says. “I liked his positions.” The press picked up on the story, partially in response to Hart’s dare, “Follow me around. Put a tail on me. You’ll be very bored,” and partially because it dented his family values image.
Despite the media circus that followed Hart refuses to be contrite. “The public won’t care,” he says and “the press will not earn the dignity of my response.” By the time Johnny Carson cracked jokes about it on the Tonight Show the campaign was over.
“The Front Runner” is a straightforward retelling of the twenty-one days leading up to Hart’s withdrawal from the presidential race. What it does best is create the environment surrounding Hart. From the fast-and-furious pace of a campaign in full gallop and the dark humour of a newsroom to the inner-workings of a smear campaign and the anxiety-inducing clickety-click of the still cameras at Hart’s final press conference, the film’s most interesting element is it’s atmosphere. There are some fun performances, particularly from J. K. Simmons as Hart’s blunt talking campaign manager Bill Dixon, but the problem lies with Hart himself. He’s a bit of a cypher, highbrow yet bland; the film never gives us a reason to care about him or the mess he gets himself into.
In its final moments, however, “The Front Runner” finally indulges in some subtext, courtesy of direct quotes from Hart’s withdrawal speech.
“Politics in this country,” he says, “take it from me – is on the verge of becoming another form of athletic competition or sporting match. We all better do something to make this system work or we’re all going to be soon rephrasing Jefferson to say: I tremble for my country when I think we may, in fact, get the kind of leaders we deserve.”
The words are thirty years old and yet sound as though they were written yesterday. Perhaps if director Jason Reitman had followed Hart’s lead and focussed more on the ideas and less on the scandal “The Front Runner” might have had more impact.
The trouble with making a feel good movie about a scoundrel is twofold. Either the scoundrel is neutered, which makes them less interesting, or remains a scoundrel, which complicates the feel good vibe. “Boundaries,” a new film starring Vera Farmiga and Christopher Plummer, tries to have it both ways and ends up in the mushy middle.
Farmiga is Laura, a single mom with son Henry (Lewis MacDougall), a house full of rescued animals and daddy issues. “I’m so messed up I can’t even tell my therapist everything,” she says. She’s been working at setting up boundaries with her father Jack—when he calls the name display reads, “Don’t Pick Up!”—but when he gets kicked out of his nursing home due to his “unorthodox“—i.e. “illegal”—ways of making money she agrees to help him by driving him to Los Angeles to live with his other daughter Jojo (Kristen Schaal).
The formerly estranged father and daughter, along with Henry and a backseat full of stray dogs set out for what should be an uneventful trip. Trouble is, Jack is the above-mentioned scoundrel and a drug dealer who fills the trunk with $200,000 of marijuana he plans on selling along the way. When he isn’t dealing they detour to visit old friends, like Stanley (Christopher Lloyd), a nudist art forger and other ghosts from Jack and Laura’s past. As dad gets up to his old tricks Laura sees a different side of the man she thought she knew. But can he really change or is her ex-husband Leonard (Bobby Cannavale) right when he says, “An elephant will always be an elephant. He will never be a monkey.”
“Boundaries” has a fine cast trapped by a conventional script.
Farmiga battles through the family dramedy clichés to portray Laura as vulnerable and protective, a woman who has filled the hole in her heart with her stray animals and a fierce love of her Henry.
MacDougall is strong as a troubled youth who, when he isn’t drawing nude portraits of his friends and teachers to reveal their true souls, is caught up in the adventure of getting to know his untraditional grandfather.
It is Plummer, however, who brings the charm. He’s likely too old to be playing Farmiga’s father but his trademarked twinkle shines through. When Laura says, “You make people fall in love with you and then you leave,” she sums up both Jack’s appeal and his selfishness. Plummer, at 88, is a formidable actor whose mere presence elevates this Cliché-A-Thon from “Old Codger on a Road Trip Part XXII” to “Skilful Actor Transcending the Material.” It’s a terrific performance that nonetheless rings hollow. Jack is a man who only ever cared about himself, who abandoned his family and calls his relationship with Henry “a temporary situation,” and is the square peg rammed into this round hole of a feel good story.
In movies like “Boundaries” (MILD SPOILER!!) everyone gets a happy ending but Jack would have been more interesting if writer-director Shana Feste had allowed the scoundrel to remain a scoundrel.
Last year Liam Neeson announced his retirement from action films. “Guys I’m sixty-f******-five.’ Audiences are eventually going to go: ‘Come on!'” Then, just months later, he had a change of heart. ““It’s not true, look at me! You’re talking in the past tense. I’m going to be doing action movies until they bury me in the ground. I’m unretired.”
At an age when most action stars are staying home soaking in vats of Voltaren Neeson continues his tough guy ways in this weekend’s action thriller The Commuter. He plays an everyman caught up in a race-against-the-clock criminal conspiracy on his train trip home from work. Expect a mix of blue-collar action and Hitchcock’s Strangers on a Train.
It’s a perfect companion to the movies Neeson has made since his actionman breakout role. It all began with Taken in 2008. He played Brian Mills a former “preventer” for the US government who contained volatile situations before they got out of control. Now retired, when his seventeen-year-old daughter is kidnapped by a child slavery ring he has only 96 hours to use his “particular set of skills” to get her back.
He admits to being, “a tiny bit embarrassed by it,” but his burly build and trademarked steely glare made him an action star.
“Believe it or not, I have even had Arnold Schwarzenegger and Bruce Willis calling my agent saying, ‘How do I get these scripts?’” he said on his sixtieth birthday.
Audiences ate up his rough and tumble work. His habit of paying the rent with chest-beaters like the Taken films, Battleship, Unknown and The A-Team led one macho movie fan to post this on Facebook:
“After watching the movie The Grey, I can only come to the (very logical) conclusion that Liam Neeson should be King of the Earth. Who’s better than Liam Neeson? Nobody. That’s who. Nobody.”
But there was a time when a kinder, gentler Neeson graced the screen.
His first film, 1977s Pilgrim’s Progress, was so low budget he played several characters. He’s credited as the Evangelist, a main character in John Bunyan’s Christian allegory, but can also be seen subbing in as the crucified Jesus Christ.
It was another supporting role in a movie called Shining Through that led to his breakthrough. In it he plays a Nazi party official opposite Michael Douglas. The performance so impressed Steven Spielberg he cast Neeson as Oskar Schindler in Schindler’s List, which turned him into an Oscar-nominated star.
He parlayed that fame into starring roles in period pieces like Rob Roy, Michael Collins (at the age of 43 Neeson was 12 years older than the real-life Michael Collins when he died) and Les Misérables. Then comedies Breakfast on Pluto and High Spirits showcased his more amiable side.
High on the list of his mild-mannered roles are two films with Laura Linney. He’s worked with her so often on stage and in the movies they joke they feel like “an old married couple.” They’re part of the ensemble cast of Love Actually and play husband and wife in Kinsey, about America’s leading sexologist Alfred Kinsey.
Neeson, it seems, can portray almost anything on screen but claims he doesn’t give acting much thought. “I don’t analyse it too much. It’s like a dog smelling where it’s going to do its toilet in the morning.”
