Bewertungen

Whether or not you believe the hype around Oz Perkins' Longlegs, you should appreciate that it's happening. Like I said about the chatter around last year's Talk to Me, 'tis a sign of better times that this much of the summer movie buzz revolves around a low-budget horror film -- complete with memes wherein people with long legs pull up to buy tickets. (2024 is an especially horror-heavy year.)

Be that as it may, I understand if people find the hype obnoxious. I get it. The early reviews sound more like advertisements than assessments, and the promises of the most terrifying movie of the year seem fatuous when we just had another "most terrifying movie of the year" in the form of The First Omen.

Still, the praise is largely on point. Longlegs truly is a film that seems to radiate evil -- reminding us that it "exists everywhere" as numerous reviewers put it. The film is transfixingly doom-laden and unnerving -- though not as free from jumpscares as I was led to believe -- and while I understand it isn't entirely original (I've read that the plot roughly mirrors that of Kyoshi Kurosawa's Cure, unseen by me), it achieves a vibe that is entirely its own.

What none of you had told me was that the film is also pretty damn hilarious. If you're looking for a Nicolas Cage performance that is hysterical and disturbing in equal measure, Longlegs is for you.

In the eponymous role of a Satan-worshipping serial killer with an algorithmic method to his madness, he gives his best performance since Mandy -- hopefully awakening those who only know him as a "meme" actor or "guy who says yes to all kinds of direct-to-video shlock" instead of the powerful force he is.

As Ebert once elucidated, "he's daring and fearless in his choice of roles, and unafraid to crawl out on a limb, saw it off and remain suspended in air. No one else can project inner trembling so effectively." I'm prepared to argue that his performance in Longlegs best reflects this sentiment. Yes, he does a lot of phoned-in DVD trash, but we all have bills to pay.

Meanwhile, Alicia Witt and Maika Monroe need to be in the Scream Queen Hall of Fame, supposing they aren't already recognized as such. However, sometimes the delivery doesn't land and/or plays rather awkwardly in a way that doesn't seem intentional, and this isn't my only problem with the film.

For all the impressively disturbing sequences and the "evil" energy that rivals that of The First Omen, the movie goes for the cheap scares numerous times. At one point, the special-agent protagonists come across a mannequin that may have supernatural qualities. It contains an orb that gives off some sort of strange signal (not dissimilar from something the police offers on Twin Peaks may discover) but more importantly, it seems to have been programmed to produce a scare chord when it opens its eyes a little bit. The movie has some well-execute pop scares too, but oftentimes, we can see the "BOO!" moment coming, which is unfortunate when the rest of the movie is so effective.

So is it the best horror movie of 2024? Not really. I'd say I Saw the TV Glow probably holds that honor right now; even then, my most trusted sources indicate that Coralie Fargeat's The Substance may change my mind on that by the end of the year. In my view, the most disappointing thing about Longlegs, vs other 2024 horror films, is that it didn't give us the same meltdown amongst the "Satanic Panic" Karens and Christian homeschoolers as Immaculate did.

Using Batman characters and various other Gotham City-related namedrops (within the realm of Fair Use, of course; this is decidedly not an official DC release) to tell the story of a trans awakening and trans visibility, Vera Drew's The People's Joker is a mostly funny movie that also somehow works whenever it is unfunny.

Reviewers are not unjustified to use the term "Adult Swim coded". This rings true of the cast (Tim Heidecker and David Liebe Hart appear), the sometimes deliberately awkward acting, and the general quality of the effects, with CGI shots that look like something you would see in the days of M. Dot Strange and Jimmy ScreamerClauz. But the artist that this film truly lauds is Joel Schumacher; the film is dedicated to his memory (alongside Drew's mother) and sometimes recalls his mostly reviled Batman films -- the ones that the Internet tastemakers of the late 2000s called some of the worst pictures ever made.

Video essayist Kyle Kallgren argued that most of the stuff that the Internet has categorized as "cringe" can be reduced to queer expression; a way to bully queerness for simply expressing itself in ways that we're not used to. The People's Joker, in Kallgren's words, has "defeated cringe". In doing so, I guess, it also suggests that any problems Gen X/Gen Y nerds may have had with Batman & Robin is really a matter of not understanding a queer way of making art. (Recall that the film was released in the same era when the mere mention of trans people was typically a lead-in to a vomit joke.) Well, they understood that the shots of Clooney's leather-clad keister may have been put in because that's the sort of image Schumacher enjoys, but calling Batman & Robin "gay" as an insult isn't to understand why it looks, sounds, and feels the way it does.

What I'll tell you for certain is that The People's Joker is a highly entertaining ride with plenty of personality and wit. A mutual on Twitter argued that its color schemes, occasional "old television" aesthetics, and trans themes make it fit for a double bill with I Saw the TV Glow, but I'm not sure if the tonal shifts of such a movie night would work for everyone. You do you.

The Jared Leto-fication of cinema is real, dear readers. Truth be told, it was destined to befall poor Eric Draven eventually.

It's a beautifully poetic thing (appropriate for an IP that draws on the works of Poe): In 1994, we had The Crow, based on the similarly titled comic and released in the same "Gothic boom" that also included the Addams Family films and the early works of Burton. It is a bona fide cult classic that would inspire subsequent adaptations of Daredevil as well as Batman (certain lines of dialogue from both 2022's The Batman and Nolan's Dark Knight trilogy recall key moments in The Crow). And now we have this reboot, where Bill Skarsgård does for Eric Draven what Leto in Suicide Squad did for The Joker. I almost admire the restraint in not adding a forehead tag that reads "vengeful" to his collection of edgy tattoos, but the one that says "Good boy" with the "Good" crossed out is arguably even funnier.

Of course, the 1994 Crow is especially notorious for its production accident where star Brandon Lee lost his life before the picture was complete, which amplified the tragedy already found in the source material. Matt Zoller Seitz wrote something similar, while noting how the film had to embrace its dark aesthetics all the more to hide Lee's body doubles: "The result was a death-haunted film in more ways than one."

In short, that isn't what we got here. The remake takes the story of two lovers murdered on Devil's Night -- originally penned by James O'Barr as he was processing the death of his own girlfriend -- and makes it more about cool action scenes and glorious revenge than grief. There was certainly "cool" action and "cool" images in the first movie, but there was something more behind them, and I don't just mean the iconic rock soundtrack.

In the 1994 film, the romance is also seen in fragments (through flashbacks) and largely left to the imagination, but Lee's performance sold the tragedy of lost love; we can believe that these two were madly in love when they both lived. Here, we see Draven and Shelly Webster's past in more detail and somehow witness less chemistry.

They're made to be trashy in a way that plays as if it's meant to be cool/sexy and the nature of Draven's resurrection similarly tells us too much; instead of the vagueness and mystique of the original, there's a whole new character who decides to bring Draven back from the grave to have him go kill an ostensibly immortal man (he sold his soul to Satan for eternal life), in exchange for sparing Shelly from the pits of Hell. Okay.

As for Bill Skarsgård, I'm sad to say this is a pretty bad performance from him. I didn't wholly disagree with the casting choice. He may not look intimidating at the outset but "his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming". You must understand that as a Swede, I am distraught to see a good Skarsgård go to waste. (The best part about the aforementioned flashbacks, however, is that FKA Twigs' absolutely atrocious acting distracts from that of Skarsgård.) He's certainly a better pick than some of the other talents that have been considered across the film's long and complicated development history, starting with Mark Wahlberg of all people back in the late naughties when Stephen Norrington (Blade; Death Machine) was slated to write and direct.

Since then, the project has been attached to all kinds of writers and directors, and various different actors have been "confirmed" -- and then un-confirmed -- as Draven, including Luke Evans and Jason Momoa. (No Chris Pratt, surprisingly.) Between the terrible acting, baffling plotting (at points, entire scenes and bits of connective tissue seem to have been edited out), and various Hot Topic cringe, mayhaps this particular franchise should've been left to rest.

Basically, I'd advise you to stay far away from this one. If you want to see O'Barr's story done right, see the Brandon Lee-Alex Proyas film. If you wish to see a proper celebration of Poe on the screen, rewatch The Fall of the House of Usher on Netflix -- or even that one mediocre Raven movie we got from the guy who directed V For Vendetta. Anything beats this.

In the eternal Marvel vs. DC debate, I find that DC keeps winning in terms of variety -- even if this doesn't always translate to financial success.

It's a tale as old as time, really. Just as the classic Warner Bros cartoons always seemed a little more daring than those of Disney, we now have Warner/DC giving us hyper-violent and stylized superhero media of the kind that Disney/Marvel would never do. (Even their recent Deadpool & Wolverine, which did seem to save the summer movie season, wasn't as out-there as some of Deadpool's best outings.)

If Disney were to make a show like this, the best we could hope for is another What If...? (maybe an X-Men '97 if we're lucky). No way we'd be getting an Isekai anime full of zany gore, gorgeously hand-drawn imagery, or villain protagonists that actually remain pretty nasty.

It's far from a perfect show, though. The CGI backgrounds are astonishingly janky at times and certain fights move too slowly, but the drawings and Mamoru Oshii-inspired interludes are things of beauty.

As Suicide Squad titles go, it doesn't live up to the chemistry, energy, and humor we get from these characters in the 2021 movie or even the Harley Quinn show. As Isekai anime goes, I'm told by aficionados that it's pretty unspecial in that regard too. At some points, it almost feels like the creator really just wanted to make an Isekai fantasy show but had to find a way to work in the Suicide Squad so as to make it more marketable; the plot involves them being sent into an alternate dimension full of knights and goblins where there's a whole other story taking place.

So yeah, I think the show is pretty middle-of-the-road. The rest of you can put this one in the "maybe" pile.

I've accused both the Zack Snyder adaptation and the HBO continuation of Alan Moore's Watchmen of missing the point. You may be wondering what exactly it is I'm looking for. The answer is nothing. Pretty much any attempt to adapt this novel is to miss the point (although some adaptations miss the point more than others by trying to make Moore's characters, which serve the argument that IRL masked crimefighters would be a piteous bunch, into legitimately "cool" heroes).

Its cinematic presentation was remarkable precisely because it was a graphic novel -- with angles, match cuts, and "shots" that aren't as striking when they're in, well, an actual film. Moreover, the comic book format was thematically relevant; it allowed you to spend any amount of time on a given page and read the panels in any order you please even as the ending remains the same, not unlike the way the godlike, ultra-powerful nudist Dr. Manhattan perceives time.

Watchmen Chapter 1 translates the intent of the images instead of just their basic appearance -- meaning it's better than the Snyder film in that regard -- but the What If...?-esque cel-shading makes them less than stellar to look at. They're too expressionless to convey either the tragedy of the panels or the "omg so cool and sexy"-ness of Snyder. Even when the images are successful/potent, they're never as creative or purposeful with the colors and framing as Dave Gibbons' artworks.

Last but not least is the voice work, which is good, but as a gigantic fan of the source material, it's hard not to imagine how you "want" these voices to sound.

I know this sort of thing doesn't make a film worse, but this is the kind of movie that you're not gonna watch unless you are, indeed, a gigantic fan of the source material (and likely have those same nitpicks while viewing it). I never got the impression that this film was aiming to introduce new fans to the IP; too many key moments are breezed past. (To put things in perspective: This one crams in more elements from the novel than even the Ultimate Cut of Snyder's Watchmen, yet the full two-parter will be shorter than that film.)

Borderlands isn't just the epitome of the "failed video game adaptation". It isn't just a return to bad form for the subgenre that recently gave us bangers like Arcane, Fallout, and The Last of Us (although, perhaps the key is to adapt video games for episodic TV and not feature films?). It is also a logical conclusion to what mainstream movies have looked like for the past decade or so.

Ever since the heyday of the MCU, too many sci-fi/action films have tried to ape the things fanboys liked about it -- without fully understanding why those things were liked:

The quips and sarcasm of Joss Whedon's dialogue without the voice he gave to each character; the silliness of James Gunn's teams of misfits without their humanity. It was all leading to this. If you've seen those TikTok videos that make fun of "MCU writing", you have seen Borderlands.

As is often the case with video game movies, I know nothing about the source material -- save for the fact that there's a character called Handsome Jack that people think looks kind of like me if I were in shape. Because of this, I initially didn't want to see the film; I was intrigued by the promises of a disaster, yes, but I figured most of the offensiveness stemmed from being "too different" from the game or failing to live up to its visuals and characters.

Ultimately, however, I decided to join in the fun. I always think it's beautiful when so many people come together in shared hatred for something so, yeah, I saw it. It's irritating, predictable, disorienting, and so much else in addition to how it might fail as an adaptation.

None of this is for lack of a star-studded cast. The film features Jamie Lee Curtis, Kevin Hart, and Jack Black as the voice of the (apparently) beloved robot sidekick Claptrap. Oh, and Cate Blanchett -- which makes the ending of TÁR even better, in a way.

Sadly, none of these actors seem to think this is anything more than a paycheck (it isn't), and while I can't speak to the appropriateness of the casting vis-a-vis the characters from the game, few of the actors seem like they belong/feel comfortable in these costumes or this setting. This isn't a lived-in world. It's people cosplaying in front of greenscreens. The action isn't much better; we can't make much sense of where everyone/everything is in relation to each other.

The good news is that, from what we can tell, nothing has been butchered by the notorious reshoots. Borderlands was always junk. It's just a messier piece of junk than it could've been.

Is it bad enough to watch with friends for fun? Eh, maybe if you're aware of the games and, by extension, how badly -- hilariously -- they've botched the characters and world-building (I'm told it's a lot; Brian Tallerico wrote in his review that the original games suggest "Mel Brooks meets George Miller" and... yeah, can't say that's the vibe I got from the film). Or maybe that's no fun either. Ignorance truly seems to be bliss at a time like this.

The nicest thing I could say to wrap up this review is that Borderlands technically gave me just about what I had hoped for. I still think the best bad movie of the year is Lumina and that the most fascinating dumpster fire is still Madame Web but all-in-all, it's been a good year for crap. I haven't even gotten to the new Neil Breen movie or the remake of The Crow yet.

Alien: Romulus was one of the most anticipated films of the summer and, from what I could glean when I read the reviews, one of the most disappointing. Cinephiles were ready for Ridley Scott to cook with as much sauce as he did when he made Prometheus and Covenant (although the directing duties went to Fede Álvarez for this one) but the early reactions suggested more of a "Member Berry" type movie:

Metaplex's Brendan Hodges argued that it's the first Alien movie to not be "about" anything other than the fact that it's an Alien film. In similar terms, David Ehrlich wrote that it's "about nothing more than the corporate grotesqueries of its own existence". Not the best sign, to say the least.

I even saw people compare it unfavorably to 1997's baffling Alien: Resurrection (citing superior setpieces). I've seen haters AND lovers compare it to Rogue One: A Star Wars Story. Having seen it, I can tell you that it resembles Rogue One in one particular and quite disgusting respect. I might be giving too much away if I say that another movie that comes to mind is 2023's execrable The Flash but f-ck it.

However, I can't say I was all too disappointed per se. The only things I had high hopes for were the practical effects and costumes, which are all first-rate -- even more impressive than the Predator suit in 2022's Prey.

The movie also delivers in terms of goo, blood, and, occasionally, artful camera work (although none of it is ever as potent as in the previous films; neither the gore nor the cinematography). Unfortunately, it is very much the Alien series' equivalent of, well, all these other movies that try to win favor by reminding you which franchise they're in and also how much you love said franchise.

The characters and story aren't worth mentioning. That's not why you're here. Even if it is, the movie doesn't think that that's why you're here. The characters exist to spout references and die by extraterrestrial dick-mouth. The actors fail to live up to the cast of any singular previous entry in the series. Sometimes the acting is good, yes, but where are the "presences"? You know, like the presence of Weaver, Fassbender, Henriksen, Paxton, Hurt, or Holm? Note that I mean ACTUAL presence.

The Alien franchise is, at least in part, defined by its distinct characters and character actors. We don't get that here. We get superbly constructed sets and the odd inventive action scene, but other than that, we get very little besides the dreadful realization that nobody gets to rest in peace in modern Hollywood -- neither the characters we no longer need to see nor the actors who once played them. Of all franchises to devolve into incessant key-jangling to get a Pavlovian response out of fanboys, it's a shame it had to happen to Alien, but I suppose it was inevitable. Remember who now owns the company that owns the Alien IP?

I had problems with the previous two films (especially in how Covenant partly felt like a first-movie rehash, which I would've been okay with if that's where the franchise ended, in a "full circle" sort of way, but here we are). That said, a proper conclusion to the so-called "David Trilogy" would doubtless have been more interesting than what we got here. (Another comparison I see in a lot of reviews is that Romulus is to the "David" movies as The Rise of Skywalker is to The Last Jedi.) The origin story of the xenomorphs was never something I really "wanted" to see, but there was indeed more to those films -- those explorations -- than Romulus.

At least most viewers seem to agree that it's better than Alien vs. Predator: Requiem so it has that going for it. Not bad for a human. (See? I can do it too.)

Trap is one of those instances where I agree with the assessment that M. Night Shyamalan is "back". I agreed when it was Split, was split (ha ha) when it was Knock at the Cabin, and I sort of agreed when people said it about Old, but that's because it was nearly The Happening-levels of insane.

In general, the tides seem to have shifted for Shyamalan. He was hailed as a genius back in the days, became a bit of a joke during the 2000s and 2010s, and now, in the Golden Age of "This thing I used to make fun of was actually good all along" -- or perhaps "We didn't know how good we had it when even 'bad' films had a voice and weren't just focus-tested IP slop" -- people not only seem to revere him a lot more, but a lot Film Twitter-ers are particularly testy about people announcing that they dislike his films. It's "passé" to do so, even; something we did when we watched Nostalgia Critic as teenagers.

They'll even pull a "You guys just aren't smart enough to get it" when it comes to stylized dialogue and unconventional blocking. Cinema is always stylized to some degree, you uncultured swine! The dialogue is SUPPOSED to be written weirdly -- just as the acting is "meant" to sound as if the actors are about to fall asleep and the framing of certain scenes is "meant" to look as if the cameraman was never awake. (You never know what you'll find on Film Twitter circa 2024. One thread will call you a TikTok kid for liking Oppenheimer; another a genius for liking Lady in the Water.)

These people have a point, naturally. Film/TV/theater dialogue is seldom ACTUALLY realistic, and in the case of filmmakers like Shyamalan, the dialogue almost always deliberately shoots for the opposite of realism because this complements the off-kilter vibe he's going for. (I say "almost" because even his supposed would-be crowdpleasers, e.g. The Last Airbender, are still quite awkwardly presented, as if to imply that this is what M. Night finds approachable.) "You understand this with Lynch, Lanthimos, Wes Anderson, et al., but not with Shyamalan? Fool!"

While this is true, the question remains if it works. And in the case of Trap, it does work. Much of it, I think, lies with the actors.

In movies like The Happening, where Wahlberg and Deschanel can't seem to deliver the lines the way lines like that need to be delivered, it works less well -- and also fails to convince me that this guy indeed knows what he's doing. Shyamalan needs someone like Bautista in Knock at the Cabin, McAvoy in the Split-verse, and now, at last, Josh Hartnett in Trap. (In his case, it also makes sense for the character to not have the most "normal" demeanor or vocabulary.)

Trap also centers around an interesting concept, which isn't new for Shyamalan. The guy can cook up a mean synopsis. The film is set at a pop concert that is actually a trap; an FBI ruse -- that even the singer is in on -- to capture one of the most ruthless serial killers alive, known simply as The Butcher. Hartnett, who is attending the concert with his daughter, is The Butcher. And through a slipup from a merch vendor, he learns about the plan and starts looking for ways to escape.

This is all very entertaining to watch; one wishes the film spent more time at the concert venue than it ultimately does. Hartnett steals the show as a desperate psycho looking for an escape while also, on another level, working as an awkward dad who's just being "regular weird". And of course, being shot by Sayombhu Mukdeeprom (the cinematographer behind Uncle Boonmee and several of Guadagnino's films), Trap is obviously quite beautiful.

It may not be a masterpiece, but you'd be wise to go see it. Whether Shyamalan was always a genius -- even at his most panned -- or if that's just the popular contemporary view until he becomes cool to mock again, he is undoubtedly a filmmaker we need. Whether you think he's a Spielberg or a Wiseau (who's to say Wiseau doesn't just have "stylized dialogue", anyway?), you should agree that it's wonderful that so many eyes are upon such a unique artist.

Hollywood of late has been more stale, predictable, and sauceless than possibly ever before. Thanks to Deadpool & Wolverine (which I didn't think was as vacuous as so many others were saying, but never mind), the summer of 2024 became more slop-dominated than we had hoped (not long after that film made bank, Disney also announced its next line-up of sequels, remakes, and nostalgia-bait castings). Still, the fact that one of the big talking points is Shyamalan, well, I say that's a SIGN of better times. Yes, that was another pun.

Zack Snyder and Netflix weren't kidding. There really is a world of difference between the Rebel Moon director's cuts and the "neutered" variants released back in December and April, respectively. We aren't just getting more blood, sex, and cybernetic boobies; entire characters and vital bits of context had been removed and are now restored, such as the titanic humanoid in Part Two that looks like something we might've seen if Jodorowsky's adaptation of Dune actually got made. (Release the Giger cut!!)

I kept seeing accusations that Snyder and Netflix were trying to manufacture a second #ReleaseTheSnyderCut campaign and so "market" the movies that way -- which would have been weird because the release of the "proper" cuts was never in doubt (nor does Snyder's explanation, that Netflix stipulated that he could only release the R-rated cuts if he released PG-13 versions first, make a ton of sense for a company that usually doesn't hold artists back in this way). Is that what was attempted? Did Netflix genuinely not have faith in the lengthier, hyperviolent cuts? Did Snyder just want to give his fans more movies to watch (as seemed to be his tune when Part One dropped, as in the JoBlo interview where he speaks as if Netflix was always going to let him fire away multiple cuts; not that he HAD to make a PG-13 one first)? I'll leave that for the Twitter fanboys to fight over.

It's inevitable to concede that these "director's cuts" are an improvement upon the original releases (some haters argue that the new versions are worse because they exhibit more of Snyder's edgelord annoyances, but I would have to disagree).

The action scenes go harder (on account of several -- violent -- key shots being restored) and the slo-mo shots tend to have a bit more going on (read: blood and guts), especially in this second part. However, little can be done to salvage such an un-engaging story with such underdeveloped characters -- try as Snyder might to characterize them in ways that, this time, go beyond info dumps where they explain their characterization to us.

The world we see, on top of its visual dinginess, is still senselessly anachronistic and random, but as I said in my review of Part One, I almost find it kind of charming. It really is like watching a bunch of unrelated sci-fi and military toys strewn across the floor, then picked up by Sid from Toy Story to do with as he pleases.

Another season of The Boys, another year where little changes -- and once it does, it's largely contrived. Still, it remains entertaining, and frankly, as hard as its writing is to defend at this point, I'm almost kind of enamored with how dumb it is -- whether we're talking about the cast photos where everyone is flipping the bird to let us know how "edgy" the show is or the current state of its political "commentary".

And I get it. I understand perfectly why the satire at this point is so unsubtle that it occasionally makes Dhar Mann look deep: it's to make it obvious enough to chuds that this isn't "their" show, even to the extent that it "makes fun of both sides" (the show's criticism of performative gestures would often be construed as making fun of the left just as much as the right), that they don't glom onto it the way they did with Homelander and Soldier Boy after Season 3.

Regardless, what you end up with is a pretty dumb season of television but as I said, I was entertained by it, and I'd even go so far as to say that some of the actors are at their absolute best this time around.

Anthony Starr and Karl Urban are sensational, bolstering how perfect the casting is; it's damn near impossible to imagine anyone else in the roles. Less succesful are characters like Hughie (Jack Quaid), seeing as the writers clearly don't know what to do with him anymore; his arc is effectively abandoned halfway through the season and he's put through weird rape scenarios for the remainder of it -- one of which is played for laughs, one of which his beloved Starlight (Erin Moriarty) blames HIM for. (Needless to say, the Starlight-Hughie romance isn't as cute this season.)

But the action is as fun and violent as ever and there is the occasional joke that semi-cleverly lampoons the social media age as it might look in a world where superheroes exist, but it's rare. I've recently learned that Garth Ennis, the author of the original Boys comics, actually loathes superheroes and that there was never a greater point to his writing than "superheroes sure suck".

Therefore, I'd advise you to seek out Invincible (also on Amazon Prime) if you want a deconstruction of the Superman story -- wherein the parallels between a world like Krypton and the paradise envisioned by fascists are emphasized -- that has a little bit more to say, yet also says it more quietly than The Boys does with its Stormfronts and QAnon spoofs. Still, if you want musical numbers and disturbing dick jokes, I guess go with The Boys.

Fly Me to the Moon got a lot of flak pretty early (it was shot down before it even launched, you might say). Its previews and poster designs made critics whip out the "fake movie" label -- the more and more common proclamation that a particular film seems more like an in-universe joke movie from Tropic Thunder or 30 Rock than a real release. (Not that "fake movies" can't become real movies; just look at Machete and Weird: The Al Yankovic Story.)

And of course, the trailer immediately made a splash amongst the tinfoil crowd. (Yes, I'm using yet another article as an excuse to make fun of conspiracy theorists; may Sobek forgive me.) Par for the course, they viewed this film -- a fictive comedy by the guy who wrote Green Lantern -- as an admission from Hollywood that the Moon Landings were faked. It's a lot like how The Simpsons was an acknowledgment that mole people exist because there was a joke about them once (which is to say nothing of the "Stonecutters" in Homer the Great). I don't think they've taken the Avengers films as evidence for the existence of purple aliens that collect magical space gems yet, but I'm presuming that's next.

I'm not sure why Fly Me to the Moon is the film that "finally" owns up to it. What about Operation Avalanche, Matt Johnson's mockumentary that constitutes the "making of" doc of the faked moon landing (and has far cleverer jokes)? Is that not also an admission of guilt? Heck, maybe it actually IS a documentary and Johnson used the Vatican's time travel tech (actual conspiracy theory that real adults believe in) to go back to the 60s and make it?

In this particular version, Channing Tatum plays the guy in charge of the Apollo 11 launch and Scarlett Johansson is the marketing expert hired by NASA to help produce a fake moon landing in case the real attempt fails. A good chunk of the movie, for whatever reason, becomes devoted to a formulaic romance between the two.

This distraction would be the main reason Operation Avalanche is a better version of a similar premise (it is superbly shot, gets legitimately tense, and has plenty of "bonuses" for people who know the details of the Moon Landing Hoax Theory). The romance itself, being about as interesting and romantic as flipping through a magazine full of hot people, may be part of the reason people think this seems more like it should be a skit/gag than an actual movie. (Another reason would be the bland camera work and soullessly "nifty" editing.)

I would definitely agree that Fly Me to the Moon feels more like studio art than, well, art. I think the basic idea could work, though -- and, as I've mentioned, it has.

Was there anything I liked? Well, I'm a sucker for all things Jim Rash and Woody Harrelson, and some of the gags are cute. Alas, much like Leave the World Behind, this is the kind of movie where (partly because it bores me) all I can think about is what it means for conspiracy theorists and the validation they find within it -- even though it isn't really the film's fault. "LOL, you think Armstrong really set foot on the moon?! Then why would Hollywood/NASA literally say they staged it, you moron?!"

The interesting thing is, even if they understood that movies like this are making fun of them instead of sending them not-so-hidden affirmations that they're right, they would STILL think it's evidence. I assessed this same mentality in my 5G Zombies review: "Why would people laugh at my inane dot-connections if they weren't true? Why would people try to refute me if I wasn't on to something? Why would everyone dismiss me as a zombie alarmist if not out of fear for the truth; out of fear of losing their complacent illusion? Surely the fact that most data says I'm wrong, apart from this one 'liberated' podcast and/or blog, is proof that the government is controlling all the sources?" Bravissimo, fellas. I tip my aluminum hat to you.

In a Violent Nature is a swing and a miss, but it is undoubtedly an ambitious and interesting swing. Here is a film that asks, "What if we saw a slasher movie solely from the villain's point of view?"

Take any classic slasher movie -- with all the clichéd characters and the beats they hit as they embark to a secluded place, fool around all young-like, discover they're not alone, and then get picked off one after the other. Now imagine if the focal character was the killer, and we got to see what he was up to in-between those moments; stalking and lumbering about, occasionally glimpsing the victims from afar until he finally reaches them.

I like this idea and, as silly as this may sound, I was even more on board when I learned that the resulting film would be a sort of slow-cinema arthouse joint with about as much dismal promenading as Sátántangó or Gerry. However, the execution fell rather flat and I cannot shake the feeling that a truly defiant masterpiece exists in the editing room.

I had issues with the acting and the awkward direction of certain kills (although the kills themselves are phenomenally creative), and also found it jarring how the film can't decide how audible the victims' dialogue should be: Sometimes they sound as if they're right next to the camera, even though they're far off in the distance; other times (oft within the exact same sequence) it's more realistic vis-a-vis what the killer should be able to make out.

More than any of this, I honestly wish this film had leaned even further into artsiness -- the "what if Weerasethakul did Jason Vorhees" of it all -- and let us see even less of the victims and went even slower. What I'm saying is: Release the 7-hour cut, you cowards.

When David Ehrlich reviewed The Beast (org. French title La Bête), he made the case (that the movie makes the case) that every arthouse director should get to make "their own Cloud Atlas" before joining the choir invisible. That is a fair way to view Bertrand Bonello's recent opus -- a languid sci-fi drama that, as far as I'm concerned, solidified the movie year of 2024 as worthy of '23. When seeking out strange and defiant new cinema, this is exactly the kind of mystifying journey on which I yearn to be taken.

In the film, we follow Lea Seydoux through what appears to be different time periods. In several of them, the construction of dolls is involved. In the past and present storylines, she encounters a man played by George MacKay; in the future, she seems to dream of all these moments while submerged in a dark substance. Are they real events on any level? Hey, don't look at me.

It is the sort of film that might easily turn some people off and seem inaccessible as I describe it. (Others have likened its atmosphere and dream logic to the works of Lynch and its unsettling view of love and sexuality to the works of Cronenberg.) But I assure you that the film as such is often quite funny, with MacKay portraying one of the most wince-inducingly accurate parodies of the Incel archetype we've ever seen on film -- his pathetic "I deserve girls" vlog is one of the highlights of the picture, although its similarities with the infamous Elliot Rodger rant will doubtless disturb some viewers.

If that's not doing it for you (understandable), the film also offers beautiful shot compositions, masterly lighting, and wicked satire of modern movie-making itself, chiefly the digitalization of it.

Also, I guess in one of the time periods or "realities" or whatever, Seydoux's character is an actress whose credits seem to include Harmony Korine's Trash Humpers. As it happens, we'll be talking more about Korine later -- along with a markedly less intelligent contemplation on modern/future cinema.

I Saw the TV Glow may go down as one of the quintessential films of the Millennial generation, if not our most defining work of art in general. Written and directed by Jane Schoenbrun, whose We're All Going to the World's Fair was similarly resonant, it is a psychological horror film that explores themes of identity, repression, dysphoria, and the relationships we form with screens when we find the realities within them more real than the one we're assigned.

All the while, I Saw the TV Glow (like World's Fair) incorporates creepypasta/Alternarte Reality Game motifs that the Millennial generation will find familiar. For one, it recalls the Candle Cove story, a yarn involving an unsettling children's program that only a select few people remember, though it only "really" existed for children (adult onlookers would supposedly only see static on the screen). These are the sort of myths and Internet tall tales many reclusive Millennials would bond over, same as the elder Millennials would do with those horror TV shows of old -- we united over a fascination with storytelling or, maybe, a sort of shared nostalgia for a past that only we can see/understand.

In the film, the show at the center is a Nickelodeon Golden Age-era YA program called The Pink Opaque, which united two lonesome people, a quiet seventh-grader named Owen (Ian Foreman as a kid; later Justice Smith as an adult) and a lesbian ninth-grader named Maddy (Brigette Lundy-Paine), in the mid-90s. We see these two meet again several years after the show has gone off the air. Maddy, who was presumed missing up until now, explains that there is something supernatural about the show and that it is possible to travel between its reality and the "real" world -- if that's what they're even in. ("Sometimes, The Pink Opaque feels more real than real life.")

In terms of horror filmmaking, this all winds up intriguing and quite eerie at times, with certain images you won't be forgetting any time soon. This is in part because they're pretty terrifying on their own; it is chiefly because of what they represent/symbolize.

Moreover, the film comes with a banger soundtrack. A few of the contributors to it, as well as other musicians, also cameo in the film itself, including Lindsey Jordan of Snail Mail, Phoebe Bridgers, and the band Sloppy Jane that Bridgers was once in. (Fred Durst of Limp Bizkit appears; his music does not.) Also on the cast are Michael C. Maronna and Danny Tamberelli -- the two Petes from Nickelodeon's Pete & Pete, another favorite from many Millennials' "third parent", the TV.

Other evocations include such cult classics as 1981's Poltergeist and, to name another piece of storytelling that united many an ostracized Millennial, 2001's Donnie Darko -- the eerie tone of which Schoenbrun certainly lives up to. Like all great things, it also recalls Twin Peaks (particularly certain visuals from the 1992 film), sometimes nearly rivaling Fielder's recent The Curse in terms of recapturing that Lynchian nightmarishness. A friend related the film's mood to the despair one feels at the cusp of a panic attack. The movie is certainly about anxiety, and it has rarely been understood/realized as well as Schoenbrun does.

But even more important are the LGBTQ and gender identity themes, accentuated by the trans flag colors in the captions, lighting, props, and VFX, as well as the choice of imagery (particularly the film's finale, which I won't give away but I can tell you that it perfectly communicates the horror of keeping your true self trapped; keeping your true reality sealed away). Even if you don't pick up on these themes, the movie is undoubtedly beautiful to look at.

We've seen movies attempt old-school VHS aesthetics before, but as an obsolete tech aficionado, I can attest that this one succeeds at capturing the murkiness of especially old TV recordings that the VCR can barely register anymore. My only nitpick is that the in-universe show, The Pink Opaque, only occasionally resembles a TV series of the Goosebumps or Are You Afraid of the Dark? Ilk, while the rest of the footage looks like a no-budget backyard production. Then again, I recall some truly cheap-looking shows on the idiot box so I guess I oughtn't to retract any "authenticity" points.

I mentioned Lynchianism before and I'd like to close this review with a bold statement that I nonetheless feel certain of: Schoenbrun has been dubbed a contender for "the next Lynch", but I believe future generations will long to be the next Schoenbrun.

There's been some debate around Pixar's Inside Out, namely on whether it was too complicated or too simplistic. It seemed pretty cerebral for a kiddie film, yet it regarded concepts of self, consciousness, and emotions in a way that's simplified enough that a child can understand it -- and by "it", I mean the movie; not actual human emotions.

Is it bad to tell kids that their entire persona is governed by these magical beings inside their heads and that said beings properly represent the extent of how complex human emotions are -- that free will may be impossible and that all our feelings and desires are simply controlled by brightly colored critters voiced by NBC sitcom actors (whose squabbling is also all that is needed to explain/diagnose your mood swings and outbursts)? Well, I can't say I've met anyone whose kids seemed to turn out bad because of Inside Out.

Still, these movies (yes, there's a sequel now, in case you hadn't guessed by clicking this review) do inevitably raise a lot of questions -- if not on the way they explain the mind, then in how human minds work in this particular universe.

In this one, the sentient emotions inside the brain of young Riley Andersen -- Amy Poehler as Joy, Phyllis Smith as Sadness, Tony Hale as Fear, Liza Lapira as Disgust, and Lewis Black as Anger -- are visited by a slew of new emotions, including Ennui, Envy, and Anxiety, arriving as Riley enters teenhood. Their existence leaves us with much to ponder:

For example, can Anxiety really be considered a distinct emotion? Using the terms supplied by the Inside Out-verse, isn't she just Fear with a dash of Sadness? What of Ennui? Could she be considered an off-shoot of Sadness, same as Nostalgia is a sort of bittersweet Joy? As for Envy, I believe there exists a better version of this script somewhere, where she is revealed to be a sin and not an emotion, ergo the other emotions need to cast her back into Hell.

I do see the potential here. Making an Inside Out 2 with this premise makes sense -- in a way that's more important than whether its universe does: Those who grew up with the original Inside Out are no doubt at a time in their lives when they're going through the same changes and emotions as Riley is in this film. The idea of giving Inside Out a sequel -- and waiting until now to release it -- isn't bad.

But it's not as poignant as Toy Story 3 (and certainly not as poignant as Toy Story 3 would've been if that's where the franchise actually stopped), nor does it ever approach anything that'd be "too mature", lest Disney be unable to widely market the film -- same as Riley and her story aren't "too specific". Emotional teens may be the ones who need this film; I am unsure if they will be the ones who like it. (I suspect kids and Disney Adults will be the biggest fans, especially as I'm sure the latter will somehow see success where I only see potential.)

As for the various jokes involving concepts of self, memory, and personality and how they work in this subconscious control room, they were funnier the first time. I still enjoy the voice work -- especially from Ayo Edebiri and Maya Hawke this time -- and I suppose certain moments are touching, but they're usually rushed past so that we can get to the next item on the checklist. I shall also grant you that it's not a retread of the first film and that some of the new concepts are fairly interesting. To wit: Riley's mind realm now features a belief system, visualized in a way that's not dissimilar from the Jerry and Terry beings in Soul.

In a world where Pixar has gone mask-off, admitting that they care more about "mass appeal" and marketability than letting individual creatives tell their stories (fearing that films like Luca and Turning Red are too alienating if you don't relate to the creators/protagonists, yet also forgetting how universally moving a personal tale can be), where does Inside Out 2 fit in? Is this a big-studio cash grab, a sincere work of art, or a case of the latter being concealed within the former, occasionally peeking forth?

I dunno, but ohhh look at Embarrassment! Isn't he so precious? Don't you want to buy the plushie? Don't you want him on your bed next to all the porgs? Go see this movie, guys! No, you won't get more out of Turning Red! That wasn't a better and more genuine exploration of a young girl's coming-of-age emotionality or anything! In fact, we never made that! Shut up! Buy the toys!

Jim Henson is the movie-maker that got me into movies. When I saw The Dark Crystal at age five, I was never the same again. This was when I first felt that I simply had to know how movies get made. Later on, I became a fan of Muppets and Fraggles alike (yes, I got to the Skeksis before I got to Kermit, at least in terms of adoration) and by now, I consider Henson one of the most important creatives of the 20th century.

He changed the way I take in art, and did this and insurmountably more to countless others around the world. Even all these years after his death, he touches generations of people through his colorful creations -- so lifelike, nay, alive in spite of so clearly not being "real". In Ron Howard's documentary, Jim Henson: Idea Man, we see most of his life laid out (albeit sometimes in disappointingly brief snippets), from his youth to his early TV gigs (like those 1950s Wilkins Coffee commercials where a Kermit prototype puppet commits murder indiscriminately); from the inception of Sesame Street to the rise of the Muppets and the bona fide celebrity status of Kermit and Miss Piggy; from the creation of The Dark Crystal (which also involved the opening of the Henson Creature Shop) to the disastrous release of the now-beloved Labyrinth.

Meanwhile, we learn of his personal life and the way he inspired, not just us, but those around him. In one notable moment, Frank Oz recalls how Henson pushed for him to co-direct The Dark Crystal, as Henson felt he himself lacked something that he saw in Oz.

The documentary is cleverly presented, making good use of projectors, stop-motion interludes, and some animations Henson himself created before the Muppet years. Unfortunately, it is missing -- or just barely mentions -- a lot of information about Henson's life that would have made this documentary go from good to great. Still, it is a worthy celebration of that Rainbow Connection (sorry) that Henson created between all of us.

Between The First Omen and the Sydney Sweeney vehicle Immaculate, 2024 is the lucky year for anyone who happens to really dig neo-nunsploitation horror films that partly function as a commentary on anti-choice dystopia and religious oppression.

And despite my adoration of Sweeney's performance (mainly near the film's finale), I hold that The First Omen is the superior movie -- not only because it leans harder into both the nunsploitation campiness and the psychological Rosemary's Baby-esque side, but because it is more consistently unsettling, yet beautifully so. I also think the themes are delivered with more tact and confidence but it's really no surprise that both films are being celebrated as "necessary" post-Roe v. Wade masterworks (though Immaculate deserves extra cred for upsetting more right-wingers and Christians, namely in how it "took" Sweeney from them).

The First Omen, if you hadn't figured, is a prequel to Richard Donner's Omen from 1976. I haven't seen that movie myself and as sacrilege as this may sound, I actively chose to see this movie first to see if it works by itself and makes sense to an outsider. And apart from a vaguely "Member Berry"-ish namedrop at the end, I believe The First Omen stands more than fine on its own.

From the moment it starts, its cinematography, staging, and editing are worthy of the classics -- encapsulating the beauty of '70s cinema in just a few minutes, to paraphrase a commenter -- and this is only the beginning of the film's thoughtful homages. To be clear, these aren't just facile invocations; they all work. There is a scene later that recalls the iconic breakdown sequence from Andrzej Zulawski's Possession (1981), but it's expanded upon in ways I shan't unveil here.

Right after that prologue -- that shot of stain-glass window shattering in slow-motion -- the film takes on an ominous energy that never lets up, even during ostensible moments of levity. There are countless other striking images and inspired bits of cinematography throughout the film, like when the main character awakens from a drunken stupor in a medium closeup shot that shows her hair laid out like a spider's web holding her head in place. Note that the shot immediately preceding it is of a spider. There are, fittingly, omens everywhere.

The acting is also pretty spectacular. Nell Tiger Free, playing an American Catholic woman sent to Rome to be confirmed as a nun, is destined for the Scream Queen Hall of Fame and Ralph Ineson's booming voice adds weight and urgency to his fearful warnings of what the Church is up to.

Mark Korven's music is no less brilliant. It, too, makes us feel as though we are truly watching a movie from the '70s, albeit with more advanced special effects that, without giving too much away, caused the film to nearly get slapped with an NC-17 rating.

What holds the movie back a little bit is that it has a few weak supporting performances and, more importantly, it fails to resist jump scares -- which I concede can work fine and leave an impact, but The First Omen has a few of the fakeout variety. Don't let this stop you, however. This is a superbly crafted, well-acted, well-lit (hallelujah), and thoroughly ghastly tale that works on one level as a statement on choice (as well as the abuses within the Catholic Church) and another as a nasty yet artful horror movie.

Early impressions of Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga expressed a fear that it would be a studio-slop cash-in on the "original" 2015 Mad Max: Fury Road -- itself a soft reboot of the Mad Max franchise. And although the later trailers and the eventual reviews set our minds straight, God knows how we could have doubted George Miller.

Miller, as many will note, is a singularly varied director. Mad Max: Fury Road is nothing like the Happy Feet movies -- which you may find aren't much like Lorenzo's Oil. His new entry in the Max "saga", a prequel about Imperator Furiosa (played now by Anya Taylor-Joy, who has never been as "ethereal yet majestic" as she is here), also represents the sincere silliness we've been missing in the movies in recent years but is making a comeback.

It is an ingeniously insane roller-coaster of high-octane chases, impossible vehicles getting tossed around, seminal practical effects, pretty good digital ones, wondrously bonkers setpieces, and Chris Hemsworth going freak mode on us in the best performance we've seen from him. Just like last time, the craziness is nonetheless artfully presented, with some of the most precise framing and expressive images of the year.

Admittedly, I was a bit distracted during the film's opening. Sometimes it was too obvious where the VFX began and the real stuff ended (the movie noticeably uses far more digital effects than the prior one), and the costuming and hairstyling didn't give me the impression that this post-apocalyptic Australia (which, as many have already joked, isn't too different from regular Australia) was properly lived-in. Also, as with the previous film in the series, there were some jarringly obvious ADR bits.

Some might take issue with the "unrealistic" audio of certain other moments but this is a feature and not a bug. Miller has gone to the Sergio Leone school of "what isn't on the screen, doesn't exist in the film's universe": There are numerous shots of characters running into the vast desert, only for a pursuing vehicle to jump into frame without having made a sound before we, the audience, saw it. Not very believable, right? That's the movies for ya.

Sadly, it seems the big talking point lately is the film's disappointing opening weekend, which sparked discussions about the current state of movie theaters. It seemed baffling that such a well-reviewed film did not make more money than this -- even with the theater-going prices and COVID in mind (the latter having changed people's consuming habits on one hand, and significantly worsened the etiquette of those who do still go to the cinema on the other). Twitter user @stunninggun added that the reporting itself may be flawed and that "we are missing an entire piece of the puzzle: box office pundits are used to Marvel-era openings and we don't live in that world anymore".

There's another thing to consider: streaming. Many filmgoers have lost faith in it, but even now, many would also rather wait until a certain film is available on a streaming website -- however long it's on there for before it gets deleted with no physical option in sight -- than take the time to drive to a movie theater. (Nowadays, the wait isn't even too long.) We've had some phenomena that prove the power of the theater-going experience (especially when it involves artistry instead of studio sludge), but those of us who quipped "We are so back" may have spoken too soon.

On that note, one of my big annoyances re: this film is its name, which was clearly picked not because it rolls off the tongue, but because of Search Engine Optimization -- making sure it appears in the search results when people try to find Mad Max on Prime or whatever (it's why we have titles like A Star Wars Story, From the Book of Saw, and, best and catchiest of all, The Origin of Batman's Butler). I think this title, for a lot of people, was probably the biggest clue that we were getting sauceless cash-grab slop.

Instead, Miller is cooking with as much fire and gas(oline) as ever. I have faith that this movie, in due time, will be as beloved as Fury Road eventually became. But do yourself a favor -- do movie theaters a favor -- and go see this post-apocalyptic powerhouse in an auditorium.

I agree that streaming is convenient and we can sometimes find great art there, but theaters are the place where cinema truly gets to awe and move us. No matter what Ted Sarandos and his "watched Lawrence of Arabia on his iPhone and liked it fine" son would have you think.

I don't have any especially strong feelings either way about the new South Park special, although I believe it's a fairly valid one. This time, the subject is the American healthcare system, insurance companies, and the maddening labyrinth that these entities will put people through.

However, it also concerns body positivity and uses Eric Cartman to represent something I've sometimes noticed within the body-love discourse. A lot of people simply want the thing that THEY are insecure about to get destigmatized so that they can then poke fun at other people's shortcomings from a position of superiority -- of not being "ugly" themselves. They want to be able to dish it out without having to take it.

Something similar happens in "gender wars" discourse: Many incels espouse that they should be worthy of love even if they are short or thin, but will gladly demonize fat women, while a woman who pushes for fat acceptance may readily use the very language she's decrying when it comes to small schlongs and "skinny b-itches". Both sides will tell you it's totally different when the other does it.

But I digress. How is the rest of the episode/special/"Paramount+ event"? Well, it has some laughs and it lets a lot of characters shine. (Randy, as per usual, gets a pretty funny B story where he gets in on the South Park moms' obsession with semaglutide drugs.)

Also, it has appreciably better cereal mascot gags (yes, cereal/sugar companies also become involved in the plot) than anything we got in Unfrosted.

Luca Guadagnino's images will be remembered by history (even as there are skeptics in the present). He is sensual and evocative in a way that other picture-makers must envy (few can photograph the human body -- capture passion -- quite like he does, from the intimacy of Call Me By Your Name to the contortionism of Suspiria) and no less admirable on a technical level:

His latest creation, Challengers, is one of those films where everything is ingeniously conceived and then impeccably executed (particularly a tennis match near the end that had my audience staring slackjawed at the screen). We also get three irresistible leading performances, a techno soundtrack by Atticus Ross and Trent Reznor that you'll feel in your bones, and most importantly (depending on who you ask), a story that shows us why tennis is far and away the most erotic sport.

We begin at the very end, as tennis legend Tashi Duncan (Zendaya) intently observes a tennis final between Patrick Zweig (Josh O'Connor) and Art Donaldson (Mike Faist). Then we go back, as two story strands tell us of the history that these men have with Tashi as well as each other -- one with the characters as teenagers circa 2006; one with them as adults.

We cut back and forth between these two story strands -- where Tashi will be involved with one or both of these men to varying degrees -- as well as the climactic game itself. I will spare you the wanky metaphors about a tennis ball getting struck back and forth through time, but I will commend the effort in making sure we always know where we're at in the characters' timelines, from the visual and auditory background details to the way the characters look. Also, in the vein of last year's Past Lives, it takes the time to include era-accurate UIs for the various apps we see. In one of the 2006 scenes, a character also mentions Facebook, which another character seems to take as gibberish.

If there's one issue with Challengers, it's that the film's nonlinear plotting occasionally seems a bit over-explained, with captions denoting the temporal and geographical settings of the scene when there's already ample work put into the hairstyling, set design, costumes, makeup, and other context clues to tell us when and where we are. My theater-going companion theorized that these captions were a studio decision, although I recall a few of them gelling well enough with the framing that Guadadigno must've had them in mind while shooting.

Beyond this, and a few sound effects that are over-emphasized in the mix (though I understand wanting to flex such delicate and detailed foley work), Challengers is a flawless film. When aficionados fans speak about the eroticism of tennis, it goes deeper than you might think, and using that sport to tell this sort of story is nothing less than brilliant.

And of course, the tennis scenes themselves are smashingly done -- intense, encapsulating, and often intimate whilst being technically impressive, with balls hurtling right at the camera at great speeds in what I must assume are VFX shots (unless Guadadigno can really afford to break that many cameras). Reviewer Houston Coley described his sensation during these shots as being the same as what audiences in 1897 must've felt watching The Arrival of a Train at La Ciotat for the first time. A certain other shot has been compared to Bee Movie -- if you know, you know.

The use of rigs and split diopters during these scenes is singularly inspired. To make things better, we also get some truly potent super-slo-mo shots, achieving the energy that Rebel Moon pretends to have. I even admire the environmental details; this film makes the best, moost moody use of stormy weather since the heyday of Béla Tarr.

Last but not least, if you just want to watch a steamy film involving hot people, this one is for you (in particular, Mike Faist made me go "I never knew a mix between John Mulaney and a young Mathew Lillard could be so charming"). It may surprise you that this -- what many have called the sexiest film of the year, if not the decade -- contains no single sex scene.

To some this is refreshing and my companion voiced his preference for cinematic intimacy like this over, say, the highly explicit fornication scenes in Poor Things. I believe it depends on the movie -- I love the "almost sex" scenes (the most we get is foreplay and at least one "just got done" scene) in this movie because of how legitimately sexy they are; I love the actual sex scenes in Poor Things because they (or many of them) are hilarious, and work well for that type of movie. I think films can be sexy while showing the sex too, but the approach of Challengers is pretty perfect. Less is more, sometimes, and it's hard to imagine that this film could possibly be any more sexy.

To conclude, I am once again forced to end the post by stealing a passage from a Letterboxd reviewer. Quoth Bryan Espitia: "Everything is sex, except sex, which is tennis."

The well-laid-out and often quite beautiful Planet of the Apes prequel "trilogy" now gets a fourth installment -- namely Kingdom of the Planet of the Apes. Needless to say, I didn't see the use for it; having now watched it, I feel about the same, even if I appreciate the attempt to mimic the weight and patience of Matt Reeves' films -- as well as their seminal VFX work.

However, there are certain downgrades. Instead of Andy Serkis' iconic mocap performances as Caesar the ape, the new movie treats us to comparatively unmemorable sapient simians. Instead of trusting audiences can pay attention to a film that's largely silent and reliant on sign language (part of why 2017's War for the Planet of the Apes was my favorite of the bunch), the apes in this one talk up a storm. (They don't perform "Dr. Zaius", alas.)

So basically, at this point in the timeline, we are closer to the future that Charlton Heston saw in the original Planet of the Apes -- which, of course, he at first thought was an alien planet in his own time, learning the truth in what might be the most spoiled and unconcealable twist in cinematic history (yes, possibly including Luke's relationship with Darth Vader and the significance of Kane's last words).

As the movie begins, apes have all but seized control of the Earth. Those human colonies we saw in the prior film are wiped out and what few humans remain are feral -- for the most part. One exception is William H. Macy's character, Trevathan, who teaches the vicious ape leader Proximus Caesar of the old world.

Another important player is Mae, a human who befriends our hero, a young ape warrior named Noa. Mae, too, can communicate just fine, which startles a friendly, knowledgeable orangutan in one of the funnier scenes. Noa's loved ones have been taken; Mae, or "Nova" as she is nicknamed, knows where to go.

The movie has appreciably better action sequences than a lot of other blockbusters, managing to make these scenes of CGI animals going at it seem more real, weighty, and tactile than many modern action scenes that feature real humans. (They also mop the floor with recent action sequences that do primarily involve an onslaught of CGI creations -- see last year's astoundingly soulless Transformers: Rise of the Beasts.) And while we're talking of the CGI, the animation of the animals still manages to be quite astonishing to look at, even as we've grown used to seeing computers produce photorealistic apes and monkeys.

It does still look a bit "off" to see these seemingly real animals speak with human mouth movements -- yet, I feel as if their facial expressions and emotive subtleties are even more impressive than in the prior films. Several years ago, in my review of the Jungle Book remake, I wrote that talking animals are never going to look wholly natural. Now, I'd say we're getting there.

In short, it's a fairly enjoyable blockbuster. Even so, I can't imagine we'll remember anything from it quite like we remember those pivotal moments from the older films. Matt Reeves gave us a mute girl bonding with a gorilla over the beauty found in nature, distilled in a single tree blossom. Matt Reeves gave us the paralyzing sequence from the first film in the trilogy where Caesar speaks for the first time. Matt Reeves gave us Kobo. Nothing here is at that level, but I say check it out.

Shogun (which I'm not permitted to spell correctly as the macron O is an "invalid character") is a masterfully written and artistically splendid adaptation of the 1975 James Clavell novel of the same name (which was also adapted for TV in 1980 -- I'm told that if you belong to the same generation as my parents, this was more than likely the first Japanese you ever heard/learned). In this version, we get Cosmo Jarvis as the marooned Englishman John Blackthorne; Anna Sawai as the troubled Lady Mariko, who becomes his translator; and a phenomenal Hiroyuki Sanada as Lord Toranaga, a mighty daimyo who becomes the target of other regents in Japan in a story that shows the dawn of Tokugawa shogunate.

It's a bit funny that it came out right around when Denis Villeneuve made his comments about how movies are the ideal place for visual storytelling, whereas TV is more about dialogue. Along comes Shogun, which looks appreciably better than many of the motion pictures we've seen from Hollywood in recent years, most notably in terms of lighting -- Matt Zoller Seitz joked that this show reminded us that good lighting is, in fact, allowed on TV.

It's not as "realistic" as, say, the murky battle in the Game of Thrones episode The Long Night, but is this what we want in fantastical art? Recall the conversation Peter Jackson had with a crewmember when shooting the Cirith Ungol sequence in Return of the King: "Where is that light coming from?" "The same place as the music."

It's a show that puts in effort and details in ways that too few shows bother to even try. I even noticed environmental details, like a scene set during a period of thawing, where snow can be seen and heard sliding off the building while the characters are speaking -- this wasn't necessary to include, but it helps the show feel more real and immersive, while also denoting the passage of time during Blackthorne's stint as Toranaga's military trainer.

There also is the purposeful use of swirly bokeh, especially in shots that show Blackthorne's point-of-view, accentuating the dreamlike and confusing quality that Japan has to him, and of course, the costumes and sets are nigh flawless. It is, simply put, a brilliant work, and the fact that so few are talking about it is a damn pity.

Something harrowing is laid bare in Netflix's new Baby Reindeer. Based on an autobiographical one-man show by Scottish comedian Richard Gadd (who also stars), the series dramatizes his experiences with stalking and abuse. It is the sort of story that -- mainly because the gender dynamics aren't what we "expect" -- so rarely gets attention, much less taken seriously.

While I don't intend to hit you with too much info, the dynamic at the center of Baby Reindeer is one I found eerily familiar; based on the type of person that Gadd's stalker apparently was, it got me thinking about how these things seem to typically play out. Particular types of people will prey on other particular types of people. I recognized this stalker; this demeanor.

In Gadd, I see bits of both myself and an old friend who went through something similar around the same time as I did. Neither of us had to endure such insane levels of it, but I can attest that it's easy to, for lack of a better word, allow things like this to get worse. The show explores as much: When you're at a low point, you may accept any sort of attention -- even when the flags are red as can be -- and certain stalkers will be especially drawn to such a person, as they feel they have a chance.

It also showcases perfectly how stalkers of this ilk aren't just malicious, but trapped in some narcissistic state where it's unclear to onlookers if they're delusional or lying on purpose -- and where they see themselves as the protagonist of a romantic film. (Just think of the scene where Martha, the stalker, tries to win Gadd back by singing a love song at one of his stand-up gigs; she isn't being ominous on purpose, but clearly doing what she's certain will save the day.) Even so, this is a story that goes to places that cannot be described as anything other than evil.

I don't mean to "judge" the show based on things like accuracy. This is Gadd's story to tell and on top of being a bravely vulnerable piece of expression, the show as such is also technically well-made and cleverly, purposefully presented. Gadd maintains a certain sense of humor about it all: Poorly spelled emails have rarely looked so humorous yet disturbing at the same time.

Late Night with the Devil is a cleverly presented tale with a decently convincing 1970s TV look and a great performance from the ever-charming David Dastmalchian. This much is true. Alas, many critics will be hesitant to praise it.

It's likely you've already heard of this film through its AI controversy, being the first major motion picture - to my knowledge - to use so-called AI art. (It's actually "machine learning", I know, but I think we're past trying to hold on to what Artificial Intelligence "actually" refers to.) It's certainly the first one to garner this much attention for it.

To make matters more disappointing, this "major" example wasn't from a "major" studio (we might expect this sort of get-out-of-hiring-artists cheat from Disney, and we'd be right; remember the intro to Secret Invasion). Instead, it comes from the world of indie horror: a nifty found-footage joint presenting itself as recovered footage from the 1970s talk/variety show Night Owls with Jack Delroy, and the interstitials created for the in-universe show features clearly AI-generated cartoon skeletons, with all the effed up fingers and weird uneven eyes that this entails.

You may wonder why everyone is more upset by this than AI being used more and more in larger Hollywood projects (a question raised by Brendan Hodges and others, once again referring to Secret Invasion plus the various AI-voiced Skywalkers we've seen lately). Why beat up on the little guy?

Well, that's just it. The word "indie" is all but synonymous with the little guy - creators who don't get the same money or attention as the titans of Hollywood. And so, for many people, it is disheartening to see an indie production be part of the problem; to do something that spits in the face of aspiring artists, by (A) relying on prompts over hiring actual persons and (B) using software that's trained on such persons' pre-existing images without their approval. Once again, there is much to appreciate about the production and there is clearly love behind it. So why did this happen?

One defense I've seen is that the artworks in question were made back when AI art was just something people toyed around with, instead of being recognized as a real threat to aspiring creatives like it is today. (The production even predates the SAG-AFTRA strikes.) Thus - I guess - we oughtn't be too harsh on the filmmakers.

However, artist Summer Ray quickly demonstrated why there's no justification for sticking to the AI route; in just a few hours, she whipped up a hand-drawn version of the graphic that looks more era-accurate, more like an actual skeleton, and just all-around better than the AI mess (remember, this was 2022-era software), all while being an ORIGINAL piece that makes no nonconsensual use of prior works/assets. If you can't afford a drawing, you can always just, ya know, not have a drawing in your film. Hell, the version screened at SXSW reportedly didn't have the artwork.

Because of this, many people are straight up suggesting we're morally justified to pirate the film, because the filmmakers' terms are such that theft is permissible. While that may not be entirely fair to all those who did put in work to make this movie, others would deem that we should've been even more vocal - just a few weeks later, we learned of A24's algorithmically generated Civil War posters and that Netflix murder documentary that used AI to, I kid you not, create childhood photos of the subject.

All of this aside, I think Late Night with the Devil is a witty and well-executed picture. It is skillfully both hilarious and unsettling, with entertaining and mostly convincing performances throughout. Do what you will with this information.

In a bizarre way, Hundreds of Beavers kind of constitutes closure for me. It's the closest thing we'll get to a proper live-action Looney Tunes film (because, yeah, there was a time when even I looked at cartoons and went "This I gotta see in three dimensions").

When I saw Space Jam and Looney Tunes: Back in Action in my youth, I was disappointed and didn't fully understand why until later: The movies are about a group of characters coming together to stop bad guys and helping each other out. That's not the Looney Tunes. The Looney Tunes are supposed to annoy, beat the snot out of, and try to consume each other, oft in hilariously elaborate ways that can only happen in cartoons -- or, as it were, in the RIGHT type of live-action film.

Hundreds of Beaver is more or less that film, but visually, it is closer to a picture by Charlie Chaplin -- the original live-action cartoon -- with a few dashes of old video games and YouTube Poops. Yet, it all flows together perfectly, creating a world wherein there's a method to the madness, consistency to the chaos, and logic to the surrealism. We find ourselves immersed, understanding the rules and geography of this surreal slapstick realm of cartoon physics and AVGN-tier animal suits.

Set in 19th-century North America at the height of winter (that's about as specific as the film gets), the story follows an applejack salesman who is forced to become a fur trapper, fighting against the elements to capture enough animals to win the hand of a local merchant's daughter, using all sorts of intricate traps and schemes to do so. Meanwhile, the local beavers don't take kindly to this bearded menace. He learns that they may have been involved in him losing his applejack business.

It is, for all its influences, one of the most truly unique movies I've seen in a while. It is constantly zany and rife with visual cleverness -- with some gags that become important near the third act (allow me to propose the screenwriting term Chekov's Snot-cicle). The one complaint I can imagine people will have is that it feels just a touch too long.

In my mind, the story is sufficiently interesting -- and the gags and setpieces sufficiently varied -- to justify the runtime. But because of its hectic nature, a given minute of screentime will have so many things going on that it seems like several minutes -- not in the sense that it's tedious but in the sense that it's dense. I imagine it can be exhausting for some but as I've mentioned, the film is varied enough that you should be fine. At times, it gets close to feeling repetitive; at that same time, it does something out-of-pocket and treats us to some new sight. (Besides, the repetition is sometimes part of the humor, evoking the rhythm/structure of those silent 'toons of old.)

What's undeniable is the devotion of these filmmakers -- the "commitment to the bit" as the young uns might put it. Each scene represents just as much effort and silly wit as the last, never once failing to capture the intended vibe and look (sans maybe one shot where the backgrounds, as stupid as this may sound, look too much like a real forest).

The actors are having the time of their lives with this material and the music, cinematography, and directing in general consistently achieve that "old, wordless cartoon" feel. Real ones might know Mike Cheslik and Ryland Brickson Cole Tews for 2018's Lake Michigan Monster and the 2016 short film L. I. P. S., but if there's any good in the world, these will soon be widely known names.

Regardless of my notes above, I think you'll have a blast with Hundreds of Beavers -- and feel free to partake in the official drinking game posted by the filmmakers.