COCAINE BEAR

Directing: B+
Acting: B+
Writing: B
Cinematography: B+
Editing: B+
Special Effects: B

If you enjoyed the 2019 alligator-monster movie Crawl, then you’ll certainly enjoy Cocaine Bear.

I did, and I certainly did.

Both films have a very similar sensibility, with a healthy self-awareness that never takes itself too seriously, plenty of hilarious gore, and a sprinkling of genuine suspense. To be fair, Crawl has a bit more of the suspense and Cocoaine Bear has a bit more of a subtle wink at its audience.

It does seem to make a difference that Cocaine Bear was directed by none other than . . . Elizabeth Banks. Wait, what? This is her third feature film as director, but the others were Pitch Perfect 2 and Charlie’s Angels. Those movies have their own metatextual layers, with varying success: Cocaine Bear seems to be where she has hit her stride. Banks knows exactly what kind of movie she’s making, and exactly what audiences expect from it.

Too often, a movie like this tries to hard to mix the comedy and absurdity with sweetness and earnestness (see: Violent Night). Banks, along with writer Jimmy Warden, knows there’s no need for that shit. Instead, we get Keri Russell yelling “I’m a mom!” before intercepting a tossed rifle.

That’s not to say the characters in this movie are complete caricatures. Cocaine Bear successfully walks a fine line, offering characters that are real enough and with distinct personalities, all of them converging from disparate narrative threads onto a mountainous area of the woods where a bunch of duffle bags full of cocaine were tossed out of an airplane. What none of them know, but all of them discover eventually, is that a bear discovered the coke and ate a bunch of it, turning it into a ravenous killer.

This story is “inspired by true events,” although to say it takes liberties would be an understatement—liberties all taken in the best way. That said, “murdurino” listeners of the wildly popular My Favorite Murder podcast minisodes, in which the hosts read stories sent in my listeners, will be very familiar with the original story. Fan favorite Nick Terry even animated their retelling of it. They take very similar, truly hilarious liberties with the story, which Elizabeth Banks is effectively doing on a grander scale.

I expected to enjoy Cocaine Bear just based on its absurd premise, and yet it actually exceeded my expectations. I thought this would be a B-minus at best, and yet still a good time. But the movie we’ve actually got is surprisingly well executed, with a stacked cast, in addition to Keri Russell: Solo: A Star Wars Story’s Alden Erenreich as a depressed criminal with a conscience; O'Shea Jackson Jr. as his exasperated cohort; Isiah Whitlock Jr. as a cop on their tail; Margo Martindale as a park ranger with a trigger finger; a wildly unrecognizable Jesse Tyler Ferguson as a “wildlife expert” who is the object of her crush; even Ray Liotta, in his final film role, plays Erenreich’s drug dealer dad. (The film is dedicated to his memory.)

All the performances are great, by actors who know what kind of movie they are in and are having a blast. What it all comes down to, though, really, is the bear itself, who also takes up a perfect amount of screen time—never overdone, never gone too long. The thing is quite clearly CGI rendered, but for a movie with a paltry $35 million budget, it’s actually fairly impressive. This movie is of an ilk that has never been known to be visually groundbreaking. As long as the effects aren’t hilariously bad, then the film can succeed on its own terms. And boy, does this one succeed.

The key, really, is its lack of earnestness. There is a bit of sweetness, but only in ways that serve the movie’s purpose, which is to entertain and amuse. I laughed a lot, and at consistently regular intervals. That was clearly the goal. This movie’s promise is quite straightforward, and it delivers.

The biggest coke head you’ll ever come across.

Overall: B+

80 FOR BRADY

Directing: C+
Acting: B
Writing: C+
Cinematography: B
Editing: B-

Tom Brady can’t act very well. Oh sure, he can deliver a serviceable speech, which he does a couple of times in 80 for Brady, a movie that feels like by-the-numbers pandering to old ladies and middle-aged gay men. It almost feels ironic that it’s a movie about fervent football fans, but, I suppose it’s also regressive even to say that: there are plenty of gay sports fans. And lots of old lady football fans. Either way, evidently Brady, as the real-life title character, is happy to be an object of adulation for everyone. Way to diversify!

There is a tender moment between Lily Tomlin and Tom Brady at the end of the film, a series of lines in a Super Bowl locker room meant to be full of heart. Tomlin is fine. The old ladies this movie was made for will think the same of Brady and his performance. I was a little embarrassed for him. Because I am that bitch, I guess.

To call 80 for Brady “hokey as shit” would be a grand understatement. I’m now interested in reading about the five senior women whose story this film was “inspired by.” All you have to do is watch the film and know that virtually none of it actually comes from real life. In the film, the four (rather than five) friends manage to sneak into the Super Bowl without tickets; wind up invited into a skybox; and Tomlin’s character Lou even manages to get on a headset and talk directly to Tom Brady during the game. The entire film is utterly preposterous, in an admittedly harmless-fun kind of way.

I’m not above saying I had a fairly good time watching it. I got a few good laughs out of it. It should be noted that I fall squarely in this movie’s target demographic. It features four iconic screen legends (the other three being Jane Fonda, Rita Moreno and Sally Field) and Billy Porter as the Halftime Show choreographer. I also happen to be a standup comedy fan, and a bunch of comics show up in bit parts, from Patton Oswalt to Jimmy O. Yang to Ron Funches. This movie even has Harry Hamlin is Jane Fonda’s love interest; Bob Balaban as Sally Field’s over-dependent husband; and Sara Gilbert as Lily Tomlin’s daughter.

Oddly enough, 80 for Brady goes out of its way to note that only two of the women are actually in their eighties. Rita Moreno indirectly notes that she is in her nineties, and Sally Field’s Betty specifically clarifies that she is 75. They all have 80 FOR BRADY jerseys custom made, and on Betty’s, she has red lettering crossing out the 80 and writing “70” above it. I guess I can respect the acknowledgment of each of these actors’ actual ages, retrofitted into the title that actually comes from the real women who inspired it (although their T-shirts read Over 80 for Brady).

I am particularly amused by the fact that the one time the word “fuck” is used in this movie, it’s Tom Brady himself who says it. If any demure old ladies are flocking to this movie, it’ll be cute Tom Brady who is the one who is the most vulgar. That kind of cracks me up.

I didn’t personally come to this movie for Tom Brady, of course. I couldn’t give half a shit about that man, his evident handsomeness notwithstanding. I can find plenty more handsome men to look at, by opening a web browser or just walking outside. I came for the icons: Tomlin, Fonda, Moreno, Field. They are fun to watch together. I had a pleasant time hanging out with them. The movie overall is fundamentally dumb, but that doesn’t always preclude a fun hang.

Ninety for Brady? Eighty for Brady? Seventy for Brady? Obviously we have to go with the one that rhymes.

Overall: B-

MEGAN

Directing: B
Acting: B
Writing: B-
Cinematography: B
Editing: B
Special Effects: B

MEGAN answers the question you never thought to ask: What would Chucky be like if he had the brain of HAL 9000 from 2001: A Space Odyssey? Or more specifically, if HAL 9000 were reincarnated as a 4’ tall, fashion-forward sorority girl?

Do people younger than forty even understand these references? 2001 was released 55 years ago and Child’s Play was released 35 years ago. Granted they both spawned sequels over the years, but if MEGAN proves anything, it’s that given enough time everything can be recycled.

Or is it M3GAN? Lead character Gemma (Allison Williams) informs us early on that it stands for Model 3 Generative Android. M3GAN is a lifelike doll with intuitive AI much more sophisticated than, but clearly modeled on, the Furby—which this film makes explicitly clear with an opening commercial for an incredibly similar toy developed by Gemma’s company. The TV spot is darkly funny, instantly setting the tone for the horror-comedy genre.

None of this is especially original, mind you. It’s all tried-and-true story tropes and concepts, given a slightly different twist. That said, I can’t deny the twist makes the movie fun, if wildly lacking in logic. (Where does M3GAN get all her fantastic outfits, anyway?) Not that any horror movie is particularly concerned with logic, nor is any horror movie audience.

I guess I’m just prone to nitpicking. MEGAN is set in Seattle, made clear by maybe three or four establishing wide shots of the city skyline; for locals, it would seem Gemma’s company offices are in the Columbia Center. We don’t see any recognizable part of Seattle otherwise, though; filming took place in Los Angeles and Auckland, New Zealand. How original!

Normally I give a lot more respect to films that give their story room to breathe, but the rules are different for horror, and MEGAN sure takes its time to get to the good stuff. I kept wondering what it would be like for someone sitting to watch this movie knowing nothing about it. They would spend at least twenty minutes thinking, What the hell is this about a kid (Violet McGraw, well cast) with a vaguely creepy doll-playmate? We spend an incredible amount of time with Gemma and her colleagues, trying to perfect this beta model robot doll while enduring their obnoxiously impatient boss (Ronny Chieng), before anything sinister is really even hinted at.

Once M3GAN becomes evidently self-aware, however, she becomes quite the fierce little bitch, instantly turning this film into something with the potential to become a cult favorite in a way no movie has in a long while. (She gets some choice lines, as when she finally turns on the child she’s been imprinted on: “You ungrateful little bitch!” Obviously she’s projecting.) I had been fairly neutral on this film when I first saw the trailer, although the bit showing M3GAN doing a little dance in a hallway before attacking someone—which became viral before the film was even released—did crack me up. I couldn’t tell if it was because the movie was unintentional camp.

What makes MEGAN work, as it happens, is how it deftly straddles the line of camp, offering plenty of satirical humor while also taking itself seriously as a horror film when appropriate. The script, by Akela Cooper (Malignant) from a story by James Wan (Annabelle Comes Home), could have stood a bit more sophistication, but in their defense—and thanks to first-time feature director Gerard Johnstone—this movie never falls short of what it promises to be. Which is to say: ridiculous in every respect, and also in all the right ways.

The doll herself, M3GAN, is actually played by two actors: 12-year-old Amie Donald provides the body and movements (under a just-short-of lifelike robot mask); 18-year-old Jenna Davis provides the voice. The voice is mostly digitally enhanced, but I wonder how much young Amie Donald got paid, given that usually there is less payment when an actor has no lines? M3GAN’s movements strike a perfect balance, though, between innocently youthful and creepily robotic.

Indeed, the production design of the title character is arguably the greatest contributor to this movie’s success—and it certainly works on its own terms. Overall MEGAN feels like a slightly undercooked effort, but in a way that could easily enhance its cult legacy in the long run. Once M3GAN goes on a murderous rampage, it’s really fun.

She’s got that killer look.

Overall: B

WHITE NOISE

Directing: B+
Acting: B+
Writing: B-
Cinematography: B+
Editing: B+
Special Effects: B+

White Noise is kind of all over the place, so it would be fitting for me to start with the end—not just the end, but the end credits. I don’t want to spoil anything, so I won’t say exactly what it is, but I will say that a sequence that lasts the entirety of the credits, which doesn’t quite match the tone of any of the rest of the movie, might be the most fun five minutes or so I’ve spent at the movies all year. I guess that’s one way to get you to sit through the end of the credits. Although you certainly won’t be reading the credtis.

This is a distinct turn in the career of writer-director Noah Baumbach, who here is adapting live action from another source material for the first time. I find myself wondering if the original novel, by Don DeLillo, had the same liberal sprinkling of humor, which I can only call . . . Baumbachian. White Noise is an odd jumble of genres, split into three parts, the middle of which, about an airborne toxic event, is notably Spielbergian in tone and presentation, with tonal notes of both Close Encounters of the Third Kind and War of the Worlds. It’s like we’re suddenly thrust into a disaster movie, but only for its middle third. It basically goes from dramedy to horror and then back again to dramedy.

And the thing is, although this airborne toxic event is easily the most memorable thing about White Noise, that’s not directly what it’s about. What it is about, exactly, I am struggling to wrap my brain around. I might be tempted to ask the same question of “Why?” that I did Bones and All, except that in this case I was truly hooked on this thing I could not quite understand, and in the end, thoroughly delighted. I suppose marrying horror with drama and comedy is much more my speed than marrying horror with romance.

This is not your typical horror movie either, however. There is something far more existential, thematically, going on with White Noise. Much of it has to do with the human quest to stop fearing death, and how that is perhaps a fool’s errand. That gets to the heart of this film, or at least closer to it, than the disaster on its face.

It doesn’t hurt that it is also frequently quite funny, in ways that only Noah Baumbach can be. There have been times I have found his work self-consciously “quirky,” but that’s never really the vibe here, even though sometimes the humor is subtly absurd. All I can say, I guess, is that this movie speaks to me. I would be delighted to watch it again, and revel in the chance to gain greater insight into its intentions.

Reviews of White Noise have been mixed, and I can see why. Some might see this movie and say, “What the hell are they talking about?” Even I sometimes thought exactly that, but was happy to leave the question unanswered just because of how much I dug its vibe. This is largely thanks to its leads, Adam Driver looking pudgier than ever as a middle-aged scholar of Hitler Studies, and Baumbach mainstay Greta Gerwig as his emotionally struggling wife. It is noted at one point that they are each on their fourth spouse, only one of the four children between them actually produced by the two of them together. The three older kids are incredibly well cast, each of them vital parts of the plot and, as actors, very much up to the task.

Don Cheadle plays a colleague at “College on the Hill,” a man with twin obsessions with car crashes in cinema, and Elvis Presley. They have discussions, and in one case a sort of duet college lecture, that draws parallels between the slavish devotion to Elvis and the slavish devotion to Hitler. It felt like it had real import to the themes of this movie, but I never quite understood it.

There are big tonal shifts, giving White Noise an air of a cross between Steven Spielberg, Richard Linklater, the Coen Brothers, maybe even a dash of Robert Altman with its penchant for overlapping dialogue in group or crowd settings. I happen to love all of these directors, and each of these tones somehow work, so I’m into it. One of the final sequences, the most Coen Brothers-esque, takes place in a Catholic emergency room with surprisingly faithless nuns. I found it hilarious.

What I couldn’t tell you, in the end, is quite how it all fits together. I can only tell you I loved the experience. I wish the same for you.

I kind of wanted the entire movie to be about this.

Overall: B+

VIOLENT NIGHT

Directing: B-
Acting: B
Writing: C+
Cinematography: B
Editing: B
Special Effects: B-

There’s a maybe five-minute sequence in Violent Night that is essentially an ultraviolent version of Home Alone. There’s a little Black girl instead of Macaulay Culkin, and the booby traps are more severe than those that Kevin set—although truthfully not by a wide margin; Home Alone, while still hilarious, rather downplays the severity of the injuries the traps would actually inflict. In Violent Night, instead, people actually die. Lots of them. What’s more: Violent Night is so shameless in its ripping off Home Alone in this sequence, it comes long after the movie gets literally name checked by young Trudy Lightstone. Call it “Chekov’s movie reference.”

The thing is, that five-minute sequence is by far the best part of Violent Night, giving me several good belly laughs, and I rather wish the whole movie had been centered around that. The whole story would have been much improved just being an R-rated, ultra-violent update on Home Alone, 32 years later, as thought that holiday classic were crossed with, say, Kill Bill. Now that would have been a blast.

There is a particular problem with Violent Night, you see, and that is its tonal schizophrenia. Some scenes are very violent and also very funny. Some scenes are very violent just for the sake of violence, without being funny, as though script writers Pat Casey and Josh Miller were using the sight of David Harbour in a Santa suit as a crutch—somehow, we’re meant to stay amused just because literal Santa Claus is dispatching countless nameless goons with a sledgehammer he calls “The Skullcrusher.” I mean, sure, that’s kind of funny. For a minute or two.

Violent Night works incredibly well when it has its wits about, which is unfortunately not all of the time. And, sure, even Home Alone was treacly and sentimental, ostensibly about “wholesome family values” even though in the end it wasn’t really—but it still worked because it had its narrative priorities in order, saving the violent gags for the extended, hilarious climactic sequence at the end. Violent Night, on the other hand, whips back and forth all through the movie, between bloody fights and an ultra-rich family learning the value of each other while being held hostage by a team of criminals headed by “Mr. Scrooge” (John Leguizamo).

Anyone familiar with the truly fantastic and hilarious—and thus far superior—1988 Bill Murray vehicle Scrooged will instantly be reminded of that film’s opening sequence, which turned out to be a preview for a network TV action movie with Santa Claus as its main character, called The Night the Reindeer Died. The whole point there was exaggerated ridiculousness as the result of crass holiday consumerism, and now, in 2022, we basically have that sketch gag stretched out into a feature film. I’ll give 2022 movie this much credit, at least: Violent Night is a far better title. I bet the writers of that fake trailer from Scrooged are kicking themselves now.

Ironically, David Harbour’s Santa Claus in Violent Night is a drunken mess largely because of disillusionment about what consumerist zombies modern children have become. And yet, what does Violent Night itself represent, really?

I won’t lie: I found Violent Night fun enough. That Home Alone booby trap sequence single handedly heightened my impression of the entire movie, if only to keep me from relegating it to utter mediocrity. Now I would just call it . . . relatively mediocre.

David Harbour is inspired casting as Santa Claus, notwithstanding how easy it is to argue he isn’t fat enough. At worst, he’s “stocky”—a clear choice to make him a badass former ancient warrior. Odd that we should learn that about him but not how the hell he actually became Santa. Also strange that he should be riddled with “Christmas magic” and yet so easily maimed and bloody. This is sort of like making Die Hard as an actual Christmas movie. Still not nearly as good though.

The little girl, by the way, is played winningly by Leah Brady; she’s visiting her very rich grandmother’s estate with her otherwise estranged parents (Alexis Louder and Alex Hassell). It’s pretty fun to see Beverly D’Angelo as ultra-rich-bitch Grandma Gertrude Lightstone, although even her character, like all the other adults, exist only to serve the plot purpose of vapid people barely worth protecting or saving.

I just wish Violent Night could make up its mind between earnestness and self-parody. Nearly half the movie is incongruously earnest, as though we are watching a wholesome holiday movie, even though that’s not what it is at all. None of it fits, and a movie like this really only works if it never takes itself seriously.

David Harbour never does, at least, and so the movie is at least slightly better for it. Even the subplot of little Trudy being vindicated in her belief in Santa Claus could have worked in a movie that held its conviction of utter silliness. Instead, director Tommy Wirkola seems to want Violent Night to offer something for everybody, even though that’s just never how movies like this work. In the end, it just means the audience who comes for the cartoonish violence rendered more amusing by the involvement of Santa Claus will spend every other sequence just waiting for the action to start again.

The more tedious scenes might have worked better if it had more cleverly written humor, but with a few notable exceptions, the gags in this movie are low-hanging fruit. Someone needs to try this exercise again, and do it right, or at least better. Flesh out the young-child-as-action-hero angle. Call it Scrooge Hard, or something. Home Explode? I don’t know, we can workshop it. Unfortunately there’s no better action-Christmas-movie title than Violent Night. I just wish it got more than halfway to living up to it.

While visions of skullcrusher hammers danced in their heads

Overall: B-

GLASS ONION: A KNIVES OUT MYSTERY

Directing: B+
Acting: B
Writing: B+
Cinematography: B+
Editing: B+

Is Glass Onion as good as Knives Out? Not quite—but that was to be expected, the typical nature of a sequel. But, is it almost as good as Knives Out? Actually, yes. And do I hope Rian Johnson and Daniel Craig team up for more “Benoit Blanc” mysteries two or three more times? Absolutely!

Because, make no mistake: Glass Onion may not quite match the acting pedigree of its predecessor—which, frankly, has some effect on its performances—it’s still a hell of a good time. I had a blast, and even look forward to watching it again.

I can’t really decide whether I find it disappointing that this movie is getting a strict one-week theatrical release, starting today, with its Netflix release exactly one month from now, on December 23. This is a very different approach from its predecessor, this offering being much more definitively “a Netflix movie.” But, such is the state of the film industry: it could easily be argued that this is the most appropriate approach for a movie of this sort. Viewers aplenty will thoroughly enjoy the film on a streamer in a month, and movie theatre purists like myself are satisfied for now.

I loved seeing this in the theater, but do I have any reason to insist you see it in the same way? Not really. I’ll watch it again at home with my husband next month. The level of “prestige” a film is perceived to have depending on its medium of release is changing.

I will say this: some might think Glass Onion is less, say, “sophisticated” than Knives Out was, even in light of both films’ similar streaks of wit. Glass Onion seems more inclined to lean into its cornier humor, but a bit knowingly so. This was but one of many things I really enjoyed about it.

Here’s my only real nitpick. Glass Onion not only fully acknowledges the pandemic, but is literally set in 2020, a curious choice on writer-director Rian Johnson’s part. One wonders if he came up with the idea during lockdowns, as it feels a little like a “covid movie,” the nine principal characters spending the vast majority of the film alone together on a secluded island. Only one scene features a genuine crowd of people, all of them at a huge party inside a woman’s house, and it is played for laughs: “Oh, they’re all part of my pod.”

That’s not the nitpick, though. Eight guests, all but one of them friends and colleagues of billionaire Miles Bron (Edward Norton), are invited to this weekend island getaway. And then, shortly after the slightly jarring sight of these characters wearing face masks—to Johnson’s credit, each character’s differing level of care in wearing them properly effectively illustrates their personalities—they are each somehow immunized by a random guy walking to each of them in turn and shooting something into their throats with a sort of gun. “Immunize” isn’t even a word used; the guy just says, “You don’t have to wear your mask anymore. You’re good.” Huh? I’m not sure why we couldn’t just get some throwaway line about having all of them take a covid test, which would have been far more realistic. I suppose Johnson’ felt this would be more “cinematic,” and to be fair, we regularly forgive far less plausible things in movies. Nevertheless, I found it distractingly dumb.

That was the only such moment for me, though. Johnson is proving to be a master at whodunnit storytelling, always with the clever misdirects. You go into this movie primed to think, and fully expecting, Miles Bron to be the murder victim. Then, there is a second-act time shift so sudden the only thing it’s missing is a record scratch, and we get to see a whole lot of what we just saw, from different characters’ perspectives. And plot turns are still left after that, all of them satisfying. This movie offers plenty of what we expect of it, just in surprising flavors.

A lot of these murder mysteries are very easy to figure out, at least for the viewers trying to figure it out. I am not one of those people; I like to give myself over to the story, without making any effort to solve the mystery myself. I only get annoyed when the answer is so obvious I can see it without even trying. That never happens with “Knives Out Mysteries,” and I think even the people who usually figure out the answers will find it a fun challenge.

Some media attention has been given to the fact that Glass Onion makes Benoit Blanc’s sexuality more explicit, although it’s brief and surprisingly subtle. The brief moment when we see Blanc's partner is one of a few delightful cameos in this movie. (Two of the others, seen onscreen during a Zoom call with Blanc in the bathtub, I won’t spoil, except to say they are both the very last roles of two legendary figures, one of them a kind of heartwarming in-joke.) I don’t know how others will take Blanc’s costume design in this movie, but as a gay man myself, I kind of loved its “old-school gay” aesthetic, complete with neckerchiefs.

As for the rest of the characters invited to the island, they are played by a brand new ensemble of name actors, including Janelle Monáe (maybe the best-cast of the bunch), Kate Hudson, Dave Bautista, Kathryn Hahn, and Leslie Odom Jr., along with Jessica Henwick as Hudson’s assistant and Madelyn Cline as Bautista’s girlfiend, amusingly named “Whiskey.” That’s not to mention the heavy sprinkling of cameos, several of them people playing themselves, and I won’t spoil who they are.

I get the feeling a lot of these people simply jumped at the chance to appear in a Rian Johnson movie, and particularly “A Knives Out Mystery,” largely on the strength of Knives Out. As naturally they would: Johnson is very good not just at casting, but for assembling an ensemble with effective chemistry. These movies are doubly impressive for their re-watchability even once you know the answer to their central mysteries. Which is to say, Glass Onion has no unattained aspirations, aiming only to be a delight from beginning to end, and that is a promise on which it delivers.

I suppose you’re all wondering why I gathered you here today.

Overall: B+

THE MENU

Directing: B
Acting: B+
Writing: B+
Cinematography: B
Editing: B

It’s too bad we can’t all see The Menu not knowing literally anything about it at all. The experience would be far more fun, and this movie is fun regardless—but something gets lost in all that is revealed in the trailer. In all likelihood, had I had the opportunity to sit down in a movie theater, completely oblivious to anything except the fact that I was about to see a movie, and then saw this—I’d give it a higher rating. This would be the perfect contender for one of those “secret screenings” at film festivals.

Of course, they can’t all be like that, or else how could anyone sell it? We have to know something, right, to get people interested? The best marketers can do in this case, I suppose, is edit a trailer in a way that misdirects expectations a bit. This is the closest I’ll come to spoiling anything: the clear suggestion made by the trailer, as to what’s happening amongst this group of filthy rich diners at an exclusive, ridiculously high-end restaurant on a secluded island, is not exactly where this story is headed.

And the thing is, if the less you know the better, what else can I tell you? Well, I’ve already noted the premise. And you can expect a diverse, ensemble cast, with Anya Talor-Joy as the protagonist, Nicholas Hoult as the obsessive food snob who brought her as his date, and Ralph Fiennes as the, let’s say, morally dubious chef. A smattering of recognizable faces show up among the dozen or so other diners, all of whom are carried to the island in a small passenger ferry, including John Leguizamo, Reed Birney, Janet McTeer, and—a delightful surprise—Judith Light, among others. Several of them are recognizable character actors you’ll find yourself wondering what show or movie you’ve seen them in.

And this is what I liked best about The Menu: even when you start thinking you know where things are headed, in the middle of the movie’s narrative, you don’t. At one point I was really afraid we were headed for some kind of The Game-style ending in which we find out the protagonist is the only one being played. I was much relieved to find that fear unfounded. When the proceedings start to become severe, they really are as severe as they seem. Just not in the way you’re expecting if you’ve been taken in by this film’s marketing.

Now, is there any reason to rush into theaters to see this? Honestly, no. I’m all for keeping the movie theater industry afloat, and for achieving that goal through more than just CGI blockbuster extravaganzas, but some movies still serve their purpose just as well on your TV at home. As fun as The Menu is—and I definitively had fun—this is still one such example. The best I can suggest is to make a note of this film’s title, wait until you find it available on a streamer, and then turn it on without finding out anything more about it. You won’t regret it, especially if you’re inclined to roll your eyes at deeply pretentious discussions about food.

The menu tells a story. Just not quite the one you’re expecting.

Overall: B

WEIRD: THE AL YANKOVIC STORY

Directing: B
Acting: B+
Writing: B
Cinematography: B
Editing: B+

I’ll tell you what I find the most stunning about the film Weird: The Al Yankovic Story. You can just google this title, navigate your way to therokuchannel.roku.com, and watch it online in its entirety, for free—without commercials. Never before have I encountered a movie with this high a profile, albeit only “high” among “Weird Al” Yankovic fans (and it’s still a streamer release, after all), that is so easy to watch, commercial free, at no cost. How is this movie getting paid for? Apparently the Roku Channel invested $8 million for the production costs. I’ve never subscribed to Roku, but its Wikipedia page says the challen is ad-supported. Why is Weird not ad supported, then? Maybe they are presenting this movie as a sort of commercial for their service.

I don’t need anything else Roku has to offer but whatever. This web page offers a trick on how to watch it without ads, but when I went straight to the Roku Channel page it played entirely without ads. Perhaps it was a mistake? Watch the movie, quick! Get it while the getting’s good!

The other thing I keep thinking about this movie, which is a much more amusing detail, is how many viewers must have approached it thinking it was a straightforward telling of “Weird Al” Yankovic’s life and work—which it absolutely is not; with just a couple minor exceptions (such as the recording of “My Balogna” in a university bathroom), almost everything is either fabricated or wildly exaggerated. I keep imagining people staring this movie and taking several deeply confused minutes before they realize this. I even got a text from my sister telling me she wanted to love this movie but couldn’t, for this very reason.

In fact, Weird: The Al Yankovic Story is itself a parody, specifically of biopics. The script, cowritten by Eric Appel and Weird Al himself (a fitting project for this late in his career, at age 63), has an impressively sophisticated overall arc, following every by-the-numbers beat of all the biopics you’ve ever seen: the struggle of being misunderstood in childhood; clueless and abusive parents; overindulgence during a rise to fame. In this case, the movie presents Yankovic’s career as though he became the biggest pop star in the world, fueled by wildly popular song parodies.

This is the first straight-up parody motion picture I have gone out of my way to watch in ages, and there’s a reason well-made spoof movies are so few and far between: they are practically impossible to pull off anymore. Weird does a respectably successful job of it, giving me regular chuckles and giggles. But, I have to be honest. I wish it had a better rate of gags per minute. It’s easy to get impatient with a movie like this.

Casting Daniel Radcliffe, however big a fan of Yankovic he might be, in the title role is an odd choice. I suppose it’s part of the joke: Radcliffe stands at 5’5” tall, whereas Yankovic himself is an even 6’. It brings to mind the casting of 5’7” Tom Cruise in the role of Jack Reacher, a character who is supposed to be 6’5”. Radcliffe does an adequate job in the part, in spite of his jawline being radically different from Yankovic’s.

Furthermore, Weird goes deep into a fictionalize romance between Yankovic and Madonna (Evan Rachel Wood), who famously did ask Yankovic to parody one of her songs in the eighties. They did not, however, become drunken lovers until Madonna was kidnapped by Pablo Escobar (Arturo Castro), nor did Yankovic—spoiler alert!—murder Escobar and all of his henchmen. To be fair, Weird taking a sudden genre turn into action-movie is one of the more amusing things about it. I’m kind of dying to know what Madonna herself thinks of this movie.

It’s widely known that “Weird Al” Yankovic is a beloved figure, among both comedy legends and comedy fans; the man has an insane amount of goodwill, built up over decades. Thus, Weird is packed with cameos by famous people, from Lyn-Manuel Miranda as a surgeon to Josh Groban as an abused waiter, and plenty more. Yankovic himself has a supporting part in the film, not as himself, but as a record executive. It’s his first notable motion picture role since his single starring turn, in 1989’s UHF.

Weird: The Al Yankovic Story is deeply on brand for Yankovic, which is one of the most fun things about it—as is the fact that he even recorded a couple new original songs for the soundtrack, the first album release of any kind he’s given us since Mandatory Fun in 2014. He clearly decided to take his career in new directions once it became clear there was no longer money in album releases, hence this very film. And I found it a worthy diversion for about an hour and forty minutes, in the realm of the mildly amusing, anyway. Maybe I’m just spoiled because I was hoping for something more genuinely hilarious.

I’ll tell you this much about Daniel Radcliffe. The man is fit.

Overall: B

THE BANSHEES OF INISHERIN

Directing: A-
Acting: A-
Writing: A-
Cinematography: A-
Editing: B+

You could say that The Banshees of Inisherin is writer-director Martin McDonagh’s return to form, or at least to his roots: his previous film set in Ireland—not native to McDonagh himself, who was born in London, but native to his parents—was the excellent, incredible debut feature film In Bruges (2008). That film also featured the same two lead actors, Irishmen Brendan Gleeson and Colin Farrell. Both films mix comedy and drama, and both go dark places. The key difference really, is that In Bruges offers more overt laughs and The Banshees of Inisherin has a singular depth of vision on its character’s tragedy.

That certainly shouldn’t dissuade you from seeing it, however: this is easily one of the best films of the year. And even though McDonagh’s previous film, Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri (2017) garnered the most Oscars of any—two wins, alongside five other nominations—it quickly faced a great deal of legitimate criticism, not least of which was its centering of whiteness in a story ostensibly addressing racial injustice. The fundamental issue with McDonagh’s telling of such a story is his position widely removed from the Black, or even an American, experience. Thus, what elevates both In Bruges and especially The Banshees of Inisherin is McDonagh’s own Irish heritage, and a clear depth of knowledge of his own peoples’ history.

In fact, this film is so steeped in Irish history, set on a remote and deeply rural island off the coast of Ireland in the 1920s during the Irish Civil War, which lasted just under a year from 1922 to 1923. There are almost certainly nuances that either reference or mirror that conflict, even though the film doesn’t come any closer to directly portraying any battles than the islanders hearing gunfire or seeing smoke rising from the mainland (which is, of course, itself an island). As someone whose knowledge of this conflict basically begins and ends with this very movie, I likely missed many such nuances. That does not make the film any less great than it is.

On the surface, anyway, this is a film about a breakup, not between romantic lovers, but between good friends, who are widely known to their community as men who spend their time daily drinking at the local pub together. But there comes a point—and this is where the film begins—when Colm (Gleeson) has come to realize he’s wasting his time, needs the space to pursue his musical passions before his days are numbered, and thus declares to said friend, Pádraic (Farrell), that “I just don’t like you no more,” and he wants to be left alone.

It sounds deceptively simple as a concept, and this is where once again McDonagh proves a uniquely adept storyteller (so long as he fully understands the environment in which he’s placed his characters). Farrell has never been better than his performance as Pádraic, a simple, kind man whose simplicity skirts the border of dullness, and whose emotionally intelligence cannot comprehend such a jarring removal of affection or companionship. Colm quickly grows so frustrated with Pádraic’s persistence in speaking to him, he declares that for every time Pádraic “bothers’ him again, he will take his pair of shears and cut off one of his own fingers.

As a viewer, I really hoped it wouldn’t actually come to that. But, Pádraic makes it difficult to hold onto that hope. This is a guy who declares the young man Dominic (a stupendous Barry Keoghan, for once not playing a villain or an unsettling creep) the dumbest guy on the island, only to start seeing evidence of this guy being, if not any more emotionally intelligent, then a bit more educated than him.

The Banshees of Inisherin is the kind of movie that, where other films might hint of an uncomfortable path and then pivot, instead leans right into those paths. Colm’s and Pádraic’s story is one of cascading wrong moves, the kind that turn friends into enemies. You know, kind of like a civil war.

I must also mention Kerry Condon as Siobhan, Pádraic’s sister he lives with. She is the stealth MVP of this film’s cast, playing the local woman increasingly exasperated with both her brother and Colm. She gets a fantastic, unforgettable scene with Gleeson, as Colm complains of how boring Pádraic is, only to have Siobhan reference all the men on the island and shout, “You’re all fecking boring!” There is some irony here, given the film’s full focus on men in the story, and it barely passes the Bechdel Test (at first I thought it didn’t, but then I remembered her conversation about her main with the woman at the shop in town).

This film is far from boring, however, notwithstanding how gradually its greatness truly reveals itself. It starts as a deceptively simple story deceptively told, just two guys whose lifelong friendship has inexplicably splintered. “Inisherin” is the name of the fictional island on which they live (gorgeously shot, by cinematographer Ben Davis, on and near the stunning limestone sea cliffs of the west coast island of Inishmore), and “The Banshees of Inisherin” is the name of the music piece Colm is composing. Or, a subtle reference to the characters themselves.

It may sound like some of this is a little on the nose, but that is not at all how it plays as the story unfolds, which is often as funny as it is sad. It seems fair to warm viewers that this movie is not the least bit upbeat, and its humor is often steeped in very dark themes, but it is also undeniably compelling, some might even say entertaining.

When friends show vulnerability then their friendship is vulnerable.

Overall: A-

TRIANGLE OF SADNESS

Directing: B+
Acting: A-
Writing: A-
Cinematography: A-
Editing: B+

It is largely by chance that I wound up watching Triangle of Sadness only one day after Tár, but they make very suitable companion pieces—both of them being overlong notwithstanding. Although Tár is two hours and 38 minutes long, and Triangle of Sadness is two hours and 27 minutes long, the latter does a better job of justifying its own length. This one, at least, is edited largely like an anthology: part one focused on a young straight couple who are both models; part two on a luxury cruise to which they were given free tickets as part of the woman’s deals as a social media “influencer”; and part three on the island to which several of the passengers wind up stranded.

That’s not to say I don’t think Triangle of Sadness couldn’t also have been shortened, mind you. There is no question in my mind that this film also could have had certain scenes either cut in half or excised altogether, and left a film with the same overall effect. That said, this one has a pretty great title, to which we are treated in the opening scenes: Carl (Harris Dickinson) is a beautiful, young, blond male model going on an audition, and his beauty still won’t stop his scrutinizers from asking if he can flatten out his “triangle of sadness”—modest wrinkles between the nose and the eyebrows. One of them offers a side comment about whether it can be treated with Botox.

Triangle of Sadness is also a satire, and one which is, if not more successful than Tár, then certainly more accessible. Tár is capital-A “Art,” a commentary on separating art of the artist; whereas Triangle of Sadness tackles wealth and privilege in a much more straightforward way. I am reminded of the common scenario where it doesn’t matter how wealthy a person is, if someone else exists with a great deal more wealth, then they don’t think of themselves as wealthy. And in Part One, we get an extended scene with Lewis and his also-a-model girlfriend Yaya (Charlbi Dean), at a restaurant, devolving into a tense conversation about their respective salaries and who is typically expected to pay. Much is made of the fact that female models earn more than their male counterparts. Presumably successful models of any gender are doing fine. (Admittedly, the gap is wide.) Suddenly I’m wondering how the actor salaries for the two portraying them compares.

Carl and Yaya are but two characters in a huge ensemble cast for Triangle of Sadness—the triptych of parts also supporting its title—and yet, they are the only two who appear in all three parts. It’s as though the micro view of their two lives navigating the nuances and implications of money is broken out into a wider view once we find them on the luxury yacht, especially once we learn they were given their tickets in exchange for “influencing.”

It’s on the yacht that we meet a huge cast of characters, in a unique sort of upstairs/downstairs scenario. First we see the above-deck crew getting a pep talk: no matter what the guests asks or demand, you always say “Yes, sir!” or “Yes. ma’am!” Okay, but what if one of the many filthy rich guests becomes friendly with a young woman on the crew, and demands that she go for a swim? And further demands that the entire crew go or a swim, right this instant, including the kitchen crew, leaving the seafood being prepared for dinner left out and unattended for as long as that takes?

The best thing about the writing and direction here by Ruben Östlund (Force Majeure) is how eclectic the characters are, and how they all ring true. This applies to our model characters (are they even the protagonists, technically?) as well as the yacht guests who are far more wealthy than they are, and the leadership of the yacht crew, right down to the cleaning staff. A woman referred to multiple times as the “Toilet Manager” winds up playing a critical, deliciously subverted role on the island in Part Three.

But, I’m getting ahead of myself—I must mention Woody Harrelson, who we only see in Part Two, in maybe the least plausible part in the film: the wildly irresponsible, drunkard Marxist captain of the yacht. How the hell did this guy even get that job? Maybe it doesn’t matter. Harrelson has become a reliable go-to character actor, a surprise in retrospect considering the persona of his early career, and yet he is perfectly cast here, and provides a great deal of levity in what ultimately becomes a catastrophically tragic situation.

It’s no spoiler to say that the ship winds up sinking. What matters is how it happens, and the chaotic events that lead up to it, many of which aren’t even related. This mishmash of bad luck also strains plausibility, but plausibility is not what Östlund is going for here. One of the many things I loved about Triangle of Sadness is how much we see of the ship lurching back and forth over the waves of a gathering storm, an extended sequence (both darkly entertaining and deeply disgusting) that is all build-up—only for it to cut straight to the handful of survivors on an isolated beach, before we even see the ship actually sink. That part, while it probably would have been thrilling to see, is not relevant to the story being told here.

I must return again to the comparison to Tár, because it fascinates me that this film has received relatively mixed reviews while Tár is being truly fawned over by critics; I genuinely feel both of them are excellent, each with only very minor flaws. I can’t help but wonder, would the amount of critical praise be reversed had Tár been directed by Ruben Östlund starring Charlbi Dean, but Triangle of Sadness were directed by Todd Field and featured Cate Blanchett? How much does the prestigiousness of pedigree color people’s approach to these films? To me, it’s a wonderful thing that such questions are found in the overlapping pools in which both films are wading.

The acting is no less excellent in Triangle of Sadness, the difference only being that they are not as famous (not even Woody Harrelson, by far the most famous actor here, and he’s only in a third of the film). I was particularly impressed with Harris Dickinson as Carl, with his deceptively sweet and expressive face. Would I have been as impressed if he weren’t also gorgeous? In any event, Östlund deftly weaves many threads of nuance as he also impressively makes clear that none of these people are just “rich idiots”—they aren’t idiots at all, not a single one. As a rule, they even openly acknowledge their lack of basic life skills when put to the test on a deserted island, hence the “Toilet Manager” who takes easy control of the group because she is the only one who knows how to cut and clean an octopus.

All three parts of this film are as compelling as the other, for different reasons. Part Three becomes a sort of adult, psychological Lord of the Flies (it’s kind of a relief there is no onscreen violence), but one in which race and class take on new meaning based on people’s abilities, as do gender roles. In one particularly memorable scene, Yaya is giving Carl pointers on how to stroke the ego of an older person in a leadership role who has invited him to start sleeping in the life boat with her. It puts into sharp relieve what many young women have to deal with in the real world, and what most young men are oblivious to—until young Carl is forced to face it. And then, much to Östlund’s expert storytelling credit, it is some time before the rest of the group, or even us as viewers, find out exactly what is actually going on in that lifeboat.

Sitting through Triangle of Sadness, regardless of its length, is a surprising experience in richly rewarding ways. Its final moments bring things around perfectly, with just the right amount of ambiguity. Honestly, the more I think about this film the more I feel impressed by it.

Ironically, there is a perimeter of joy in observation of this triangle.

Overall: A-