Review: "Christine"

A number of years back, in college, I composed a paper on the history of safety regulations in the film industry. A key focus of mine was the horrific accident that occurred on the set of Twilight Zone: The Movie in the summer of 1982 - that is, the helicopter crash that ended the lives of veteran actor Vic Morrow and child actors Myca Dinh Le and Renee Shin-Yi Chen.

While researching that event, I came across the now-defunct shock site Ogrish, which specialized in uploading graphic, gory multimedia of accidents, executions and so on, that would never be allowed to grace a mainstream video-sharing website like YouTube. Besides video of the accident itself, there were countless threads on their message boards discussing the Twilight Zone incident. There was even more chatter, however, about another grisly death once captured on film.

That marked the first time I'd ever heard the name Christine Chubbuck, despite at that point having already put in a few years toward my Bachelor's degree in Journalism. To the Ogrish crowd, Chubbuck was something of a legend, her suicide having been broadcast live on-air over the Sarasota, Florida airwaves in the summer of 1974. That video of this tragedy has never surfaced since its live airing made Chubbuck's death all the more intriguing to these online chatters.

At the time, I did a bit more digging - beyond the Ogrish crowd, of course - on her life and career but otherwise, in the years since, had not given a thought to Chubbuck.

Now, however, comes Christine, a motion picture focused on the final days of Chubbuck's life.

With the mesmerizing Rebecca Hall (who was so terrific in last year's The Gift too) in the title role, the film portrays Chubbuck as an immensely talented and committed journalist. Craving to report on serious issues of substance, even if it's dry material like zoning laws, she is constantly at odds with her boss (Tracy Letts), who wants juicier, more sensational stories to boost the flailing network's ratings. She's a standoffish presence at work but at least has the respect of her other colleagues (Michael C. Hall and Maria Dizzia among them).

Chubbuck, however, does not have much of a life outside the office. She has struggled with depression for years, having attempted suicide several times in the past. After graduating from Boston University's journalism school, she moved back down to Sarasota to reside with her mother (J. Smith-Cameron) and their relationship is often contentious, especially when her mom brings home a new boyfriend. Chubbuck dreams of moving up in the reporting ranks and starting a family with a wonderful man but several events - over what will prove the final days of her life - make those desires look all the more implausible.

Christine does not break a ton of new ground on the much-explored scene of 1970s journalism and we've seen the "serious vs. sensational journalism" debate tackled more compellingly before. The picture also goes on 10 minutes too long, ending on a note that just isn't very convincing. The look and feel of the time is, however, captured quite nicely, and the film sports a marvelous soundtrack. Beyond the warm and affecting Smith-Cameron, none of the supporting cast leaves much of an impression.

The picture is, however, well-worth a look for one reason, that of course being its leading lady. Hall gives a truly pitch-perfect, lived-in performance as Chubbuck. While Letts grandstands in a hammy turn as the network boss, Hall is brilliantly subtle here and not only heartbreaking but, given Chubbuck's self-deprecating nature, often very funny too. She particularly amazes during a roller coaster-of-emotions sequence in which Chubbuck is invited out to dinner by the network's lead anchor.

While pundits these days seem focused almost exclusively on the likes of Emma Stone and Natalie Portman, we should not this awards season overlook the sublime work here from one of Hollywood's most underappreciated actresses.

B

Review: "The Girl on the Train"

Someday, Emily Blunt, you will (at last!) get that Oscar nomination. I'm afraid, unfortunately, this again will probably not be the year.

Going into The Girl on the Train, adapted from Paula Hawkins' big, fat hit of a novel, I was expecting something of a pale Gone Girl imitation. Reviews for the picture, after all, were embargoed until a few mere days prior to release and when notices finally did surface, they weren't too flattering. Given the raves for its leading lady, I figured the picture might well prove a repeat of something like Mommie Dearest, where the brilliant Faye Dunaway was stuck carrying a gargantuan pile of trash on her shoulders.

Thankfully, The Girl on the Train is no Mommie Dearest. It almost never reaches the heights of the aforementioned Gone Girl either, but it is an entertaining, plenty watchable erotic-psychological thriller. The picture at times rings of Adrian Lyne adapting a Jacqueline Susann novel.

In the film, Blunt portrays Rachel Watson, a woman reeling from the end of her marriage to Tom (Justin Theroux), who cheated on Rachel with Anna (Rebecca Ferguson). Every day, the alcoholic, blackout-prone Rachel passes by Tom and Anna's home while taking the train into the city but it is the sight of their neighbors Megan (Haley Bennett) and Scott (Luke Evans) that really piques Rachel's interest. She views the seemingly madly-in-love Megan and Scott as an absolutely perfect couple. So, when Rachel notices something unusual at their home, involving Megan's therapist (Edgar Ramirez), and then Megan suddenly goes missing, she cannot help but investigate, even as she cannot trust her own memory due to all the boozing.

Blunt is flat-out fantastic in the picture, perhaps even more amazing here than in last year's Sicario, and anytime she graces the screen, The Girl on the Train is completely engrossing. When it comes to on-screen alcoholics, it's a turn right on-par with the legendary likes of Ray Milland in The Lost Weekend and Mickey Rourke and Faye Dunaway in Barfly.

Unfortunately, the rest of the film does not quite operate at the same sky-high level. Bennett leaves a strong impression as Megan but the other ensemble players - sans Allison Janney, terrific (as always) as the detective investigating Megan's disappearance - don't seem as invested. The picture sports a polished, gloomy look, not unlike Gone Girl, but rarely musters the same suspense as that film. Danny Elfman's score is a nice fit.

Ultimately, if I have to point a finger at a single person for not delivering a more all-around satisfying film, it would have to be the picture's director, Tate Taylor, who also leaned heavily on the strength of his cast to make something out of The Help. That film had half a dozen or so marvelous performances, which effectively overshadowed the lethargy of Taylor's direction. This time around, Taylor recruited a cast that, for the most part, wasn't so willing to do such heavy lifting.

With that said, The Girl on the Train is still well worth a look, for both thriller fans and to see Blunt operating at the top of her game.

B

Review: "Don't Think Twice"

I have to say, pumped as I am about this coming Oscar season, I haven't been terribly enamored with 2016's movie offerings. I've given a tinsy-winsy five films a higher grade than B+ and even my favorite film of the year (until this weekend), The Nice Guys, I only gave an A- and had a handful of qualms with. Nothing had left me head-over-heels.

That is, until (at last!) checking out Mike Birbiglia's second directorial effort (after 2012's Sleepwalk with Me), Don't Think Twice. It is handily the finest film I've seen in 2016 and it would have to be a uber-boffo Oscar season for this not to make my final top 10 of the year.

The picture, the All About Eve of improvisational comedy movies, often recalls the likes of Tootsie and Noises Off. It is also so. much. better. than fellow films of this genre like Punchline, Funny People and Mr. Saturday Night. Heck, Don't Think Twice simply has to be among the greatest pictures ever made about comedians.

In the film, Birbiglia portrays Miles, the elder statesman of the New York improvisational comedy troupe The Commune, who, for more than a decade, have been working their tail off at a tiny Manhattan theater, to modest-at-best fanfare. Miles, as he so often likes to put it, came "inches away" from once being cast on Weekend Live, a variety program that's a dead ringer for Saturday Night Live.

At one Commune show, a couple of Weekend Live producers stop by and invite members Jack (Keegan-Michael Key) and Samantha (the film's MVP Gillian Jacobs) to audition for their show. Jack, who has a penchant for showing off and upstaging his fellow Commune pals, nails his audition, while Samantha, who's shy to the idea of comedy superstardom, bails on auditioning altogether.

Jack's hire awakens loads of passive-aggressive resentment from the rest of the Commune, especially from Miles, who trained Jack in the art of improv, and leaves Samantha feeling lost at sea. Making matters all the more uneasy is announcement of the closure of The Commune's hole-in-the-wall venue.

Even if there's not a real "A-lister" among them, Don't Think Twice sports one of the most exciting ensemble casts I've seen grace the screen in a while. Beyond Birbiglia, Key and Jacobs, there's also Kate Micucci, Tami Sagher and, in a role that demands just as many dramatic as comic chops, Chris Gethard. Jacobs is particularly incredible here, devastatingly good on the impressions side (of Katharine Hepburn and Gena Rowlands, no less!) but also crafting an amazingly complex and engrossing character.

As for Birbiglia, I often found myself in real awe of just how pitch-perfect his screenplay is here. He has such an ear for dialogue, like a funnier Alexander Payne,, delivering just as many thought-provoking lines as side-splitting ones. Sans his adorable work in last year's Trainwreck, I admittedly wasn't all that familiar with Birbiglia going into Don't Think Twice. After seeing this treasure of a picture, I'm eager for everything Birbiglia (and Jacobs!), past and present.

A

Review: "Sully"

Clint Eastwood is responsible for directing a handful of my all-time favorite pictures. I consider Unforgiven one of the finest westerns, not just in recent years but of all-time, rivaling even the greatest John Ford films. Million Dollar Baby is also a plenty powerful picture, as is Eastwood's fun and scary directorial debut, Play Misty for Me. Then you have The Bridges of Madison County, my favorite film of 1995, with my all-time favorite Meryl Streep performance - it's a truly exquisite, heartbreaking picture, directed with a beautifully gentle touch.

At the same time, Eastwood has delivered his fair share of duds too, from the clumsy and inert Bronco Billy and The Rookie, to overbaked Oscar bait like Changeling, Hereafter and J. Edgar.

Sully, Eastwood's latest effort - and let it be known first that I still consider the filmmaker a total badass, regardless of my coming comments - falls somewhere in the middle of not only the director's filmography but also leading man Tom Hanks'. It's a workmanlike, not terribly remarkable picture that, no pun intended, never quite takes off.

While Eastwood's film is not extraordinary, the events of January 15, 2009 most certainly were - that of Captain Chesley "Sully" Sullenberger's successful emergency landing in the Hudson River after a pesky flock of geese flew into and destroyed both engines on U.S. Airways Flight 1549. All 155 passengers and crew, including First Officer Jeff Skiles (Aaron Eckhart, doing his best work since Rabbit Hole), survived the ordeal and Sully was quickly thrust into the national spotlight as a beloved hero.

Despite this showering of praise, Sullenberger was challenged in the days following the event by the National Transportation Safety Board, whose members floated the possibility that Sullenberger may in fact have had sufficient power to land the plane at an airport. Much of the picture focuses on the pilot's efforts to prove otherwise, all the while trying to cope with this overwhelming overnight fame.

It's easy to see why Eastwood was attracted to this awe-inspiring story - and why not cast the indomitable Hanks as Sullenberger - but the film never packs a real punch. The event itself is well-choreographed and convincing but the picture is edited in a way that somewhat undercuts much of the tension - just as you're about to get on the edge of your seat, Eastwood cuts away from the action, and beyond the event and the film's finale (involving different simulations of the landing), the proceedings here often border on the lethargic. Flashback scenes touching on Sullenberger's pilot training seem to be out of an entirely different picture altogether.

Hanks is so understated as Sullenberger that he nearly fades into the background. It's commendable work but hardly among his finest. Eckhart breathes more life into the film and has better dialogue to boot (the writing here tends to recall a middle-of-the-road TV movie). But it's just sad to see heavyweights like Laura Linney (as Sullenberger's wife) and Anna Gunn (as one of the NTSB staffers) saddled with such thankless material.

Moviegoers love their Eastwood and Hanks, so this'll probably rake in upwards of $100M, but Sully is nowhere near the most interesting work either man has done.

C+

Review: "Hell or High Water"

Mind if I take a moment to gush over the unimpeachable film legend that is Jeff Bridges?

The presence and impact Bridges has had on the silver screen over the past half-century cannot be understated. By age 25, he had a host of brilliant pictures and performances - not to mention two Oscar nominations - under his belt with the likes of The Last Picture Show, Thunderbolt and Lightfoot and Fat City. Bridges has charmed our pants off in films like Against All Odds, The Fabulous Baker Boys and The Mirror Has Two Faces; moved us to tears in Starman and Fearless; stood out in ensemble pieces like Heaven's Gate and Seabiscuit; and greatly lifted otherwise lukewarm pictures such as Tucker: The Man and His Dreams and his Oscar-winning Crazy Heart.

What Bridges pulls off in David Mackenzie's Hell or High Water seems both effortless and just about impossible for anyone else to have topped. He's pitch-perfect as Marcus Hamilton, a Texas ranger on the brink of retirement who, alongside partner Alberto Parker (Gil Birmingham, a terrific straight man to Bridges' one-liner-machine), is on the trail of bank-robbing brothers Toby and Tanner Howard (Chris Pine and Ben Foster).

The Howard brothers are embarking on this series of heists throughout West Texas in order to save the family farm from foreclosure, following the death of their mother. While Toby also wants to utilize the funds to provide a better life for his estranged ex-wife and children, Tanner, fresh out of prison, is an all-around loose cannon, ready for action against anyone who dares to stand in their way. Badass Marcus, of course, is down for any challenge.

Written by Sicario scribe Taylor Sheridan, Hell or High Water is largely a bit of a slow burn, always engaging though never quite an exhilarating ride. There are, however, a handful of moments of great tension and even more moments of welcome humor. Character actors like Dale Dickey, Katy Mixon and especially Margaret Bowden walk away with their scenes.

And then there's Bridges and Foster, both flat-out fantastic in their roles. Foster, who richly deserved an Oscar nomination a number of years back for The Messenger, never ceases to amaze. As for Pine, he's merely serviceable in the role of the nicer, better-groomed Howard brother. He does have a Montgomery Clift-like matinee idol quality to him, except Clift was never this passive or uninteresting.

Hell or High Water is well above-average for an August film release.

B+

Review: "Florence Foster Jenkins"

Get ready for Oscar nomination #20, everybody.

The indomitable Meryl Streep, who two years back garnered her 19th nod for Into the Woods, is an all-around delight in the title role of Stephen Frears' Florence Foster Jenkins.

The picture treats us to a look at how Jenkins, an ambitious socialite who frequented and invested in the New York arts scene into the 1940s, managed to buy her way into an opera concert for herself at Carnegie Hall...the one problem being Jenkins, lovable and charismatic as she was, couldn't hold a note for her dear life.

Reluctantly along for the ride are Jenkins' Shakespearean actor husband St. Clair Bayfield (Hugh Grant) and pianist Cosme McMoon (Simon Helberg, nearly stealing scenes from Streep in a comically nervous turn that recalls Gene Wilder), both supportive of the leading lady, yet very much wary of the likely not-so-glowing reaction from the public.

Streep, no surprise, is a tour-de-force here, particularly when she graces the stage - the audience before Jenkins may be aghast at her vocal ability but we Streep fanatics could not be more ecstatic. For her performance alone, the picture should be seen.

That said, the film is a tad claustrophobic, never really exploring the exciting hustle and bustle of '40s New York. Supporting players are thinly drawn, particularly Rebecca Ferguson as Bayfield's mistress. The material seems best-suited for a stage production and indeed, a terrific play on Jenkins, Stephen Temperley's Souvenir, graced the Great White Way about a decade back. The Frears picture, while entertaining, does not break a whole lot of new ground on Jenkins' life.

Florence Foster Jenkins can be catalogued right alongside Mrs. Henderson Presents... as one of Frears' stagier efforts which, despite its flaws, is well worth a look for the turn of its leading lady.

B

Review: "Suicide Squad"

I ventured into David Ayer's Suicide Squad with, given the cringe-worthy reviews, rock-bottom expectations. Part of me, however, held out real hope that the picture could surprise. I had, after all, been mildly fond of Ayer's critically panned Sabotage from 2014, and I thought the Jai Courtney-starring Terminator: Genisys worked on the level of fun, tongue-in-cheek camp.

Alas, about half an hour into Suicide Squad, it dawned on me that I really just enjoyed those pictures on account of my love for anything Arnold Schwarzenegger.

Suicide Squad, the worst comic book film adaptation since 2005's Elektra, and likely among the five worst comic flicks of all-time, is a truly cringe-inducing experience, sans any redeeming value. That the film features (and squanders) a handful of fine actors and was helmed by a usually terrific filmmaker makes the picture all the more aggravating an endeavor.

Previews and marketing have hyped Jared Leto's turn as Joker as a must-see, one that presumably dominates the picture. In reality, Joker is little more than an after-thought here, as the film focuses on an intelligence operative (Viola Davis, who's terrific even when completely phoning it in) who, in the wake of Superman's death, puts together a motley team of one-liner-spewing supervillains to be utilized for high-risk missions. With Midway City on the brink of apocalypse, under siege by the grating witch-goddess Enchantress (the always-blank Cara Delevingne), it's up to the squad to save the day.

Given the picture's spastic editing and total lack of character development, it's all but impossible to give a damn about anything on the screen here. The performances range from watchable (Davis, Courtney, Joel Kinnaman) to Razzie-calibur (Will Smith and Margot Robbie, recalling a blend of Angelina Jolie in Girl, Interrupted and Cristin Milioti on 30 Rock), with the script doing nobody any favors at any moment.

As for Leto, whose presence is essentially unnecessary to the picture, I dig the appearance of Joker in a tux, but his turn more recalls some sort of '80s vampire pimp than anything out of the DC Comics. I'm pretty sure this guy was somewhere in the background of the "Relax" sequence from Body Double.

Suicide Squad is enjoyable to poke fun at but comparably depressing, given how great it coulda/shoulda been.

F

Review: "The Secret Life of Pets"

Expectations began to dwindle for me in the five minutes just prior to the start of Illumination Entertainment's latest animated feature The Secret Life of Pets. Preceding the picture is a short film, Mower Minions, headlined by those headache-inducing little rascals from the Despicable Me series and, more recently, their own feature film. Even at just a few minutes in length, it's an overbearing experience, hyperactive animated cinema in dire need of Ritalin.

What I find so disconnecting about the Minions franchise is it's essentially a soulless endeavor, devoid of characters to care about or remotely engaging plot. It's merely an experience of watching stuff bounce around the big screen.

So, I was worried The Secret Life of Pets would too leave me underwhelmed, even though I'd been quite charmed by the picture's marketing. And while Pets does at times have the same hyperbolic energy as the Minions, it is also thankfully a feature with a ton of heart, with lovable, memorable characters and plenty of enjoyable dialogue.

The picture focuses on Max (the delightful Louis C.K.), a terrier living a perfectly comfortable life with his owner in Manhattan. When his mommy brings home a new pet, a shaggy Newfoundland named Duke (Eric Stonestreet) at least twice his size, Max of course becomes jealous and makes a mess of home, in the hopes it'll result in Duke's removal. While out for a walk in the park with some fellow canines later that day, however, Max and Duke go astray, are picked up by animal control and then "rescued" by a sassy bunny named Snowball (a nicely cast Kevin Hart) and his crew of abandoned pets who are out for revenge on the owners who wronged them. Snowball and his gang wind up quite the motley bunch, leaving Max and Duke on the run from them, while some pals of Max's try their best to navigate the Big Apple and find their friend.

As you can tell, there's plenty of running around and action in The Secret Life of Pets, and while the picture does often feel like a theme park ride, it also sports a terrific script and one hell of a cast, also including the likes of Dana Carvey, Jenny Slate, Ellie Kemper, Bobby Moynihan and Albert Brooks. The animation is exquisite - I haven't seen a Manhattan so breathtaking since Woody Allen's - and Alexandre Desplat's jazzy score would be worthy of an Oscar nomination.

I could not be happier that The Secret Life of Pets is a big, fat hit.

A-

Review: "The Purge: Election Year"

For those who have yet to experience the (non-existent) delights and pleasures of The Purge horror franchise, here is the concept - in an America apparently suffocating from crime and overpopulation, the U.S. government implements a new policy wherein citizens have a 12-hour period annually in which all criminal activity, murder included, is legal. This will give the populace the opportunity to both "purge" themselves of their anger, hatred and hunger for violence and cleanse the citizenry of unwanted presences, namely political enemies and low-income folks.

The first Purge flick was a rather generic and boring home invasion yarn, in the mold of Panic Room and Funny Games. It was also headlined by a sleepwalking Ethan Hawke, seemingly only on-set to pick up a paycheck. The second, The Purge: Anarchy, wasn't exactly great cinema, even by modern day horror standards, but at least sported an intriguing, gritty Escape from New York-like atmosphere, and had a strong leading man in Frank Grillo.

Grillo, who very much brings to mind a late-'80s-era Stallone, is back for the series' third entry, The Purge: Election Year, and while there is some guilty pleasure entertainment to be found here, the film by and large feels like a carbon copy of the first sequel. There's nothing new or exciting to be seen here.

Grillo is head of security to a U.S. Senator (Elizabeth Mitchell), who is the presidential nominee of the anti-Purge party. On the evening of the Purge, several members of the Senator's staff and security turn out to be pro-Purge traitors, sending Grillo and Mitchell on the run from her home, eventually joining forces with a local deli owner (a badass Mykelti Williamson) and some of his fellow anti-Purge colleagues.

All of the action and choreography here feels like microwaved leftovers from Anarchy. Much like Saw around the time of its third entry, this series seems to be woefully out of steam and ideas. If not for Grillo and Williamson, this picture could serve as the sort of torture pro-Purge citizens like to inflict on their prey.

C

Review: "The BFG"

Somehow, growing up, I never got around to reading Roald Dahl's 1982 children's book The BFG. I'd tackled Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Matilda, James and the Giant Peach, The Witches, heck I even managed to make it through the patience-testing Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator, but The BFG never ventured into my grasp.

I will no doubt have to change that in the near future, as Steven Spielberg's take on the Dahl tale is, perhaps just second to The Jungle Book, the most enchanting picture of the year, thus far.

The BFG opens on Sophie (the delightful newcomer Ruby Barnhill), a bright but terribly lonely orphan who one evening, after having spotted the mysterious Big Friendly Giant (Mark Rylance, in a turn 10 times more moving and engaging than his overrated Bridge of Spies performance) outside, is plucked out of her orphanage by the "BFG" and transported to his home in Giant Country.

Initially scared, Sophie soon comes to find the BFG is really just a 24-foot-tall mountain of warmth and love and the two embark on a marvelous dream-catching adventure in the sky.

Alas, there are of course villains here who want to rain on Sophie and the BFG's parade, a group of ugly, man-eating giants who love pushing the BFG around and want to chow down on the leading lady. Sophie and the BFG decide to appeal to Queen Elizabeth (a very funny and game Penelope Wilton) to crack down on these mean monsters, leading to a showdown between these gruesome giants and the Queen's soldiers.

The BFG, which marks the second (and sadly final, given Mathison's passing) collaboration between Spielberg and screenwriter Melissa Mathison, is awfully reminiscent of their comparably heart-tugging work on E.T: The Extra Terrestrial. This is, after all, another picture focused on the friendship between two lost, sensitive outcasts, with John Williams' soaring music swelling in the background as tears inevitably start to fill the eyes. It also has a number of true laugh-out-loud moments, particularly in the picture's second and superior half, involving the Queen (and her precious corgis).

Having checked this out in its second weekend, I can say I think it's an absolute shame The BFG has thus far struggled at the box office. I would hope today's youngsters have the patience for a picture of this length and nuance. I surely hope its reception does not deter Spielberg, who is such a master at this sort of thing, from making more similar films in the future.

A-