tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27719444137903470802024-02-02T01:59:10.536-08:00The Morning After... The MoviesCooperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00772637322162600688noreply@blogger.comBlogger475125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2771944413790347080.post-47265338316147328362019-12-31T11:24:00.002-08:002019-12-31T11:24:18.251-08:00My Top 10 Movies of 2019<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
The very first summer of this decade I began this blog, feet curled up underneath me in my family's home office, perched at the glossy kind of white iMac I had so adored in Miranda Priestly's <i>Devil Wears Prada </i>offices. I was then about to be fifteen and ten years later, at twenty-five, ritualistic movie review-writing after seeing every single film I take in can be a cumbersome commitment.</div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN675YabOATlWtDtEVDByKKRFC1SJkP7a25fB-MrbxvfwdilWTbfIiCv7Wf3iPfSLLyPkJzExwLxmoJJgS5VXMG9AQYniXOrYbdfb6QkIkSJY7amoN5gnaAmWer7qSa1EcSiSWRbYqgv6T/s1600/Untitled+Design.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN675YabOATlWtDtEVDByKKRFC1SJkP7a25fB-MrbxvfwdilWTbfIiCv7Wf3iPfSLLyPkJzExwLxmoJJgS5VXMG9AQYniXOrYbdfb6QkIkSJY7amoN5gnaAmWer7qSa1EcSiSWRbYqgv6T/s320/Untitled+Design.PNG" width="240" /></a> I have to work now, apply to new jobs, maintain my wonderful familial and friend relationships, not to mention watch Netflix... Now there's something that has really revolutionized movie-experiencing since I started writing here: We can now stay at home and watch Academy Award hopefuls from our sofa as they play in movie theaters "in select cities." We can also experience a television series like <i>The Politician </i>or <i>The Witcher</i>, properties which ten years ago might've been constructed as theatrical features.<br />
Regardless, I don't get to write here as often as I would like. And while I have a new baby to tend to, the multimedia cooking project Coopi & Antoni on <a href="https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCUrJ6Hzxzwlf0biodumo6qw">YouTube</a> and<a href="https://www.instagram.com/itscooperyall/"> Instagram</a>, I can't seem to say goodbye to this little Blogger corner of the internet. I can't promise you I'll give you a new review every week, or even every month, but I'll at least make this Top 10 list a tradition. Art is how I make sense of life and writing about film seems to pixelate that sweet spot...<br />
<br />
<b>10. <i>Captain Marvel</i></b><br />
The year's best Marvel offering wasn't its <i>Endgame </i>grand finale, but Brie Larson's headlining turn as the titular hero here. It's a film rooted in junk food escapism, timed as a quiet-before-the-storm, and a hopeful preface to where the Marvel Cinematic Universe is headed next.<br />
<br />
<b>9. <i>The Farewell</i></b><br />
The most rewarding films of the summer are always the more intimate moments. This proved true with Awkwafina's refined and winning portrayal in Lulu Wang's family dramady about a pilgrimage to China as a family matriarch makes the most of her twilight months. Never has having the foresight of a film's ending from a mile away felt so savory.<br />
<br />
<b>8. <i>Frozen II</i></b><br />
The sequel to 2013's abominable snowman-sized Disney megahit is surprisingly unformulaic as it digs deeper into plot and character development. How many other animated sequels can say as much? The cast of characters feels like a family at this point and their journey into the unknown (No pun intended) is pristine universe-building. The cherry on top is the original soundtrack, which does not feature a "Let It Go" predecessor, but only because every song is on the same plane of strong... Not to mention "Lost In the Woods" was the '80s rock power ballad every Kristoff fan deserved.<br />
<br />
<b>7. <i>US</i></b><br />
Jordan Peele's <i>Get Out </i>is a social masterwork in its own right, but this year's <i>US </i>bent so much deliciously harder into the horror genre with slow-burning psychological twists around every funhouse turn. Peele might just be the sole master of meditative horror.<br />
<br />
<b>6. <i>Bombshell</i></b><br />
Fans of HBO's <i>Succession </i>and its fraught moral wars weighing sympathies for the devil could a find a whole other dimension with Jay Roach's dramatization of Fox News CEO Roger Ailes' fall in the midst of the #MeToo movement. There's certainly many a valid thought of "Too soon?" And when Margot Robbie's Evangelical-raised entry-level character experiences her harassment, a case is made. Regardless of which side of the political fence you're on, it's a fascinating character study with Charlize Theron and Nicole Kidman exploring the slippery slope of white feminism. What's more fascinating though is who in this country will miss its tongue-in-cheek winks.<br />
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<b>5. <i>Little Women</i></b><br />
Greta Gerwig knew there was an overlapping interest in her audience's love for 2017's <i>Lady Bird</i> and YA classics. Why else would she re-imagine Louisa May Alcott's 1800's novel with a troupe featuring Saoirse Ronan and Timothée Chalamet, seemingly catering to the <i>Lady Bird </i>universe? Emma Watson, Florence Pugh, Laura Dern, and Meryl Streep round things out for a luscious romantic drama that beautifully ponders the limits and glass-ceiling shatters of female familial relationships and female societal expectations at large.<br />
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<b>4. <i>Hustlers</i></b><br />
J.Lo deserving Oscar buzz for a raunchy exposé of female strippers taking advantage of their 1% clients in a film that serves as a caution-taped love letter to late 00's culture, Britney "Gimme More" feature and all, with Lizzo and Cardi B putting in appearances? Constance Wu, Lilli Reinhardt, and Keke Palmer are along for the ride, too. Need I say more why this is a perfect movie?<br />
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<b>3. <i>Marriage Story</i></b><br />
A product of the aforementioned direct-to-Netflix release method, <i>Marriage Story </i>could possibly be best viewed in a theatre. The claustrophobia Noah Baumbach concocts between Adam Driver and Scarlett Johansson in the crumbling ruins of a marriage would make for a succinct stage play. And yet, Baumbach's scathing script also serves as a New York-vs.-Los Angeles tug-of-war apparent to anyone with allegiance to either town and made only more powerful by the film's visual transportations and contrasts. Laura Dern's sleek turn as a toxic LA divorce attorney really turns the knife with a grin.<br />
<br />
<b>2. <i>Once Upon a Time... in Hollywood</i></b><br />
Quentin Tarantino's ninth film was a head-scratcher, no doubt about it. But you can't deny Leonardo DiCaprio's and Brad Pitt's beautifully buddy-buddy bromance and the pair's characters' coronation into Tarantino lore. You can write it off for all of its aesthetics porn, but Margot Robbie's Sharon Tate indulging in a matinee of her own film is one of the purest, most carefully directed scenes of the year. Say what you want about the ending that rewrites history, but it's exemplary of how Tarantino has handled filmmaking: On his own terms and blood-soaked.<br />
<br />
<b>1. <i>Knvies Out</i></b><br />
It takes a lot to redefine an entire genre, one that is usually reserved for print rather than the screen no less. But maybe the point here is that Rian Johnson's whodunnit is completely original, spurring with it an entire fandom of its cozy-chic, New England aesthetics. But there's a whole lot of secrecy and nastiness hidden in the closet, behind the Ralph Lauren and Vineyard Vines, and Ana de Armas' Marta has one bonkers tumble into Narnia after her boss's mysterious death results in family lechery. Johnson's construction trick of working backwards, forwards, and all over leaves room for prohibition-era secret doors and escapes, with its all-star ensemble lurking around every corner. <i>Knives Out </i>is that perfect amount of rich escapism we needed this year.Cooperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00772637322162600688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2771944413790347080.post-9276847982763782192019-10-22T10:53:00.001-07:002019-10-22T10:53:13.387-07:00Maleficent: Mistress of Evil<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: magenta;"><b>B</b></span> <br />
As the <i>Maleficent </i>sequel's vague and uninspired<br />
subtitle suggests, the followup to 2014's live action re-imagining of the <i>Sleeping Beauty</i>'s resident witch-fairy does somehow find a way to log even more time in her backstory.<br />
The origin explanation felt owed in Robert Stromberg's CGI-drunken outing five years ago, a once-upon-a-time in Hollywood when "dark fantasy" was at its peak as a subgenre with companion fare like <i>Snow White and the Huntsman </i>and that time Amanda Seyfried played Little Red Riding Hood. Now, the whole affair feels more like a finely stated and succinct treat from Joachim Røning, who took over the directorial reigns with <i>Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Men Tell No Tales </i>to his credit. My live-action Disney opinions may sway unpopular, but I thought that that <i>Pirates </i>installment was a delightful course correction.<br />
In this post-<i>Game of Thrones </i>pop-cultural landscape, <i>Mistress of Evil </i>feels less like an Angelina Jolie vehicle than a slice of fantasy war-waging from the Westeros slab, lead by Michelle Pfeiffer as a sinister queen no less!<br />
But make no mistake, just like its predecessor, this film exists as a platform for Jolie to wield her powers as the only human alive who could portray a live-action Maleficent. She knows this because she smiles more and has more fun in this sequel.<br />
However, Maleficent doesn't approve of Aurora's engagement to Prince Phillip. Of course we audience members could all see this coming from centuries away. Literally. But remember, we left off with Elle Fanning's Aurora becoming Queen of the Moores of all things. Phillip's kiss didn't break her eternal slumber, but Maleficent's did and she assumed step-fairy-godmother responsibilities.<br />
Somehow, Aurora continued her courtship with Phillip. Perhaps because he was given a complete personality makeover with Harris Dickinson being more mature than Brenton Thwaites' portrayal in the first. (But God, he was cuter.)<br />
Anywho, Phillip's parents invite Aurora and Maleficent to dinner, awakening pure monster-in-law nightmarishness with Pfeiffer as his queenly mother with sinister intentions.<br />
The rest of the film bounces between Pfeiffer's Queen Ingrith's quest to make fairy folk extinct in their homeland and Maleficent discovering more winged creatures such as herself in a nest-like cave where she finds Chiwetel Ejofor. The latter means more meddlesome backstory, but it leads to a grand mythological payoff with a wonderful and unexpected twist of a gentrification cautionary tale. <br />
Love them or hate them, Jolie and both films have rewritten a character in gloriously superb fashion, unlike any other Disney live-action stabs the morning after... Except there could've been more of Sam Riley's Diaval the shape-shifting raven.<br />
<br />
<b>Cast</b><br />
• Angelina Jolie<br />
• Elle Fanning<br />
• Sam Riley<br />
• Harris Dickinson<br />
• Chiwetel Ejiofor<br />
<br />
<b>Rating</b><br />
PG<br />
<br />
<b>Running Time</b><br />
118 minutesCooperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00772637322162600688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2771944413790347080.post-11226888179678706042019-04-16T13:04:00.002-07:002019-04-16T13:04:42.719-07:00Captain Marvel<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY6yr_uBf7oz_mKRoYIujRUE7YyY9dALtQmVb2jZigsThqRGgtMmf11LlHmIKAz-Et5-mMLaFdCpdFFPeolQI8MM5Vq0QH7sxXmdqd1YndIpsSazv0sBbvlm2G0Y45HrBsrtRgabl9P73g/s1600/captain_marvel_ver18_xlg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1013" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY6yr_uBf7oz_mKRoYIujRUE7YyY9dALtQmVb2jZigsThqRGgtMmf11LlHmIKAz-Et5-mMLaFdCpdFFPeolQI8MM5Vq0QH7sxXmdqd1YndIpsSazv0sBbvlm2G0Y45HrBsrtRgabl9P73g/s320/captain_marvel_ver18_xlg.jpg" width="216" /></a></div>
<span style="color: magenta;"><b>B+</b></span> <br />
I'm well over one month late to <i>Captain Marvel</i>'s party; but here I am, penning thoughts just ten days before the current climate of <i>Avengers: Endgame </i>finale hysteria snaps from a fever pitch.<br />
The closeness of pilot Carol Danvers' landing into the Marvel Cinematic Universe in relation to <i>Endgame </i>makes directors Anna Boden and Ryan Fleck's film seem like an intimate, reassuring prologue before everything could be blown to bits. <i>Captain Marvel </i>may only seem smaller because of its selectiveness with cameos and a shorter running time than the <i>Avengers </i>meetups, but rest assured it's mighty just the same.<br />
Just as Wakanda functioned as its own, brilliant, stand-alone universe without jagged puzzle pieces from other boxes, desperately contorting to make sense, <i>Captain Marvel </i>puts a meditative pause on the MCU arms' race without sacrificing fun.<br />
Carol Danvers might have been a U.S. Air Force fighter pilot in another life, but now she's a member of an altered alien race called the Kree. As Vers, Carol now has superhuman powers like exceptional strength and arms that function like laser-bazookas. Any chilliness we get wafting from Brie Larson's portrayal of Vers upon our initial meeting is soon warmed by disoriented mosaics of her past life as Carol on our planet. Carol was a free spirited Guns n Roses fan, Vers is a Starforce member on patrol to combat a group of shapeshifting green goblins called Skrulls.<br />
Vers soon crash-lands to Los Angeles after her memories are probed by the Skrulls. She then meets, who else but, Samuel L. Jackson's Nick Fury, future S.H.I.E.L.D. director. Together, they must piece together Vers' past life as Carol in order to stop the Skrulls or, you know Marvel Studios, something more covert.<br />
Along the way we have Annette Benning and Jude Law, both in roles meant to mix and mingle Vers' trust in both Carol's life and her Kree existence as she becomes the titular Captain. Other than Fury, our fuzziest comfort is Lashana Lynch as Maria Rambeau, currently a mother of one and formerly Carol's best friend. Let's face it, can either Annette Benning or Jude Law really be exactly who they seem in a superhero movie? With shapeshifters? #trustissues<br />
One of the film's most prominent aesthetics is rooted in its 1990s setting. It's fitting a movie so heavy into time capsules and nostalgia should be so expert in crafting pop culture, junk food escapism. If not for anything else, it further helps cushion this MCU installment's head in blissful sand. Lasrson and company provide succor for nearly two hours until a mid-credits scene reminds us we have less than two weeks until <i>Endgame</i>. That'll be a different Morning After though...<br />
<br />
<b>Cast</b><br />
• Brie Larson<br />
• Samuel L. Jackson<br />
• Lashana Lynch<br />
• Lee Pace<br />
• Jude Law<br />
• Annette Benning<br />
<br />
<b>Rating</b><br />
PG-13<br />
<br />
<b>Running Time</b><br />
124 minutesCooperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00772637322162600688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2771944413790347080.post-45391128240091422412019-04-11T13:21:00.000-07:002019-04-12T07:16:55.529-07:00The Haunting of Sharon Tate<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgukRxoXwlH0tqRBnUtmyx-0_jxcy58VPECg1vN2nwrEsm3qix078Hli6H8zBth0JgLtzoQrNbIlQw6_G8mQVHiP1lfgELRBnCHbueTBRjNYjurWao3tUnE0bvzhw6K7UyDs6B1ao3Lxb42/s1600/haunting_of_sharon_tate_xlg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1012" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgukRxoXwlH0tqRBnUtmyx-0_jxcy58VPECg1vN2nwrEsm3qix078Hli6H8zBth0JgLtzoQrNbIlQw6_G8mQVHiP1lfgELRBnCHbueTBRjNYjurWao3tUnE0bvzhw6K7UyDs6B1ao3Lxb42/s320/haunting_of_sharon_tate_xlg.jpg" width="215" /></a></div>
<span style="color: blue;"><b>D+</b></span> <br />
Director Daniel Farrands' <i>Haunting of Sharon Tate </i>is showing up mere months before the release of Quentin Tarantino's <i>Once Upon a Time in... Hollywood </i>this summer sees Margot Robbie taking on the role of the murdered Hollywood starlet. How Tarantino chooses to handle Tate as a character in a film in which she isn't the axis is to be seen, but it can't be any more careless and exploitative than Farrands' grindhouse horror ringer.<br />
In a way though, it's a lucky-as-heck foil to whatever skewed, glorified perception of serial killers our pop culture-consumption is experiencing at the moment. In other ways though, it's just as tacky as daddy culture clamoring to make memes out of Ted Bundy and Penn Badgley's Joe on Netflix's <i>You</i>.<br />
Speaking to the former, <i>Haunting </i>gives Tate an agency as a female character in a horror flick while not completely trapping her.<br />
This woman has some great options, we think before remembering her fate has already been sealed by history. That's when the latter comes in to sour our non-plussed palettes as Farrands has constructed Tate's final days before being murdered by the Manson family as a fevered, paranoid piece of horror, at the hands of Tate's psyche.<br />
Tate is portrayed by Hilary Duff here. Duff is too sunny, and too unsure what accent she thought Sharon Tate had, to be here. But hey, I guess she wanted to pick up a few extra bucks in between seasons of glossy, NYC TV Land rom-com <i>Younger</i>. Somehow, those who yearn for the days of Paris Hilton and Chad Michael Murray's <i>House of Wax </i>remake seem to be the slasher demographic to which this is tied with a shoestring. <i>Mean Girls</i>' Jonathan Bennett even plays Tate's stylist friend Jay Sebring and there's a moment in the beginning of the film where we get the mistaken impression that Aaron Samuels is playing Roman Polanski, Tate's husband. Lindsay Lohan's 2013 foray into similar LA sleaze-glam with <a href="https://morningafterthemovies.blogspot.com/2013/08/the-canyons.html?q=the+canyons"><i>The Canyons </i>was far more tasteful than anything found here</a>.<br />
<i>Haunting </i>lays all of its cards on the table, but not in the way one may figure. Farrands accesses pregnant Tate's nightmares in her final few days alive as a way to manipulate history into a near supernatural narrative. Tate, Sebring, and three others are slashed to death by members of Charles Manson's cult family. Real-life doesn't get much more terrifying than that. In <i>Haunting</i>, a ghostly mirror image of a haggard Manson can be a forgiven exaggeration, but a bathtub filling with blood from its faucet could have been reconsidered.<br />
Apparently <a href="https://www.thecut.com/2019/03/wikipedia-horror-movies.html">reading horror flicks' Wikipedia pages instead of experiencing the actual film firsthand is something people do</a>. With <i>Haunting</i>, it's almost impossible to not imagine how doing this would be so much more satisfying than actually seeing the movie. After all, it would be more accurate and chilling than Farrands' sweaty and drab confines of a 10050 Cielo Drive recreation. More unsettling than any jump-scare though is <i>Haunting</i>'s insensitive toying of the dead as tools the morning after.<br />
<br />
<b>Cast</b><br />
• Hilary Duff<br />
• Jonathan Bennett<br />
• Lydia Hearst<br />
• Pawel Szajda<br />
• Ryan Cargill<br />
<br />
<b>Rating</b><br />
R<br />
<br />
<b>Running Time</b><br />
94 minutesCooperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00772637322162600688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2771944413790347080.post-54393432745691712782019-04-01T13:57:00.000-07:002019-04-01T13:57:14.931-07:00Dumbo<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b><span style="color: magenta;">B</span></b> <br />
<i> Dumbo </i>might just be the Disney live-action remake no one asked for while also being the one that we all deserve. Bear with me here: As much joy as a Disneyland plush doll of the pleasantly big-eared baby elephant can bring, no one ever claims the 1941 Walt Disney animated classic as a favorite.<br />
In a way, the original pachyderm picture is the perfect blueprint for a re-imagining. It's a 64 minute-long, extended Silly Symphony of sorts that was nearly void of any humans and plagued by animal mistreatment and racial problems. That said, Timothy the mouse is but a speechless, feeling cameo and there are no crows to be seen in 2019 and it's time to make some corrections.<br />
At the helm is Tim Burton in perhaps one of his most anonymous directorial efforts ever, albeit a refreshing reset in contrast to any power-hungriness that growled through his twisted <i>Alice in Wonderland </i>flicks. But here, Burton extends a fable into a golden hour grownup outing that bests any other bigtop trips we've been on in recent years (<i>Water for Elephants</i>, <i>The Greatest Showman</i>, etc.).<br />
Alas, none of the animals have speaking abilities and all plot points veer most closely to the flesh-and-bone actors. That's not to say little Dumbo, in all of his CGI adorableness, isn't in the center of the ring. From bubblebaths to his discovery that a single feather can be his pixie dust ticket to flying, many treats are to be had. Somehow though, his mother not being able to croon the lullaby "Baby Mine," and instead being included as a brief ukulele ditty by a circus cast member, is in deed a loss of sentimentality.<br />
But Colin Farrell's leading war veteran Holt returns to his artistic day job, and two kids (Nico Parker and Finley Hobbins), to find that he's now in charge of the elephants in the Medici Brothers' roadshow, little Dumbo included of course. The ringmaster this time around is Danny DeVito, and although spastic, is significantly less of a baddie than the crook who cropped up in that Disney Villains CD-Rom game I played when I was a kid.<br />
All villainy is reserved for Michael Keaton's V.A. Vandevere, a Cony Island curator of fantastical acts who whisks Dumbo and company off to his seaside Tomorrowland (it's actually called Dreamland, but Magic Kingdom familiars won't be fooled) amusement park where a whole lot of pressure is put-on our high-flying star and Burton's artistic eye and flex are at their least conservative, by this film's standards anyway. Alan Arkin is even invited as a guest of honor if you need any indication of how high the stakes are for Dumbo. But somehow having him be a "real-life" CGI elephant also makes any precariousness (and there's a lot) all the more nail-biting.<br />
It's a cliché as old as critical musings, but Burton's <i>Dumbo </i>may just be a better escapist confection for adults given all of this. It's a dip in the safety of the shallow end for Burton, but it sure is a better payoff than putting Emma Watson in a Belle costume and creating a frame-by-frame remake the morning after.<br />
<br />
<b>Cast</b><br />
• Colin Farrell<br />
• Danny DeVito<br />
• Eva Green<br />
• Michael Keaton<br />
• Alan Arkin<br />
<br />
<b>Rating</b><br />
PG<br />
<br />
<b>Running Time</b><br />
112 minutesCooperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00772637322162600688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2771944413790347080.post-78193318093350196382019-03-27T13:39:00.002-07:002019-03-29T12:42:37.007-07:00Us<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigmjxyVYZ8xUpKz4atFHs4UsEeQuBKC7vfjNq72Ya_j2-B8CpminDroIkRvzw4krCozwGUz1mKNJOnfsCgxVaH2UEYpZZWTZDgEIg5q6fMaVnsmC3souOPuW0buSb7A2ZKKzPs_RtobF-Z/s1600/us_ver3_xlg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1350" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigmjxyVYZ8xUpKz4atFHs4UsEeQuBKC7vfjNq72Ya_j2-B8CpminDroIkRvzw4krCozwGUz1mKNJOnfsCgxVaH2UEYpZZWTZDgEIg5q6fMaVnsmC3souOPuW0buSb7A2ZKKzPs_RtobF-Z/s320/us_ver3_xlg.jpg" width="256" /></a></div>
<span style="color: red;"><b>A-</b></span> <br />
Jordan Peele has created something of an <i>I Spy </i>game for adults, albeit much more frightening than the haunted house installment in that children's book franchise.<br />
For nearly every object, or even person you see for that matter, in Peele's new funhouse horror flick, there's a double to it. A toy ambulance propping open a closet door so a little boy can escape and play is innocent enough; a real-life ambulance taking away a corpse clutching a bible verse on a cardboard sign is another story.<br />
Such Easter eggs would be a whole lot harder to gather into our baskets throughout <i>Us </i>if it weren't for Peele's esoteric approach to the inner workings of the film. As sole writer and director here, this piece of genius is all Peele's for the claiming. With <i>Get Out </i>two years ago, he cracked open a social commentary and blended it with a shock and wit for the current times and beyond. With <i>Us</i>, he's reveling in something much more fantastical that jars even more, perhaps because of its embrace of oddball in the normcore setting of neutralized, seaside suburbia.<br />
Before even the first frame of footage, we're given some food-for-thought in a prologue that mediates on all of the hundreds of underground passageways and abandoned subway lines that lie beneath our feet. Pro Tip: <i>Us </i>is a cinematic game and remember to collect tokens wherever and whenever you can, not completely unlike a 1986, lo-fi TV ad for an organization called Hands Across America that follows the prologue.<br />
In the TV screen's reflection, young Adelaide can be seen watching intently. Soon, we're on our way to a Santa Cruz carnival pier with her and her parents. As the youngster wanders away and into a beachside house-of-mirrors attraction, seemingly abandoned or just not that popular, she takes stock of all of the environs of American Saturday Night that she can. She's only shaken from this trance by not her reflection in this wooded, mirrored artifact, but her exact, carbon-copied double.<br />
It's grounds for PTSD, which is what Lupita Nyong'o's adult Adelaide is grappling with in present day as her matriarch finds herself and her family at the very Santa Cruz pier from that night in 1986.<br />
One can't help but notice how the very casting of Nyong'o plays into Peele's expert commentary-puppeteering. We've been with her to both, Wakanda and a galaxy far, far away. Seeing her here in an every-day role of commonplace only enhances and tightens any impending spookiness. In a way, not only is Adelaide a gatekeeper for the otherworldliness that's about to ensue, so is Nyong'o.<br />
Said otherworldliness is more straightforward horror than anything in <i>Get Out</i>. Forget jump scares, once the doppelgängers of Adelaide's family arrives on the driveway of her family's summer home, the arrest of fear is a grip that <i>Us </i>refuses to lighten.<br />
The looking-glass zombie counterparts of the Wilson family are just that: body-snatched, nearly speechless versions of themselves in red mechanic jumpsuits, holding Hands-Across-America when first seen. Their inability, except for Adelaide's, to form words is humorous in the context of Adelaide's husband Gabe (Winston Duke) with his being a harmlessly boorish man, inept to his wife's needs. Elsewhere, the counterpart to Adelaide and Gabe's son (Evan Alex) is primal to the point of acting like a dog. Both boys wear masks, but we never see the doppelgänger's without his, which resembles a wrestling costume piece. The daughter, Zora (Shahadi Wright Joseph) is granted a running head start once the Wilsons are held hostage, Adelaide tethered to the coffee table.<br />
We wander if this home invasion is an isolated incident, exclusive to this one family. But a walk on over to the vacation home of their more shallow acquaintances, the Tylers, disproves this theory and only deepens whatever conspiracy is wreaking havoc. Elisabeth Moss is the mother of this brood. She goes from rosé-ing all day to arriving at "vodka o'clock," which ultimately ends in a night of mirrored terror. The Tyler twin teen daughters standing from atop a staircase, red jumpsuits and hair covering their hanging faces, are rarities in preexisting horror concessions that Peele makes, here nodding to <i>The Shining </i>and <i>The Ring</i>.<br />
Peele has managed to mind-bend in creating a masterwork of cultural originality as he continues to create his own cinematic universe. If <i>Us </i>is any indication, that universe shall be a vast one. But even in its own right, with stakes far less high, the barbed and brainy concept presented here is fun to process. When it comes to horror, <i>Us </i>succeeds in something far more important than jump scares, slow burns, or blood (although the final is presented in moderation here without going full, exploitative "slasher flick"). And that something is brains. Peele is just too smart to spy only those givens with his little eye the morning after.<br />
<br />
<b>Cast</b><br />
• Lupita Nyong'o<br />
• Winston Duke<br />
• Shahadi Wright Joseph<br />
• Evan Alex<br />
• Elisabeth Moss<br />
<br />
<b>Rating</b><br />
R<br />
<br />
<b>Running Time</b><br />
116 minutesCooperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00772637322162600688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2771944413790347080.post-28895756791283108672018-12-22T11:52:00.004-08:002018-12-22T11:52:57.800-08:00Vox Lux<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: orange;"><b>C+</b></span> <br />
Any film that dubs itself "A 21st Century Portrait" needs to narrow its thesis down.<br />
In deed, director Brady Corbet's dramatic meditation on the bifurcation of American culture pre and post September 11th, 2001 is one that too loftily toys with sic-fi, faux-doc, and pop culture celebrity as vessels that miss anything remotely concise.<br />
But maybe that's too harsh a conviction. Then again, Corbet, who also wrote the screenplay, chooses to start the film too harshly (and graphically) with a small town school shooting that alters the life of many and most notably, in this tale, a teen named Celeste.<br />
In a move of distortion, the film is first and foremost about Celeste's rise to fame as a legacy pop artist. Think: more cultish Kylie Minogue and less iconography-retaining Madonna. Rafael Cassidy plays the teen incarnation, who gets thrust into the limelight following a eulogy song for the victims affected by the tragedy in her tight Staten Island community. To shift the lens from gruesome gun violence, to a rags-to-riches story, to a day-in-the-life clip of an eroded celebrity seems like insensitive migrating. To Corbet though, no doubt, it's a point of demonstration.<br />
By the grace of Natalie Portman, it does all (kind of) work out. What happens to a teen pop starlet after making the decisions she's made for the first half of a film that has yet to explain its title to us? Well, she finds herself in the midst of a public relations nightmare the day of a hometown "arena" show. (Quotes because said show is on Staten Island.)<br />
What was a hurried chronicle with teen Celeste transforms into a rigid psychiatric hold once Portman fills the studded boots of the character. She pushes comedic punches in between gum-chewing and sipping red wine from a to-go cup while slouching melodramatically in oversized leather, having a vent session with Celeste's own teen daughter (also played by Cassidy, albeit a far more dimensional turn). Portman's performance brings moments of analytic and savory pause during the Day-in-the-Life, which also gifts us Jude Law as Celeste's sleazy, heartfelt manager.<br />
And yet, less of a gift is the payoff: The last ten to fifteen minutes are just concert footage of Portman performing, the first glimpse we get of even a verse of Celeste footage after spending nearly two hours with her. What we see is programmed choreography from an army of backup dancers flurying around Portman painted with a face that looks to be a Svedka robot's interpretation of her <i>Black Swan </i>makeup from eight years ago. The songs are penned by pop architect Sia and sound like uninspired Sia leftovers mashed into robo-pop.<br />
We just received <i>A Star Is Born </i>and all of its Gaga-kissed, musical splendor so this affair has no choice but to surrender to the lackluster of its performative talents. Elsewhere though, raw reality being told as a dramatic space odyssey seems to be exactly the level of "extra" flair to which Corbet is striving. I mean, Willem Dafoe narrates the proceedings as if he's staring down at Whoville Christmas Eve night or a nature documentary. Either of those scenarios would be far simpler to make sense of and gain closure from the morning after... Sorry, "21st Century Portrait."<br />
<br />
<b>Cast</b><br />
• Natalie Portman<br />
• Jude Law<br />
• Stacy Martin<br />
• Raffey Cassidy<br />
• Willem Dafoe<br />
<br />
<b>Rating</b><br />
R<br />
<br />
<b>Running Time</b><br />
110 minutesCooperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00772637322162600688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2771944413790347080.post-41658277387651734242018-09-27T14:05:00.001-07:002018-09-27T14:05:13.149-07:00Colette<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLYu2t9lUk36y2hh1hKk4jXJ6oyEQkcGJvlCqEbMJsd00okGK5WTXACIu9t4zTQmHBDBdrMfHcbhasK2aVsm09m1orXTvXvdqq-fHVhem5Sc5x-bcUbXBdjdhunaLy3eyADjJgduCdjjiD/s1600/colette_xlg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1013" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLYu2t9lUk36y2hh1hKk4jXJ6oyEQkcGJvlCqEbMJsd00okGK5WTXACIu9t4zTQmHBDBdrMfHcbhasK2aVsm09m1orXTvXvdqq-fHVhem5Sc5x-bcUbXBdjdhunaLy3eyADjJgduCdjjiD/s320/colette_xlg.jpg" width="216" /></a></div>
<span style="color: magenta;"><b>B</b></span> <br />
There is no single, one moment in Wash Westmoreland's <i>Colette </i>film where the biographical events of the titular French ghostwriter seem bonkers enough to be the work of an imaginative, fictional script. If we're gonna ballpark it, let's go with a ployamorous jaunt to the countryside with Colette, her restrictive pig of a husband (Dominic West), her girlfriend, and his own girl who role-plays the fictional character whom Colette so vividly constructed from her own life experiences.<br />
The plot seems to just swirl from various maddenings to madness from here as Kiera Knightley's Colette must deal with her creativity and intellectual property being in a gold cage to the power of West's Henry. Why? Because she's a woman in late 1800's Paris, of course. He holds the keys to a literary kingdom, the toast of luxury Parisian society, as the man whose name is branded on a literary/entertainment franchise not unlike <i>Harry Potter</i>. Colette's <i>Claudine </i>book series spawns pandemonium with her husband getting all of the credit.<br />
The drama is a sudsy and timely sendup for the Time's Up movement, a reclamation of sorts for Knightley's talents as well. She's able to mightily devour the various seasons of Colette's life: self-made scholar, bewitching trendsetter, and sexual adventurist. She does so with a glorious refinement, circling Henry's mansplaining like a vulture. Denise Gough and Elenor Tomlinson also make compelling turns in well-oiled joints of the film; Gough as Colette's aforementioned playtime companion/confidante and Tomlinson as a Southern belle in the middle of both Colette's and Henry's extramarital affairs.<br />
It's not only fitting that Colette's tale should be an exhibition of female power and talent, it's absolutely essential. Westmoreland has achieved just that with a bit of melodramatic anxiety. Just ask the scene with an off-the-rails orchestra soundtracking Colette glaring at the Seine as she sees women galore emulating her frizzy bob and punkish schoolgirl style. It's devilishly a lot, but well deserved the morning after.<br />
<br />
<b>Cast</b><br />
• Kiera Knightley<br />
• Dominic West<br />
• Eleanor Tomlinson<br />
• Denise Gough<br />
• Fiona Shaw<br />
<br />
<b>Rating</b><br />
R<br />
<br />
<b>Running Time</b><br />
111 minutesCooperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00772637322162600688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2771944413790347080.post-91470371517420499522018-09-17T09:34:00.001-07:002018-09-17T09:34:07.767-07:00A Simple Favor<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: magenta;"><b>B+</b></span><br />
On paper, <i>A Simple Favor </i>is a textbook thriller... Quite literally so actually, considering it started out life as a novel by school teacher Darcey Bell. You know, the type of last-minute enthrall trash you pick up in paperback at Hudson News before going to your gate. As it would turn out, such a novel provides an excellent jumping off point for comedy director Paul Feig when it comes to parodic genre fodder.<br />
As if the early autumnal days haven't established themselves as hunting ground for thrillers enough in recent years, Feig ditches all <i>Bridesmaids </i>(and the like) chasing with a genre-pushing-and-pulling flick that turns fearful and paranoid cinema on its head. This is all done in a refined, chic style as <i>A Simple Favor </i>splashes vermouth and gin onto Anna Kendrick and Blake Lively with pointedly perfect casting.<br />
The role of crumby and bumbling mommy blogger is one Kendrick was born to grow into as Stephanie, a widowed single mother whose universe is comprised of her kitchen and her young son's school yard. She broadcasts to an unspecified amount of fellow mommies and straining your eyes to read the comment section on her posts proves to be a disappointing Easter egg hunt.<br />
But it's while picking up her son Miles from school that Stephanie gets dunked headfirst into the dirty world of fashion PR exec Emily Nelson (Lively, taking no prisoners), a fellow mother whose extracurriculars include lethal mixology and curating menswear.<br />
It's over cocktail session after cocktail session where the women become friends, loosening lips to inevitably sink ships once Emily goes missing. From there, a he said/she said caper unfolds as Stephanie assumes the role of matriarch of Emily's family. Anywhere Stephanie looks, slippery slopes are tantalizingly laid to tread, most specifically with Emily's estranged backwoods family and her husband Sean (Henry Golding).<br />
Golding, riding high off of <i>Crazy Rich Asians</i>, is almost more gallant and golden as one should be as a one hit wonder novelist and academic. The actor is having a moment of sudden career-high, even punctuated with the social media marketing into a #OhHenry. Not that the brilliantly dashing Golding isn't deserving. But is that really fair to a film that so viscerally sharpens uniquely female relationships until their blown up into soapy operatics? The answer is arguably no, especially because Kendrick and Lively are the all powerful muses in a piece where Feig is exercising some well deserved artistry and versatility with his own telling of the cardboard American suburban nightmare the morning after.<br />
<br />
<b>Cast</b><br />
• Anna Kendrick<br />
• Blake Lively<br />
• Henry Golding<br />
• Andrew Rannells<br />
• Linda Cardellini<br />
<br />
<b>Rating</b><br />
R<br />
<br />
<b>Running Time</b><br />
117 minutes<br />
<br />Cooperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00772637322162600688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2771944413790347080.post-68384366351056439402018-04-29T12:05:00.002-07:002018-04-29T12:05:30.611-07:00Avengers: Infinity War<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b><span style="color: orange;">C+</span></b> <br />
After a refreshing reprieve with this winter's <i>Black Panther</i>, the Marvel Cinematic Universe is back to its fitful packing of superhero arms build-up. With the aforementioned film, the isolated fantasyland realism of Wakanda was a welcome escape, one that dutifully honored Chadwick Boseman's hero with stealth and grace in a stand-alone piece that married cultural sensibilities with mythic greatness.<br />
But perhaps that was the classy calm before the storm that Marvel has just unleashed with <i>Infinity War</i>, a textbook example of how less is not always more. It's not so much a narrative film as it is a jumbled collage of sixty-plus characters, crippling the ensemble from the sheer swole of spectacle. Anthony and Joe Russo's film doesn't even bother with an independent concept here; rather the duo of directors have assumed audiences have been able to catch and retain every detail from thirty-plus hours of Marvel Cinematic Universe fare. It has all the dizzy deficit of a Disney On Ice show, where characters swirl in and out so quickly as their stories have been abridged to a fault. Somehow <i>Infinity War </i>does this while still holding its breath for two hours and thirty minutes.<br />
And yet, it isn't <i>all </i>bad. It isn't <i>all </i>about making sure Captain America (Chris Evans) and Black Widow (Scarlett Johansson) look gruffer and more weathered than before so new gotta-have-it action figures can be scooped up at your neighborhood Disney Store. This franchise's bluntness in its greedy desires have reached borderline maniacal levels. But still, Evans' and Johansson's aesthetic evolution is indicative of the welcomed hardened direction in which these films had to move. <i>Infinity War </i>doesn't feel so much like a victory lap as it does the beginning of the dreaded and bitter end.<br />
The biggest surprise here though is the correction of wrongs made in last year's braggadocios and argumentative <i>Guardians of the Galaxy, Vol 2</i>. Chris Pratt's misfits from that corner are in full redemption mode here as a greater form of camaraderie amongst Pratt's Star-Lord, Zoe Saldana's Gamora, and their critter pals is the film's surprising heartbeat.<br />
Thanos (Josh Brolin, but like it matters under a cake of CGI slop) is on a mission to collect all of the infinity stones and the Avengers and Guardians are the only ones who can stop it from happening. Putting the plot to pen, one realizes just how the plot can be described after wading through the whole other-mess of the film.<br />
Interestingly enough, Robert Downey Jr.'s Iron Man, Evans' Cap, and Tom Holland's Spider-Man are all given seeming demotions while Chris Hemsworth's Thor just wanders around as a punch line; and Benedict Cumberbatch's Doctor Strange shakes his head in the corner, as if sulking in his maturity and longing for an MCU Netflix Original Series rather than this business.<br />
Meanwhile in a particular harrowing combat sequence, Elizabeth Olsen's Scarlet Witch hops into the action helping Black Widow and Danai Gurira's Okoye. Once Okoye realizes the extent of Scarlet Witch's powers, she audibly questions why she hasn't been more active in the fighting efforts.<br />
The instance summarizes <i>Infinity War </i>to a perfect T: It underserves everyone and overestimates its greatness the morning after.<br />
<br />
<b>Cast</b><br />
• Robert Downey Jr.<br />
• Chris Evans<br />
• Mark Ruffalo<br />
• Chris Hemsworth<br />
• Benedict Cumberbatch<br />
• Scarlett Johansson<br />
• Chadwick Boseman<br />
• Tom Holland<br />
• Don Cheadle<br />
• Elizabeth Olsen<br />
• Paul Bettany<br />
• Anthony Mackie<br />
• Danai Gurira<br />
• Sebastian Stan<br />
• Letita Wright<br />
• Dave Bautista<br />
• Pom Klementieff<br />
• Zoe Saldana<br />
• Bradley Cooper<br />
• Vin Diesel<br />
• Josh Brolin<br />
• Gwyneth Paltrow<br />
• Chris Pratt<br />
<br />
<b>Rating</b><br />
PG-13<br />
<br />
<b>Running Time</b><br />
149 minutesCooperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00772637322162600688noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2771944413790347080.post-29543815582662536762018-04-21T07:49:00.002-07:002018-04-21T07:52:43.134-07:00I Feel Pretty<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: orange;"><b>C</b></span><br />
There's a scene in <i>I Feel Pretty </i>where model-turned-charming-actor Emily Ratajkowski's character gets cruised in a drug store, only to shrug off to Amy Schumer's character that the same male-magnet attention must stick to her all the time too. It's perhaps the most sincere moment in a half-committal rom-com whose thesis is so jumbled it's anxious in all of its not-so-careful equations.<br />
You see, Schumer's Renee works at the bottom of a beauty empire, headed by ice queen Avery LeClaire. Renee toils in a Chinatown boiler room of an office while the high gloss front-of-house of the company is "on Fifth Avenue..." As any New Yorker will tell you, the building the film masquerades as the company's HQ is actually on Sixth Avenue and hearing Schumer, a New Yorker herself, squeal with bedazzled delight over this "Fifth Avenue office" is indicative of the artificial results of the film and its script's flimsy feeling of a first-stab student screenplay effort.<br />
Sometimes the artificiality of the film, co-written and co-directed by Abby Kohn and rom-com vet Mark Silverstein, excels to unexpectedly delightful heights in its sheer madness: The woman at the head of the aforementioned cosmetics company is Michelle Williams in full character-acting mode as a frozen and numbed slave to waspy Manhattan society as she squeaks her way through her role with little to no comfort whatsoever in the most thrilling way possible. It may sound a tad grandiose, but for an actor who has been so underserved in her recent filmography entries and in a film where the cozy believable are so hard to find, Williams herself is escapism. The icing on the cake is Naomi Campbell playing her right-hand woman.<br />
But when the artificiality of <i>I Feel Pretty </i>falls, it falls hard... Literally. The inciting plot point takes place at a SoHo SoulCycle, as all life events of white girls and subjects of the Overheard in New York Instagram account do. After Renee makes a fountain wish in the pouring rain, the next day she falls and hits her head at the elitist cycling class and wakes up with a different personality, one that exudes confidence and a Wonder Woman attitude that wants to scream Chaka Khan lyrics from the rooftops.<br />
Renee is suddenly bestowed with the ability to work at the main office, with a more influential role for the brand's more discount line at, wait for it, Target. Suddenly, Renee is able to shower before work and look fresh as a daisy. She feels like she's above chilling at what appear to be Midwestern dive bars with her friends played by Aidy Bryant and Busy Phillips; she now goes to speakeasies with hotter girls. And in the film's last ditch effort to convert to a classic rom-com, she can now talk to men: Rory Scovel is the average everyman who's the obvious choice and Tom Hopper is the sexy playboy brother of Avery.<br />
It's a dull love triangle because Schumer can act and joke her way around both of them and because the average one isn't adorkable enough and the hot one isn't mean enough. <i>I Feel Pretty </i>seems to exist in nearly the same universe as Schumer's previous couple of theatrical outings and she did just fine in being treated not like a subway rat in those. Whether it be Schumer, Williams, Campbell, Bryant, or any other woman or person seeing this film, can't we all just accept <i>being </i>pretty rather than needing a magic rain storm to merely feel pretty the morning after?<br />
<br />
<b>Cast</b><br />
• Amy Schumer<br />
• Michelle Williams<br />
• Rory Scovel<br />
• Tom Hopper<br />
• Emily Ratajkowski<br />
• Aidy Bryant<br />
• Busy Phillips<br />
• Naomi Campbell<br />
<br />
<b>Rating</b><br />
PG-13<br />
<br />
<b>Running Time</b><br />
110 minutesCooperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00772637322162600688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2771944413790347080.post-39228164070990093292018-03-26T19:01:00.001-07:002018-03-26T19:03:06.371-07:00Love, Simon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: magenta;"><b>B+</b></span> <br />
If all heteronormative Hollywood love stories ended with lonely cowboys or teenagers crying by a fireplace in wintry Italy then you would also be blown away by the sweeping subtleties of <i>Love, Simon</i>, the mainstream's first teenage rom-com starring a gay character.<br />
To be clear, the actor playing Simon, Nick Robinson is straight IRL and you can find think pieces dragging the young actor and the film for such casting choices elsewhere. Robinson can mightily and humbly carry an entire rom-com with ease and with heartthrob-level looks so let's let the poor guy have this moment. He has also shared that his real-life brother came out while the film was in production and isn't that the very type of story the film champions?<br />
Robinson plays a high schooler named Simon Spier in a flick so slicked with gloss and sheen that Josh Duhamel and Jennifer Garner play his parents. It's a far cry from the usual dark-hearted and overbearing cinematic fare gay men usually receive as representation. Still, as the film winds down and Simon carries the weight of both being a closeted gay guy and of having an anon secret admirer also in the closet, your pocket sized Kleenex packs will come in handy as all the glitter from every expertly heart-tugging Hallmark card every rains down on you like pixie dust.<br />
The film is adapted from Becky Albertalli's YA novel <i>Simon and the Homo Sapiens Agenda </i>and suffers little to no loss of authenticity on its somersault to the silver screen. A move such as casting <i>13 Reasons Why</i>'s Katherine Langford as one of Simon's best friends further and obviously pads the movie while the sun shines. But still, it's general and professional malt. That being said, there's plenty to the gay high school experience the film turns its head to: the loss of innocence, the apps, the holding hands at the suburban Atlanta mall... It's not all just knowing a dude's cute and memorizing the exactness of his iced coffee order. But gosh darn it, <i>Love, Simon </i>knows how to balance the butterfly-stomach fantasy and the gut-turning reality of being a gay man in formative high school years and it's pretty cool for us to be seen in such a glistening light the morning after.<br />
<br />
<b>Cast</b><br />
• Nick Robinson<br />
• Josh Duhamel<br />
• Jennifer Garner<br />
• Katherine Langford<br />
• Alexandra Shipp<br />
<br />
<b>Rating</b><br />
PG-13<br />
<br />
<b>Running Time</b><br />
110 minutesCooperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00772637322162600688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2771944413790347080.post-49657912776478014742018-03-11T15:45:00.003-07:002018-03-11T15:45:42.963-07:00Red Sparrow<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: magenta;"><b>B+</b></span> <br />
It's a point every acclaimed Hollywood actor reaches: the role that could only work in a warped, cartoon caricature of himself/herself. With an entire blockbuster franchise (<i>Hunger Games</i>) and awards hardware and nods to her name, Jennifer Lawrence was bound and determined to reach that point sooner rather than later. And no, last fall's Arronofsky misfire <i>mother! </i>was not an example for this for Lawrence... Although David O. Russell's <i>Joy </i>was closer to being one.<br />
No, rather the former Katniss Everdeen has now been put into funhouse-mirror perspective by playing a fallen Russian ballerina, on the mend with a second chance as a spy, thick accent included.<br />
The result is a gloriously relentless thriller of horrific drama, so stylized in its gore, guts, and sex that its 140 minute-duration is but an enthralling commitment of steely thrills. Especially in the current Mueller era, Jennifer Lawrence caking on a Russian accent to play a powerful asset to intelligence is about as absurd and numbingly timely as it could get. Instead, the sheer ludicrousness of the affair is an exercise in adult fantasy escapism where a woman is able to reclaim her sexual authority with prowesss.<br />
After all, Lawrence's Dominika exhibited her knack for revenge when she beat her former ballet partner and his lady friend to a pulp in a steam room, midway through sex. He did have it coming, breaking her leg onstage to sabotage her career and elevate the other girl's.<br />
But hey, Dominika's uncle (Matthias Schoenaerts) sees something in her with this incident and recruits her for a spy mission to seduce a politician in an effort that goes awry as Dominika is raped, only to be whisked away into a training facility with other young people, where Russia's youngest secret weapons are bred to full potential.<br />
During her time training to be a "Sparrow," Dominika is put through the mind games of taking back her sexuality at whatever strenuous cost she'll have to hurtle. The lead up, which involves picking boys up to take them home and stripping down to spread herself on a desk in front of her classroom, is to get close to good ole American boy Joel Edgerton, portraying an American CIA agent and acting as the person who grounds the whole film just when Lawrence's femme fatale invokes light-headedness just enough.<br />
Director Francis Lawrence lead Lawrence in 3/4 of the <i>Hunger Games </i>before this out-there outing and the knowledge of J.Law's strengths and growth as an actor are obvious and powerfully willed to extreme control. It's perhaps her greatest flex of control as an actor yet, only made even more delightful by the film's daring pursuits in underground filth and smut. Her chemistry with Edgerton is anything but an obvious choice, but the sense of solace the two find in their intimacy together, amidst all of the drama's exploitive bombast, sweetens and sharpens <i>Red Sparrow</i>'s fangs the morning after.<br />
<br />
<b>Cast</b><br />
• Jennifer Lawrence<br />
• Joel Edgerton<br />
• Matthias Schoenaerts<br />
• Charlotte Rampling<br />
• Mary-Louise Parker<br />
• Jeremy Irons<br />
<br />
<b>Rating</b><br />
R<br />
<br />
<b>Running Time</b><br />
140 minutesCooperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00772637322162600688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2771944413790347080.post-60249028331386875952018-02-17T16:08:00.002-08:002018-02-17T16:08:32.806-08:00Fifty Shades Freed<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: magenta;"><b>B-</b></span><br />
The <i>Fifty Shades </i>films have always known what they have been ordered to serve up and they do so with a wink, nudge, and actual consistency whether or not you can handle the near parodic approach of adapting E.L. James' mommy-porn paperback trilogy with healthy self-awareness. It doesn't hurt that Dakota Johnson and Jamie Dornan have grown into their now lived-in roles, even if their chemistry as a couple still stalls.<br />
For the climax of the trilogy though, <i>Freed </i>chooses to water down on those signature sex scenes (that aren't so gracious on the Dornan meat buffet as always) as the tricks are those of mundanity to females and gay men: butt plugs, vibrators, food play, spontaneous car sex in the passenger seat after a high-speed highway chase!!! If a fourth installment were still to come would it resort to flavored lube?<br />
But speaking of chases, this third round continues <i>Darker</i>'s desires to be a psychosexual thriller, though not as full-bodied as the second film. Publishing house young professional Anastasia Steele and her billionaire wonder boy Christian Grey are just now settling into married life (almost all of the French exoticism that takes up almost all of the trailer is in deed wasted in an opening montage so you don't have honeymoon bliss to look forward to), but the pace picks up with <i>Freed </i>allowing little to no filler, sexual or not.<br />
Ana's disgraced former boss Jack Hyde (Eric Johnson) is out for revenge and his plotting gets beyond creepy, even holding Rita Ora's sister-to-Christian Mia for ransom just so he can make a bunch of quick bucks and just so severely underrated international pop superstar Ora can continue to be underserved by this franchise and by pop culture at large.<br />
The same goes for Eloise Mumford and her portrayal of Ana's spunky best friend Kate, who's along for the ride with Mia and company for a luxurious Aspen weekend amidst infidelity concerns with her own Grey beau Elliot (Luke Grimes). It's an excellent opportunity for the film to flaunt its glam-indulgences and for Christian and Ana to enjoy being twentysomethings before a big shakeup/narrative mistake erupts... Hey, this culminates in a big blowup between the two and also in Johnson's and Dornan's strongest, most well acted moment in the entire series. Even if a franchise isn't taken seriously (just like Ora sadly), aren't moments like that what finale films are for the morning after?<br />
<br />
<b>Cast</b><br />
• Dakota Johnson<br />
• Jamie Dornan<br />
• Eric Johnson<br />
• Rita Ora<br />
• Eloise Mumford<br />
• Luke Grimes<br />
• Marcia Gay Harden<br />
<br />
<b>Rating</b><br />
R<br />
<br />
<b>Running Time</b><br />
105 minutesCooperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00772637322162600688noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2771944413790347080.post-60222629218334720412018-02-10T16:50:00.001-08:002018-02-10T16:50:11.712-08:00The Post<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: magenta;"><b>B</b></span> <br />
It wouldn't be particularly fair to compare <i>The Post </i>to another awards season-timed journalism exposé, but it's impossible not to compare Steven Spielberg's take on a Washington <i>Post </i>media scandal blitz to Tom McCarthy's 2015 <i>Spotlight</i>, a far superior film that chronicled the Boston <i>Globe </i>bringing justice to corruption in the Catholic church.<br />
Yes, <i>The Post </i>is a timely piece, arriving in the era of Fake News and Pussies Grabbing Back. But that urgency is dimmed by the typical whimsy in which Spielberg tends to ensconce his films. We're viewing a historical drama on the efforts of the first female publisher of a major American newspaper to print the Pentagon Papers, highly classified secrets on U.S. involvement in the Vietnam War. Sure, there's a gasp here and there. But the magnitude never quite quakes.<br />
It's a shame though because Meryl Streep is of course great as the aforementioned Katharine Graham, a strong and steely female force to be reckoned with in a male-dominated game. The repercussions the <i>Post </i>may face from the Nixon administration are severe, but Streep's Katharine is arresting in her calm determination, if also totally predictable for Streep.<br />
She duels with Tom Hanks, who scores the film's shot at a basket that makes <i>The Post </i>feel like it should be bumpered by the Cinderella Castle logo, as he plays the newspaper's executive editor. It's such a schmaltzy pairing that it feels like awards season exploitation at its most obvious.<br />
But somewhere towards the end, it hits you: The sense of how worth it truly is to tell this tale. The pre-Internet age where newspapers' were exclusive to their respective cities and there was no 24-hour news cycle; the Washington <i>Post </i>was not yet in the big leagues of serious journalism; the gender inequality... Well, that one still sadly exists today. <i>The Post </i>is great and its intentions are even greater, it just could've gone to print with more rawness and fury the morning after.<br />
<br />
<b>Cast</b><br />
• Meryl Streep<br />
• Tom Hanks<br />
• Sarah Paulson<br />
• Bob Odenkirk<br />
• Tracy LettsCooperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00772637322162600688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2771944413790347080.post-51433238804175059332018-01-19T13:49:00.001-08:002018-01-19T13:49:05.069-08:00Paddington 2<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: red;"><b>A-</b></span> <br />
The gospel according to Paddington Brown the bear is robust and one that society could benefit from in the wintry first days of 2018: <i>If we're kind and polite, the world will be right</i>. The adorable furry Brit also believes in making marmalade when life gives you oranges, which is exactly what he does in one act of his big screen sequel that is terrifyingly "Paddington Goes to Jail."<br />
Yes, our good-hearted and heartily pure hero, gets tossed into the slammer. Picturing such a cute and cuddly, plush character in a cold dark prison cell is certainly a sobering and worrisome one. In his first morning dining in the canteen Paddington does in deed run into all of the brutish, inked-up thugs you might expect from any film set behind barbed security. It's all jarring, especially when Paddington boldly confronts the cook about the less-than culinary options. Call the medic! Call the priest! What has this bear gotten himself into?!<br />
But armed with his adopted philosophy from his Aunt Lucy, Paddington and his signature marmalade sandwiches prevail and become Knuckles the cook's (Brendan Gleeson) new assistant, inspiring a renaissance in the jail as the canteen is transformed into high tea at the Plaza with everyone's hidden baking talents invoking layered cakes, macaroons, and so many frills.<br />
It's a miracle that <i>Paddington 2 </i>is able to be a substantive triumph at warming hearts merely by adapting the lovable bear into a CGI wonderment plopped into an idealized, funhouse mirror of London where even the luxurious interiors are making snow angels in Burberry and J. Crew. Now that the Brown family has accepted Paddington as a permanent member of their town house family, some heartache and anxiety from Paul King's 2014 original has been alleviated: Paddington gets to stay an official member of the family!<br />
Now he can enter the workforce, a somersault conveyed with toonish toying of having Paddington do many a designer Bitmoji task, from giving dogs baths to washing windows. After all, he has to be able to afford an antique pop-up book to give to his Aunt Lucy for her birthday. It's a good-natured intention that soon curdles at the hands of a devious actor who steals the pop-up book from the antique shop, ultimately framing poor Paddington. Enter aforementioned jail time, which could've been a disaster, but the film's eternal and sunny optimism will not be clouded, darn it.<br />
Said struggling actor is played by Hugh Grant in a stroke of parodic brilliance. When he's not doing dog food commercials, and being a jerk to Paddington, Grant's crooked Phoenix Buchanon hides in his attic lair, giving voices to a menagerie of mannequins that display his career-spanning costume collection.<br />
The caper of Hugh Bonneville and Sally Hawkins' Henry and Mary Brown trying to clear their adopted bear's name is the pent-up family foil to Phoenix's grandiose attempts at being a celebrity by day and criminal by night. When the three collide and wrestle it's far more thrilling than Nicole Kidman's evil taxidermist from the first. Paddington Goes to Jail is a far more agreeable and hopeful scenario than Paddington Visits the Taxidermist. (Too far!) The adults also make a case that <i>Paddington 2 </i>is a pleasantly great film even in scenes without its CGI star. But it's still obviously all about Paddington the morning after.<br />
<br />
<b>Cast</b><br />
• Ben Whishaw<br />
• Hugh Bonneville<br />
• Sally Hawkins<br />
• Brendan Gleeson<br />
• Julie Walters<br />
• Hugh Grant<br />
<br />
<b>Rating</b><br />
PG<br />
<br />
<b>Running Time</b><br />
103 minutesCooperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00772637322162600688noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2771944413790347080.post-2149927236370367772018-01-16T13:22:00.000-08:002018-01-16T13:29:14.729-08:00I, Tonya<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: magenta;"><b>B-</b></span> <br />
"This is what you all came for," shrugs an annoyed Tonya Harding to the camera. While not a technical fourth-wall break, there is no shortage of them in director Craig Gillespie's brash and overbearing biopic, a subtle yet gory cultural comment on domestic violence and abuse that moonlights as a sporty bleak comedy.<br />
Surrounded by all of the mockumentary interviews are plenty of introspective reenactments where Margot Robbie leads as Tonya, providing anecdotes along the way that scatter the non-puzzle of Tonya's guilt when it came to the knee break heard 'round the world: Did U.S. Olympic figure skater Tonya Harding really enlist a hooligan gang to strike teammate Nancy Kerrigan's knee?<br />
But after Robbie spreads out that aforementioned proclamation, <i>I, Tonya </i>finds itself in a jellied quicksand, much like <i>Call Me By Your Name</i>'s sudden bout of boredom once Elio and Oliver start hooking up, at the hands of its male leads. When this thing should pick up wind, it decides to stall.<br />
That being said, Robbie's doc soliloquies while sitting at the table of a cluttered kitchen are icily vindictive at her public, accusing the audience of a sick fascination at watching her squirm and crack under expectations to be perfect and, as her prim and perfect Julianne Nicholson coach suggests, to just say no to heavy metal and blue nail polish.<br />
Oh, but so much of <i>I, Tonya</i>'s expository elements and moments are aestheticized by those two things. With a razored script by Steven Rogers, the beginning is a grungy and battered family portrait of a young Tonya and her abusive Allison Janney mother, LaVona Golden. The backwoods hunting, domestic combat, flask-accompanied skating lessons, and the undying willingness of LaVona to fulfill her daughter's dreams are all a disorienting high-wire act of cartoonish cruelty and brilliance by Janney. When Tonya grows up and into Robbie's skates, Robbie presents her most carefully studied and most cunningly intimate performance to date.<br />
What's going on here isn't about the media circus in a newly post-24-hour news cycle culture and a pre-TMZ obsession society. It's mostly about the miseducation and mistreatment of Tonya by LaVona and Tonya's equally abusive and manipulative lover Jeff Gillooly (Sebastian Stan). Misfortune follows this woman everywhere in her biopic to a point where Robbie's steely eyed accusations at the audience should be the unsettled, ruffled response to current headlines of Tonya Harding's tour de sympathy this awards season.<br />
Jeff and Tonya's bodyguard Shawn (Paul Walter Hauser) are maybe the worst devices at exciting a story, one that loses interest as the journalistic frenzy of a plot shapes. This isn't as much of a whodunnit as it is a moral meditation for the audience as to whether or not Tonya should be convicted and punished on a guilty-by-association basis. And in a movie where Bobby Connavale exits solely confined to a desk in interviews as a sleazy <i>Hard Copy </i>producer and Margot Robbie wields a furied ax of defense as America's sourest sweetheart, there's just a little bit too much room to think the morning after.<br />
<br />
<b>Cast</b><br />
• Margot Robbie<br />
• Sebastian Stan<br />
• Allison Janney<br />
• Julianne Nicholson<br />
• Bobby Connavale<br />
<br />
<b>Rating</b><br />
R<br />
<br />
<b>Running Time</b><br />
121 minutesCooperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00772637322162600688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2771944413790347080.post-29149228373522029432017-12-30T11:21:00.004-08:002017-12-30T11:21:57.790-08:00The Shape of Water<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: red;"><b>A</b></span> <br />
Guillermo del Toro may just famously mis-sell his art. 2015's <i>Crimson Peak </i>was pitched to us as a horror event on an <i>IT </i>scale, even barging itself onto IMAX screens. However, what we pleasantly received was a much quieter Gothic love story of temptation and pain: horror horniness, if you will. And once again, with <i>The Shape of Water</i>, del Toro has perhaps planned a simple creature feature-love story hybrid, only to strike gold with an ambitiously embroidered love letter to cinema.<br />
The most blatant cinephile move is placing heroine Elisa's quirky and tastefully twisted apartment above a movie house in Baltimore. Sally Hawkins handles mute Elisa with poise and dignity as she lives a Wonder Bread-sans-crust, curated lifestyle as a custodian at a secret research center during the Space Race. Her days kick off with a timed masturbation session in her bath tub before pit-stopping across the hall to pop in to the apartment of her quasi-closeted gay neighbor, Giles (Richard Jenkins). At work, Octavia Spencer plays Elisa's mouthpiece best friend Zelda because of course she does.<br />
The would-be mundanity of a finely tuned universe of fantastical realism (not since that "Every night is a fantasy" lyric in <i>Hairspray </i>has Baltimore been this exotically beautiful) gets shaken up with the introduction of a Creature From the Black Lagoon monster (Doug Jones), taken into captivity by the research center as a secret weapon to one-up the Russians. Blood is shed and a mysterious fear is cast as Elisa begins creeping into the monster's sanctum in order to spend lunch dates and bonding time with him. Once a love affair between the two begins, the film only wobbles with its own careful recklessness of released inhibitions... For example, is beastiality technically being committed? Ugh, who knows, but this whole affair is so romantic I wept all the while as Elisa enlists Zelda and Giles for the great heist of getting her fish-man out of captivity.<br />
Del Toro has gently breathed an unparalleled vision into this adult fairy tale, ripe with social commentary from Giles' infatuation with a lunch counter server, who he later discovers is plagued with prejudice, to Zelda's home life being shackled with domestic abuse. The maraschino cherry on top of all of the knowledgable textures might be Michael Shannon's despicable villainous Colonel Strickland, whose wrath reaches from workdays to his eerie suburbia hellscape, complete with trophy wife.<br />
All of these stories are ones that del Toro manages to weave together in a genre-bending treasure that stems from its locale, including Giles' cat-infested abode where he worships old Hollywood, to the manifestation of Elisa and the amphibian man waltzing through a dreamsicle of a musical sequence that channels big studio numbers of yesterday. Anywhere else that would be a mismatched, fever dream interruption. In del Toro's world though, it's a kiss of blissful sensibility the morning after.<br />
<br />
<b>Cast</b><br />
• Sally Hawkins<br />
• Octavia Spencer<br />
• Richard Jenkins<br />
• Doug Jones<br />
• Michael Stuhlbarg<br />
• Michael Shannon<br />
<br />
<b>Rating</b><br />
R<br />
<br />
<b>Running Time</b><br />
123 minutesCooperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00772637322162600688noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2771944413790347080.post-78419997893587163772017-12-27T11:25:00.001-08:002017-12-27T11:25:08.541-08:00The Greatest Showman<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: orange;"><b>C-</b></span> <br />
I don't like when Hugh Jackman does musicals. I <a href="https://morningafterthemovies.blogspot.com/2012/12/les-miserables.html">torched his performance in </a><i><a href="https://morningafterthemovies.blogspot.com/2012/12/les-miserables.html">Les Miz</a> </i>and stand by that more than ever after his excellent stripped gruffness in this year's hardcore, superheroic tragedy <i>Logan </i>and his now being buffed and shined to a sheen in order for him to go to family-friendly market in <i>The Greatest Showman</i>.<br />
The battle to make the storybook-handsome and presumably likable-in-real-life Jackman a worshipful Hollywood showman has never been more uphill or more forced as it is in <i>Showman</i>. The film is a full-blown, in-house musical that does not have roots onstage. But nothing so organic has never felt more processed and programmed to a fault.<br />
Sure, the songs are all originals from writers Pasek & Paul, who have shifted from their tranquil <i>La La Land </i>homeruns to this collection stuffed with so much streaming era concessions that a drinking song that acts as a business dealing between Jackman and Zac Efron even has bro country residue all over it.<br />
The opening titular track, led by Jackman has the vindictive menace of a 2017 Taylor Swift track and the dumb luck gape of a big room Chainsmokers misfire, all under the big top of Britney Spears' 2009 electro Circus arena tour.<br />
Even the sweeping centerpiece "This Is Me," carried by a freakshow band of misfits, is carried with the inspirational gusto of P!nk and Kelly Clarkson. And let's not leave out Michelle Williams' autotune, pitched ever so slightly to help her slip into her role of Jackman's wife à la Emma Watson in <i>Beauty and the Beast</i>.<br />
And yet, for all of its disagreeable aggressive and obnoxious intentions at being a grand scale, big studio brainwash, Mihchael Gracey's directorial debut does have its hypnotic pleasantries. Yes, Gracey has thrown every flourish learned in a Filmmaking 101 freshman course into <i>Showman</i>, and Bill Condon (ugh, <i>Beauty and the Beast</i>) being a cowriter here only eggs on whatever clichés Gracey may have up his sleeve. The arsenal of arena-pop numbers are in deed the saving grace, even if they pierce a stake and garlic to any authenticity, not unlike a $4.99 bargain bin <i>Moulin Rouge</i>.<br />
After all, this is actually a historical piece, a biopic that no one asked for: Jackman inflames the ego of P.T. Barnum, the establisher and ringmaster of a circus residency that curated its own island of misfit humans like a bearded lady and a little man. This corner of the cast should be the most celebrated, especially when Efron's Barnum business partner falls for Zendaya's trapeze artist and the two weather racial prejudice, a rare example of the film standing for something bigger than Barnum's reputation and vanity.<br />
Jackman's gallantry and the script vilify their own idol, Barnum, as a cocky father of two who buys a mansion down the lane from his wife's snooty parents not to give his wife and daughters a more plush life as much as to spite and tower high and mighty over his in-laws. After he does this, he strides on out to manage an of-the-now chanteuse (Rebecca Ferguson) on tour.<br />
The shrine at the altar of P.T. Barnum fails to mention its modern day connection to "The Greatest Show on Earth," the Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Circus, which shuttered this year and doesn't get so much as a footnote between the main attraction film and the closing credits.<br />
It's understandable that <i>Showman</i>'s razzle dazzle is a sickeningly sweet answer to the boring biopic, but there's nothing great about Jackman's wield of egocentricity. The Ringling Brothers and Bailey are high-fiving each other in their graves that they missed this bullet the morning after.<br />
<br />
<b>Cast</b><br />
• Hugh Jackman<br />
• Zac Efron<br />
• Michelle Williams<br />
• Rebecca Ferguson<br />
• Zendaya<br />
<br />
<b>Rating</b><br />
PG<br />
<br />
<b>Running Time</b><br />
105 minutesCooperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00772637322162600688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2771944413790347080.post-69404307506845653762017-12-26T12:08:00.002-08:002017-12-26T12:08:29.241-08:00Pitch Perfect 3<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibxwB9SGLVewhkZqF_EbWod6Q7BPBzDor5AoJ2qj5NYqUFYcDqzD-_HOJxu5rR9yIYF6Wj6fP-_CDKrtkrE0G5boyyH05Bh9Dj-Vv9bl6nUbz2bZK9RmBTW_hLlV6Cmots_pW3mbVfbKDj/s1600/pitch_perfect_three_xlg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="947" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibxwB9SGLVewhkZqF_EbWod6Q7BPBzDor5AoJ2qj5NYqUFYcDqzD-_HOJxu5rR9yIYF6Wj6fP-_CDKrtkrE0G5boyyH05Bh9Dj-Vv9bl6nUbz2bZK9RmBTW_hLlV6Cmots_pW3mbVfbKDj/s320/pitch_perfect_three_xlg.jpg" width="202" /></a></div>
<span style="color: orange;"><b>C</b></span> <br />
There is no "Cups" song in the third and final <i>Pitch Perfect </i>film. Anna Kendrick's Top 40 hit-turning jingle-ode to the instrumental possibilities of red Solos is even absent in the closing credits' montage of behind the scenes footage from the filming of the entire trilogy. Said montage actually turns out to be the most sentimental and sincere farewell found in director Trish Sie's farcical finale that booms with bombast and sinks with humorless jokes amidst militaristically programmed musical numbers and action sequences.<br />
The Bella acapella group seems more surprised that their college reunion on a USO tour is cramped by groups that groove with actual instruments than the intrusion of international action flick frenzy in their third round. But the re-assemblage has of course been brought on by post-collegiate depression, which can be blamed on entry level jobs, lack of entry level jobs, a Fat Amy Winehouse street cabaret, and Kendrick's Becca actually having a pretty dope producing role at a big record label but quitting anyways. Once abroad with the rest of the ladies, she swaps out her absentee Skylar Astin ex for a scruffy and dreamy-eyed, but totally dull, manager for none other than DJ Khaled, who is in deed a major character and plot point as he plays himself here. 2017 is the nightmare that just keeps wailing.<br />
While Khaled is trying to oh-so-innocently score a #majorkey coup by enlisting Becca, sans the rest of the Bellas, as his opening act, Rebel Wilson's pop culture pun of a character who just won't quit, Fat Amy is thrust into the throes of some 007 trenches. Her cartoonish drug-lord gangster father (John Lithgow) holds the Bellas for hostage, threatening death if Amy doesn't concede to emptying her forgotten savings account to him. If ever a franchise character needed a backstory, it's Fat Amy. If ever a backstory offered the worst possible, most off-brand explanation, it's also Fat Amy's. The faux espionage, adventure madness of the threequel isn't just as flat as a red Solo cup full of watered down, next-day sangria, it's screechingly pitiful the morning after.<br />
<br />
<b>Cast</b><br />
• Anna Kendrick<br />
• Rebel Wilson<br />
• Hailee Steinfeld<br />
• Brittany Snow<br />
• Anna Camp<br />
• Matt Lanter<br />
• John Lithgow<br />
• John Michael Higgins<br />
• Elizabeth Banks<br />
<br />
<b>Rating</b><br />
PG-13<br />
<br />
<b>Running Time</b><br />
93 minutesCooperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00772637322162600688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2771944413790347080.post-25224522750167479882017-12-13T16:09:00.001-08:002017-12-13T16:09:51.610-08:00Call Me By Your Name<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: magenta;"><b>B-</b></span> <br />
One of the steamiest moments in <i>Call Me By Your Name </i>involves a piece of fruit. In said scene, seventeen year-old Elio lounges shirtless (as he often is in the film) on a mattress in the cellar of his family's Italian summer estate. Biting into a peach, the guts and juice ooze all over Elio's lean, bare chest. The result is stirring and expert eroticism in and of itself. However, he goes even further, playing into the audience's probable perverted fantasies that are beginning to form as his hand wanders down his abs and into his shorts. Eventually the peach, sans pit, enters his shorts, as well. Masturbation and climax soon follow.<br />
As he is for most of the film, Elio is frustrated by the act he has committed, only to have his twenty four-year old American house guest Oliver discover him lying on the dusty mattress and go down on him. Oliver flashes Elio his megawatt smile that he waves throughout the film, as if to apologize and compensate for Elio's perpetual cloudy angst. Even in the most springy of the film's scenes that try their best to lasso in a great love story, there's so much brooding and boredom.<br />
In André Aciman's sprawling and epic, yet also satisfyingly slim, romance novel Oliver bites into the Elio-frosted fruit, a move more erotically raw and closer to ultimate intimacy than anything in <i>Fifty Shades</i>' wildest dreams. In Luca Guadagnino's frustrating and lingering film adaptation though, Oliver never gets to eat the forbidden fruit, a concession to Elio's embarrassed whining, which collapses into weeping and his smothering himself in Oliver's embrace as he cries that they only have a couple of weeks left together. And so goes the problem with Guadagnino's <i>Call Me</i>... It never bites and savors that peach.<br />
Rather than being a love story that fondly romanticizes itself in feelings as richly expressed as the countryside real estate and nature porn it subjects us to, the film undermines its source material's lust and love as it capitalizes on melodramatic heartbreak. Guadgnino is clearly a symbolism professional, trying to piece together a mountain out of bread-crumb imagery: fruit, Star of David necklaces, bathing suits in a variety of colors, short-shorts on men (this is the '80s).... And yet, they don't amount to any more than an overblown and drawn out cinematic outing in which its leads swim with pent-up homosexuality.<br />
Of course, Elio is in the trenches of puberty and discovering himself so his grouchy angst is somewhat forgiven. Couple the hormones with coming to terms with being gay thirty years ago and there is a method to Timothée Chalamet's maddening thrashing as Elio. It's artistry at its most practiced when dueling with Armie Hammer's Oliver. Hammer's Disney prince grandiosity is at its richest as the fratty New Englander exuding so much cool the entire town is cast under his spell. For the first half of the film, the pair's sexual tension sizzles in Guadgnino's meditation of a midsummer fantasy of realism.<br />
Curiously, once the two start hooking up, the film suffers as it wades through a sleepy quicksand where the dialogue nearly halts. Without any real intimacy onscreen, we're left wondering what exactly these two talk about when they're not having sex. But maybe they're not having such great sex either. We don't know; we don't see it. But we could fill in those gaps. What's more difficult to imagine is what exactly Elio and Oliver talk about without the anxious psyche of Elio narrating us through Aciman's text. Under a screenplay by James Ivory, <i>Call Me </i>is a commercial drug store Valentine, watered down and lost at sea somewhere between an enchanting first act and a completely still second act. Spoiler alert once again, the film chooses to cut itself short, ending well before the novel does, ultimately changing the narrative perspectives of the two men. An even bigger spoiler? The film's ending only rubs salt into their wounds more.<br />
A lighthouse though is Michael Stuhlbarg's performance of Elio's father. Along with his Amira Casar mother, Elio's parents are more intuitive to their son's affair than one may think. Stuhlbarg delivers a gorgeous monologue towards the end while father-son bonding. It's the most delicate and respectful the film ever feels to its source material. If only all of <i>Call Me By Your Name </i>was as raw and peachy as this the morning after.<br />
<br />
<b>Cast</b><br />
• Armie Hammer<br />
• Timothée Chalamet<br />
• Michael Stuhlbarg<br />
• Amira Casar<br />
• Esther Garrel<br />
<br />
<b>Rating</b><br />
R<br />
<br />
<b>Running Time</b><br />
132 minutesCooperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00772637322162600688noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2771944413790347080.post-22407680586170012162017-12-06T15:58:00.001-08:002017-12-06T15:58:11.538-08:00The Disaster Artist<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: red;"><b>A-</b></span> <br />
James Franco directs and stars in a film where he plays a man who also directed and starred in his respective own film. The man in question is Tommy Wiseau, the enigmatic man of mystery who has risen to film buff infamy with his 2003 cult film classic <i>The Room</i>, revered by many as the worst film of all time as it has lived on with a midnight movie legacy. Franco has been ostracized for his oddities in the film world, albeit with more star-turning fortune and fame. But once he flips into a Wiseau wig, morphing into a dead ringer for both Wiseau and a thrift store-popped Tom Hiidleston's Loki, the kindred-spiritship ignites with Franco being a natural for the roles of Wiseau and storyteller.<br />
<i>Disaster </i>isn't so much a biopic that's here to answer questions as much as it is a celebration of bizarreness and a business that can spill spectacular surprises in different sizes and contexts. The film unapologetically admits that the world knows next to nothing about the man who made <i>The Room</i>. He claims to have come from New Orleans, but is stuck with, what one character estimates, sounds to be an Eastern European accent; and one paired with a failure to properly conjugate and a drawl that sounds as if his jaw is hanging down, broken and jumbled with gumballs.<br />
In addition to committing to Wiseau's character-acting, Franco has brought along a who's who of the Hollywood A-list: Seth Rogen, Zac Efron, and Josh Hutcherson all play men who were along for the production of the cursed <i>Room</i>, making <i>Disaster </i>even more of a distinguished hat tip to its dedicated sweet spot of not necessarily humanizing Wiseau, but making sense of the heroic underdog undertones his tale infects in unlikelihood. Wiseau's obliviousness does have its pitfalls, most painfully while filming a sleazy sex scene where he gets unnecessarily naked and disrespectful to his female love interest (Ari Gaynor.) With his wailing how this is a "real Hollywood movie!" it's difficult to not cringe at its timelines given the grim underbelly of the industry that's being exposed as we speak.<br />
For all of the slapstick in its historically accurate DNA, <i>Disaster </i>does turn out to be Franco's most intimate work to date, only made more so by younger brother Dave playing Tommy's professional partner Greg, who moves from San Francisco to LA with Tommy after becoming unlikely friends in an acting class. Not only would Greg go on to chronicle his Tommy tales in an autobiography, also called <i>The Disaster Artist</i>, but he also served as line producer and as the character Mark in <i>The Room</i>.<br />
Greg goes through a lot of growth throughout the film, starting as a seemingly small-brained pretty jock with big screen dreams, thinking that Tommy Wiseau is actually his golden ticket to stardom. In some ways, he was proven to be correct. In others though, the path was torturous and embarrassing the more time Greg spent with Tommy and wised up to the kooky mystery man with bottomless pockets full of money. But no matter the trials and tribulations of anyone who would work with Wiseau, the Franco brothers' real-life relation is the perfect recipe for the Tommy-Greg bromance. Seeing the pair realize just what a glorious mess they made with their <i>Room </i>is a thrill with many a layer, all of which Franco funnels into a great film about The Greatest Bad Film Ever Made the morning after.<br />
<br />
<b>Cast</b><br />
• James Franco<br />
• Dave Franco<br />
• Seth Rogen<br />
• Alison Brie<br />
• Ari Gaynor<br />
• Zac Efron<br />
• Josh Hutcherson<br />
• Jacki Weaver<br />
<br />
<b>Rating</b><br />
R<br />
<br />
<b>Running Time</b><br />
106 minutesCooperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00772637322162600688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2771944413790347080.post-22206453996913914702017-11-20T12:46:00.003-08:002017-11-20T12:46:42.747-08:00Justice League<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: magenta;"><b>B-</b></span> <br />
The only plot-twisting surprise in Zack Snyder's swing at making a DC Comics Justice League<i> </i>movie is a painfully obvious conclusion anyone who caught the end of <i>Batman v Superman </i>could've made. It could be perceived as a spoiler, but read on if you know what Henry Cavil promoting this film and what that iconic "S" on the poster's cringeworthy, elementary tagline of "You Can't Save The World Alone" mean...<br />
The old Superman can't come to the phone right now, but it's not too long before the new Clark Kent is untwisted back to his quietly subtle and ridiculously sexy self via Henry Cavill. Prior to his return, Snyder works too much Man of Steel foundation into the film's landscape for Clark's second coming to not be inevitable. Amy Adams and Diane Lane are even brought back as lady love Lois Lane and adoptive mother Martha Kent, respectively. Cavill and Adams cuddling in a cornfield, chest hair exposed under his slightly unbuttoned flannel is like the coziest, most CGI American Eagle advertisement ever. It also overestimates the emotional attachment and investment anyone had to not only the atrocious <i>Batman v Superman </i>from last year, but also Cavill's introductory film, the 2013 <i>Man of Steel</i>. Anyone's care for any of the DC Extended Universe flicks seemed to have died along with Superman.<br />
But this past summer's <i>Wonder Woman </i>revitalized all of that with a fresh breath of hope. Snyder was relegated to producer for that, but is now back at the directing helm as he proves the common denominator in DC's more woeful fare... Except this time there's a healthy dose of self-awareness and, dare I say, fun.<br />
No, <i>Justice League </i>may not live up to <i>Wonder Woman </i>or be as witted and dedicated as anything being cranked out of the exhaustive Marvel machine. But the fight for the upper hand appears to be over. As a society we have accepted that Ben Affleck is anything but the Batman we deserve and this new film's poking and teasing at Bruce Wayne's superpower being just that he has lots of money knowingly roasts and rolls this inconvenient truth. Affleck can't even look Jeremy Irons' trusty Alfred in the eye during scenes, giving into the reality that four more heroes are needed to not only save the world, but save this movie. Humility and cuddliness are finally made concessions in the Batman and Superman corners of the DCEU and Affleck's Bruce does not partake. Instead, he retreats into anonymity as Batman with CGI-beaten rooftop scenes that grovel in tecno-Gothic grime.<br />
The only League number Bruce has ready on speed dial prior to its assemblage is Diana Prince, aka Wonder Woman. It's a given to make Gal Gadot's heroine an outlier in this bunch, having carried her own headlining film so above and beyond anything else we've seen preceding <i>League</i>. But there is a vague smirk of Marvel good humor in Joss Whedon having co-wrote the screenplay. The jabs and teasing outrun the grave seriousness with which Affleck handles each and every frame he appears in as the slippery and thuddy comedy lands in the laps of the new kids.<br />
Most abrasive is Ezra Miller's kiddish Flash, a young hero with no field experience other than using his super speed as a party trick. Miller's delivery is keen, but the script fails him: He doesn't understand what's the big deal about brunch, a meal identical to lunch but with longer lines... Well, it's actually more like breakfast with bottomless Bloody Mary's, dude. DC flicks have never been the most culturally hip in general.<br />
Rounding out the heroes of this round table are the other newbies Aquaman and Cyborg. The former is played by Jason Mamoa, clearly getting the memo that a superhero can be portrayed with bro-y, playtime aplomb. The character's archetypical blonde, golden boyishness is traded in for Mamoa's Native American and Native Hawaiian ancestries and tribal tattoos, making for a far more intriguing backstory that can only be strengthened with more screen time to come. The latter is a car accident victim-turned human/robot hybrid by his own father. Ray Fisher broods as Cyborg, but it's not too long before Miller's quipping programs a smile from out of hiding. Really, everyone's subtle chemistry is the helium that keeps this film bouncing.<br />
But the whole affair is so lightweight it's hard to not revel in its simplicity and enjoy yourself. The stress of the Pixy Stix-dusted <i>Suicide Squad </i>bared in an effort to have fun is gone and in its place is a glorious carelessness that makes for more enjoyment. The villain here, Steppenwolf (Ciarán Hinds), is so steeped in graphics and character-breaking smiling can certainly be seen underneath all of that alien scum. And yet, he's given so little thought and so little purpose, other than the usual globe-dominating pulverizing, he's not even a threat at degrading the movie even further.<br />
This may all sound like a Get Out of Jail Free card is being granted to <i>Justice League</i>, but at the end of the day, Snyder has delivered a truly relaxed joyride that wallows in its own trashy beauty. It's not quite parodic, but the abandonment of theorized breadcrumbs and maximized theatrics gives the film a cheesy intimacy. It may not be a recipe for longevity, but it sure is an endearing misfire the morning after.<br />
<br />
<b>Cast</b><br />
• Ben Affleck<br />
• Henry Cavill<br />
• Gal Gadot<br />
• Ezra Miller<br />
• Jason Momoa<br />
• Ray Fisher<br />
• Amy Adams<br />
• Diane Lane<br />
• Jeremy Irons<br />
• J.K. Simmons<br />
<br />
<b>Rating</b><br />
PG-13<br />
<br />
<b>Running Time</b><br />
120 minutesCooperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00772637322162600688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2771944413790347080.post-32607112205490111562017-11-16T10:09:00.002-08:002017-11-16T10:09:46.831-08:00My Friend Dahmer<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYoa-QBi_MrqwIvhylQh3pTmvSi4MQLyTgXzmD0rJAPkJtlW2Imdisg8oprXFgUmjEZO7paNzBC5dGVuw3twzLvRdBO7e9EyZfNzOev5TT-sUbUeysuuKJPRVD6aHttzxMSBJfYFer-f0w/s1600/my_friend_dahmer_ver2_xlg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1015" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYoa-QBi_MrqwIvhylQh3pTmvSi4MQLyTgXzmD0rJAPkJtlW2Imdisg8oprXFgUmjEZO7paNzBC5dGVuw3twzLvRdBO7e9EyZfNzOev5TT-sUbUeysuuKJPRVD6aHttzxMSBJfYFer-f0w/s320/my_friend_dahmer_ver2_xlg.jpg" width="216" /></a></div>
<span style="color: red;"><b>A-</b></span> <br />
Jeffrey Dahmer left his freshman date at his senior prom under the guise that he had to pee and would be back. He actually dipped out and got a cheeseburger. These are the kinds of jerkish breadcrumbs scattered throughout writer-director Marc Meyers' biopic window into the would-be cannibalistic serial killer's high school days.<br />
Splattered all about are fragmented horror elements that simmer for the full running time, breaths held before the jump scare that never really comes because the true terror of Dahmer's human slayings start not too long after the film's credits roll. Instead, Meyers has assembled a far creepier and more fascinating vantage of a boy misfitted into ultimate outcasted weirdness by a dysfunctional family portrait and a high school yearbook chalk full of manipulation and a starvation to fit in with goofball cool kids.<br />
It could all be traced back to the parents, two humans so full of repression and possible misdiagnosis that they can't exist in the same household for long. Dallas Roberts' Lionel Dahmer accuses his wife Joyce of chasing UFOs down the street while she also comes home from impulse-buying cars and popping pills. He'll retreat to a bottle of booze and buy his son some barbells in an effort to maybe get Jeffrey some action with the ladies. Joyce is played by Anne Heche with earsplitting hilarity, the kind of intoxicated deliriousness that Meghan Mulally can curate more clearly at a sitcom level. In such an intimate nonfiction film though we don't know whether to laugh or shake our heads at Heche. The obvious intention presents itself as she continues to unravel.<br />
One of Lionel's defeated attempts at mainstreaming his son into popularity and social assimilation is breaking down Jeffrey's "lab," a wooden shack in the woods where he conducts chemical experiments on the corpses of animals. When Jeffrey shows the inside of his lab to a couple neighborhood boys they bolt, leaving Meyers' camera to pan out into the woods, glowing in dusk and Jeffrey standing in the doorway like a Frankenstein's monster left in the dust of villagers' fear before they return with pitchforks. It's the rare moment where Meyers calls upon the film's source material of a graphic novel for visual inspiration.<br />
Otherwise, John Backderf's memoirist depiction of his time in Jeffrey's life is scaled out and back to fill backstory and notoriety in thriller prologue form. Backderf is a character in the film, Alex Wolff's Derf, who's one of Jeffrey's gateway to class clown royalty. Of course, Jeffery does make his all access pass out of his own materials, a knack for making fun of a local interior designer with cerebral palsy. He takes to extreme offensiveness as he flinches, moans, and twitches. High schoolers in 1978 find this hilarious.<br />
At the eye of this brewing storm is Ross Lynch as Jeffrey. Lynch's being a former Disney dude makes his casting an example of the Selena Gomez-<i>Spring Breakers </i>effect: cut a young star from cute and clean cloth and soil them in depravity for maximalist disturbances. It's a cheap shot that Lynch slam dunks with aplomb. He's a dream boat shagged in a blonde mop, hiding behind huge frame glasses and slumping like a zombified Scooby villain.<br />
He also hides in bushes, lurking with a baseball bat and ready to strike his Ohio town's resident Dr. McSteamy (Vincent Kartheiser). The culmination of Jeffrey's obsession with the doctor may be sinister, coming from a man who would go on to kill seventeen young men, but the incite is pure homosexual repression. Jeffrey even goes so far as to schedule a physical exam with the doc so he can feel his touch. Spoiler Alert: Jeffrey can't keep his lust from springing up.<br />
Man, puberty sucks. But it's downright bone-chilling when observing it from inside the making of a murderer. There's an overwhelming amount of fear in <i>Dahmer</i>'s shadows, but it's all foreplay to explicitness we never witness here. However, it's still all enough to make us cover our eyes the morning after.<br />
<br />
<b>Cast</b><br />
• Ross Lynch<br />
• Alex Wolff<br />
•Vincent Kartheiser<br />
• Anne Heche<br />
• Dallas Roberts<br />
<br />
<b>Rating</b><br />
R<br />
<br />
<b>Running Time</b><br />
117 minutesCooperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00772637322162600688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2771944413790347080.post-4092088916896912152017-11-13T13:35:00.002-08:002017-11-13T13:35:23.766-08:00A Bad Moms Christmas<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: magenta;"><b>B+</b></span> <br />
The fun has seriously shifted in the yuletide-fringed <i>Bad Moms </i>sequel. Although unintentional, the first was a <i>Mean Girls </i>for the PTA set and their chiller peers too cool and/or busy to participate in bake sales. Jon Lucas and Scott Moore have returned to co-direct and co-write the Christmastime escapades with a more frenzied approach, if totally fitting to the films' very chaos.<br />
Mila Kunis' Amy was being dragged around motherhood on the struggle bus the first round, but this time the mother of two has locked down her hunky boyfriend (Jay Hernandez) for backup, along with his own daughter, who has heard her dad and Amy "fighting" in the bedroom at night. Hitting walls! F-bombs! The stuff of a truly failing relationship.<br />
But actually things couldn't be going better for Amy, which is maybe why Kunis becomes off center. Her children are so content with a no-frills Christmas that Chinese takeout will be served. But not if the introduction of her monstrously uptight society mother has anything to say about it! Amy's mother is of course played by Christine Baranski, nose in the air and surprised that Kenny G can be rented for so cheap on Christmas Eve.<br />
Cheryl Hines is the visiting mother of Kristen Bell's babyish pushover of the group, Kiki. Hines' Sandy is the smother mother of an adult and her attempts at mirroring her daughter's granny/grown toddler wardrobe are put on steroids by creeping in the corner while her daughter has sex. Guilt trips are routed the second Kiki pines for some agency and independence.<br />
And of course there's Susan Sarandon as Kathryn Hahn's mother Isis. Her name is a stand alone pun that squirms and squeals on the heels of the very tractor trailer she rides in on, hitchhiking and hustling past gambling debts only to get to a grandson she barely even remembers exists. Isis oils a blemish onto Hahn's Carla, a single mother waxing specialist who is finally finding some stillness with her routines. Most notably she scores some new man candy in a stripper client with a heart of gold (Justin Hartley). The scene he spends naked on her work table is destined for comedic mishap. But such misfire never explodes, instead the moment sweetly sails into romance.<br />
<i>A Bad Moms Christmas </i>always sticks its landing when it jumps for the hard-R antics and bitchery it promises. But it also has holiday card sincerity amidst absurd sequences like the three friends getting drunk off food court beer in order to face photo time with Santa and stealing Lady Foot Locker's display tree. Spiked eggnog thematics seem to be the cure for sophomore slump. When do these ladies drop an Arbor Day flick the morning after?<br />
<br />
<b>Cast</b><br />
• Mila Kunis<br />
• Kristen Bell<br />
• Kathryn Hahn<br />
• Christine Baranski<br />
• Cheryl Hines<br />
• Jay Hernandez<br />
• Justin Hartley<br />
• Susan Sarandon<br />
<br />
<b>Rating</b><br />
R<br />
<br />
<b>Running Time</b><br />
104 minutesCooperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00772637322162600688noreply@blogger.com0