THE IRISHMAN

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

It’s been widely reported that The Irishman runs three and a half hours long, so there’s a good chance you already know it, but it bears repeating. Be warned: this movie is a bit of an endurance test. I do have recommendations for how to deal with it, however. First, don’t drink any fluids for at least six hours before seeing it in a theater. But, if you can’t get out of having to use the bathroom, then I recommend seeing it at Seattle’s Cinerama theatre. Not only is it the best movie screen in town, but they also play the live sound from the movie playing over the speakers in the bathrooms, so at the very least you don’t miss out on what might be critical dialogue.

That is, it’s what I can recommend or the next week, which is the extent of this film’s theatrical release. It plays at Cinerama through Wednesday 11/20; it plays at the Landmark Crest Theater in Shoreline (which is far cheaper; $17 at Cinerama vs. $4 at the Crest) through Thursday 11/21. This has also been the subject of much media coverage regarding this movie, because it will be available streaming on Netflix very shortly thereafter, on Wednesday, November 27, the day before Thanksgiving.

Thus, the biggest burning question is: Is it worth finding a movie theater to see it in? And having seen it, I can tell you definitively—no, not really. That is, unless you are a cinephile or cinema purist, which I kind of am. It’s why I went out of my way to see it at Cinerama: I knew director Martin Scorsese preferred it be seen in a theater, and I personally prefer the cinematic experience broadly. But, you know what? Although The Irishman is a fine movie, it’s short on action and long on a uniquely meditative tone. Honestly, you might as well deal with that at home.

It’s not like it’s some grand achievement in cinematography, either. This movie is told almost entirely in flashback, with Robert De Niro as the title character (or, Frank Sheeran) narrating. The story unfolds over decades, from the forties through the seventies, in blue collar neighborhoods run by mobsters, in environments with pretty muted colors, with the occasional exception of things like a brief excursion to Florida. Still, none of the visual language of this films demands to be seen on a large screen. The Irishman is much more an actors’ showcase, and a very, very long one at that. This is therefore a rare example of a movie’s brief theatrical release having value only in terms of qualifying for Academy Awards, as opposed to a brief window of opportunity to see film as it was originally intended. This is one movie that will work fine, maybe even better, on your TV screen.

And real emphasis should be put on it as a showcase for actors—specifically, male ones. The cast here is a massive reunion of Scorsese favorites, including Harvey Keitel in a surprisingly small role as the most powerful mobster; Al Pacino as Jimmy Hoffa; and most notably, Joe Pesci as crime boss Russell Bufalino, Frank Sheeran’s longtime mentor. Other familiar faces fill out the supporting cast, including Ray Romano as Russell’s cousin Bill; Bobby Cannavale as hitman Felix “Skinny Razor” DeTullio; and Jesse Plemons as Jimmy Hoffa’s son Chuckie.

But, at the risk of sounding insufferably “woke,” you would think a movie three and a half hours long would find at least some quality time for the women in these men’s lives. It’s genuinely striking, how much screen time women in this film get just to be speechless window dressing. Just because I feel bad for them, I feel like naming the key actors who played these roles: Welker White as Jimmy’s wife, Josephine Hoffa (who gets the most lines of all the women, and it’s still only a few); Aleksa Palladino and Stephanie Kurtzuba as Mary and Irene, Frank’s respective first and second wives; and most notably, Anna Paquin as Frank’s eldest daughter Peggy. Peggy actually figures in as a key part of Frank’s story, and still, Anna Paquin appears in several scenes with no dialogue at all, until maybe two scenes with limited dialogue near the end. In short, The Irishman goes out of its way to waste the ample talents of its female supporting cast, while simultaneously squandering ample potential for character development.

Now, okay, yes, to be fair, this is Frank’s story, and his story revolves around his relationship with crime bosses. De Niro, Pacino and Pesci—who came out of retirement for this role, not having been in a feature film in nine years—all give fantastic, arguably award-worthy performances. But it’s still possible to put the focus on these characters without giving so many women such blatant short shrift, with not so much as dialogue in scene after scene. (I’m certainly not the only one who noticed.)

That aside—and, frankly, it’s a difficult thing to set aside—The Irishman remains a surprisingly engaging film considering how long it is, the longest mainstream film released in two decades. The final ninety minutes or so are certainly the most pertinent, and they are only thus because of the time spent on the story that led up to it. The film ends with Frank as an old man, reckoning with the long-term consequences of his past. It’s a larger-than-life life, which ends with a bit of whimper. And, much like Pedro Almodóvar’s Pain and Glory, there is greater context to consider: it’s a longtime director using a film as a storytelling tool to reckon with his own past. A meditation on a life lived, achievements and mistakes in all; a bit of a theme in the world of film in 2019. Is it a journey worth going on with them? Sure it is, especially if you are already a fan of the director’s other work. Is it an essential part of his body of work? That part remains up for debate.

So are we just going to keep talking for 209 minutes, then?

Overall: B

LAST CHRISTMAS

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

Here’s a strange and unusual thing for the holiday season: a movie in which nearly everyone is phoning it in—except, curiously, the actors. It’s easy to dismiss a film as schmaltzy as Last Christmas outright (and I was tempted), but that itself can be a sort of trap. Emilia Clarke gives a lovely performance as Kate, the central character gradually revealed to have made a mess of her life in the wake of a heart transplant. And Emma Thompson exceeds expectations as her Yugoslavian immigrant mother.

Still, Last Christmas has a pretty big problem, and I mean besides the hokey fact that it’s loosely based on a song by WHAM! It features some solid characters, who could be the building blocks of a great story. Paul Feig, as director, and Emma Thompson, as co-writer (along with Bryony Kimmings), seem to know of this potential, and yet they couldn’t be bothered. It’s like they got to the point of half-baked and then they all decided, well, that’s good enough!

Except it really isn’t. Spoiler alert! There’s a so-called “massive twist.” I won’t reveal the twist here, although if you’ve seen the trailer you’ve already figured it out, and it is practically slapping the viewer in the face with “hints” the moment Henry Golding (Crazy Rich Asians) appears onscreen as Tom, the mysterious man who takes an interest in Kate, just when her life seems to have hit rock bottom.

Golding has an endearing screen presence, which helps with all the holiday cheese going on here. The same goes for Michelle Yeoh (also Crazy Rich Asians) as the owner of the massive year-round Christmas shop where Kate works, dressed as an elf. Unfortunately, Yeoh’s own ample charms are more than neutralized by a romance with a customer, and the subplot there is so insanely cloying you might want to keep a barf bag handy.

The semi-romance between Kate and Tom is not far behind. Once the “big reveal” about him happens, try not to think too much about the many practical questions it brings up. I’m still unsure whether the audience is meant to think of him as real or as a figment of Kate’s imagination, because those questions get no easy answers either way.

I won’t lie, though—Last Christmas still got to me. It might stir your emotions a little bit too, if you love George Michael (whose songs make up most of the soundtrack), or you love Christmas, or Christmas movies, or all of the above. I’m not sure how much we need all this as early as an opening date of November 8—three weeks before Thanksgiving—unless the studio just wanted to get their junk out of the way early. Because just because I found myself getting involved in the story doesn’t make it something of high quality. There’s a reason why formula works.

There is one single scene, which indicates the better movie that could have been. Kate is home at her parents’ house, having a dinner with them and her sister (Lydia Leonard) to celebrate her sister’s promotion. There’s a round of dialogue that begins to crackle with energy, the kind that can make for a fun, unique story about a multi-ethnic, immigrant family. There are even brief bits about Brexit that are actually woven into what passes for a story in this movie pretty well. I actually laughed two or three times during this one scene, which was about even with the rest of the movie put together. I wish another movie could be grown out of this scene, one in which a Christmastime setting, even holiday sentiment, is still permitted, but just not laid on so thick.

But that’s what Last Christmas does: it lays it on thick with what doesn’t really work, and skims over what does. That’s also what makes it so easy to overlook the solid performance among all of the lead actors. They have the kind of rapport you’d like to explore further. Just in some other movie.

Save the Most Schmaltz for Me

Overall: B-

PAIN AND GLORY

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

There is so much that can be unpacked with Pedro Almodóvar’s latest film, Pain and Glory, it’s potentially exhausting. But, it really depends on how much of a film nerd you are; how much you know about Almodóvar himself as well as his film history; and how much you care about “autofiction,” a term which gets mentioned a couple of times in the film.

For the average viewer of the film—not to mention the average reader of this particular review—how much of Pain and Glory is fictionalized autobiography on the part of its director perhaps means little. These are the things that get widespread attention in critical responses, but for you and me, how much does all of that matter? Perhaps it could be said that “it’s unlike anything else” is a phrase that gets bandied about a lot among critics (including me), and still this film takes that notion to a different level. As in, nothing else would be like this, given its incredible specificity: this is Antonio Banderas’s eighth collaboration with Almodóvar since their first in 1982, giving them a longstanding relationship with a kind of intimacy all its own; now, even if in the context of “autofiction,” Bandaras is basically playing Almodóvar, while also being directed by him.

As you can plainly see, context can really make a difference in meaning, and these sorts of details are undeniably fascinating, at least to anyone with a particular interest in film, or in film history, or in the body of work of Pedro Alomdóvar in particular. But, what interests me more is how Pain and Glory plays completely on its own merits. What if you watched this movie having no idea that it was “autofiction” at all? What if you didn’t even know who Almodóvar was, and just happened upon this movie, or went to see it just because the trailer piqued an interest? I would argue the film’s is of much greater value if it works either way.

So, what’s the answer, then? I can’t say with absolute certainty, since, even though I am far from an Aldomóvar expert (I have seen about ten of the 22 feature films he’s directed), but my sense is the answer is yes, it works. It just doesn’t work quite as well, doesn’t have the same gravitas, without the knowledge that this is a meditation on a long career and how a man’s past informs his present, both on the part of the main character and on the part of the director.

Antonio Banderas does not play a character called “Pedro Almodóvar,” but rather a very, very similar character by the name of Salvador Mallo. Salvador is well into the fourth decade of his career, now stalled, in large part due to an array of health ailments, most of which cause chronic pain. A re-issue of a film from the beginning of his career prompts him to reconnect with said film’s star, Alberto Crespo (Asier Exteandia), as they have both been invited to co-present. They don’t “make amends” so much as allow each other to appear in each other’s lives again.

In signature Almodóvar style, the story unfolds at a very purposefully steady pace. Pain and Glory moves relatively slowly, and is pretty short on action. It is almost entirely composed of quiet conversations, even as Salvador slips into a worrying habit of casual heroin use as a means of dealing with his chronic pain. It’s the same with the many flashbacks to Salvador’s childhood, in which Penélope Cruz (this being her sixth Almodóvar film) plays his mother, who is self-conscious about their poverty.

These flashbacks ultimately culminate in a subtle revelation about Salvador’s (and, ultimately, Almodóvar’s) sexuality, as does a present-day visit by an old flame. In time, Pain and Glory reveals itself to be largely about Salvador as a gay man, although it’s also almost pointedly sexless about it, even with a full-frontal male nude scene among the flashbacks, and a present-day passionate kiss that is far more romantic than erotic. But, sex is beside the point. Salvador’s sexuality is merely one of several avenues on which he must reconcile his past with his present.

It seems clear that Pain and Glory, with its signature meticulousness in both writing and visual storytelling, would benefit from multiple viewings. That is, if a film like this is of interest to begin with. A whole lot about this film is very typical of Almodóvar films, not least of which is its cinematography (by José Luis Alcaine, who has also been collaborating with Almodóvar since the eighties), with its many visuals characterized by solid colors on costumes and interiors. In this case, it’s a lot of solid red. In any case, Pain and Glory serves as a rich visual tapestry, with nothing seen anywhere in frame ever being an accident. Every single detail, every color, every placement of an object, every movement and every word spoken, is all fraught with purpose.

Like any filmmaker with a large body of work, the quality of Pedro Almodóvar’s films has varied a great deal. I found Volver (2006) and Broken Embraces (2009) to be near-perfect expressions of cinema; I also found Talk to Her (2002) and The Skin I live In (2011) to be impressive cinema yet uncomfortably problematic. I’m So Excited! (2013) was a genuine disappointment. The one common thread among all of them is the clear deliberateness of anything seen onscreen.

With Pain and Glory, though, the concern is almost entirely with a filmmaker’s beginning and where he is now, and not so much with anything that came in between, at least in terms of his artistic output. It’s about where a person comes from, and how that informs where he is now, on several fronts. And really, as with most Almodóvar movies, it is much more for Almodóvar fans than it is for fans of film in general. It’s possible, of course, that an Almodóvar novice could be introduced to his work via this film, and if they like it, then be compelled to explore his other work. You could certainly do worse than that.

Looking back: on fiction, on nonfiction, on “autofiction.”

Overall: B+

HARRIET

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

There are great things about Harriet, and there are less-than-great things about Harriet, and the first thing about it to distract me was a little odd: as soon as Harriet and her husband John opened their mouths in the opening scene, I thought to myself, damn—those slaves sure had excellent dentists! Their teeth shone with such pearly-white perfection, it made them look like . . . actors.

Which is to say: there’s a lot wrong with Harriet. Or if not wrong, then certainly sort of off. There’s a vague indecisiveness to its tone, as though director Kasi Lemmons can’t decide if it’s a straightforward biopic or a spiritual treatise. This makes it all the more impressive how often star Cynthia Erivo, as Harriet Tubman, rises above all that. Any time Harriet is absorbing in spite of its imperfections, it is because of her. She has a unique talent for conveying vulnerability and strength in equal measure, easing from the former to the latter over the course of the film.

There is no denying that Harriet Tubman, as a historical figure, was an extraordinary woman. A century and a half after she escaped a life of slavery in Maryland, she remains an enduring symbol of both racial justice and feminism. Learn just a fraction of her accomplishments, and it becomes clear that it is far from hyperbole to say she deserves to be the both the first black person and the first woman to be pictured on American currency. (The complications of conflating her accomplishments with material wealth is a conversation for another place and time.) And setting the inevitability of artistic license in movies aside, Harriet depicts a large number of real, historical events that are genuinely amazing. For that reason, you could make the argument that Harriet commands attention. I can see this being a useful tool in near-future American school classrooms.

I just wish a better movie had been made about her. A woman as towering a figure as Harriet Tubman deserves representation in a film that is better than “not bad.”

Which brings me to the genuinely weird bits. Harriet has been subject to some debate as to whether she is depicted as “psychic.” And it is true, she has several premonitions throughout the film, which seem to guide her path as she moves back and forth from north to south and back, leading increasing numbers of slaves to safety. In my view, this isn’t a suggestion of psychic ability so much as Kasi Lemmons, who co-wrote the script with Gregory Allen Howard, infusing into her an element of the divine. This begins relatively early, in a scene in which Harriet leads a group of fugitive slaves safely across a river, apparently thanks to the power of prayer. It doesn’t quite make Harriet Tubman Christ-like, but it does bring her within a stone’s throw of it.

Now, it’s well known that Harriet Tubman was a deeply religious woman, who indeed believed she was guided by God. And I don’t even have issue with her being depicted thus in film. It’s just that Harriet takes it one small step further, taking that notion rather seriously. It seems to say: she was right. Is it so wrong to want a depiction of this woman in which she becomes extraordinary on her own merits?

No human being is without flaws, and Harriet falls into the trap of rendering its hero an unassailable saint. Even when she talks of being “humbled,” it is just more evidence of her sainthood. By the end, Harriet devolves momentarily into sappy dreck, with the requisite “inspirational speech” met by a rapt audience offering her appreciative applause, like countless other movies over the past countless decades. I saw that and could only think: Really?

Such scenes of misguided corniness are augmented by an intermittently obtrusive musical score by Terence Blanchard. And I don’t often note the music in movies, except in Harriet the score often gives way to beautiful spirituals, sung by the slave characters. Harriet is peppered with these interludes, and they possess a powerful, haunting beauty. Lemmons wisely makes use of the incredible voice possessed by Cynthia Erivo, whose vocal talent has already been showcased in last year’s Bad Times at the El Royale. As such, Harriet would have benefited from less of its cheesy score, and a lot more of those acapella spirituals.

Erivo is well supported by others in the very large cast, most notably by the almost ethereal Janelle Monáe as a proprietor friend of Harriet’s in Philadelphia. And, in spite of its moderately fluid tone, Harriet does pack an impressive amount of detail into its storytelling without ever making it feel rushed—a true rarity in biopics. There is much to debate about Harriet, not about the woman but about how this particular movie depicts her. At least Cynthia Erivo carries the weight of an often odd and sometimes contrived script with a dignity all her own. Setting aside the supposed premonitions, it might just still teach us something about the weight and importance of our own history.

Harriet as superhero: she means business.

Overall: B

JOJO RABBIT

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

You’d think a movie marketed as an “anti-hate satire” would be more . . . satirical. What JoJo Rabbit is, rather, is—adorable. And it’s kind of hard to retain any satirical bite when you’re adorable.

Don’t get me wrong, though; adorable has a lot going for it. That’s why, even though this movie has divided critics, it also made the rounds of film festivals as a huge audience favorite, winning the audience award at the Toronto Film Festival. That’s an award that usually goes to an eventual Best Picture Oscar nominee, and has predicted the Best Picture winner half of the past ten years. Critical ambivalence combined with delighted audiences is often a recipe for Academy success.

Would JoJo Rabbit deserve any Oscars? I’d certainly hesitate to go that far. But then, I’d surely have said the same of Green Book, and I absolutely did say the same of The Shape of Water. I won’t deny that I was entertained my this movie, but I also feel a lot of the aforementioned ambivalence.

Maybe you won’t, though. Especially if you are interested in this film, and have little interest in the “wokeness” of the criticism—criticism I would argue is largely justified. JoJo Rabbit is part of an uncomfortable history of “feel-good” films about the Holocaust, which also somehow manage to dilute the truly grave realities of the Holocaust. And it’s a neat trick, allowing viewers to pat themselves on the back for empathizing with victims without ever truly considering the horrors they faced. with antisemitism (among other forms of bigotry) actually on the rise, is now the best time for a movie like this?

I honestly don’t know the answer to that question. I’m much more comfortable merely judging whether JoJo Rabbit works as a movie, and it does . . . kind of. As directed by tTaika Waititi (What We Do in the Shadows, Thor: Ragnarok), the tone is occasionally not quite well tuned. Curiously, the comic conceit of Hitler (played by Waititi himself) as the imaginary friend of 10-year-old JoJo is rarely as funny as intended. And yet, the more dramatic, human elements, this story of an indoctrinated boy’s mind being opened by the teenage Jewish girl being protected by his mother, generally work remarkably well.

And great performances go a long way. I’m tempted to say young Roman Griffin Davis as JoJo is worth seeing the movie all on his own. He’s not just almost unbearably adorable, but his performance is astonishing. His screen presence is the light that fuels everything that actually works in this movie. Scarlett Johansson is also wonderful as his politically subversive mother; Sam Rockwell is a bit of a hoot as a boozy soldier not especially passionate about Nazi ideals; even Rebel Wilson is fun Fraulein Rahm. Alfie Allen is a bit wasted as Sam Rockwell’s soldier sidekick, and young Archie Yates is a bit wooden as JoJo’s friend Yorki. This is Yates’s only credit on IMDb, though, and wooden or not, he’s still plenty adorable too. So, don’t tell him I said he was wooden. He’s got plenty of time to practice on other movies.

The thing is, a movie like JoJo Rabbit would retain far more power if released much sooner after World War II. One particular problem with it being released nearly eighty years later is how abstract that war now is to many viewers, and how this movie in many ways just turns it into a cartoon. I’m all for disarming with humor, but it’s hard to take power away from something so few people still have any active memory of to begin with. The end result is a film that doesn’t really take history seriously. JoJo Rabbit would have a lot more edge to it if it were set closer to now, replacing Adolph as JoJo’s imaginary friend with, say, Osama bin Laden. The point is, Waititi is totally playing it safe.

To be fair, and to give it some credit, JoJo Rabbit does go to some dark places. These moments are almost uniformly fleeting, however, lest the viewer be genuinely challenged in any way. And that’s what satire is supposed to be—it’s a type of challenge. This movie is not that at all. What it is, though, is fun. And adorable. And, more than anything, incredibly sweet. Its sweetness is truly irresistible, even when some of its oddball humor doesn’t quite land. Do we want to contemplate whether it should be sweet? Most critics seem to, while most audiences absolutely do not, and that’s their prerogative in either case.

Guess Who’s Not Really At Dinner

Overall: B

TERMINATOR: DARK FATE

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

And here we have yet another franchise, which once represented a leap forward in movie making, “wiping the slate clean” of later installments of the film series and just pretending they didn’t exist, relegating them to “alternate timelines.” This has already been done several times over the past decade, from Star Trek to Superman to Halloween. At this point, the practice is so common it practically qualifies as a bandwagon.

So now Terminator has jumped on it, with Terminator: Dark Fate presenting itself as a direct, 28-years-latere sequel to Terminator 2: Judgment Day. It ignores the events of Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines (which was . . . fine), released in 2003; Terminator Salvation (2009); and Terminator Genisys (2015), which was the first of these films I never bothered watching thanks to its diminishing returns. I would have skipped Terminator: Dark Fate as well, but for its hook: the direct sequel to what was by far the best and most successful film in the series, and the return of badass heroine Sarah Connor, as played by Linda Hamilton.

The future those original Terminator movies never envisioned, however, was one ruled by comic book movies. When not even Star Wars has the cultural caché it once had—ironically, thanks to flooding the market with five movies in five years, Marvel-style—what chance does a sixth Terminator movie have?

Not much, unsurprisingly: box office returns are already disappointing. This would mean more if the movie were actually great, but it’s not. It’s fine—honestly, about as good as the long-forgotten Rise of the Machines (remember all the chatter about Arnold Schwarzenegger reviving the role as a transparent means of re-entering the cultural consciousness in the early days of his bid for Governor of California?)—but it needs to be better than that to make any meaningful, lasting impact. The days of massive success for a movie like T2: Judgment Day are long gone.

It’s easy to compare Rise of the Machines from 2003 to Dark Fate, because Dark Fate essentially replaces it as an alternate “part 3.” The only edge Dark Fate has over it, though, is that Linda Hamilton returns, she’s even more of a badass than she was in Judgment Day, and now she’s 63 years old. Her presence, and Hamilton’s deadpan delivery as a no-nonsense maternal figure who also happens to be ruthless, makes Dark Fate far more fun than it ever would be otherwise.

And that’s the thing about it: Dark Fate is undeniably entertaining, if by turns also cheesy and fundamentally lacking in logic. I have two particular points of contention with the logic, the first of which is how Arnold Schwarzenegger’s presence is played out and explained. He plays yet another Terminator, somehow aged thirty years even though he’s a robot, whose motivations here run completely antithetical to the canonical rules of the universe of this franchise, and it makes no sense. He’s not even a “protector” Terminator here, so the idea that he would develop some sense of independence without outside intervention (as happens in Judgment Day) simply doesn’t hold up. I suppose you could argue that Skynet—who no longer exists in this installment, not even in the future—became self aware, so why not a Terminator? Except that all Terminators are Skynet, even those stuck in a past whose future has been changed so Skynet no longer exists. Now it’s “Legion.” Are you following this?

Anyway! That brings me to my second point of contention: the “protector” sent to keep the young heroine out of harm’s way this time around is Grace (Mackenzie Davis), an “augmented human.” Grace not being a robot herself—albeit with robotic elements grafted under her skin—may seem like a fresh take on the role, except practically speaking, it sure seems like a step backward from what once amounted to near-indestructible Terminator vs. near-indestructible Terminator. Maybe in this new alternative future Sarah Connor created, they never actually got around to making “protector” Terminators. We can rationalize anything if we try hard enough!

By the way, spoiler alert! John Connor is dead now. He is dispatched early on in the narrative of this film, a flashback to the late nineties, in a matter of minutes negating everything done in Judgment Day to stop it. I guess that’s one way to explain the continued absence of Edward Furlong. There is a new young person fated to be the leader of the future, Dani Ramos (Natalia Reyes), a young woman from Mexico City. Side note: one of the few uniquely compelling elements of Dark Fate is how downtrodden Latinos and illegal border crossings are woven into the plot. Another is that the future “savior” is now a woman, as opposed to some woman’s son.

It’s often said that movies are only as good as their villains, and on that point Dark Fate stands on questionable ground. Gabriel Luna presents as a similar villain to Judgment Day’s Robert Patrick, but nowhere near as sinister, with a much more wholesome look about him. Also, again this Terminator can appear as any human it touches, which means it appears as other characters so often, Luna’s cumulative screen time is not all that long.

There’s also the legacy of James Cameron movies representing huge leaps forward in special effects technology, of which Judgment Day was a prime example (followed by the likes of Titanic and Avatar). Not one subsequent Terminator sequel has come even close on this front. In fact, in sharp contrast to when Robert Patrick melted into mercury-like metal and wowed viewers, we watch Diego Luna morph into a slicked black substance reminiscent of oil and we think, I’ve seen better. In Cameron’s defense, he did not direct this one (Deadpool’s Tim Miller did), but he did return for the first time as producer, and also gets a story credit. Frankly, writing was never one of James Cameron’s strengths.

In spite of these many criticisms, though, it all comes back to Linda Hamilton. Without her, I would happily dismiss Terminator: Dark Fate outright. If you were a huge fan of the first couple of Terminator movies, Dark Fate will provide some closure and some satisfaction the other subsequent sequels couldn’t. It’s the fifth time Arnold Schwarzenegger has appeared in these movies (the one exception being Terminator Salvation), and his very presence feels shoehorned in just as an excuse to reunite him with Hamilton (who comes in second by appearing in three of them). It can’t be denied, though: it is fun to see them together onscreen again. Dark Fate is dark and preposterous and sometimes dumb and cheesy, but I won’t lie: it’s never not fun.

Uneasy allies bast away at a common enemy: logic in action movies.

Overall: B

THE LIGHTHOUSE

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

What. the fuck

?

Overall: B+

PARASITE

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

If you were to go into Parasite cold, with no prior knowledge of anything about it, it would likely be a delightful surprise—and one that slowly reveals itself as such. It takes a left turn about halfway through that suddenly makes everything much more interesting. And, ironically for me, most of the (probably few) people who read this review would still have that effect, if you happen to decide to see the film even after reading what I have to say about it.

Because the thing is, most of you haven’t spent weeks, even months, hearing about the many layers of success this film is enjoying: film festival awards, near-universal critical adoration, staggering per-screen box office earnings in limited U.S. release. So you could hear about it just this once, seeing this contextualization just once in this very review, and not be much affected by it, beyond thinking, Maybe I should see that. The key difference, and the slight problem from my end, is that I’ve been reading and hearing about it for so long that I have come to expect a level of greatness it could never live up to. The level of hype for this movie is rivaling that of last year’s Roma, which was more deserving of any argument that it was a “masterpiece.” And even that film had certain elements that did not live up to the hype, although its technical achievements were objectively jaw-dropping.

Parasite is a memorably well-made movie, but is really not on the same level. It’s worth seeing, but perhaps not worth evangelizing for. I went in expecting—or at least hoping for—something that would blow me away, and instead I spent half the movie thinking, This is … fine.

That said, Parasite is a slow burn, and in the end it more than justifies itself. Anyone even remotely familiar with the work of Bong Joon Ho (The Host, Snowpiercer) knows to expect that, at some point in the movie, the story will suddenly veer into bonkers territory. And although The Parasite is his most straightforward drama to date, less directly tied to specific genre than his other films, it is still no exception. What makes it stand out is that it has something to say, specifically about class divides.

It’s entirely possible there is a lot about Parasite I could not quite appreciate properly unless I had a working knowledge of South Korean culture and economics, both how they mirror similar issues in other countries around the world and how they are unique to Bong Joon Ho’s native country. I’m willing to accept the idea that I did, I might hold this movie higher up as an example of essential cinema. As it is, from my outsider perspective, it strikes me as just another movie exploring income inequality, with a slightly exotic sensibility.

With any knowledge of Bong Joon Ho’s previous work, you might understandably be tempted to take the title Parasite literally. Two of his previous films were about weird animals, after all (in addition to The Host in 2007, South Korea’s answer to Godzilla, there was the genetically engineered “superpig” of 2017’s Okja). This time, though, it’s entirely metaphorical: an unemployed and near-destitute family of four, with two young adult children, infiltrates a wealthy family by pretending to be qualified to work the jobs for which they get hired: an English language tutor; an art teacher; a cheaufur; a housekeeper. It’s the young son who gets in the door first as the tutor, and one by one, using a mix of expertly applied con artistry and carefully calibrated “personal recommendations,” they all get each other hired in other household positions.

The parts that I cannot tell here for fear of spoiling things are the things that make Parasite worth recommending. Well into the story, new characters are introduced in ways both surprising and understandable; complications arise that lead to both uniquely executed nuance and spurts of moderately graphic violence.

Overall, Parasite is presented with a level of controlled understatement that belies Bong Joon Ho’s usual directorial style. He’s usually much more over-the-top than this, but a strong case could be made that this is his best movie. It’s certainly very well shot and edited.

For me, though, it continues an impressive track record of consistency. This is my fourth review of a Bong Joon Ho film, and in all four cases I’ve given him a B+. This man’s movies are never for everyone, but for those they do speak to, they speak incredibly well. None quite reach the level of “masterwork,” however—frankly, he’s just too weird. Parasite is by some distance the least-weird of his movies, though, which thus makes it likely his most accessible. Plenty of people who can’t get onboard with his other films will have an easier time doing so with this one, and it will be worth the effort.

A poser gets in over his head.

Overall: B+

ZOMBIELAND: DOUBLE TAP

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

As sequels go, Zombieland: Double Tap is pretty old-school standard. It reassembles the cast of an original project, rehashes all the same basic plot points, and attempts to up the ante with the humor and/or action, then winds up falling short of its goals on both counts.

The only thing particularly unusual about it is the full decade—to the month—between the release of the original and that of this sequel. Sure, we live in an era when there is no expiration date on sequels, with some coming multiple decades later, but still, by and large, anyone seeking to cash in with a sequel tends to do so within two or three years if they can. And indeed they did try, when the original Zombieland gained a cult following in the years immediately after its release in 2009. Director Ruben Fleischer, along with original co-writers Rhett Reese and Paul Wernick reportedly had to go through several iterations and drafts before all of them, as well as all the stars, could agree on a story concept that was “just right.”

The thing is, I didn’t ever think the original was that great, so it’s not like there was a high bar there. It wasn’t terrible, either; it was fine—I gave it a B-, just as I’m giving this one. My guess is I’d give this one a lower grade it I revisited the original film, but I didn’t bother. I feel confident Double Tap is more enjoyable with the original being a more distant memory. Otherwise it would just feel like a broad rehash. Which it basically is. But, if you just take it for what it is, it’s still entertaining enough.

Still, you might wonder: why the hell did I even bother seeing this one, then? In my case, it’s mostly about the evolving nature of cinema. Ten years ago was many years before anyone even had a thought about monthly subscription services to a movie theater chain. “Apps” and smartphones were still just a few years old then. Now? I pay a monthly fee to see up to three movies at an AMC Theater per week—a threshold I almost never meet—and, so far at least, it’s cheap enough that each month it pays for itself after seeing all of two full-price movies. Beyond that, it’s basically like getting to go to the movies for free. In short, I saw this movie because I had nothing better to do on a Thursday evening, it effectively cost me nothing to do so, and there was nothing better playing. I was tired of zombie movies even by 2009, and I would never have paid a separate ticket price to see this.

I did write in my 2009 review of the original that “this movie will be easily forgotten in no time at all,” and evidently I was wrong about that. I’m inclined to say the same thing of Double Tap, and then double down on the prediction even though I was wrong the first time around. It’s doing okay at the box office for its first week, but gaining a cult following is a lot harder to achieve anymore, with so many quality choices of new entertainment everywhere you look. Who needs to obsessively re-watch anything anymore?

I never needed to re-watch Zombieland, and I’m unlikely ever to find occasion to re-watch Zombieland: Double Tap. For the moment, it’s fun to see the same four core characters—Woody Harrelson as Tallahassee; Jesse Eisenberg as Columbus; Emma Stone as Wichita; Abigail Breslin as Little Rock—in the same universe but aged ten years. Breslin’s change is of course the most dramatic, as she was all of 13 when the first film was released. She kick-starts the plot this time by running off with a hippie named Berkeley (Avan Jogia) who somehow survived all the zombies by being a pacifist and refusing ever to use a gun.

The rest of the gang sets off to find her, now joined by the best new addition this time around, the ditzy “Madison” played by Zoet Deutch. She’s discovered in an abandoned mall having survived by hiding in a refrigerator.

Speaking of which, how does all this electricity keep working, anyway? Simple! A throwaway line explains that continued rain has kept dams running and therefore keeping up hydroelectric power. Don’t such facilities still need people with functioning brains to keep them running? Whatever, it’s just a movie.

There is a sprinkling of fun cameos: Luke Wilson, Thomas Middleditch, Al Roker. Rosario Dawson fills a key supporting role. Bill Murray factors in again, because of course everything that people loved about the original must be revisited. In the end, that’s what makes Double Tap a prototypical sequel: returning to the same well, with diminishing returns. The Bill Murray bit this time around is more exciting than it was before, I’ll give it that. One could argue, however, that novelty has greater value, and you’ll find none of that here.

What you will find is a climactic battle sequence that is preposterous even by this movie’s low standards, but remains fun due to its consistency of spirit. It’s basically a monster truck rally for zombie lovers. And lovers of the original Zombieland will like this one just fine, though no one will say it’s better. It’s a comfortingly amusing hang with old friends who have nothing new to say.

Maybe in another ten years will get a third one that’s even more blandly entertaining!

Overall: B-

DOLEMITE IS MY NAME

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

Perhaps it’s just a quirk of Eddie Murphy’s career that he manages one role per decade that showcases real acting chops, which he never had much reason to tap when he was making money hand over fist with the countless comedies of his early career. But then came Boomerang (1999), a film I never liked particularly but which caught the attention of critics in a way Murphy never had; he followed that up with several years of dumb comedies which, again, made him lots of money. And then he came within striking distance of Oscar gold with his supporting part in Dreamgirls (2006).

Now comes Dolemite Is My Name, Eddie Murphy’s first starring role since technically 2016, but his first that anyone has paid any attention to since about 2012. It’s fair to say the 2010s has not been this man’s most fruitful decade, and certainly not his greatest in terms of quality. It would also be fair to call his part in Dolemite Is My Name a comeback role, as it’s easily his best film in nearly twenty years.

Unfortunately, that’s not exactly a high bar, and although it’s generated a fair amount of buzz, Dolemite Is My Name is not going to be part of any 2019 Oscar conversations. As directed by Craig Brewer (Hustle & Flow, Black Snake Moan), this film has moments where it kind of feels like he’s not paying attention to everything going onscreen. More than once I noticed supporting actors, who were barely more than extras, basically over-acting. How many times does a person need to shrug nervously?

The story of “Dolemite,” an alter ego created by a musician and comedian named Rudy Ray Moore (here played by Eddie Murphy), is a true one, however. And if that story tells us anything, it tells us the importance of a target audience—and in this case, the target audience is not especially Academy voters. I wouldn’t say it’s particularly critics, either, although by and large they are certainly on board with this movie. There is a scene rather late in the film that is very telling: in a limousine on the way to the premier of the Dolemite movie, the “blacksploitation” flick that was actually the first of many featuring Moore in the mid- to late-seventies, the actors read the movie’s terrible reviews to each other. They are briefly dejected, until they notice the massive crowd at the theatre, eagerly waiting to see the movie. In other words, no matter what the critics say, there’s an audience out there if you know how to find it.

That said, I’m not sure Dolemite Is My Name will find the same kind of passionate audience. A movie about a guy who made blacksploitation movies is a little different from actual blacksploitation movies, after all. There’s no doubt that people within the industry have real affection for “Dolemite,” given the actors involved: Keegan-Michael Key as the script writer; Wesley Snipes as the movie’s perpetually exasperated director (and giving a delivery, curiously, very similar to the one he gave in To Wong Foo, even though this time he plays a straight character). Smaller supporting roles are filled also by the likes of Snoop Dogg as a radio DJ; Craig Robinson as a fellow musician; Chris Rock as yet another DJ; and Tituss Burgess and Mike Epps as more of Rudy’s friends helping him make the movie. All of these actors have their fans, to be sure, but we now live in an era where box office depends far more on IP than on actors, and how many people actually remember Dolemite?

That has no bearing on how good this movie is, to be fair. I would call it “decent,” but as a gay white guy, I’m not sure I fit all that squarely into the target demographic. I hate pretty much any movie by Tyler Perry, after all, but that is a man who knows his audience and he makes shit tons of money. I will say this: Eddie Murphy’s performance is good enough to elevate the film single-handedly, and honestly, the acting is solid all around. Even Snoop Dogg, who is not exactly known as an “actor,” holds his own. Dolemite Is My Name is also very well shot, and has excellent production design, and especially, costume design. It’s set in the seventies and the outfits are almost worth the price of admission on their own.

I still have a couple specific quibbles. Rudy casts a very heavy woman, Lady Reeed (Da’Vine Joy Randolph), to stay in Dolemite, and the script of Dolemite Is My Name makes multiple references to her being supposedly “unsexy.” In one exchange, she literally says, “I may not be sexy, but…”—would it kill the people making this movie to have even one other character tell her she actually is sexy? Let alone have her come to the realization herself? Similarly, Tituss Burgess is revealed to be playing in openly gay character in only one scene, at a barbeque where he makes a crack that indicates his desire for men. Rudy says something along the lines of, “Come on, we’re eating,” and the script just leaves it at that. To the movie’s credit, it’s very clear all the other characters accept this man for who he is. Why include that line at all?

Beyond such nitpicks, though, Dolemite Is My Name tells the tale of a man so tenacious and ambitious he made his dreams come true on his own terms even when people were closing doors on him at every turn. I can’t decide whether this movie would work as well had it been a complete work of fiction, but knowing it’s based on a true story changes the context, as well as what it generally means to the viewer. And as a personality, in his truly unique way, Rudy Ray Moore was an inspiration. And this movie has that much going for it, at least.

Fuckin’ up mothafuckas is his game. He reminds us of this frequently.

Overall: B