CHIP 'N DALE: RESCUE RANGERS

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

I went back and forth as to whether I would even review this movie, my reaction to it was so . . . lackluster. I daresay I was disappointed, but that’s not entirely the movie’s fault: I let people whose opinions I respect convince me to expect something far better than it was.

The common comparison is to Who Framed Roger Rabbit?, the groundbreaking film blending live action and animation in 1988, now a marvel also because of its unique blend of both Warner Brothers and Disney cartoon properties. Chip ‘n Dale: Rescue Rangers is also packed with cultural references, not all of them Disney—but I didn’t notice any Warner Brothers cartoons.

I even heard someone call this movie a new “classic,” and that was really what finally cinched my decision to fire up Disney+ and watch it. A “classic,” this movie is not. If you want to see what a classic really is, just watch Who Framed Roger Rabbit?, right there on that same streamer. It’s a far, far superior film. Not only that, but it’s a period piece and it holds up: that film could have been released today and it still would have impressed.

Plus, it’s packed with both verbal and visual gags that are far quicker and far smarter than the ones peppered in Chip ‘n Dale. To be fair, the original Chip ‘n Dale: Rescue Rangers TV show that ran on the Disney Channel from 1989 to 1990 was not something I ever saw, and nostalgic fans of the show will likely delight in this film and how it trades on that nostalgia. I can understand that much, and appreciate the conceit in this film, in which the characters are the chipmunk actors who played Chip ‘n Dale in the TV show over thirty years ago, and are now a bit washed up. Chip (John Mulaney) works as an insurance agent (“Coercive Insurance” being one of my favorite subtle gags). Dale (Andy Samberg) is attending fan conventions to sign autographs—something that provides ample opportunity for the presence of many other kids’ programming character cameos.

Their friend and former coworker Monterey Jack (Eric Bana) finds himself kidnapped by a shady organization that alters cartoon characters for the purpose of overseas bootlegging, itself a running gag that runs kind of stale, and thus the estranged Chip and Dale reteam in order to attempt a real-life rescue.

It should be noted that the Chip and Dale characters speak with regular voices, not the high-pitched, sped-up voices of their “characters.” This film is filled with meta jokes about “making it” in Hollywood (or not), as well as the seedy side, and has some surprisingly adult jokes that little kids won’t understand: “Now he can’t have kids.” There’s a fun sequence on “Main Street” in which we discover the seedy underbelly of Hollywood toons, who push things like cheese as though they are drugs (Monterey Jack has a problem).

My main criticism is that not all of the gags land, and sometimes there is too much time spent between the gags for things like exposition or character development. I’m sorry to keep coming back to Who Framed Roger Rabbit?, but that film expertly blended all of those things with its clever humor, and often Chip ‘n Dale goes for easy rather than clever humor. Admittedly, it did get me to laugh out loud a few times.

The overall sense I got from Rescue Rangers, however, was one of a “direct to streamer” movie—and I mean of the sort that was typical before the pandemic. We now can get true quality films direct from streamers, but what Chip ‘n Dale is, is . . . fine. I can’t muster enough enthusiasm to think of it as something to get excited about, and that’s what disappoints me. I had hoped that, at the very least, I could tell people you don’t have to be familiar with the original Disney Channel show for this movie to come highly recommended. Instead, I think perhaps you do need to have seen the show. I have no connection to it, so, in spite of this movie’s many pop culture references, it just didn’t land the way I wanted it to.

At the very least, I will compliment the voice work: John Mulaney and Andy Samberg are great; as are the vast supporting cast of characters, including J.K. Simmons as the police “Captain Putty”; Will Arnett as “Sweet Pete,” an overweight, grown-up Peter Pan; and even Flula Borg as “DJ Herzogenaurach.” We also get Dennis Haysbert as Zipper; Seth Rogen as several characters; and Tim Robinson as “Ugly Sonic,” playing on a notorious internet controversy that no one knows about, and I am unconvinced will be as hilarious as intended for those who do.

Basically, Chip ‘n Dale: Rescue Rangers is entertaining enough, for something to watch at home with the family. It just fell short of what I wanted or expected.

Did I mention that Dale got “CGI” surgery? Hilarious!

Overall: B-

THE INNOCENTS

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

When we first meet Ida, the little blonde girl at the center of the Norwegian horror film The Innocents, it’s tempting to think she’s vaguely reminiscent of one of the Children of the Corn. That would be an oversimplification, though; there are no mindless monsters here. This film is unsettling in how its young children discover their supernatural powers, don’t quite understand them, an feel guilt about the damage done during what amounts to subtle tantrums. Well, sometimes they feel guilt.

Ida is a fascinating character, though, in that at first she seems like she might be the villain. She has an older, autistic sister named Anna, who appears not to feel pain and so Ida will pinch her just to amuse herself. Then, in the large apartment complex development their parents have moved them into, Ida befriends a boy named Ben, who is just discovering a telekinetic ability. Another little girl, Aisha, finds she can read the other kids’ minds.

The discovery and exploration of all these abilities is relatively innocent—hence the title—as they all also discover their abilities are somehow stronger in the presence of Anna. But, Ben soon discovers other abilities, and well, let’s just say he doesn’t tend to use them for good. This is where The Innocents really diverges from other films even remotely similar: Ida, who seems a little creepy in her own right at first, gradually discovers that she is in over her head with her relationship with Ben. What they do to a neighborhood cat together should on its own merit a severe warning to animal lovers who might want to watch this movie.

Writer-director Eskil Vogt—who also co-wrote last year’s widely acclaimed The Worst Person in the World—really takes the concept of a “slow burn” seriously. There is a couple of jump-scares, but not in the way you might expect; and the first third of the film in particular really takes its time, with quiet, extended cuts. If you come to this film with open-minded patience, then it has its rewards. If you’re into the kinds of rewards they are, anyway.

What I like most about The Innocents is how the story remains within the worlds of the children. The adults in their lives are mostly oblivious, whether or not they’re subjected to a child’s mind-control. None of these kids’ parents have any idea what’s going on between the kids themselves, which is typically the case even in the real world. This is less a point Vogt is making than it is something he takes advantage of in his storytelling.

There are some special effects in The Innocents, but to say they are used sparingly is an understatement. Whether or not this is the result of budget limitations, it’s ultimately effective. Even when effects are used, they are always subtle and brief. The purpose of this film seems to be less spectacle than it is sustained tension, of which there is plenty. And in another sign of different rules than a typical Hollywood movie, both adults and children alike—in addition to animals—can be potential victims.

The Innocents is not excessively disturbed, but it is unafraid to go in disturbing directions. I’ve seen scarier films and I have seen more deeply unsettling films, and yet this one is unsettling in a way, somewhat vague, but unlike any other. It took quite a while for it to really hook me in, but its ability to sustain a consistent tone is something I can respect.

Choose your friends wisely, kids.

Overall: B

ON THE COUNT OF THREE

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

On the Count of Three may surprise you with how it handles multiple sensitive issues, from gun control, to mental health, to race. It surprised me, anyway. Opinions may vary, but on all fronts, from my point of view, the surprises were good.

Which is not to say this movie is fun, in spite of it being sold as a dark comedy. You deserve to be warned about this, especially as the movie comes recommended: it’s more of a tragedy, which happens to have a few chuckles. But, it’s a very good one.

I can’t help but compare it to Blindspotting (2018), which is both more accomplished and more assured in execution, a better example of a nuanced portrayal of a Black man and a white man who are best friends. (That film is also better shot, better edited, and funnier.) The great thing about On the Count of Three is that it offers a different example of such a relationship. We’re actually moving into an era of cinema where we have more than one example of how specific kinds of representation matter, with varying levels of quality.

Mind you, On the Count of Three competently holds its own, itself an impressive directorial debut by standup comedian and actor Jerrod Carmichael, who also plays one of the two leads, Val. And in this movie, instead of two guys struggling to elevate themselves from the mistakes in their lives, these best friends spend a day under the agreement that, at the end of it, they will end their lives.

The other best friend is Kevin (Christopher Abbott), the one with the lifelong struggle with mental health issues, who we meet in a psychiatric facility three days after a suicide attempt. As is becoming a trope, the opening shot is of a scene we will return to again later, with Val and Kevin holding their guns to each other’s heads, counting to three, and before it reaches three we’re taken back to the beginning of the day. I’m not spoiling much to say that we get back to this countdown moment surprisingly quickly, when Kevin decides he’s not ready just yet: he wants to live out one last day, with the knowledge that there will ultimately be no consequences. It’s the rest of their day together that makes up the bulk of, and is the point of, this movie.

There’s a moment when Kevin decides they are going to kill a man, the therapist who further damaged him as a child. (This character is played by Henry Winkler, always a welcome screen presence, even though he wears a wig in a couple of flashback scenes that fails miserably at the clear aim of making him look younger. This choice is the only clearly bad one made in the making of this movie.) Kevin’s plan creates a new sense of tension that Carmichael handles deftly, as it sets up a clear question: will this movie take these characters past a tragic point of no return?

That is the key element that I will not spoil, except to say that, quite satisfyingly, things don’t go in a direction you’re quite able to predict. I will say it’s refreshing to see mental health, and in particular suicidal ideation, handled with empathy and without condescension. When Val decides he also wants to die, it’s clear from the start that it does not come from the same, deeply seeded well of mental illness as Kevin.

In the midst of this, I found myself wondering whether this movie, co-written by Ari Katcher and Ryan Welch (oddly, two former Alaskans who previously co-created the Hulu series Rami, with Rami Youssef), would even address race. It gets about halfway through before it does, and only after Kevin starts drinking and starts spewing odd platitudes clearly borne of white guilt. I can only assume (and hope) Carmichael had a lot to contribute, particularly when it comes to things like Val’s penchant for calling Kevin the N-word, a bit of subtle irony.

In any case, the focus stays on the close relationship between these friends. Even the depiction of intimacy between two straight men is of an unusual sort here—not unusual for real life, but usual for cinema. There’s a casual comfort between them, both physically and emotionally, that feels genuine in a way rarely seen. As a side note, Carmichael recently made headlines by coming out as gay in his brilliant standup special Rothaniel, which can be streamed on HBO Max. This shouldn’t be relevant but it is, after years of Hollywood patting straight actors on the back for “sensitively” playing gay parts but not giving gay actors any of the parts at all. Then, gay actors starting getting the gay parts . . . but here, we have a gay actor playing a straight lead character, and no one is calling it “not believable.” (Incidentally, this film was shot in late 2019, more than two years before the release of Rothaniel.)

The plot of On the Count of Three feels patterned on a formula, but one that works: there’s some action and excitement in the third act, even including a car chase. Carmichael unfolds this otherwise unique story within those parameters with a finesse that’s all his own. I won’t reveal the fate of these characters, except to say the conclusion is both surprising and satisfying. This film’s approach to mental illness, in the writing, the direction, and especially Christopher Abbott’s performance, is done with an integrity you can’t help but respect.

“2 Guns” for the depressed set.

Overall: B+

THE BAD GUYS

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

The Bad Guys may be the most “kids’ movie” movie I’ve watched and still managed to enjoy with adult eyes. It’s about as silly as it gets, but still fits in a few clever gags that fly over kids’ heads and right into the comic sensibilities of grownups. It’s clever enough, I was very much entertained, and the animation is fairly impressive, particularly its detailed urban backgrounds that seem to render Los Angeles as though it had more of a New York City density.

I say all this even though I’m still the dipshit sitting there confused by the inconsistent rules of the movie’s universe. Mind you, this movie is aimed squarely at children, and they don’t care about this stuff, like: how do characters that are a piranha and a shark (voiced by Anthony Ramos and Craig Robinson, respectively) able to survive without water? They exist as two-legged land animals! I guess I shouldn’t be stuck on this; there’s also a humanoid shark in The Suicide Squad and I didn’t have any hang-ups about that; in fact I was delighted by that demented movie.

I suppose a key difference is that The Bad Guys is the farthest thing from demented—although there are subtle moments of dark humor, particularly when it comes to Snake, who is easily distracted by all the guinea pigs he wants to eat.

That said, I still couldn’t help but to be distracted by the fact that, in the world of this movie, only the principal characters are animal characters, and everyone else in this world seems to be human. There is the quasi-butch Chief of Police, Misty Luggins (Alex Borstein), who is human, but otherwise the five “Bad Guys” are a wolf, a snake, a spider, a shark and a piranha; then there’s Governor Diane Foxington (Zazie Beets), a fox; and Professor Marmalade (Richard Ayoade), a guinea pig.

No other intelligent being in this universe is a talking animal, though. There’s even a massive army of guinea pigs at one point, and all of them are like regular animals. How do they become like that, but Professor Marmalade becomes an intelligent being with a British accent? There’s also a kitten who gets stuck in a tree and all it does is meow. What’s with all these inconsistencies? I want answers!

To be fair, the same sort of thing happens in old fairy tales. Little Red Riding Hood happens upon a talking wolf, after all. And a big plot point in The Bad Guys is that all of these animals are species that people are automatically afraid of, without even giving them the chance at being perceived as “good.” As a band of thieves and bank robbers, they are just meeting the fate society has created for them. But then Wolf gets an unexpected bit of appreciation when he saves an old lady from falling down the stairs, and gets a taste of what if feels like to be appreciated for goodness, and thus the plot is set into motion.

As already indicated, I’m the only one obsessing on the inconsistent rules of this universe. It still would have made a lot more sense if every character in this world were an animal (as in Zootopia, a similarly themed but better movie), but whatever. I’ll get over it! The voice talents alone go a long way, with Sam Rockwell as Wolf; Awkwafina as Tarantula; and Marc Maron as Snake, taking an unusual turn for his career, and one that’s a great fit.

The Bad Guys is almost pointedly over-the-top ridiculous, something that can really work against a film regardless of its target audience. But here, it somehow works, and I found myself charmed by it. They can’t all be classics, but they can be at least as entertaining as this. If nothing else, it seems obvious that kids love it, which is all a movie like this needs. It’s a bonus that I also enjoyed it.

You can’t help but love them all, in spite of an unnecessarily extensive running gag about piranha farts.

Overall: B

DOWNTON ABBEY: A NEW ERA

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

Slipping back into the world of Downton Abbey is the cinematic equivalent of slipping into a cozy, warm blanket—specifically an old, beloved one you’ve had for years. It’s a bit worn and tired, a lot of threads are coming loose, but the familiarity alone brings a heartening comfort.

This feeling is arguably even more pronounced with Downton Abbey: A New Era than it was with the release of the 2019 original Downton Abbey film, which itself came along three years after the six-season television series aired its last season on PBS. Now, it’s been three years we last saw all these beloved characters on the big screen, and six since we saw them on the small screen. (Granted, the lines between “big screen” and “small screen” are increasingly blurred, both with shorter windows of release between the two, and literal sizes of home TV sets. But, this cast of characters fits comfortably in all combinations.)

Beyond that, I can’t say there’s anything particularly special, or particularly disappointing, about A New Era. It’s made for the fans, and it brings them just what they want. I enjoyed the film precisely as much as I was hoping to. The key difference between the two films, I think, is that the first came a year prior to the start of a pandemic that severely hastened a lot of inevitable changes in the film industry. As such, the 2019 film felt a lot more like an essential moviegoing event, at least for Downton fans, than this one could ever hope to. The official release date is today, but I went to an earliest screening possible, at 7:00 last night, and was one of maybe ten people in the theater. Had the pandemic never happened, this absolutely would not be the case. But, as it is, presumably there are plenty of people very much looking forward to watching this film, but also fine with waiting all of 45 days to see it at home on Peacock 4th of July weekend.

I might have been too, really. I just love going to the movies, and am one of those nerds who despair at the erosion of moviegoing as a tenet of American culture. Marvel blockbusters are singlehandedly saving the theater industry, largely with extraordinarily expensive testaments to mediocrity, but I must begrudgingly appreciate them, at least for now while they keep multiplexes open, and allow for movies like this to play on other screens while the blockbusters make all the money. Still having the monthly membership available through AMC (which other chains now offer too) does make it easier, so I can see Downton Abbey in the theater and not feel like it’s more expensive than it’s worth.

Because this movie is . . . let’s face it: fine. For true fans of the series, it’s good. Not great, but good—something that could be said of every iteration of this property from the start, really. It’s just another <i>Upstairs Downstairs</i>  concept effectively designed for addictive watching, a sanitized view of extreme wealth in period costumes (in this case as they shift into the 1930s), conveniently gleaning over the true horrors and oppressions of class and British colonialism while basically ignoring race altogether. (There’s a scene in this film in which a Black woman singer is highlighted at a party. You can practically hear writer Julian Fellowes desperately saying, “Look, I included a Black person!”)

As for the plot, just like the previous film, it feels very much like just another extended episode of the series—albeit one in which some key plot turns occur. I won’t lie, this movie did make me cry a little, but I’m just going to blame that on the relatively recent death of my mother making me soft, or at least softer than I was before. A New Era begins with a wedding (between Tom Branson and Lucy Smith, a woman introduced in the first film who I did not remember), and ends with a death—I won’t spoil whose, except to say that it hardly qualifies as tragic. There are sad turns, but nothing truly horrible happens in Downton Abbey, particularly in the film iterations, which exist solely to trade on fan nostalgia. This is a key difference between the films and the series, which was much more of a soap opera, whereas these films might make you wistful at the very worst.

Ultimately, Downton Abbey is pure fantasy. This is something Fellowes, as directed by Simon Curtis, kicks up a notch in A New Era, what with Lady Grantham (Maggie Smith, even at age 87 arguably the biggest star of this huge-ensemble film) suddenly inheriting a villa in the South of France, from a man with whom she had a weekend fling in her youth. Half the cast goes to this villa for a visit, meeting the bitter widow (Nathalie Baye) and her shockingly agreeable son (Jonathan Zaccaï) who invited them all. In an extraordinary coincidence of timing, at the same time a film crew has asked for permission to shoot a movie (starring actors played by Laura Haddock and Dominic West; West gets involved in a subtle almost-romantic subplot with Robert James-Collier’s Barrow, who is now running the downstairs staff after the butler Carson’s retirement).

There are many subplots, of course, and they all get tied up tidily by the end, as is the formula for Downton, and precisely what all of its fans come for. This movie exists just to keep us all satiated for just a little bit longer, but with that at its mandate, it succeeds on all fronts.

What’s old is still the same, ironically.

Overall: B

DOCTOR STRANGE IN THE MULTIIVERSE OF MADNESS

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

There are people genuinely convinced that Doctor Strange in the Multiverse of Madness is a truly great film, and that makes me despair of humanity. Not because this movie is particularly bad, but because audiences are so conditioned by the “Marvel Cinematic Universe” that they can no longer distinguish between that which is quality cinema, and that which is average.

The thing is, this movie isn’t even all that great by MCU standards. I largely gave up on superhero movies over a decade ago, actively avoiding then for several years—because they were nearly all just like this one: rushing through expositional interludes between overly busy action sequences drenched in CGI that looked dated within a year, all in the service of the same story beats as the last film just like it, over and over again. But, over the past five or ten years, Marvel found better directors and better writers, and slowly but surely began to offer movies more worthy of regaining attention. This movie feels like a throwback to that earlier time.

The greatest disappointment about that is the fact that it was directed by the legendary Sam Raimi, of Army of Darkness (1992) fame, who directed the original Tobey MaGuire Spider-Man in 2002, and who has not directed a feature film in nine years (there’s nothing better to say about the equally mediocre Oz the Great and Powerful). It’s true that Multiverse of Madness gets better in its second half, and eventually it even gets genuinely weird, with quasi-horror elements that are only novel by MCU standards, but are still presented with recognizable Raimi flair. Alas, it doesn’t get sufficiently weird until at least three quarters of the way through, at which point it’s really too little, too late.

Multiverse of Madness comes up short by every measure. Even compared to other MCU movies, it’s not nearly as much quirky fun as Thor: Ragnarok (2017); it certainly has nothing of anywhere near as much substance to say as Black Panther (2018); it’s not even as interesting as the original Doctor Strange (2016). What it does do is rehash every concept imaginable, most of all the idea of a “multiverse,” something introduced brilliantly in the animated Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018, arguably the best year for Marvel) but which has already been revisited in Spider-Man: No Way Home (2021), a live action film that was better than anyone could have expected. But, here we are again, with fully expected diminishing returns.

And this Doctor Strange sequel is not helped at all by its very direct narrative ties to the Disney+ series WandaVision. I won’t say anyone who hasn’t seen the show will be lost in the plot here, but they’d certainly understand it a lot more having seen it. And what good does that do the movie itself? This is the twenty-eighth movie in the Marvel Cinematic Universe, all presented by a studio that increasingly expects its audiences not only to have seen but have remembered them all, plus increasing numbers of TV series. There comes a point when it’s just all too much, and that point arguably came and went a decade ago.

Elizabeth Olsen does a fairly impressive job as the villain, the Scarlet Witch, but it’s not as easy to recognize without having seen WandaVisison, which was itself, frankly, a bit overrated. Such is the case with a great majority of MCU films, with occasionally notable exceptions. Benedict Cumberbatch as the title character is . . . fine. The same could be said of the entire cast, none of who are given any room to breathe their performances in the overstuffed plot. This movie is 126 minutes long, almost “short” compared to many MCU movies, and too much is happening too quickly, whether it’s CGI spectacle action sequences or the rare quiet conversations between characters.

It just feels like a wildly missed opportunity, like a movie dictated by committee (it having only one writer notwithstanding; it should also be noted that this is Michael Waldron’s first feature film script), beholden to a multitude of strictures as part of the broader cinematic universe. That very much limits a filmmaker’s ability to put their own stamp on it—Chloé Zhao’s Eternals (2021) suffered from the same problem. If the studio could have loosened their evident grip, the uniquely dark and macabre Sam Raimi style could have permeated more than just the final quarter of the movie. With that alone, Doctor Strange in the Multiverse of Madness would have been much improved.

To be fair, this particular movie was never going to be a masterpiece, no matter who wrote or directed it. It still had massively unrealized potential, and instead stuck with well-worn storytelling tropes that renders it the same shit in a different movie. I’d probably have enjoyed this exact same movie more had it been released seven or eight years ago, but time is not always kind to a decades-old franchise (consider what a challenge it has been for ages for anyone to make a truly great James Bond movie). Now, we’ve spent far too much time, year after year, with rushed storytelling wrapped in subpar special effects. Too few of these movies get any finessing, and are instead churned out as from an assembly line, all using a well worn template. Even well worn templates are tolerable if they can be given a novel enough spin, but Doctor Strange in the Multiverse of Madness is convinced it’s taking a huge swing without realizing it’s stepping up to bat when the game is already nearly over.

I’d tell you more about the plot but it was so forgettable I forgot it.

Overall: C+

THE NORTHMAN

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

Don’t let all the assertions that The Northman is by far Robert Eggers’s “most mainstream” film fool you—when measuring mainstream appeal of his work, the bar is frankly low. His last film, after all, The Lighthouse (2019), was so impenetrably weird that it’s the only movie I ever gave just a three-word review. I still stand by that review, by the way.

Rest assured, though, The Northman is uniquely bonkers. A transporting musical score largely using traditional instruments of the period is the tip of the iceberg . . . in Iceland, incidentally. This is fundamentally a tale of revenge, something the trailer made overtly clear, which is a tale as old as time. What Eggers does is tell it in a way you truly have never seen before, and well, let’s say, results may vary.

Even before the pandemic hastened inevitable changes in the U.S. cinema landscape, there’s no way this movie would be a huge hit. It’s just too weird, steeped as it is in historical viking details and traditions far more focused on historical accuracy than on anything even remotely close to viking cliches. It also detours into occasional, magical flourishes, making it a sort of fantasy epic for the viking set. Eggers managed to get Bjork to return to film for the first time in 17 years, appearing as an eyeless witch in just one scene. She offers a prophesy to Amleth (Alexander Skarsgård), who has returned to his homeland hell bent on avenging the death of his king father.

I have to admit, I spent much of The Northman unable to decide what to make of it, but once it ended, and I could consider the film in its entirety, I pretty quickly decided I really liked it. The landscapes of the North Atlantic are beautifully shot, and this story based on the 13th-century Scandinavian story Amleth, which is said to have later inspired Shakespeare’s Hamlet, predicts the ways in which simplistic quests for revenge are never actually simple. This is not just a “revenge flick,” but rather a text dense with lessons and textures. Some of them I found difficult to make out, but, whatever. Just surrender to it.

I’m not usually into something so drenched in testosterone. The Northman features a climactic battle sequence with two nude men navigating streams of volcanic lava. I mean, clearly the place is hot, they want to shed any extra layers. Still, one minute they’ve got clothes on, and suddenly they’re both buck naked. There’s nothing even remotely erotic about this scene, much as I had looked forward to it. Eggers’s point, clearly, is the deeply primal nature of what’s going on, and he conveys it incredibly well with his visual style. Most of this movie is, indeed, visual poetry, and this climactic battle is its zenith.

The primal tone exists from the beginning, however, when we meet Amleth as a teenage boy, his king father (Ethan Hawke) teaching him via memorably visceral rituals to commune with his inner beast. Amleth’s mother is played by Nicole Kidman in what may be secretly the best performance in the movie, even though she gets only one scene in which her acting talents are overtly showcased. But she is seen many other times, often in background or as a side presence, but paying close attention has its rewards. She gives a look in her very first scene that offers a glimpse of a twist to come many years later in the story.

As for Skarsgård, his clear talents tend to be more easily identified with the right directors who know how to draw them out of him. It could be argued he has never been more committed to a role. After being raised by a deeply animalistic group of pillagers (one impressive attack sequence features indiscriminate killing), Amleth disguises himself amongst a group of slaves that are being offered for sale to the murderous uncle who has now married his mother and had another child with her. Along the way, he forges a connection with a blonde slave woman (a suitably ethereal Anya Taylor-Joy), who is compelling enough on her own but ultimately just serves as a plot point and, in the end, a point of motivation for Amleth.

Along the way, The Northman goes some very strange places, and to some gruesome places, and some places that are both at once. A lot happens in this movie that is impossible to understand unless you are deeply versed in Scandinavian legend, history and mythology. And still, there’s something about this movie that I can’t shake—something that makes it feel greater than the sum of its parts. This film was absolutely worth seeing on the big screen, and even after being regularly baffled by it, I find myself thinking I might want to return to it for another look. I have a soft spot for such movies, which may not reach perfection yet somehow command reconsideration over time.

Careful where you’re swinging that rod!

Overall: B+

SIFF Advance: NEPTUNE FROST

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

Neptune Frost is an Afro-futurist musical directed by New York-based slam poet Saul William and his wife Anisia Uzeyman, and it is dense with African musical roots, metaphor, and meaning—in a way that it’s practically impossible for me not to describe it in an embarrassingly “whitey-white” way. I mean, just moments ago I mentioned to a friend that calling this movie a “musical” is kind of a technicality, at least in terms of traditional American perceptions of musicals: “It’s all African drum stuff,” I said. Is that “whitey-white” enough for you? I think it qualifies. Also, of course, it’s a lot more nuanced than that. It fuses traditional African drum beats with an infectious kind of industrial electronica, in a way that made me wish its soundtrack were a lot more accessible than it seems to be.

I will freely admit that I found Neptune Frost largely difficult to follow, much of it like an extended, abstract music video. I’ve never done this before, but I think we can all live with it: I’m just going to let Deadline do the synopsis work for me:

The film takes place amid the hilltops of Burundi, where a collective of computer hackers emerges from a mining community, the result of a romance between a miner and an intersex runaway.

There’s even a lot more than that going on, with narrative threads connected to everything from colonialism to worldwide internet connectivity. This is a particularly unusual movie with one of its primary characters being intersex—a biological condition that, depending on the person, may not even qualify as on the “queerness” spectrum, with no representation among the letters GLBT, although it clearly fits into the sex and gender conversation.

This character’s name is Neptune (hence the title; Frost is a bird—what the bird signifies, I was unable to discern), and Neptune encounters many other characters with poetic names: “Memory,” “Innocent,” “Psychology,” even “Matalusa” which eventually gets spelled out as Martyr Loser. Neptune encounters each of these other people in turn on a kind of dreamscape version of Homer’s The Odyssey. Except eventually Neptune finds the aforementioned hacker collective, and Neptune’s arrival becomes the power source for the collective’s many computer parts and motherboards. I took it to be a metaphor for powering community, but I have no idea how close to the mark I am there.

Because, indeed, most of Neptune Frost is abstract, in a way that leaves the viewer little choice but to surrender to its well-rendered, complex and mysterious quasi-technological universe. There is one line of dialogue so refreshingly concrete that I had to write it down: after asking if gender is “so crucial” in someone’s desire for intimacy (for many people, indeed it is), this follow-up question is asked: “Are you justified in attacking strangers who do not fulfill your unwarranted desires?” A great question that needs to be asked of many, but also, not the primary point of Netptune Frost—but a crucial component of it.

These lines of dialogue are after a sequence in which the ironically named “Innocent” attempts to seduce Neptune, but is shaken by unexpected anatomy. This but one of many threads in a vast tapestry of beats and vocalizations, and occasional, subtle but seamlessly integrated digital effects. Neptune Frost is a visual accomplishment that belies its clearly limited budget. I may not have been able to understand its many narrative threads to their fullest, but the talents of its makers are indisputable, and I would still recommend it on the strength of its visuals and sounds alone.

Just the abstract Afro-futurist musical you were looking for.

Overall: B+

SIFF Advance: SEDIMENTOS

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

There’s a moment in the Spanish documentary Sedimentos, the scene that gives the film its name, in which the six trans women who are the subjects of the film visit a geological formation, sort of cross section of land revealing the difference of colors between layers of sediments. It becomes immediately clear that this is a metaphor, for the endless depths of these six women, with a wildly varied range of perspectives, attitudes and experiences. It does appear that all of them are white, and an intricately intimate portrait like this would be even richer with other racial backgrounds included, but that aside, this group, even among only six, is unusually diverse.

It’s almost astonishing that this is even a documentary, the editing is so spectacular, creating a narrative that makes it very easy to mistake this for a narrative feature. Even the cinematography is quite good, which is unusual for documentaries, particularly of the sort in which the director and crew just sit back and disappear into the backgrounds of these ladies’ environments, giving us as an audience a unique sense of being a fly on the wall.

Indeed, I do think it’s useful to know beforehand a little bit about how Sediments was made. I found myself wondering, is the director trans, or even a woman? Nope: he’s Adrián Silvestre, a Barcelona-based director who connected with Spanish trans organization I-Vaginarium, which provides information and resources for trans women considering vaginoplasty. His intent was to create a documentary film portrait of trans women that stands apart from the longstanding cliches of trans representation in other films.

And boy, does he do it here, with stunningly intimate results, finding six women who were comfortable with cameras being present, and possibly recording, during any and all moments of a group trip to the rural town in the Spanish province of León. Starting with workshops before filming began, to get them comfortable with the filming process, ultimately they become so completely comfortable with the presence of the single camera Sylvestre is using, you would never know they were even conscious of it while watching the film. This is precisely why it’s useful for us as audiences to know how the production came together.

So, with this objective separation, the camera never judging or commenting, we are subject to six unique individuals who are solely themselves, who have moments of both joy and tension, and yield moments of deep intimacy both emotional and physical (not in terms of sexual activity, but certainly some frank nudity). These women are unafraid to express themselves and to confront each other when they feel it necessary, but they also don’t hold any grudges. Getting to know each other like this is bound to be messy, particularly with the range of backgrounds, experiences, and crucially, stage of transitioning.

One woman, Cristina, is in her fifties only only recently began her transition process; she’s the only one consistently wearing an obvious wig. Yolanda, on the other hand, never reveals her age but can’t be far from Cristina, yet she’s a seasoned veteran of the trans experience, having paid her dues in youth in a way the two twentysomething young women present can’t quite directly relate to. She even has a gravelly voice and a tracheostomy in her neck from an earlier cancer surgery. There is particularly protracted tension between Cristina and Yolanda, as Yolanda tires of Cristina’s oversharing in a way that that attempts to separate herself from the others; Yolanda calls her an egomaniac and Cristina dwells on this for a long time, asking the opinion about it in turn from all the other women. Another woman often sits back quietly, drawing portraits of the others. Ultimately, though, Yolanda helps Cristina make her bad wigs . . . a little better.

Sediments has a quality to it that is reminiscent of Robert Altman films, with its focus not just on dialogue but on overlapping conversations. Except in this case, they are real, neutrally observed and recorded. Whether this is compelling is a matter of taste, I suppose, but in my view the context alone makes it deeply so. It’s not so much just recordings of ordinary conversations, as the editing creates a rich narrative of six women from as many walks of life, bonding with each other.

We’ve had the privilege in recent years of seeing films and television shows that revolve around the lives of trans characters. But, this may be the first time I can recall where all of the characters are trans, and even though they still clearly move through a world of cisgender people—we meet the parents of one of them—they are all comparatively incidental, none of them quite even making it to “supporting character” status. This about these six trans women and these women only. The closest we come even to meeting a boyfriend is a blush-inducing moment in which one of the elder women asks a cute waiter at a restaurant if he’s single and attempting to get him to connect with the clearly embarrassed younger woman at the end of the table. These woman talk about the other people in their lives, and experiences from their pasts, but with the brief exception of the aforementioned pair of parents, we never see them.

For one weekend, Sylvestre’s camera follow just these six women around, and the results are moving and profound. It’s difficult to imagine a film like this getting done with such great success in the U.S., at least not one directed by a cisgender man. Maybe in a few years, but it doesn’t feel like even progressive Americans are quite ready for the kind of frank intimacy on display here. Yet, anyone who sees this film will be enriched by it.

An intimiate weekend well worth spending.

Overall: A

SIFF Advance: NOTHING COMPARES

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

Nothing Compares begins with, and returns to again near its end, a quite notable event in Sinéad O’connor’s career that no one has really talked about since: her October 1992 appearance at the Bob Dylan 30th Anniversary Tribute concert at Madison Square Garden. She is shown coming out onstage, greeted with a stunningly equal mix of cheers and boos—because of what remains, unfortunately, the most widely known moment of her career: Two weeks before, after performing on Saturday Night Live, she tore up a picture of the Pope.

It’s been another thirty years sine that incident, and in that time, particularly in the past twenty years, the Catholic Church’s international image has been greatly tarnished and they have had much to atone for, particularly after a major 2002 Boston Globe investigation of child abuse in the Catholic Archdiocese of Boston, and an Oscar-winning 2015 film based on it (Spotlight). The massive controversy surrounding the incident notwithstanding, an incident which truly derailed O’connor’s career, it could easily be argued that these hard truths about the Catholic Church finally coming to light are thanks to the bravery of people like her.

And, as always, the people booing her at that Bob Dylan tribute concert are completely lost on the irony of their actions. Says one of the many voiceover interview subjects in the film: “People that would boo Sinead O'connor, what were they doing at a Bob Dylan concert?” This was a time, though, in which even people who thought of themselves as militant progressives still regarded religious leaders as off limits, deluding themselves into believing that they are by definition incapable of villainous behavior.

Sinéad O’connor clearly knew different. She has insisted all along that she has no regrets, and she rightfully deserves respect for that. But I still feel sad for the state of her career after 1992. Millions of people have no idea how musically prolific she remained after those first three studio albums, released between 1987 and 1992—a five-year period on which this film focuses almost exclusively. She has released another five studio albums of original material in the intervening time, with a six set to be released this year. And while I have not followed her personal life much at all, I have been keeping up with every one of these musical releases, many of which are actually quite good, not that so many who dismissed her thirty years ago would know.

I rather wish director Kathryn Ferguson would have given some focus to O’connor’s post-1992 life and career, as much of it deserves attention. She even released a 2005 reggae album called Throw Down Your Arms that is almost shockingly good, and not quite the left-field career non sequitur it seems. She had long felt an affinity for Rastafarian struggles from the start of her career, and here’s another detail no one mentions when they talk about that ripped-up Pope picture: it was done at the end of a cover performance of Bob Marley’s “War,” a song consisting almost entirely of a 1963 speech to the UN General Assembly by Ethiopian Emperor Haile Salassie, a screen on global racism. with which O’Connor drew parallels to child sex abuse within the Catholic Church.

When Nothing Compares returns to the Bob Dylan tribute concert, we learn—or are reminded—that, in the face of the ironically unruly crowd, O’connor scrapped the originally planned performance and then defiantly sang “War,” yet again. There are, of course, all kinds of arguments that could be made about the effectiveness of Sinéad O’connor’s tactics in their time, but it is impossible to watch the recording of this performance and not think of her as an extraordinary woman.

And that is what Nothing Compares does expertly, even within the limitations of focusing on only five years of O’connor’s career. It’s a little like the movie barely acknowledges the decades of output that it complains the industry and her fans ignored, but, there’s also no denying that this is the era that holds the most interest. Ferguson makes the interesting choice of never showing footage of her interview subjects; all of them, including sound bites of present-day O’connor herself, are used as voiceover with old photos and archive footage. Another unfortunate detail: because Prince was the writer who holds the copyright to O’connor’s one international #1 hit, “Nothing Compares 2 U,” and his estate refused to grant licensing, the song is never heard in this film. I kind of feel like this is fine, because it allows for some focus on her many other, just as worthy tracks.

And finally, at the very end—spoiler alert, I guess?—we finally see a relatively current Sinéad O’connor, onstage performing the closing track from her 1994 album Universal Mother (which did enjoy a bit of underground success), “Thank You For Hearing Me.” Keeping O’connor as she exists today offscreen until this moment does have a certain effectiveness. This is a woman with a well-known history of controversy and mental health issues, and it’s nice to see the moments where she is self-possessed and self-assured. These moments have long lived on performance stages, which Nothing Compares skillfully illustrates was a space safely removed from early interviews in which journalists treated her with a jaw dropping amount of condescension.

Through it all, though, Sinéad O’connor stayed true to herself in her art, and you can argue whether she was pretentious, but she never comes across as insincere or lacking integrity. That alone makes Nothing Compares worth a watch, whether you were already a fan of hers or not.

An exceptional portrait.

Overall: A-