Dune, Part Two: Getting the Sand Back Together

Timothée Chalamet and Zendaya in Dune: Part Two

We know by now about the Sand Walk—that syncopated stroll across the desert whose arrhythmia helps you avoid detection from those monstrous worms. The irony of Denis Villeneuve’s Dune was that, despite its nominal exoticism, it delivered exactly what you anticipated: eye-popping visuals, grandiloquent design, and sonorous performances, all in the service of a predictable story that vacillated between diverting and tedious. You could be forgiven for expecting its sequel to provide more of the same; Dune was a critical and commercial hit, after all, and Hollywood tends not to mess with success. Yet the intervening years spent wandering the sands seem to have inspired Villeneuve, resulting in a richer and more thought-provoking follow-up. The happy surprise of Dune: Part Two isn’t that it’s good. It’s that it’s interesting.

Some of this may be a natural consequence of the source material; Villeneuve and his co-writer, Jon Spaihts, continue their adaptation of Frank Herbert’s novel, which I’ve never read but which presumably grows in complexity as it progresses. Still, regardless of the underlying inspiration, Dune 2 (or 2une, if you prefer) operates with a level of nuance that its predecessor lacked. The characters in the first movie were largely ciphers, secondary to the colossal world-building that preoccupied Villeneuve’s attention. They now feel like fully rounded people: emotionally fraught, yes, but also persuasively motivated and—in a note that’s unusual for blockbuster cinema—morally grey. Read More

Drive-Away Dolls: Sapphic Jam

Margaret Qualley and Geraldine Viswanathan in Drive-Away Dolls

One of the most deliciously perverse surprises of the Coen Brothers’ Burn After Reading occurs more than an hour into the movie, when the ominous device George Clooney has spent so much time tinkering with is revealed to be an elaborate sex toy. Drive-Away Dolls, Ethan Coen’s first venture (ignoring his little-seen documentary on Jerry Lee Lewis) without his sibling Joel, exhibits rather less patience in bombarding viewers with adult paraphernalia; within its first 15 minutes, contraband is inserted into various orifices, while a divorcing couple fights over ownership of a rubber phallus that protrudes invitingly from their living room wall. Sure, this movie may have half the number of usual Coens, but it has way more dildos.

This isn’t to suggest that Drive-Away Dolls is immature or unsophisticated. Setting aside that sex jokes can be very funny when delivered well, Coen’s solo debut is deceptively ambitious, cramming plenty of plot, action, and ideas into its fleet 84 minutes. Yet it lacks the elegant deftness of that Burn After Reading scene, which embodied the brothers’ nimble fusion of polished technique and puerile humor. Read More

Lisa Frankenstein: Wit’s Alive!

Kathryn Newton in Lisa Frankenstein

Diablo Cody and the ’80s: match made in cinematic heaven, or ungainly fit? Despite a varied and underrated screenwriting career (Tully, Ricki and the Flash), Cody remains best known for her opening one-two punch of Juno and Jennifer’s Body, which instantly established her polarizing style: pithy wordplay, obvious themes, and referential characters who seem to know they’re living in a movie. The heightened quality of her writing would appear to make her a natural match for the era that brought us John Hughes and synth pop. What’s strange about Lisa Frankenstein is that it neither sends up classic ’80s teen flicks nor pays loving tribute to them. It seems to be set in 1989 for no other reason than to justify its kickass soundtrack.

Which is fine, as far as it goes. I’m skeptical that Lisa Frankenstein will earn the same cult following that Jennifer’s Body did—certainly it won’t send adolescent boys scurrying to the internet in search of “megan fox amanda seyfried kiss scene”—but it is at least a vibrant and playful production. The feature directorial debut of Zelda Williams (working from a script by Cody), it sports bright colors, cool music, and an array of outfits so dazzling, they’d make Cher from Clueless jealous. The movie is not without significant flaws—uneven dialogue, awkward staging, a general aimlessness—yet it offers the robust built-in defense of, “Sure, but did you see her hair?” Read More

The Zone of Interest: Heart of Gas

Sandra Hüller in The Zone of Interest

The music speaks the truth. Strip away The Zone of Interest’s first few minutes—a grim overture in which Mica Levi’s doomy, dissonant score aches and seethes against a black screen—and you might suspect that you’ve stumbled into a gentle movie of bucolic bliss. The first image we see is that of a happy-looking family lounging lazily in a meadow. As a stream gurgles nearby, the children traipse along a dirt path, the sun glinting down on their golden hair. Their parents seem entirely relaxed, suggesting a life of comfort and security. Perhaps they’re on vacation, or maybe just enjoying a weekend picnic. Even after they return to their home, a cozy cottage with a carefully tended garden and a small in-ground pool, it takes some time before you pick up on the curious nature of their surroundings: the razor wire atop the large wall in the background, the smoke billowing from distant chimneys, the muffled echoes of gunfire and screams.

Adapted by Jonathan Glazer from a novel by Martin Amis, The Zone of Interest is decidedly a movie about the Holocaust. But it is also not a Holocaust picture—at least, not in the way the subgenre has traditionally been understood. There are no ghastly scenes of extermination, no heroic feats of endurance and survival, no condemnatory speeches, no comeuppance or catharsis. There is simply the pervasive aroma of death, and the people willfully oblivious to its stench. Read More

American Fiction: By Book or by Crook

Jeffrey Wright in American Fiction

Writing is a task infected with misery and failure: an endless cycle of staring at a blank screen, deleting reams of gibberish, and questioning your life choices. (Am I speaking hypothetically? Reader, I am not.) So it was with a mixture of envy and disbelief that I watched Thelonious Ellison (Jeffrey Wright), better known for obvious reasons as Monk, sit at his desk and confidently compose an entire novel in what appeared to be a single night. What’s his next trick, building Rome?

Not that Monk is an especially successful artist. The flailing hero of American Fiction, Monk is a mythological scholar whose fearsome intellect has failed to translate into financial security or critical renown. (When he appears at a book panel, he scratches a missing vowel onto the placard that misspelled his name.) His latest text, a meticulous analysis of Aeschylus’ The Persians, hasn’t attracted the slightest nibble from publishers, given that it’s miles removed from the zeitgeist. “They want a Black book,” explains his agent, Arthur (John Ortiz). Monk’s frustrated response—“I’m Black, and it’s my book”—betrays not only his stubbornness, but his woeful ignorance of consumer demand. Read More