John Wick: Chapter 4: Sit Back, Relax, and Destroy

Keanu Reeves in John Wick: Chapter 4

During one of the many, many fight scenes in John Wick: Chapter 4, an antagonist named Caine issues a call for expediency: “Let’s get this shit over with.” I hesitate to quibble with Caine, not least because he’s a deadly assassin played with balletic grace by Donnie Yen, but his directive here isn’t just grouchy; it violates the very spirit of the franchise. The John Wick pictures are creatures of excess and extravagance. Their hero may be a ruthlessly efficient killer, but the movies which sustain him are fueled by elaborate martial artistry and ornate mythology. They don’t get shit over with; they deliver some of the craziest shit imaginable.

Chapter 4, the latest, longest, and (potentially) last installment in the series which began in 2014, capably fulfills the franchise’s extremist imperatives, even as it subtly interrogates them. Or maybe not so subtly. It’s been nine years and four films since a group of Russian thugs killed the wrong guy’s puppy, and the plot hasn’t really changed ever since; John is still angry, still hunted, and still—as played with soulful physicality by Keanu Reeves—meting out retribution via manifold means and gruff precision. The prior episode, the bonkers and gloriously operatic Parabellum, essentially finished where it started, with a bloodied but unbroken John vowing revenge against the sinister cabal known as the High Table. Chapter 4 continues this endless battle—a rather lopsided duel in which one person wages war against what seem to be thousands of expendable henchmen (when someone asks John how many people he needed to kill to reach a certain point, he responds, with characteristic curtness, “A lot”)—but it also contemplates the existential toll that time and death have levied on the bearded man in the bulletproof suit. Read More

Quick Hits: Scream VI, Cocaine Bear, Creed III, Magic Mike 3, and Emily

Michael B. Jordan in Creed III; Keri Russell in Cocaine Bear; Jenna Ortega and Melissa Barrera in Scream VI; Emma Mackey in Emily; Salma Hayek Pinault and Channing Tatum in Magic Mike's Last Dance

Between the Oscars, our TV rankings, and our list of the year’s best movies, it’s been a busy past month here at MovieManifesto. As a result, while I was able to write a few proper reviews of new movies (the new Shyamalan, the new Ant-Man), I neglected to make time for a bunch of additional 2023 films. That changes now! Well, sort of. Unlike Lydia Tár, I can’t stop time, so I’m unable to carve out enough space for full reviews. Instead, we’re firing off some quick-and-dirty capsules, checking in on five recent releases. Let’s get to it.

Scream VI. The clever double-act of the Scream pictures—the platonic ideal established by the first installment and never quite equaled since—is that they’re movies about scary movies and are also, well, scary movies. In the prior episode, Scream (which should have been called Scream 5, but never mind), new directors Matt Bettinelli-Olpin and Tyler Gillett satisfied one and only one side of that equation, cleverly skewering the toxic fandom that attends modern discourse but failing to serve up memorable carnage. Now returning with Scream VI, the pair have essentially flipped the script. The meta ideas bandied about here are a little less trenchant, but the nuts-and-bolts execution—and executions—is first-class. Read More

Avatar: The Way of Water: If the Blue Fits

A scene from Avatar: The Way of Water

James Cameron’s Avatar: The Way of Water is a movie full of miracles—floating mountains, underwater trees, resurrected warriors, talking whales—but perhaps the most miraculous thing about it is that it exists at all. With more than a decade spent in mysterious development, its hypothetical completion and release became something of an industry joke—the cinematic equivalent of hell freezing over. Yet defying the odds has long been Cameron’s forte; remember, Titanic was a colossal boondoggle until it became the biggest movie in the world, and the original Avatar was initially anticipated to be a misbegotten foray into motion-capture extravagance before it dethroned Titanic and attained box-office supremacy. (Until Star Wars: The Force Awakens came along, financial analysts resorted to qualifying new hits as setting records among movies “not directed by James Cameron.”) Now, 13 years later, the self-proclaimed king of the world has finally emerged from the oceanic depths with a sequel, and it’s both exactly what you expected and more than you could’ve imagined: repetitive, eye-popping, clunky, spectacular. Strictly speaking, The Way of Water may not be better than Avatar—which, to be clear, is fantastic—but there is certainly more of it.

In a sense, Cameron’s triumph here is limited, even as it’s also boundless. His reputation as a cinematic pioneer remains intact—he once again channels his instinctual pop savvy and his extraordinary grasp of technology to conjure images, environments, and sequences that have never before been glimpsed on screen—yet his innovation is still exclusively (if exquisitely) visual. From a storytelling standpoint, he prefers to mine familiar terrain. If Avatar was derivative of a dozen prior adventure epics (it’s Dances with Wolves! it’s Pocahontas! it’s FernGully!), The Way of Water is derivative of Avatar. Once again, the native Na’vi—those twelve-foot blue-skinned forest-dwellers who are indigenous to the bountiful planet of Pandora—find themselves under attack by marauding human invaders. There are minor tweaks—instead of installing a mining operation, the colonizers now seek to permanently inhabit Pandora in light of Earth’s impending ecological demise; rather than extracting the precious mineral “unobtanium,” venal poachers now hunt down giant sea beasts to secure a priceless enzyme that prevents people from aging—but the movie’s central conflict remains largely uncomplicated: The Na’vi and the humans are still at war, and the good guys—led by Jake Sully (Sam Worthington), the former Marine who defected after he fell in love with the beautiful and fearsome Neytiri (Zoe Saldaña)—are the ones in blue. Read More

Violent Night: Mad Santa

David Harbour in Violent Night

The moment that best encapsulates the tone of Violent Night, the smirking and sadistic new action comedy directed by Tommy Wirkola, occurs when a seven-year-old named Trudy (Leah Brady) has an earnest conversation over walkie-talkie with Santa Claus—not a mall employee impersonating Santa Claus, mind you, but the real mythological deal, complete with white beard, reindeer sleigh, and craving for homemade cookies. Strategizing about how to overpower the gang of psychopaths who have taken her and her family hostage, Trudy suggests a plan: “Shove coal right up their assholes!” Santa winces. “We don’t want you ending up on the naughty list,” he cautions, and so Trudy modifies her scheme: “Shove it up their anuses!”

Santa’s approving smile in response to Trudy’s revision would seem to carry some bizarre ethical implications—vigilantism is commendable, vulgarity is deplorable—but let’s ignore that. As a matter of humor, the joke here is that cherubic children saying dirty words is inherently funny. This isn’t necessarily wrong—comedy is often found at the intersection of the holy and the profane—but it speaks to the obnoxious complacency with which Wirkola and his writers, Pat Casey and Josh Miller, have approached their material. Forget about smart dialogue or inventive choreography; the real fun, this movie insists, lies in scatology and brutality. Read More

Bullet Train, Prey, and Action Silly and Serious

Brad Pitt in Bullet Train, Amber Midthunder in Prey

I take movies seriously, but how seriously should movies take themselves? One of the saws about modern blockbusters is that they’re meant to be dumb fun—that they’re designed to function as a respite from the harshness of reality, and that they grant viewers the blessed opportunity to “turn your brain off.” Setting aside the wisdom of deactivating your central nervous system, I acknowledge that films which operate primarily as pleasure dispensers carry a certain appeal, though it’s debatable whether they need to be dumb—or to neglect more pesky, brainy attributes like plot, theme, and character—in order to be enjoyable. The phrase “it doesn’t take itself too seriously” is generally considered a compliment, implying not that the picture in question is foolish, but that it’s unpretentious.

But is this a sliding scale? That is, when it comes to action—the genre most typically cited by Brain-Off enthusiasts—do movies necessarily trade seriousness for satisfaction? Or can a film’s sincerity instead indicate its level of artistic commitment, suggesting that it approaches its crowd-pleasing task with formal rigor and genuine care? These are false dichotomies, but this past weekend nevertheless presented an intriguing contrast, featuring two new action flicks that occupy opposite ends of this theoretical spectrum. One takes its blockbuster imperative deadly seriously; the other treats seriousness akin to a disease. Read More