The Odyssey review: The Call Is Coming from Inside the Horse

Matt Damon in The Odyssey

Nobody else could have done this. I’m not suggesting that no other contemporary filmmaker could have adapted The Odyssey, which seems to get remade in some fashion every few years, officially or otherwise. But only Christopher Nolan possesses the requisite combination of vision and hubris to remold Homer’s classic poem into a movie so tailored to his thematic, aesthetic, and moral concerns. For a quarter-century, Nolan has built a distinctive brand of scrambled timelines, breathtaking innovation, and cornball romanticism; he’s cultivated his own mythology. Now he has the chutzpah to bring his singular artistry to bear on the granddaddy of all myths.

The results of his herculean labor (sorry) are both expected and surprising. In terms of scale, The Odyssey is a monumental achievement—a huge, exhilarating work of relentless energy and unimpeachable technique. Such an accomplishment shouldn’t be taken for granted, but it was virtually axiomatic the instant the projected was announced. What proves more striking is the movie’s gritty humanity. It’s an epic yarn of pillaging and seafaring, of gods and monsters, but its grandeur is engraved with punchy writing and credible emotions. Read More

Comedy Clang Bang: Gail Daughtry and the Celebrity Sex Pass; The Invite

Zoey Deutch in Gail Daughtry and the Celebrity Sex Pass; Olivia Wilde in The Invite

An aphorism claims that, while dying is easy, comedy is hard. Writing about the genre is no less difficult. I’m not just talking about the peril of ruining jokes by explaining them. I’m also bemoaning the challenge of translating physical reactions—giggles, winces, hoots and howls—into descriptive assessments. The purest analysis of comedy is also the most tautological: The reason it was funny is that it made me laugh.

With the possible exception of horror (hello Obsession!), comedy is the format that most benefits from theatrical exhibition. Even as their quantity has dwindled (often migrating to Netflix), jokefests benefit from collective appreciation—the cascades of laughter that ripple through the audience. We may be sitting alone, but we watch them together. Read More

Crime Pays in the Indie Thrillers Tuner and Carolina Caroline

Leo Woodall in Tuner; Kyle Gallner and Samara Weaving in Carolina Caroline

One of the pleasures of moviegoing is vicarious excitement—the thrill of experiencing something you can’t possibly attain in real life. I am not a professional athlete, an ingenious detective, or a vampire slayer, but cinema brings me closer to such larger-than-life heroes, even if it can also shade them with relatable humanity.

This is particularly true when it comes to crime—especially theft. As a rule-abiding office drone who hesitates before lifting extra paperclips from the supply closet, I’m personally unacquainted with chases and shootouts and scores, so I have a weakness for movies about robbers scheming to pull a heist. The past few weeks saw two independent pictures featuring blue-collar characters who discover a latent aptitude for stealing, a talent that brings them both prosperity and danger. If neither made a peep at the box office, well, maybe that’s because they’re still eluding society’s dragnet. Read More

Depression Double Feature: Omaha and Blue Heron

Eylul Guven in Blue Heron; John Magaro in Omaha

Movies aren’t better just because they’re sad. Sure, the Oscars tend to favor dramas over comedies, but making people feel bad isn’t an inherent artistic good. As with any other subgenre, the success of depressing pictures hinges on qualities beyond their deflating subject matter: the specificity of the characters, the nuance of the performances, the skill of the filmmaking.

This past weekend saw the expanded release of two small, family-centric movies whose tone can hardly be called cheerful. Both execute their assignment of shaking you up, though only one breaks new cinematic ground in the process. Read More

The Devil Wears Prada 2 review: The Fashion of the Antichrist

Meryl Streep, Anne Hathaway, and Stanley Tucci in The Devil Wears Prada 2

Miranda Priestly may be the world’s worst boss, but there’s a reason for her viciousness. She’s a genius, a visionary, and she mistreats her employees not out of sadism or malice but because they are impeding her divine greatness. She is unconquerable—or so we thought. The Devil Wears Prada 2, the intriguing and maddening sequel to the 2006 adaptation of Lauren Weisberger’s novel, finds Miranda locked in battle—not just for the future of her company, Runway, but for the soul of an entire industry—and she seems to be losing the war. Her chief adversary isn’t a rival editor or a meddlesome underling but a more pitiless, insidious force: private equity.

Eddies of irony swirl around Prada 2, not least that a mercenary brand extension to a 20-year-old property purports to extol the virtues of old-fashioned creativity. But the screenplay, by Aline Brosh McKenna, deserves partial credit for grappling with genuine ideas, rather than simply drafting off of its predecessor’s legacy. Consider the movie’s opening scene, which finds Andy Sachs (Anne Hathaway), Miranda’s former assistant who fled Runway for more fulfilling pastures, accepting an award for her hard-hitting reporting at the fictional New York Vanguard. At first, such feting of journalism feels horribly self-congratulatory and dated—what is this, Sweet Smell of Success?—but just as Andy’s name is called, she and the rest of her noble colleagues receive a text informing them of their mass firing. She might as well sell that trophy for rent money, if only anyone would buy it. Read More