Grade: A minus

Sinners: (Don’t) Let the White One In

Jeremy BeckReviews
Michael B. Jordan, times two, in Sinners

We always say we want more original movies, but how many movies are truly original? Sinners, the latest feature from Ryan Coogler, is in some ways a work of pastiche, incorporating strains of gangster cinema, music videos, and horror lore. But despite embracing its influences (which is not, in itself, a bad thing), it manages to feel new—both for the urgency of its ideas and the vibrancy of its filmmaking.

That description also applied, with partial force, to two of Coogler’s earlier efforts, Creed and Black Panther. In those pictures, the director managed to imprint his personality onto the material while still operating within the brand-managed confines of the cinematic franchise. (His attempt to repeat the feat with Black Panther’s sequel, Wakanda Forever, was markedly less successful, if partly for tragic reasons beyond his control.) Sinners, for all its boisterous entertainment value, shackles him with no such commercial chains. No longer is Coogler reinterpreting and revitalizing a cherished piece of intellectual property. He’s reimagining the world. Read More

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The Brutalist: Nadirs of the Lost Architect

Jeremy BeckReviews
Adrien Brody in The Brutalist

The American dream gets flipped upside-down in The Brutalist, Brady Corbet’s soaring, scathing portrait of post-war greed. Yet while it may be a troubling tale of moral decline, it opens with its hero going up, up, up, climbing toward the prospect of salvation. His name is László, and we first see him in the steerage of a ship docking at Ellis Island, his pallid skin and crooked nose long shielded from the light of day. As his mind recites a letter from his absent wife, he begins to ascend along with countless other sweaty hopefuls, the camera swooping and twisting like he’s navigating a labyrinth. When he finally bursts onto the deck, his face breaks into an ecstatic grin, the sunlight beaming down on him, the score’s trumpets booming in triumph. Never mind that our first view of Lady Liberty comes at an inverted angle, as though she’s about to plunge her torch—and its elusive promise of prosperity—into the harbor.

This knockout introduction instantly signals The Brutalist’s monumental ambition, both thematic and aesthetic. Much has been made of the film’s length (over three-and-a-half hours, including a 15-minute intermission), but its running time is just one of its many extravagances. Corbet, eschewing subtlety in favor of sheer grandeur, has delivered a truly maximalist production, a work of sweeping scope, vigorous style, and provocative rhetoric. The movie is, to borrow the tagline from Scott Pilgrim vs. the World, an epic of epic epicness. Read More

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Nosferatu: What Dreams May Succumb

Jeremy BeckReviews
Lily Rose Depp in Nosferatu

Bathed in ghostly white moonlight, a man stands in the center of a black roadway lined with forest-green pines. In the distance, he spots the faint outline of a moving object, which he gradually perceives to be a horse-drawn carriage. As the animals gather velocity and momentum, he realizes that he’s about to be trampled. He shuts his eyes and braces for impact, only to realize that the vehicle has magically stopped and angled itself perpendicular to him, its door thrown open, beckoning him into the waiting darkness. And then the coachman calls out, “Did you order an Uber?”

I made that last part up. The vampire mythos, with its lustful symbolism and its gargled accents, is easily vulnerable to ridicule. And there are certainly times when Nosferatu, Robert Eggers’ sumptuous remake of F.W. Murnau’s 1922 touchstone, dances up to the cliff’s edge of parody. But what rescues it—what turns your stifled laughter into shrieks of horror and gapes of wonder—is that it approaches its material with absolute sincerity, and without a shred of irony or detachment. Eggers, undertaking the perilous task of updating a 102-year-old classic, has of course renovated the silent black-and-white original, imprinting it with intoxicating sound and color. Yet he has not sacrificed any of its elemental power, forgoing the temptation for winking archness and instead operating with brazen, old-fashioned conviction. Read More

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Anora: Visit Your Local Poling Place

Jeremy BeckReviews
Mark Eydelshteyn and Mikey Madison in Anora

The opening shot of Sean Baker’s Anora finds the camera dollying along a row of champagne booths at a strip club, clinically observing a scene of stylish debauchery. The music is loud, the light is low, and the exotic dancers are gyrating with plastered smiles, pantomiming their pleasure while internally checking their watch. Given that this display is preceded by an austere title card informing audiences that the film has received one of the most prestigious prizes in cinema (the Palme d’Or at Cannes), you might think that the ensuing picture will be a squalid story of misery and disenchantment—an exposé revealing the predatory nature of the strip-club industry and the meager circumstances of the women whom it chews up and spits out. Surely this widely acclaimed and undoubtedly serious movie can’t be… fun?

But Baker, continuing his hot streak in the wake of The Florida Project and Red Rocket, demolishes his viewers’ assumptions as cannily as he develops his characters. It is true that Anora is a thoughtful and incisive work, exploring its drably decadent milieu with persuasive rigor. It is also, by and large, a blast—a ribald comedy that hums with playfulness and dynamism. It turns you on and pulls you in. Read More

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The Outrun: Don’t Drink-Shame

Jeremy BeckReviews
Saoirse Ronan in The Outrun

The first time we see Saoirse Ronan’s face in The Outrun, she’s dancing in a nightclub, neck tilted upward and lips slightly parted, like she’s trying to kiss a black sky. It’s an image of divine rapture, which makes it a jarring contrast to her next few appearances—first getting unceremoniously dragged out of a bar after hours, then checking herself into a rehabilitation clinic while sporting a horrific purple bruise over her right eye. For this woman, agony can follow ecstasy in the span of a night or the blink of a single camera cut.

The notion that substance abuse can inspire both pleasure and pain is by no means novel; cinema is littered with depictions of actors articulating the euphoria and despair caused by various intoxicants. And The Outrun, which was directed by Nora Fingscheidt from a screenplay she wrote with Amy Liptrot (based on the latter’s book), doesn’t entirely evade the durable conventions of the genre. But it does inject those old customs with considerable new life, thanks both to the boldness of its structure and the vivacity of its lead performance. You’ve seen this movie before, but also, you very much haven’t. Read More

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