Grade: B minus

A Haunting in Venice: The Ghost of the Town

Jeremy BeckReviews
Kenneth Branagh in A Haunting in Venice

Just what kind of genius is Hercule Poirot? Six years ago, in his remake of Murder on the Orient Express, Kenneth Branagh reimagined Agatha Christie’s famous detective as a man obsessed with balance; his gift for crime-solving derived from his preternatural ability to recognize when clues and alibis didn’t line up. In his two ensuing movies—first the forgettable Death on the Nile, now the somewhat-improved Haunting in Venice—Branagh seems to have abandoned this conceit, instead depicting his super-sleuth as a quasi-scientist who unravels mysteries through the rigorous application of “order and method.” He isn’t some sort of deductive wizard; he just pays attention.

This doesn’t make Poirot an especially interesting character, but it does function as a handy metaphor for Branagh’s own filmmaking. The traps inherent in the murder-mystery picture—the isolated location, the assemblage of suspects, the cheap twists and red herrings, the destination overshadowing the journey—are difficult to evade. This time out, Branagh doesn’t so much avoid them as skillfully blunt their impact. His version of “order and method” is to deploy familiar cinematic tools in order to bring energy and flair to a production whose narrative bones are dusty and creaky. A Haunting in Venice doesn’t exactly revive this moldy skeleton, but it does clothe it in alluring imagery and spooky atmosphere. Read More

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Bottoms: Top Queer

Jeremy BeckReviews
Rachel Sennott and Ayo Edebiri in Bottoms

Justifying your own unpopularity is harder than it used to be. In the past, the ostracized heroes at the center of coming-of-age stories could take solace in the recognition that their tormentors were either stupid or bigoted; the bullying they faced was simply a consequence of the ruling class failing to perceive their true worth. But the nerds of Booksmart discovered that their partying brethren were also headed to the Ivy League, and now the losers of Bottoms can’t attribute the everyday cruelty they experience to insecurity or small-mindedness. “They don’t hate us because we’re gay,” Josie (Ayo Edebiri) says with gloomy honesty to her best friend, PJ (Rachel Sennott), as they watch a jock congratulate an effeminate actor on his performance in the school musical. “They hate us because we’re ugly and untalented.”

That assessment is unduly self-deprecating, though the wardrobe department has joined forces with Edebiri’s lack of vanity to make Josie look as frumpy as possible. (The first time we see her, she’s trying to stack multiple baseball caps atop her haywire afro.) But it’s crucial for Bottoms to establish its heroines’ putative undesirability in order to lay the groundwork for its story of improbable triumph and feminist upheaval. Directed by Emma Seligman from a script she wrote with Sennott, it’s an affirming movie that tells the tale of a marginalized sect rising up against its oppressors, claiming a measure of power and upending the entrenched social order. In related news, it’s about punching cheerleaders in the face. Read More

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Talk to Me: Balk to the Hand

Jeremy BeckReviews
Sophie Wilde in Talk to Me

Cruising down a darkened roadway while belting out the lyrics to a Sia song, the teenaged Mia (Sophie Wilde) suddenly slams on the brakes to avoid running over a wounded kangaroo, which is lying helpless in the middle of the street. Her young companion, an eager 13-year-old boy named Riley (Joe Bird), urges her to put the poor animal out of its misery. Mia initially resolves to oblige, but—whether due to a surfeit of compassion or a lack of determination—she ultimately chooses to leave the pitiful creature be. This scene, which is never explicitly referenced again, has absolutely no figurative bearing on anything that comes after.

I’m kidding, of course. But one of the intriguing things about Talk to Me, the creepy and jagged new horror picture from Danny and Michael Philippou, is how it operates as a metaphorical Rorschach test. Is it a critique of the restlessness of the TikTok generation? A commentary on the fraying bonds of the modern nuclear family? A sobering portrait of the perils of drug addiction? Or is it just a really scary movie in which a few hapless kids make the mistake of messing with some very angry demons? Read More

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Joy Ride: Girls Quip

Jeremy BeckReviews
Sabria Wu, Ashley Park, Sherry Cola, and Stephanie Hsu in Joy Ride

During one of the more outlandish moments in Everything Everywhere All at Once, Stephanie Hsu watches in horror as an adversary attempts to plug a curiously shaped office plaque into his anus. Now in Joy Ride, the new road-trip comedy from Adele Lim, Hsu has transitioned from observer to participant; at one point, circumstances conspire such that she must shove eight plastic baggies filled with cocaine up her own ass.

The sight of a newly minted Oscar nominee frantically thrusting narcotics inside her asshole operates both as its own joke and as the setup for a subsequent, cleverly delayed punch line. (Remember, whenever a character says that the occurrence of a certain event makes her horny, you can be damn sure that event will take place—and in the most compromising scenario possible.) It also encapsulates the movie’s maximalist approach to comedy. Every orifice gets its own moment in Joy Ride, as do K-pop enthusiasts, martial-arts soap operas, Cardi B, projectile vomit, vaginal tattoos, and former NBA All-Star Baron Davis. It’s a lot, and it isn’t ashamed of its own muchness. Read More

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Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny: Traders of a Lost Spark

Jeremy BeckReviews
Harrison Ford and Phoebe Waller-Bridge in Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny

The first thing you notice is the thing you don’t notice: The Paramount logo doesn’t dissolve into a real-life mountain, instead smoothly transitioning to the sterile placard for Lucasfilm Ltd. And so, before a frame has flickered on screen, Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny has differentiated itself from its four predecessors. In some ways, this is a smart move. After all, it’s been 42 years since Harrison Ford outraced a giant boulder in Raiders of the Lost Ark and lodged a smash franchise into pop-culture lore in the process; undue fidelity to such a treasured past might brand this new effort as a pale imitator, like one of those moldy skeletons Indy brushes past on his way to fortune and glory. But not all departures from prior history are healthy, and the change that most harms Dial of Destiny takes place not in the script, but behind the camera: This is the first Indiana Jones adventure that wasn’t directed by Steven Spielberg.

This is perhaps unfair to James Mangold, one of an infinite number of filmmakers who is guilty of being less talented than Spielberg. No stranger to inheriting a beloved fictional character—he gave Hugh Jackman’s Wolverine a lovely and powerful send-off in Logan—Mangold approaches his assignment here with what might be called cautious reverence. John Williams’ famous “Raiders’ March” theme appears on the soundtrack, but only sparingly. Indy occasionally deploys his classic bullwhip, but his weapon of choice tends to be his fists. Cherished supporting characters reemerge—including John Rhys-Davies’ Sallah, plus another figure best left unspecified—but only for a scene or two. The chief villains are once again Nazis, but they (mostly) operate in secret rather than with swastika-emblazoned armbands. The result is that Mangold has made a new Indiana Jones movie both like and unlike the old Indiana Jones movies, tentatively perpetuating their legacy without being beholden to it. Read More

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