Women Talking: Hide and Speak

Ben Whishaw, Rooney Mara, and Claire Foy in Women Talking

If you think the title of Women Talking is bluntly descriptive, wait until you hear the perspective of Neitje (Liv McNeil). Fifteen years old and perpetually frustrated, she takes stock of the surrounding proceedings—a nonstop parade of feminine discourse and verbiage—and groans, “This is so boring!” It’s a wry meta moment that also (ahem) speaks to the unenviable difficulties facing Sarah Polley, the gifted and empathetic director who has chosen, for her first feature in a decade, to adapt the popular novel by Miriam Toews. That title is no lie; this is a dialogue-driven movie with limited action (the catalyzing incidents occur offscreen) and minimal plot. The challenge for Polley, who also wrote the screenplay with Toews, is to invest what’s primarily a verbal exercise with cinematic verve and dramatic urgency.

If she doesn’t exactly succeed, she has at least answered Neitje’s complaint with guile and skill. Women Talking is hardly kinetic, but it’s paced briskly enough to stave off accusations of sluggishness. If anything, some of Polley’s editing techniques—rather than deploying typical flashbacks, she frequently inserts random, lightning-quick cuts to prior brutalities (blood smeared on walls, bruises dotting legs)—are too abrasive to be boring. These moments tend to be more distracting than disquieting, and they don’t so much jolt the story to life as disrupt its fluid rhythms. Still, Polley evades point-and-shoot banality, and some of the film’s artistic choices—the desaturated color scheme that looks like the camera is fighting through a scrim, the rippling guitar-plucked score from Hildur Guðnadóttir, the ominous overhead shot of wagons pushing past onlookers in white straw hats—lend double meaning to an early title card that reads, “What follows is an act of female imagination.” Read More

Amsterdam: Dutch Ado About Nothing

Christian Bale, Margot Robbie, and John David Washington in Amsterdam

Throughout Amsterdam, things break: an ugly teapot, a bird’s egg, a man’s optic nerve, a loveless marriage. Yet because it’s the work of David O. Russell, the movie views such destruction not with sadness but with opportunity. A grinning carny barker whose attractions are warped and trampled human feelings, Russell savors goofy misfits, with their thwarted dreams and foiled scams. He likes to break things—and people—apart so that he can put them back together.

He doesn’t always succeed. Russell’s career is wildly uneven, not to mention polarizing; survey critics, and you’re unlikely to find consensus on his three best films. (For the record, they are Three Kings, Silver Linings Playbook, and American Hustle.) Amsterdam, Russell’s first feature in seven years, showcases the director at his best and worst; it’s full of vibrant verve and stylish flair and ragged writing and quite a bit of nonsense. (His last picture, Joy, was similarly bumpy, suggesting that he’s grown consistently inconsistent.) In fact, the main characters here repeatedly improvise what they call “a nonsense song,” coming together to warble an off-key melody accompanied by incomprehensible lyrics, and it works handily as metaphor for the movie itself: meandering and patchy, yet oddly charming and full of life. Read More

Convention Center: Bros, Blonde, and Smile

Billy Eichner in Bros, Sosie Bacon in Smile, Ana de Armas in Blonde

Not every movie needs to be revolutionary. Genres are durable in part because filmmakers have gradually honed reliable formulae, the passage of time sanding down eons of cinematic experimentation into sturdy templates. Predictability can be dispiriting, but the successful execution of a familiar blueprint can also be satisfying. This past weekend saw three different movies tackle three very different genres, and though none can be mistaken for each other, they all operate with a certain degree of conventionality. Not coincidentally, they’re all watchable while also struggling to break free from the shackles of expectations.

Few movies are more visibly conscious of their place within an established genre than Bros. How conscious? It’s a romantic comedy co-written by Billy Eichner that opens with a character played by Billy Eichner recounting a pitch session in which a studio mogul urges him to write a romantic comedy. The hook, the suit explains, will be that the film will center on gay men but will otherwise follow the standard rom-com playbook, thereby perpetuating the message that “love is love.” Eichner’s character, Bobby, isn’t having it. “Love is not love,” he insists. Gay people are different; you can’t just magically flip the characters’ sexual orientation and expect everything else to cleanly lock into place. Read More

Don’t Worry Darling: Fall of the Wilde

Florence Pugh and Harry Styles in Don't Worry Darling

As the glamorous host of the glamorous party saunters down from his lofty perch on the glamorous balcony to grace the awestruck guests with his glamorous presence, he asks a rhetorical question: “What is the enemy of progress?” A member of the audience immediately replies, with Pavlovian instinct, “Chaos.” This may be accurate in certain industries—our host nods in approval—but when it comes to movies, it’s rarely the case. The true enemy of artistic progress is order, or at least pernicious forms of it—safety, predictability, complacency. Chaos, by contrast, is often the harbinger of innovation. It’s difficult to produce great art without first making a mess.

And Don’t Worry Darling, the second film directed by Olivia Wilde (from a script by Katie Silberman), is undoubtedly a mess. Its tone is overheated, its themes are muddled, and its plotting is ridiculous. But it nonetheless exhibits a brazen level of ambition—a visual and narrative boldness which vacillates between audacity and inanity—that’s commendable despite its gaps in logic. It may be chaotic, but at least it’s memorable. Read More

Honk for Jesus, Save Your Soul: The Sour of Prayer

Regina Hall and Sterling K. Brown in Honk for Jesus, Save Your Soul

In one of his incisive bits about religion, George Carlin observed that God “always needs money.” The implication is that the deity’s clerics are also in permanent want of funds, but the main characters of Honk for Jesus, Save Your Soul—Lee-Curtis Childs (Sterling K. Brown), a captivating Southern Baptist preacher, and Trinitie (Regina Hall), his publicly steadfast wife—aren’t hurting for cash. They live in a luxurious mansion outside of Atlanta, they drive a Cadillac Escalade, and their closets are filled with Prada. (Lee-Curtis’ gold watch gleams so brightly, you half-expect him to tell someone that it “cost more than your car.”) No, what this power couple really craves—what they desire beyond favorable clippings in the press or dollar bills in the collection plate—is an audience.

They used to have one; with Trinitie seated at his side in a gold-enameled throne, Lee-Curtis would routinely preach to upwards of 5,000 disciples at Wander to Greater Paths, their so-called “megachurch.” But then something happened—something initially alluded to only as “misconduct”—and now they bustle about in their Georgia Xanadu, breathlessly plotting their reemergence. Honk for Jesus, which is the feature debut of writer-director Adamma Ebo (based on her short film), chronicles the Childses’ painstaking attempt to reacquire their congregation (and their relevance), even as it also gradually unveils the scandal that led to their downfall. Read More