Grade: B

Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker: Racing to the End, and Backpedaling from the Middle

Jeremy BeckReviews
The band is together one last time in "Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker"

Helmets matter in Star Wars. The Walt Disney Company knows this; The Mandalorian, the flagship series of Disney’s new streaming service, begins each episode with a retrofitted logo, a montage of recognizable head coverings from our favorite faraway galaxy. J.J. Abrams knows it too. So when an early scene in The Rise of Skywalker, the ninth and (supposedly) last entry in the Star Wars saga, features Kylo Ren (Adam Driver) donning a re-forged black mask—the same mask that he destroyed in a fit of pique one film ago—it is impossible to miss the metaphor. Every modern franchise production must to some extent honor the loyalty of its patrons, but The Rise of Skywalker exhibits a peculiar brand of fan service. It appears designed to cater not to Star Wars enthusiasts at large, but to the small and vocal sect of devotees who adored the seventh episode, Abrams’ The Force Awakens, yet who simultaneously despised its follow-up, Rian Johnson’s The Last Jedi. If Johnson wielded spunk and irreverence to blow the franchise template to bits, Abrams deploys nostalgia and traditionalism to put the pieces back together.

This is not all too easy. Just as that reconstructed helmet still shows visible cracks, The Rise of Skywalker is a seamy and uneven movie, laboring to bring the saga to a stirring close while also frantically course-correcting toward a more conventional version of the Star Wars mythos. Rather than boldly exploring new worlds (whoops, sorry, wrong franchise), it retreats inward, taking refuge in the safe and familiar. This is disappointing, but it is far from devastating. Abrams’ narrative choices may border on cowardly, but he remains a skillful supplier of big-budget imagery and exciting conflict. That he lacks Johnson’s daring and imagination has not precluded him from making another boisterous adventure, with moments of glorious spectacle. Read More

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The Irishman: And I Think It’s Gonna Be a Long, Long Crime

Jeremy BeckReviews
Robert De Niro and Al Pacino in Martin Scorsese's "The Irishman"

In one of the most memorable scenes in Goodfellas, Joe Pesci’s character triumphantly arrives for a celebration in his honor, only to realize that he’s just walked into his own death. It’s a devastating rug-pull that presages the film’s slow bend from buoyant mafioso hangout joint to brittle human tragedy. The Irishman, Martin Scorsese’s sweeping, lurching, ultimately moving new crime epic, is a bit like that scene writ large, but framed from a different perspective. It’s about the triggerman in that cold and empty room, and the paralyzing loneliness he suffers. Rather than focusing on the cathartic thrill of violence, this sprawling movie draws its power from aftermath—from what happens after the bullets leave the gun and the bodies hit the floor.

A solemn study of aging (and de-aging!), The Irishman announces itself as a monumental work, both in terms of its grand scope (Netflix’s tagline: “A lot can happen in a lifetime”) and its much-publicized 210-minute running time. Ambition is nothing new for Scorsese, and neither are gangsters. But while its bildungsroman arc and its fan-favorite cast inevitably recall Goodfellas and Casino, the director isn’t repeating himself here; instead, he’s reflecting. If anything, the mob movie that The Irishman most evokes is The Godfather Part II, given the way it refracts a career of savagery and crime through a prism of melancholy and loss. Read More

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Ford v Ferrari: Rounding the Curves, and Speeding Straight Ahead

Jeremy BeckReviews
Matt Damon and Christian Bale in "Ford v Ferrari"

In most European countries, James Mangold’s new movie is being titled “Le Mans ’66”, presumably in an effort to capture the interest of sports-car enthusiasts, particularly those familiar with the famous race that took place in France more than half a century ago. For Americans and other ingrates less versed in racing lore, the film is called Ford v Ferrari, a conveniently alliterative title that pays tribute both to our adversarial natures and our love of underdogs. The movie, which chronicles Ford Motor Company’s obsessive effort to dethrone the prestigious Ferrari from its perch atop the racing world, positions itself as a battle between American revolutionaries and the European establishment. The arts of improvisational creativity and scrappy resourcefulness are (ahem) pitted against the forces of entrenched authority and inflexible traditionalism.

The irony of this framing is that Ford v Ferrari, an unremarkable but by no means unenjoyable picture, is about as traditional as it gets. It’s a crowd-pleasing sports movie through and through, a by-the-book docudrama that embraces conventionality and avoids risk. Yet Mangold, a skilled craftsman whose prior feature was the decidedly unorthodox Logan, demonstrates that templates are durable for a reason, and he follows this formula (one?) with a gratifyingly light touch. He doesn’t so much steer you around the curves as trick you into thinking that the curves even exist, all the while quietly affording you the easy pleasures of the straightaway. Read More

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Hustlers: The American Dream, Stripped to Its Core

Jeremy BeckReviews
Jennifer Lopez and Constance Wu in "Hustlers"

In the midst of issuing a pep talk to his gang of ravenous stockbrokers in The Wolf of Wall Street, Leonardo DiCaprio’s Jordan Belfort equates his sleazy brokerage firm with America itself. “This is the land of opportunity,” he proclaims to the phalanx of slickly dressed, amoral sycophants arrayed around him on the umpteenth floor of a Manhattan high-rise. Hustlers, the robustly entertaining new movie from Lorene Scafaria, is in some ways a distaff spin on Wolf and other Scorsese flicks, seeing how it revels in greed, glory, and excess. But it’s also something of a rejoinder, a reminder that the ever-elusive American dream—in all its triumph, danger, and venality—isn’t just reserved for rich white men, but is feverishly sought by all corners of society. Here, the predatory goons from Wolf have become the marks, and the ornamental women who festooned its various bacchanalia are now the enterprising ringleaders.

Hustlers establishes its dual intentions with its very first shot, a fluid oner that follows Destiny (Constance Wu) as she exits the dressing room at a gentlemen’s club and strolls onto the main floor, along with her comrades in armless evening wear. At first, the tone is one of boisterous enjoyment: The costumes are sexy, the music is catchy, and everyone seems to be having a good time. But when the tracking shot ends and the cutting begins—first gradually, then with greater speed—the cheerful atmosphere begins to curdle, Destiny’s plastered smile occasionally slipping into a grimace as she is (literally) manhandled or (perhaps worse) ignored by her callous clientele. By the time we see her regurgitating half her tips to managers and bouncers, Scafaria has efficiently established the work of an exotic dancer as just that, work: long, hard, and decidedly unglamorous. Read More

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Ready or Not: Here Come the Wealthy Satanists

Jeremy BeckReviews
Samara Weaving in "Ready or Not"

The rich really are different in Ready or Not, a bloody—and bloody-fun—satire of the American aristocracy. Every family has its quirky rituals, but the Le Domas clan—the coterie of smarmy blue bloods depicted here—is so accustomed to disposing of dead bodies, they instinctively toss a coin whenever they encounter a fresh corpse, a literal delegation of heads or tails. And if you think you’ve ever struggled to fit in with your moneyed in-laws, at least your great aunt has never charged at you while wielding a giant battle axe.

That’s just one of many daunting challenges faced by Grace (Samara Weaving), the heroine of this grisly, giddy tale. When the movie opens, she’s steeling herself for a different sort of nightmare: marrying into the Le Domas empire following a whirlwind romance with Alex (City on a Hill’s Mark O’Brien), one of the scions of the famous gaming dynasty. (“We prefer dominion,” he gently corrects her.) And if you strip away the brutal prologue, which finds a five-year-old Alex hiding in a closet while his relatives coolly murder a well-dressed man, the opening act of Ready or Not could perhaps be mistaken for a fish-out-of-water comedy, along with a send-up of the rich and brainless. Read More

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