Director: David Slade
Writer: Michael Gilio
Stars: Casey Likes, E’myri Crutchfield, Elizabeth Reaser

Synopsis: A legendary monster called Sawtooth Jack terrorizes residents in a small Midwestern town while he rises from the cornfields every Halloween and makes his way toward those who are brave enough to confront him.

This piece was published during the 2023 SAG-AFTRA strike. Without the labor of the actors currently on strike, the movie being covered here wouldn’t exist.

David Slade’s latest movie, Dark Harvest, is a strange beast. On the one hand, it has one of the worst screenplays of the year, with characters so paper-thin who deliver the most ridiculous lines (such as “You got a gun?” “I got a gun.” or, “Where did you learn how to do that?” “I know things.”) in the most nonchalant ways imaginable. On the other hand, the film contains some of the most creative action setpieces of the year and an overarching story that feels so expansive it’s almost criminal how Slade and screenwriter Michael Gilio undersell it at almost every turn.

Based on the book of the same name by Norman Partridge, Dark Harvest takes place in 1963, where, from our understanding, high school teenagers must participate in “The Run” every Halloween night to keep the town’s crops safe. “The Run” consists of the boys being unable to eat for three days before the event, so their lust for food will convince them to run towards Sawtooth Jack (Dustin Ceithamer), a creature who magically appears every Halloween. Whoever kills Sawtooth Jack first gets to win a very nice car and get out of town.

Richie (Casey Likes) wants to achieve this after his brother, Jim (Britain Dalton), won The Run last year. He wants to win to join his brother wherever he may be, but as The Run continues, he learns about the town’s dark secret and Sawtooth Jack’s origins, putting him on a path to end the curse once and for all.

It’s in this specific moment that Dark Harvest becomes interesting, but one has to go through an expository-driven first act that is filled with so many tired clichés that it’s easy to think the film won’t progress to a somewhat satisfying turn. It’s particularly hard to invest ourselves in a movie with no interesting characters. Every male character is one-dimensional: they all exude machismo in some way (either through smoking cigarettes, dressing up like Danny Zuko from Grease, or fighting man to man…with knives, of course!) and think they’re the coolest dude in town. There’s no difference between Richie and Riley Blake (Austin Autry), except that the latter-mentioned character acts more like a bully. Remove that, though, and they both have the same arc.

The only character with a modicum of development is Kelly Haines (E’myri Crutchfield), who acts as Richie’s love interest. However, her arc is also associated with some of the film’s most problematic moments, as she is the town’s only Black girl and is frequently dehumanized with racial slurs hurled towards her.

When the two characters kiss for the first time, it’s in front of the town, in which its citizens all look on with utter disgust. This only serves as a reminder of how deeply-rooted their racism is, if you didn’t understand it through their constant insults of its only Mexican kid, Bud (Alejandro Akara), who is far more underdeveloped than Kelly. Still, Slade and Gilio give Kelly enough agency throughout the movie that she not only stands up to herself in these difficult moments but also helps Richie at his attempt to defeat Sawtooth Jack.

Then, we’ve got Officer Jerry Ricks (Luke Kirby), who could be an interesting antagonist for Richie/Kelly but is played with such an overexaggerated tone by Kirby that it falls completely flat on its face. There isn’t a scene in which Ricks isn’t yelling incessantly like a cartoon character who got his toe stubbed by Bugs Bunny or something of that ilk. I don’t know what he was exactly doing here, but it’s embarrassing.

It wouldn’t have been that big of a problem if the other performances had balanced things out, but it saddens me to report that none of the actors give any noteworthy turns here. Even Elizabeth Reaser, who previously collaborated with Slade on The Twilight Saga: Eclipse and Nightmare Cinema’s This Way to Egress, can’t muster up something at least palatable as Richie’s mother, especially during one of the film’s bigger emotional moments.

Even Likes delivers his lines with no sense of engagement to the story. If the main actor can’t seem to care about the film he stars in, how do you expect the audience to want to watch the whole thing? Well, there is something Slade can do to at least make the film semi-compelling, which is to make its core sequence, The Run, feel like the most exhilarating extended horror action setpiece in ages.

Cinematographer Larry Smith consistently shoots Dark Harvest frenetically, shaking the camera in various ways to disorient the viewers. But he ups the ante during The Run. He creates some extremely cathartic and truly vivid images, particularly during a sequence set in a cornfield where Sawtooth Jack reawakens and starts to murder some of The Run’s participants in one creatively bloody way after another. I expected the film to be violent, but not quite like this. And it’s all the better for it. There isn’t a single action setpiece in Dark Harvest that feels stale – Slade’s penchant for self-aware campiness with the same energy as Anthony Dod Mantle’s lens in 28 Days Later creates some incredibly gnarly stuff that practically saves the film from being a complete failure.

A final plot twist, which reveals not only the origins of Sawtooth Jack but expands upon the town’s connection to The Run, also helps to lift Dark Harvest and give it some form of emotional investment. It also brings massive weight to the movie’s ending, which could shock some people, even if one can see it coming a mile away. Still, its impact works, and its post-credit scene may or may not set up a Dark Harvest 2, making us want to clamor for more, even if Partridge only wrote one book. 

Releasing Dark Harvest on VOD with little to no promotion might have been a mistake for Amazon, as it marks the final movie to be distributed by United Artists Releasing before it merged into Amazon MGM Studios earlier last month. It was a sign of an absolute lack of confidence from the studio after its release was delayed many times due to the COVID-19 pandemic. As a result, Dark Harvest may not find a big reach for a broader audience to turn it into a cult classic like Slade’s 30 Days of Night. However, those who have seen it will probably be inclined to recommend it to others, even if every actor does completely shoddy work and the screenplay is, by all accounts, terrible. There’s just enough good in it to make it the next great midnight movie classic, and that might be enough for anyone looking for a killer time at the movies during Spooky Season.

Grade: C+

Director: Nahnatchka Khan
Writers: David Matalon, Sasha Perl-Raver, and Jen D’Angelo
Stars: Kiernan Shipka, Olivia Holt, Charlie Gillespie

Synopsis: When the infamous “Sweet Sixteen Killer” returns 35 years after his first murder spree to claim another victim, 17-year-old Jamie accidentally travels back in time to 1987, determined to stop the killer before he can start.

Nahnatchka Khan takes tired concepts, like the horror and teen comedy genres, and doesn’t make them fresh again, but somehow incredibly entertaining. That’s because Don’t Trust the B—- in Apartment 23 and Fresh Off the Boat writer/director (and frequent Ali Wong collaborator) adapts an American black comedy slasher into an often hilarious cultural critique of a decade known for its social faux pas. In other words, the film is Totally Killer.

Khan’s film follows Jamie (Kiernan Shipka), a 17-year-old high school student rebelling against her overbearing and controlling mother, Pam (Julie Bowen), and her needy father, Blake (Lochlyn Munro). Jamie wants to go to a costume party with her best friend, Amelia (Kelcey Mawema), but Pam wants her daughter to stay home and hand out candy to the trick-or-treaters. That’s because, in 1987, Pam had her three best friends murdered by the Sweet 16 Killer.

Frankly, Jamie is sick of hearing about it. Blake drops her off, and Pam hands out the candy. That’s until the Sweet 16 Killer returns wearing their famous Max Headroom masks. The killer is equipped with a giant knife. But make no mistake, the joke is on them, because Pam is a kick-ass mom who has been taking self-defense classes for years. 

After hiding numerous weapons around the house (she makes the fatal mistake of talking too much), Pam makes a valiant attempt to survive the attack but is found stabbed to death by some grade schoolers looking for free diabetes-inducing treats. 

Now that her mother is the fourth victim on the notorious killer’s list, Pam begins to try to save her mother by traveling back to a time dominated by big hair, colorful neon shirts with shoulder pads, and acid-washed jeans, where all the rage is to stop the killer, which means it will save her mother in the future—no matter the consequences.

Totally Killer was written by David Matalon, Sasha Perl-Raver, and Jen D’Angelo. Typically, too many hands in a script would make things chaotic and incoherent. However, Khan’s film hits the right note of clever satire, biting commentary, and horror thrills to create a consistently entertaining, yet not all surprising, streaming dark comedy with fun twists of nostalgia. Just like Happy Death Day and Freaky, respectively.

Totally Killer has a much lighter touch because the film is more comic and fantasy-based than anything. Yet, since the film is produced by Jason Blum when murders occur, they can be sobering because they are particularly jarring. I mean, who wants to see Claire Dunphy scream for her life and get stabbed a couple dozen times in the back for fun (even though I could see Phil Dunphy finally snapping)? Since the film really is a comedy, the writers make the horror count.

While the script can be very clever with its jokes, particularly when Kiernan Shipka’s deadpan reactions to the politically incorrect actions, statements, and overall attitude towards women clash with today’s feminist principles, the time travel plot is glossed over without real thought or care, with a flimsy excuse of a conductor. It’s as if they wanted to do Back to the Future but had the Netflix streaming dud When We First Met in the background, threw a photobooth into the script, and washed their hands of it. Not to mention, why not just go back to the night of her mom’s murder and not decades prior?

However, that’s a minor complaint, because Khan’s film doesn’t want to redefine the time travel genre. Totally Killer is meant to provide an entertaining and smart social commentary, in which it slays often and well. It’s an entertaining slasher entry for people who are non-horror enthusiasts, but want to dip their toes in those bloody good waters that October has to offer. 

Grade: B

Director: Kitty Green
Writers: Kitty Green and Oscar Redding
Stars: Julia Garner, Jessica Henwick, Hugo Weaving

Synopsis: US backpackers Hanna and Liv take a job in a remote Australian pub for some extra cash and are confronted with a bunch of unruly locals and a situation that grows rapidly out of their control.

Kitty Green’s sophomore feature directorial effort, The Royal Hotel, is not easy to watch. At first, it starts out in a rather conventional manner, as it follows Hanna (Julia Garner) and Liv (Jessica Henwick) taking a job at a bar in a highly remote place in Australia to make money. Liv’s credit card has been maxed out, and the two can’t finish their backpacking trip if they do not find employment. Arriving at The Royal Hotel, the owner, Billy (Hugo Weaving), described the job as easy enough and should theoretically be simple once they get accustomed to the tasks they must perform. 

However, it quickly becomes a nightmare, as Hanna and Liv are consistently catcalled by some of the men in the bar, including Matty (Toby Wallace), who has made some sexual advances towards Hanna, and Dolly (Daniel Henshall), who at first appears friendly but slowly starts to show his true nature to the girls. The film is inspired by Pete Gleeson’s 2016 documentary Hotel Coolgardie, chronicling two Finnish backpackers’ stint at a local hotel in Coolgardie after their credit cards were stolen in Bali. 

Gleeson’s vérité documentary is extremely disturbing. The audience gets to see firsthand the verbal abuse Steph and Lina receive from the patrons, including their boss, who consistently berates them and “jokes” about their nationality to diminish their efforts. It’s a fascinating watch at times, especially when Gleeson attempts to sew a narrative thread between the girl and the late ‘Canman,’ who acts as a protector figure for them. But the final twenty minutes or so are sickening, as Gleeson films one of the men taking advantage of Lina while on a camping trip after she had one too many drinks while the others sit and do nothing to prevent this from happening. It also raises many ethical questions on vérité filmmaking: how far are the filmmakers willing to go in capturing this story without breaking the artifice? Way too far, as the camping trip caused Lina to contract an infection, resulting in permanent eyesight loss in one eye and over 30% in the other. 

Green’s film does not show any rape but alludes to the men’s intentions through their verbal and non-verbal interactions with the protagonists. She also transposes many key sequences from the documentary into the world of fiction, making The Royal Hotel more of a character-driven thriller that isn’t afraid of challenging the audience on toxic masculinity. 

In the film, Liv seems more open-minded to the culture than Hanna and consistently gaslights her into thinking everything is fine, most notably when Billy calls her a “sweet c—t” within minutes after they arrive. Liv believes it’s just an expression they coined here, while Hanna doesn’t believe it is. This scene establishes the dynamic between the two throughout most of the film. Liv wants to be more independent in meeting new people and exploring what this town offers, but Hanna quickly wants to go home. The documentary sees both characters as equals who experience Coolgardie together and put up with the patrons’ commentary to make money, while Green’s film pits a quasi-rivalry against the two as the film progresses. 

At some point, the dynamic becomes redundant, but that’s when Green morphs the film into something far more unsettling than it initially introduced itself as. Near its midpoint, the film’s centerpiece scene involves a tense conversation between Hanna and Dolly (which Green takes massive inspiration from Lina’s conversation with Pikey in Hotel Coolgardie, though with a far less humorous tone). His behavior was already misogynist by then but becomes even more disturbing as he begins to make Grizzly sounds at her (alluding to the fact that she is Canadian, though is pretending to be one) and throw pennies on the bar floor. 

The most difficult part of the scene is watching Hanna attempting to regain control but feeling completely helpless as none of the other customers around her want to de-escalate the situation and move Dolly out of the bar. It’s as if the town has adopted these actions as normal – and acceptable – towards women and won’t do anything to protect them from harm. It’s one of the most terrifying depictions of toxic masculinity ever put on film, and the scene will stay with you long after the credits have rolled.

The Royal Hotel takes an even more brutal and unnerving turn during its final act. While most of the abuse shown before the climax is verbal, Green shows barbaric acts of physical abuse near the movie’s end. It’s not as violent as some other films that have depicted the same subjects as The Royal Hotel, but its sharp cuts by editor Kasra Rassoulzadegan and wide shots from cinematographer Michael Latham convey its excessive brutality with aplomb. Earlier scenes establish the setting and characters, but it also allows Green to slowly crank up the sense of atmospheric dread as the men become more violent toward the protagonists. 

The sound design effectively conveys such, with many scenes occurring when the bar is overflowing with patrons. You can’t hear a single discernable sound nor keep track of everything around you. You have to shout at people to get their attention, but as the men drink more beer, their violent behavior becomes more erratic. The tension is at a maximum and never diminishes, even when the cook, Carol (Ursula Yovich), attempts to regain control in the bar, while Billy drowns out his sorrows and never once takes the woman’s side. 

Julia Garner gives the best performance of her career as Hanna, especially during its latter half. I’ll admit her earlier work hasn’t been my cup of tea, but in The Royal Hotel, she delivers a far bigger breakthrough performance than the ones that put her on the map in Green’s The Assistant and Ozark. A particular shot that occurs near the end involving Garner still hasn’t left my mind, showcasing how incredibly talented she can be. Her emotional progression, just through her eyes and facial expressions, from the moment we get introduced to her to its final shot, shows a massive, top-to-bottom transformation in her psyche. She first appears reserved and terrified, and naturally so. But something clicks inside of her that gives Hanna enough power to stand up for herself once and for all. 

Henwick is also terrific as Liv but doesn’t have enough screentime for her arc to shift meaningfully, unlike Hanna, who isn’t the same person she once was as soon as they walked into that bar. Liv’s arc feels truncated, especially during its latter half, when she could’ve focused more on her before fully returning to Hanna. At 91 minutes, the film feels too long in some areas and too short in others. Plenty of cyclical scenes in the bar could’ve easily been trimmed down, while Green could’ve also helped flesh out the character relationships more because there was far more to tell with Liv. Regardless, The Royal Hotel remains a must-see, despite how difficult the watch will be for anyone sitting in front of it. Garner performs exceptionally, while Weaving and Henshall are terrifying to watch on screen. Green has never avoided discussing difficult subjects in her documentaries Ukraine is Not a Brothel and Casting JonBenet. With The Assistant and The Royal Hotel, she uses the world of fiction to craft deeply unsettling but necessary films that challenge audiences on the questions of power dynamics and toxic masculinity.

Grade: A-

Director: Denys Arcand
Writer: Denys Arcand
Stars: Rémy Girard, Marie-Mai, Guylaine Tremblay

Synopsis: In an era of political correctness, identity evolution, protests, cultural scandals, activism, media storms, and other disputes, an elderly man no longer having faith in humanity, discovers new landmarks and thus his happiness

Denys Arcand isn’t shy in provoking and eliciting strong reactions from the public. Whether it was through his satires The Decline of the American Empire or the Academy Award-winning The Barbarian Invasions (Arcand is still the only French Canadian filmmaker to have won an Oscar), there isn’t a single person who comes out of his films feeling indifferent, regardless if you liked it or not. But it’s been a while since he’s made something as memorable, or at least as interesting, as his Oscar-winning film. Days of Darkness pushed far too many buttons of provocation just because he thought he could, despite Marc Labrèche and Diane Kruger attempting to salvage the film, while The Fall of the American Empire is just plain bad.

Has Arcand lost his filmmaking and screenwriting touch? Or has he always been a “bitter, old, reactionary crank,” as some have recently qualified him? With his latest movie, Testament, he seems to approach the latter as he attempts to criticize our society’s alleged obsession with political correctness and fails miserably at discussing any of the themes and messages he tries to convey.

It doesn’t help that the story is too scattered for its good. The film starts with Jean-Michel Bouchard (Rémy Girard, a frequent Arcand collaborator), who has lost all will to live. He walks every day in the cemetery, longing for his hopefully peaceful demise, though he keeps himself busy by working a day or two at the archives and tending with his friends at the Parizeau-Duplessis retirement home. Herein lies the first part of his “satire,” the home is, of course, named after two of Québec’s most controversial Premiers: Jacques Parizeau and Maurice Duplessis.

In that problematically-named retirement home lies a mural that glorifies a scene of genocide against Indigenous people, with which many activists who suddenly show up at the front door take issue. This causes a massive political scandal, with the Health and Social Services Minister (Caroline Néron) urging the home’s director, Suzanne Francoeur (Sophie Lorain), to find a solution. She hires two painters (Gaston Lepage & Louis-José Houde) to remove the mural, which appeases the activists. 

However, when the Deputy Minister of Culture (played here by controversial playwright Robert Lepage, whose shows SLĀV and Kanata were both canceled after being accused of cultural appropriation) finds out that the mural has high artistic value and was painted by one of the most renowned artists in history, more scandal is created, as nationalist protestors want the mural to be shown again. Oh, and did I forget to mention there’s a subplot involving the retirement home’s library being turned into a video game center for no reason other than an excuse for Arcand to make tired jokes about old people not being able to adapt to new technologies? Yeah…

By describing the plot, we’ve already lost our central protagonist and his arc, which is about Jean-Michel slowly realizing that there is more to his life than he believes. Had the film solely focused on that introspective character’s journey, it would’ve been one of Arcand’s best because Girard gives one of his most compassionate performances. Sure, he is a consistently good actor and always gives his all with whatever character he portrays, but he always gives just a bit extra when working with Arcand. The core of The Barbarian Invasions was about Rémy’s battle with cancer, and some of the later scenes in the film are simply heartbreaking to watch. In Testament, Girard takes a far more meditative approach than he did in the Oscar winner, and the results are simply staggering.

One scene in particular, in which he quasi-confesses his love to Suzanne after she believes he’s been having an affair with Flavie (Marie-Mai, in her first non-dubbed film role), who visits him every week, is the film at its best. It’s a poignant meditation on the meaning of life and what we, as individuals, must do to reawaken our spirit and want to continue living, even if it seems pointless to go on when we’ve seemingly lost everything. Arcand tries to visually represent this through Guylaine Tremblay’s character, who begins to drink, smoke, and binge-eat fast food after her ultra-fit boyfriend dies of a stroke seconds after finishing a long bike run. There’s a bit of exaggeration in her mannerisms, but Jean-Michel’s actions, as he learns more about Suzanne and her family, convince him there is more to his life than he had thought. In my opinion, that’s the heart of Arcand’s film, and it more than succeeds.

However, he seems too busy attempting to criticize Québec’s alleged penchant for “woke” ideologies, joking about cultural appropriation, activism, the use of pronouns, gender identity, intersectional feminism, climate change, and even openly mocking several minorities under the guise of “satire.” Arcand may not be a right-wing figure, but he – and conservatives in general – fail to realize that the word “woke” means “being alert to racial prejudice and discrimination.” So, if you believe something slightly left-leaning is “woke,” it means the above definition and not what you think woke is. But that doesn’t stop Arcand from making “jokes” that are profoundly transphobic, misogynist, racist, and, above all else, unfunny. 

The only times I chuckled were during its National Assembly session parodies, where the satire of parties like the Coalition Avenir Québec and Québec Solidaire are so close to reality it becomes naturally funny. René Richard Cyr’s Culture Minister dozing off in the background seems an apt descriptor of our current legislature because we all know, deep down, that they do absolutely nothing, which Arcand cheekily points out through the provincial government’s response to COVID-19.

How is it inadmissible that a society that has grown to be more progressive over time wants to fix the errors of our past? Anything dated and or/offensive should absolutely be recontextualized or, if needed, removed, but Arcand posits this perfectly acceptable response as anti-art or anti-culture through the commentaries of his painters who are openly saddened to be erasing what they believe to be “important art,” but also through his own words. Last week, Arcand appeared on Tout le monde en parle and said “fuck off” to anyone who told him that he should’ve consulted the Indigenous community before making the film:

Arcand: I do not believe in consultations. It’s now the latest trend when we have to talk about Indigenous people or whatever. We’re always supposed to consult. I’m completely opposed to this. I think the creative process is an absolutely personal act that comes from deep within ourselves. It’s like if you asked Shakespeare if he went to Italy to ask the Capulets and Montagues if they agreed with his interpretation of Romeo & Juliet – fuck off! He’s writing a play called Romeo & Juliet. If you disagree with it, just don’t see it. Consultations are made for governments, unions, and municipalities wanting to know if closing Camilien-Houde is a good idea, for example, but not for writing fiction. 

Marc Labrèche: Did you ever say, “I should’ve not written this scene like that,” or “I should’ve opened my eyes more about something that escaped me?”

Arcand: Of course! All the time. Every day. I’d love to have more talent and skills. But I never said to myself, “Oh, I should’ve consulted!”

This declaration shows immense contempt for individuals who deserve to be properly represented on screen instead of perpetuating the same dangerous – and racist – stereotypes that have plagued moviegoers’ screens for many years. We have recently started to see Indigenous creatives being at the forefront of mainstream titles like Reservation Dogs or the upcoming Echo, but Arcand seemingly wants to continue portraying them in an offensive light instead of asking pertinent questions about how a more open and welcoming society can repair past wounds and aid in reconciliation, or involving them in the creative process. It may be a personal act, but asking them what they think of your script before it gets shot doesn’t hurt.

Testament asks all the wrong questions and perpetuates even more dangerous stereotypes passed off as “jokes” and “satire,” positioning Arcand as a bitter, old, reactionary crank instead of a serious auteur who revolutionized Québec cinema with his American Empire series. Even his exploitation film Gina has a hidden political subtext that goes far deeper in its messaging than it has any right to, especially compared to his hackneyed Testament. Who knows if the title itself means this will be Arcand’s last film, but if it does, he’s leaving us with quite the whimper that could make some viewers rethink his past films as products of their time instead of some of Québec cinema’s greatest treasures.

Grade: D+

Director: Wes Anderson
Writers: Wes Anderson (based on stories by Roald Dahl)
Stars: Benedict Cumberbatch, Ralph Fiennes, Dev Patel

Synopsis:

The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar: Chronicles a variety of stories, but the main one follows Henry Sugar, who is able to see through objects and predict the future with the help of a book he stole.

The Swan: A small brilliant boy is tormented by two large idiotic bullies.

The Rat Catcher: In an English village, a reporter and a mechanic listen to a rat catcher explain his clever plan to outwit his prey.

Poison: When a poisonous snake slithers onto an Englishman’s stomach in India, his associate and a doctor race to save him.

Several prominent directors or directing teams have taken on anthology films or film series. Most notable, of course, are the Coen Brothers’ Western anthology The Ballad of Buster Scruggs and Steve McQueen’s epic series Small Axe. Some anthologies like the Cities of Love project or the V/H/S films knit short films by multiple filmmakers together around a theme. Wes Anderson and his partners at Netflix have chosen to keep this set of films, all based on Roald Dahl short stories, as four separate shorts. Though they are complete films that can be viewed in any order, these films compliment each other and have a great deal in common in how they’re shot and work thematically. (This reviewer chose to watch them in this order: The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar, The Swan, The Rat Catcher, and Poison.)

Wes Anderson has been inching toward near complete artifice in his films for a long time. Often they look like they take place not in the real world, but on intricate sets. With these four shorts, Anderson takes that artifice to a new level. Anderson and his brilliant production designer Adam Stockhausen have built incredible sets that are intricately detailed and move with the action. Often, the actor speaking stands still as the location around him, which can be said for all characters because there are no women in these films, moves, thus creating no need for a cut in editing to a new location. One of the standouts is the ever changing background behind the titular Henry Sugar in The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar, as the background lifts and moves him from room to room without Henry moving much of a muscle.

All four films, shot by director of photography Robert Yeoman, rely heavily on stationary, but no less exciting, action. Yeoman’s camera packs the scenes with deep backgrounds and incredible close ups. Some of the most intricate moves of Yeoman’s camera are the overhead shots and movements of characters in Poison. He slides through walls and among the rafters to make a film about a man trapped in bed feel dynamic.

The films all feel like they have very long scenes or like they were shot in long takes, but that is the mastery of editors Adam Weisblum and Barney Pilling. The two of them have impeccable timing moving from a wide to a close up and from character to character. It’s never more impressive than in The Rat Catcher, the action of which takes place nearly in only one space in front of a newspaper office and garage as a reporter and mechanic speak with the titular rat catcher. The subtle shifts in perspective and point of view are captured with a beautiful fluidity by Weisblum and Pilling.

All that said, the shorts are each exhausting in a way. Because of the way Anderson chose to adapt the stories with narration of the dialogue and plot in full, there is nothing but wall to wall dialogue for 17 or so minutes. 40 minutes in the case of The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar. It’s quite daunting. The actors speak so quickly and the scenes move so fast that there’s almost a whiplash in the viewer’s brain as they try to keep up. 

Each of the shorts also engages in a theater of the mind aspect that, while interesting from the idea that the audience could supply their own images, is a little silly to see actors pretending to hold things in their hands. The most strange example of this is when the titular rat catcher explains how he is going to kill the rats with a tin of poisoned oats, but actor Ralph Fiennes holds nothing in his hands, just has them in the shape of a tin.

It often does feel like you can lose focus watching the films because of the constant narration. Even as aspects of the story play out as the actors speak, the mind creates its own images on top of the images on screen. It’s enough to make one zone out and have to catch themselves up on the action on screen while attempting to disregard the action in their heads. It would be as if puppeteers stared at the audience continually as they manipulated their tools and spoke the voices and gave narration. There’s too much for the brain to focus entirely. It can make you miss something important in the background as our eyes are being drawn to the speaker, constantly in the foreground.

The stories themselves are fascinating, though. It’s clear that Roald Dahl has been a great influence on Wes Anderson. The stories, like Anderson’s films, have a whimsy to them that mask a darkness underneath that crawls under a person’s skin. The most nerve wracking and gut wrenching of the shorts coming out of this dark sandbox is The Swan. The unnerving escalation of the two older teens bullying and doing great harm to Peter Watson is disturbing. It makes the viewer thankful that Anderson didn’t choose a more overtly dramatized version for this film as seeing a child in this kind of peril would have been truly horrifying. It’s the short that will haunt you the most, but also has the most to say.

Taken together, these four shorts are funny, exciting, beautifully crafted and deftly acted by an incredible troupe. Though they can be a bit much all in a row. Take them in individually. Savor the terrific performance of Benedict Cumberbatch in The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar. Appreciate the intricate minimalism of the sets of The Swan. Marvel at the deft editing of The Rat Catcher. Be awed by the incredible camerawork of Poison. These four shorts are a welcome addition to the Anderson canon and an obvious labor of love by all involved.

Grade: B

Director: Sofia Coppola
Writers: Sofia Coppola, Sandra Harmon, and Priscilla Presley
Stars: Cailee Spaeny, Jacob Elordi, Ari Cohen

Synopsis: When teenage Priscilla Beaulieu meets Elvis Presley, the man who is already a meteoric rock-and-roll superstar becomes someone entirely unexpected in private moments: a thrilling crush, an ally in loneliness, a vulnerable best friend.

There’s a line Aaron Sorkin once wrote years ago that immediately popped into my head while watching Sofia Coppola’s minimalist biography of Priscilla Presley. Coppola evokes a sense of innocence (and purity lost) from a simpler time that was anything but wholesome. Priscilla is that anti-Baz Luhrmann Elvis movie. One that strips away the lore, the razzle-dazzle, and exposes what Sorkin was talking about when he wrote, “The things we do to women.”

What’s wrong with the way these two met and fell in love? Priscilla (Cailee Spaeny) was only 14 years old then, and Elvis (Jacob Elordi) was 24 while stationed in Germany. The teenager, who wasn’t old enough to drive, smoke, or have a drink, was approached by one of Elvis’s buddies at a local diner. This buddy had no business taking a pubescent teen to party on that German Army base. The excuse is that Elvis liked to talk to people from home because he was homesick. As if, somehow, that made everything okay.

That’s the start of Priscilla, based on the nonfiction book Elvis and Me by Priscilla Presley and Sandra Harmon. The other patrons at the party hardly batted an eye when the King of Rock and Roll invited the teenager to his room, where they would meet in a few minutes. Like any man of power, his entourage never said anything because they wanted to be part of it all. Elvis was always surrounded by his buddies, no matter the situation or intimate occasion.

Like most celebrities, Elvis was insecure and the film captures the insecurities of the rich and famous. Coppola’s adaptation subtly highlights these themes that led to Elvis practically using Priscilla for multiple purposes that never took her feelings and needs into account, but only his own. In the film, Coppola draws a powerful comparison. When Elvis is granted permission from Priscilla’s father to stay in Graceland with him, he goes on the road and leaves her an adorable poodle to keep her company.

The white pup has its small fenced-off area, its own Graceland. When Elvis returns, you see the similarities. Elvis is using Priscilla as his companion. She cannot bring home friends from school. Priscilla has to stay at home and cannot get a part-time job or talk to any office assistants working in the house. Elvis even dresses her, tells her how to wear her hair and makeup, and changes her hair color, making a teenage girl look like she’s trying to seem older than her age.

Coppola’s Priscilla is a beautiful prison of lonely isolation. This is never more apparent than when we see Spaeny’s stoic and soulful gaze out of the window, framed by some white windowsills and the blue wildflowers of Tennessee swaying slowly in the wind. The performances bring the long courtship and marriage to a terrible light. Elordi is very good here, displaying a spot-on accent and playful, disarming charm, but he can also be ignorantly controlling and abusive without warning, with a quick-trigger temper.

The extraordinarily tall actor has Elvis use his tremendous size to impose fear, towering over Priscilla. Then there’s the emotional abuse, threatening to send his wife away or leave her, using her tears as validation (and in another incredible scene where Priscilla calls his bluff; he crumbles in fear she will leave him forever). Even the use of pregnancy is another way to keep Priscilla in the home, preventing her from having the power of free will or choosing to have a life of her own.

Then you have Spaeny, who gives a thoughtful performance. The Devs and Mare of Easttown star won the Volpi Cup for Best Actress at the Venice Film Festival, and her performance is extraordinarily instinctual here, displaying realism when someone suffers in silence despite the trappings of wealth around them. Spaeny conveys complex emotions and situations with subtlety and nuance well beyond her years. When you leave the theater, you’ll know this is one of the year’s standout performances.

There are times when Priscilla lacks energy, and it is a film that will be hard to embrace for mainstream audiences (especially anyone looking for a companion piece to last year’s Elvis). Yet, that’s beside the point. Coppola’s film is a work of art and has much to say about why we reached the tipping point of the fourth wave of feminism in the past decade.

It’s the things we do to women.

Grade: A

Director: Cal Brunker
Writers: Cal Brunker and Bob Barlen
Stars: McKenna Grace, Taraji P. Henson, Marsai Martin

Synopsis: A magical meteor crash lands in Adventure City and gives the PAW Patrol pups superpowers, transforming them into The Mighty Pups

Whether you wanted one or not, a sequel to PAW Patrol: The Movie is here in PAW Patrol: The Mighty Movie. Reviewing a movie like this is always daunting, as its target audience isn’t adult moviegoers but small children. However, children can’t roam free on their own in the theater. Their parents are quasi-forced to sit through the film and enjoy (or endure) what’s in front of them while their kids are distracted by the colors and bright animation on the screen. Most animated movies these days are indeed distractions. Small children will enjoy how pretty it looks, but those looking for a deeper message or at least something to grasp won’t get much out of them. PAW Patrol: The Mighty Movie is no different. However, it is far superior to the first movie. 

Part of the reason why it’s a better movie has to do with the fact that the PAW Patrol become full-fledged superheroes, with a meteor carrying magical crystals giving each respective member of the crew superpowers: Skye (Mckenna Grace), for example, can fly, while Chase (Christian Convery) can travel at super-speed. It plucks powers from the Justice League and Fantastic Four. It wraps them into the Mighty Pups, where the team now has to go after Victoria Vance (Taraji P. Henson), who wants to steal the crystal for her gain, and Mayor Humdinger (Ron Pardo), who returns from the first film to exact his revenge on the PAW Patrol.

As you can see, the plot is not very sophisticated, and one doesn’t expect it to be with a film titled PAW Patrol. But the film contains more than enough compellingly crafted action sequences to at least mildly entertain adults and blow away small children’s minds. One kid sitting in front of me was at his first movie and couldn’t believe the scenes where Skye could destroy meteors with the power of flight or when Chase dodged Vance’s electroshocks in bullet-time fashion. Did I expect to see visual references from The Matrix in a PAW Patrol movie? Absolutely not. Nor did I see an Olivia Rodrigo needle drop coming within one of the first action sequences that reintroduce audiences to the world – and team – that comprise the PAW Patrol.

These elements make the film  surprisingly off-kilter, with enough direct references to appease adults. At the same time, kids get their first exposure to what the power of cinema can achieve. Of course, the story isn’t at all developed convincingly. There are too many plot holes to explain exactly what Vance wants to do with the crystals or how they work. How can the crystals magically bind to the pups and somehow give them powers? And how are they suddenly able to hone them instantly? In superhero origin stories, it takes weeks, if not months (and sometimes two movies), for a hero to finally understand their place in the world and master their powers.

In PAW Patrol: The Mighty Movie, it takes five seconds. Skye realizes she can fly, and we’re supposed to buy into the fact that she’s now the film’s Supergirl (the cape during the climax was a nice touch). They do, however, play around with the concept of how the powers work through Liberty (Marsai Martin), who has a hard time figuring out what her powers are, until they magically appear during the climax, in a moment everyone, except the kids (who yelled out WHOAAAAA) saw coming.

The animation is also nicely done. It’s not as detailed as Spider-Man: Across the Spider-Verse, but that feels like an apples-and-oranges situation. We can’t compare the two because they don’t appeal to the same audience. PAW Patrol’s animation is more towards small children, with strong sequences of action that are never too violent nor too edgy but with the right amount of kinetics to engage the smallest possible viewer. I was even surprised when the meteorite blew up the Patrol’s tower, though it was a light thrill.

The animation work is primarily aimed at small children, in which characters feel like cartoons and the world doesn’t only feel lived in and grounded in reality but with enough fantastical elements to blow the small kids away. However, that doesn’t prevent Mikros Animation from crafting some truly incredible textures on the titular pups and playing with light and color to enhance the action sequences on screen.

As a result, PAW Patrol: The Mighty Movie is completely inoffensive. No, it won’t change cinema. Yes, it’ll be forgotten in a day for adult viewers who went to see it with their kids, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is whether or not the smallest viewer will have the time of their lives. I can confidently say they absolutely will, and that’s the only thing in the world worth caring about with a movie like this. Take your kids and watch them have an incredible time on the silver screen. They may get hooked for life.

Grade: B-

Director: Emily Atef
Writers: Emily Atef, Lars Hubrich, and Josune Hahnheiser
Stars: Vicky Krieps, Gaspard Ulliel, Bjørn Floberg

Synopsis: Hélène and Mathieu have been happy together for many years. The bond between them is deep. Faced with an existential decision, Hélène travels alone to Norway to seek peace and meet a blogger she found on the internet.

For many writers, terminal illnesses only serve as a source of dramatic tension when they can provide a fatalistic ending to a story that wouldn’t be quite as romantic if it concluded with two lovers walking off into the sunset together. Teenage girls have spent decades lusting after Byronic heroes who suffer from mysterious illnesses, so it’s only natural that most filmgoers have an idealized vision of what life as the victim of a terminal illness is like. It’s all tearful deathbed confessions and intense declarations of love. If you throw a loving, supportive husband into the mix and set the story in a series of picturesque locations, you can expect that certain viewers might start to get the wrong idea. 

Emily Atef’s More Than Ever (2022) is no Camille (1936) but it also refrains from being the anti-melodrama that one might expect it to be. It dispenses with many of the tropes that we associate with the ‘sick girl’ genre but it doesn’t necessarily play out as Love Story (1970), as reimagined by the Dardenne brothers. When approaching this sort of material, which has traditionally been the stuff of sappy melodrama, directors tend to employ a visual style that provides an obvious counterpoint to the content of the narrative. Atef is confident enough to avoid obviously signaling that this isn’t your grandmother’s four-hanky picture. Her exploration of one woman’s struggle with major existential questions is absent of the sort of art school affectations that typically weigh down this sort of genre experiment. This is a full-throated melodrama that tackles weighty issues head-on and it’s all the better for it.

We get an inkling of what Atef is working towards early on, when we drop into the film’s narrative at a surprisingly late point in the game. Hélène (Vicky Krieps), is introduced as a successful young urbanite who maintains a stable, loving relationship with her husband Matthieu (Gaspard Ulliel). Their comfortable lives are thrown into turmoil when Hélène learns that she suffers from terminal lung disease. Matthieu tries his hardest to meet her on her level and relate to her struggles but Hélène comes to feel that she needs to get away from everything and everyone she’s ever known. She begins to interact with Mister (Bjørn Floberg), a Norwegian blogger who suffers from a terminal disease and ends up traveling to Norway to live with him. Matthieu agrees to this arrangement, on the condition that he will still be able to contact and visit her. However, Hélène feels herself drifting further and further away from the people that she knew in her previous life and begins to question whether she wants to cut off contact with Matthieu altogether. 

This is one of those films that subtly advances a mildly provocative thesis statement. Our heroine endures grief and trauma while wrestling with the knowledge that there’s no way to escape from the fact that she’s dying. The finality of this statement is almost impossible to come to terms with, so she starts to address the problems in her life through a utilitarian lens. As time goes on, we see her compartmentalizing her emotions and treating those who are close to her like pawns on a chessboard. One naturally assumes that she is attempting to limit the amount of damage that her eventual death will cause, but there is a darker undercurrent to her attempts to organize the final months of her life down to the nth degree. She is convinced that she is taking control of her life and regaining the sense of independence that she lost when those around her began to treat her like an invalid. It’s easy to get swept up in the excitement that she feels when she starts to put her life back in order but, as the film comes to a sudden, unexpected close, you are left with plenty of questions about the toll that Hélène’s actions could take on her mental health. 

This is just one of many ways in which this thoughtful drama creeps up on you. Atef’s generous, carefully controlled style of direction helps to bring out the best in both Krieps and Ulliel, while also introducing unexpected tonal shifts into the progression of the narrative. There isn’t one flashy showpiece that serves as a selling point for this quiet, emotionally restrained film but it’s strong enough to stand on its own terms. It’s the sort of finely observed, textured character study that tends to fly under the radar but it should find an audience among fans of European art cinema. 

Grade: A-