Director: Wes Anderson
Writers: Wes Anderson, Jason Schwartzman, Kunichi Nomura, Roman Coppola
Stars: Bryan Cranston, Koyu Rankin, Edward Norton, Bill Murray, Jeff Goldblum, Greta Gerwig, all of Hollywood?

Synopsis: Set in Japan, Isle of Dogs follows a boy’s odyssey in search of his lost dog.

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Taking your seat ahead of a new Wes Anderson film isn’t the same benign practice ahead of, say, a Spielberg picture. Compliant surrender of all agency to Anderson’s vision applies as much to us in the theater as it does to his characters. The universe, it seems, is a giant sandbox to the director of the madcap worlds of Steve Zissou, M. Gustave and the Tenenbaums; we are all but marionettes at the mercy of Anderson’s puppetry. The trade-off is that not a single person in my screening minded. Not one bit.

Following 2014’s hugely successful and my personal Anderson favorite, The Grand Budapest Hotel,
Isle of Dogs sees its auteur director revisit the stop-motion animation of 2009’s Fantastic Mr. Fox. The screenplay for …Mr. Fox, of course, was adapted from the Roald Dahl novel of the same name, and this detail is both the strength and weakness of this latest animated adventure. More on that shortly, but to the plot…

Isle of Dogs takes place in Megasaki, a fictional, industrial Japanese metropolis, whose dogs have been infected with canine flu. The anti-science, cat-loving Mayor Kobayashi swiftly banishes the city’s dogs, starting with his ward Atari’s, to Trash Island, an archipelago on which Megasaki’s forgotten pets struggle for survival. Atari soon stages a solo rescue attempt, a plot coinciding with the discovery of a cure for the canine flu blight. Mayor Kobayashi, a frequent stager of rallies before a self-portrait reminiscent of Charles Foster Kane, is, unsurprisingly, undeterred by such game-changing progress, setting the tone for a third act defined more by student activism than boyhood dog-questing. And it’s this disjuncture that poses a problem the film can’t quite square: the level of creative freedom in Isle of Dogs, freedom unconstrained by children’s novels and physical actors, is pushed to such a degree that some narrative elements seem to exist entirely independently of others.

Anderson mainstays comprise Isle of Dogs’ ensemble voice cast: Edward Norton, Bill Murray et al
certainly bring the deadpan, and deliver their dialogue with all the rapid-fire rhythm we’ve come to expect. The visuals are where Megasaki really shines, equally evoking both the 60’s urban backdrop of Kurosawa’s High and Low and Edo-period print work of Hokusai. Anderson’s signature geometric compositions bind the world together with seamless ease, the director clearly having unnecessary amounts of fun with their navigation.

Isle of Dogs, then, is as much a playground as a tale-teller. It’s Wes Anderson at his most out-there, and, for his fans, there’s likely no conceivable limit to which that can be acceptably pushed. Minor concerns aside, this is a beautiful, adventurous and consistently funny piece of work that wears both its influences and heart on its sleeve.

Overall Grade: B

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Director: JR and Agnès Varda
Writers: JR and Agnès Varda
Stars: JR and Agnès Varda

Synopsis: Director Agnès Varda and photographer/muralist JR journey through rural France and form an unlikely friendship.

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From just the opening logos of Faces Places, we hear the tuning of a lone acoustic guitar, two musical strings and notes that slowly, but surely, intertwine in perfect unison and harmony. And thus, without even seeing the faces of our two protagonists, we instantly sense the notion of two unlikely artists who come together to inspire one another, sensory storytelling at its finest. Two people of vastly different ages and genders, filmmaker Agnès Varda and photographer JR embark on an artistic journey in the self-discovery of others, how one’s own facial evocation of either joy or pain has its own history behind the smiles or the frowns, a similar history shared by their respective hometowns. Many places and structures, given their physical wear and tear, clearly have a story waiting to be shared, we just need the ability to put a face to it; let’s thank Varda and JR for finding a way to synonymize the two for us. Faces Places is so good, it practically invents a new form of artistic expression, a metamorphosis of human expression with our physical surroundings, of literal face and place.

In Faces Places, Agnès Varda, mostly known for her involvement in the French New Wave direcing films like Cleo from 5 to 7, teams with photographer and artist JR for an adventure of artistic nostalgia. JR, complete with his youthful poise and unnecessary sunglasses, is perhaps the most nostalgic splitting image of Jean-Luc Godard (once a friend to Varda), so the fact that their artistic venture is very much driven by nostalgia is only appropriate. On their journey, JR prints out large portraits of random people’s faces and bodies, and pastes them on structures meaningful to them, for the rest of the world to see. It’s not so much a simple act of pasting, but an act of engraving one’s legacy within locational history, and to put it as bluntly as possible, it’s downright beautiful.

Faces Places may be a documentary, but it’s cinematically structured like a buddy road movie. Presented as a series of artistic vignettes, the film moves and cinematically captures settings that evoke an ancient quality to them, almost as if we are being transported back in time without a time machine. And as a series of vignettes, it never wears out its welcome; there’s genuine excitement as we await the next individual’s emotional response to being “pasted”. A few of the best sequences need calling out: the wives of a few dockworkers, engraved as full-body silhouettes with their true selves siting inside their hearts; a group of factory workers, all reaching toward each other, asking for a sense of workplace camaraderie; and a sequence on a beach, engraving a memory of Varda’s past on an abandoned ship block, only for the tide to come next day and symbolically wash it away.

And thus, this external exercise then turns into an introspective one for Varda and JR themselves, moments of contemplation that spark nostalgic memories of their own. Perhaps they were so busy visualizing the history of others they forgot about themselves, the fact that they too have their own histories they want to intimately share. They may be the artists, but that shouldn’t make them any different than their subjects. In fact, JR at one point even turns Varda into one of his own subjects, pasting her feet and eyes symbolically on a moving train, always progressing forward, always inspiring, regardless of age.

And what a message to convey, especially as the film concludes as a warning of one’s mortality. Death haunts this entire film, so much so that I would be hard pressed to call this a sort of ghost story. Even history itself, the thesis of Varda and JR’s art, is the notion of stories that have come and gone, but does that make them any more forgotten? It’s not just the ability to evoke history emotionally, but to share it with someone else is arguably more important. It’s through this conversational act that an unlikely friendship is born, beautifully seen by both us and by Varda and JR themselves, even given their own visual hindrances (a nice ironic touch that one slowly loses her vision, while the other chooses to darken his). Forget the countless blockbuster sequels we get every weekend, let’s revisit this unlikely pairing for another adventure. And then another one.

Overall Grade: A+

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Director: Steven S. DeKnight
Writers: Steven S. DeKnight, Emily Carmichael, Kira Snyder, T.S. Nowlin, Travis Beacham (characters)
Stars: John Boyega, Scott Eastwood, Jing Tian, Charlie Day, Cailee Spaeny, Burn Gorman, Rinko Kikuchi

Synopsis: Jake Pentecost, son of Stacker Pentecost, reunites with Mako Mori to lead a new generation of Jaeger pilots, including rival Lambert and 15-year-old hacker Amara, against a new Kaiju threat.

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Beware, all who consider Guillermo del Toro’s film as a valentine to mecha anime shows or pop culture’s love to host gladiator matches between titanic objects, for here is the shredding of it. With the dismantling of all that give Pacific Rim the thrust to stay above its follies, Uprising is less a follow-up and more, maybe even completely, an effortful attempt to be chummy with (the more recent, offensive and eager-to-pander entries of) Bayformers.

“I’m not my father,” said Jake Pentecost (John Boyega) while showing off the moves at a seaside mansion party and conducting semi-legal exchanges of valuables for food, among them a car for a Sriracha bottle. It’s been 10 years of peace since the last battle at the Breach, so partying and freeloading around Kaiju carcasses sound all right. As if taking that quote to heart, Uprising wastes little time flashing its youth-driven colors — the opener hops along to the booming reggae beats of Wizkid’s Daddy Yo and the music video-friendly editing give everything a Fast & Furious vibe. Goodness, let’s hope Universal, now assuming producing duties in Warner Bros.’ stead, won’t consider this film as a sizzle reel to potentially have mechas rolling with Toretto’s family. It’s a pure recipe for angina to just think about this.

“I’m not my father” also seeps into the film’s main conflict, which is now more between humans and humans. To its credit, Uprising’s choice to not quite re-granting the blue-blooded trans-dimensional critters prominence is gutsy in that it spotlights us as monsters — after all, we are the other monster-makers — but the divergence can’t shine at all because the film doesn’t let it. Unsure if it wants it. Where the chance for the idea to rise lies in further polishing the threat toward Pentercost Sr.’s legacy in those assembly-lined drones from Shao Industries, designed and supervised by Milan-wardrobed Liwen (Jing Tian) and the original’s Newt (Charlie Day), the script believes it also has to follow a league of vaguely outlined angsty kids, here at the Shatterdome to be trained by Jake and an embodiment of blasé he called bestie (Scott Eastwood). Greed isn’t good, folks: The film’s belief that it must own both storylines sabotages itself as everyone and everything emerge as a haze. Even worse, this namby-pamby trait erodes the reservoir of goodwill Pacific Rim has built, and what leaves a giant mark after 111 minutes is the dishonoring of the past rather than evolution.

And so, what’s there to celebrate? Boyega’s re-channeling of the wisecrack and startlingly charismatic Moses from Attack the Block could have been a reason to, slightly chattier attribute aside, had we not been lured into believing that his presence will be primary. “I’m not my father” indeed. What Amana (Cailee Spaeny) is, a survivor and Jaeger pilot wunderkind, could have gotten us elbow-rocketed our fist into the sky, but in a tragic repeat of what happened to Transformers 5’s Izabella she too is tricked by the film’s promise of letting her character and her journey outgrow their frames. The usually solid d.p. Dan Mindel and composer Lorne Balfe couldn’t even salvage any ounce of excitement since their works, unlike Guillermo Navarro and Ramin Djawadi, aren’t used to weave art into the bombast, or to eclipse the expectations of “it’s just a big robot movie.” Spartacus’ director Steven S. DeKnight, who also has a hand in the writing, is fine with “it’s just big robot movie,” though. Or is it “big Transformers movie” since also in Uprising is an adamant-yet-erroneous belief that quick cutting equals to increased energy?

For all of its demoting and de-specializing of del Toro’s print, at least Uprising will still please its friends from across the Pacific. Tian, in a way their representative, thankfully gets to inhabit a proper role again after whatever that was in Kong Skull Island. Her turn as Liwen is free from The Great Wall-kind of dilution, too; Newt is actually forced to know her language to converse with her. But like the lonely Gundam statue seen in the climactic battle at a notably sunny (yeah!) Tokyo (sigh), there’s no perceiving the respectful gesture as artistic when its inclusion, in alignment with the film’s spirit, evokes repeated-business first and identity-building never.

Overall Grade: D

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Hear our podcast review on Episode 266, coming soon.

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Director: Ari Aster
Writers: Ari Aster
Stars: Toni Collette, Gabriel Byrne, Alex Wolff

Synopsis: When Ellen, the matriarch of the Graham family, passes away, her daughter’s family begins to unravel cryptic and increasingly terrifying secrets about their ancestry. The more they discover, the more they find themselves trying to outrun the sinister fate they seem to have inherited as it slowly destroys everything they know.

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The bold and aloof Sundance-raved about feature debut from Ari Aster, Hereditary, reigns supreme over practically any and all psychological incarnations to have been released in the thriller and horror category this decade. The ongoing deception being persevered in to our protagonists (are they really though?) so prematurely on in the film coinciding with the inclusion of a viewer as well, allows everything that follows to become increasingly aggravated and insinuated by Aster’s craft. It gradually makes its way deeper, and deeper in to a cut, until there’s not an ounce of optimism or notice of direction left in the atmosphere. Ultimately leading to a devilish compliance as the conclusion. If you weren’t afraid of the unexplored heinous terrors your lineage could possibly carry, this will ratify the notion that the past, can and will haunt you.

Standing as the opening basis, the Graham family just recently lost their matron grandmother. As most relatives or descendants would silently mourn, Annie (Toni Collette) feels culpable for not feeling anything significant regarding her mother’s passing. She’s reassured by her husband Steve (Gabriel Byrne) that she isn’t at fault, and notes that she didn’t have the highest of character anyway. Although nothing is ever spoon fed to us, there’s hints scattered throughout the movie about Annie’s mother that further confirms that verity. And since witnessing, Hereditary has unquestionably began to grow on me. It’s hauntingly cryptic, disposing fiercely of its imperative central storyline by the final act. Toni Collette and Alex Wolff are the reason this film is where it is now. Collette is near-perfect, vividly applying the elemental strain of an unbalanced woman’s mental descent into madness that her character Annie, is on path to collide with. And Alex Wolff is wholly the biggest surprise, only here they examine the dissection of indisputable guilt wearing and tearing upon a teenager’s conscience.

Being hailed as this generations The Exorcist is quite the impressive feat, yet I can’t fully grasp the magnification whether this can achieve the similar cultural impact that the former is so copiously basked in. Due to its non-formally open storyline, it’ll be off putting to people who might not usually go-to or watch movies. Some might endure difficulty in following the plot and base their level of engrossment all from a visual aspect, which is thoroughly miniscule when compared to its conceptual warfare. There’s definitely a handful of shots that’ll be plastered into and around my brain for a multitude of future days, but the eerie imagery is no match for everything that one can’t see. The fear of something happening without us knowing, or the abhorrent things we hear but can’t see is the candid anxiety of it all. We’re never really given anything truly realistic, but our mind automatically assumes the worst and constructs an elucidation of all of our nightmares wreathed into this family. It’s extremely overwhelming, yet a celestially builded world from Aster. Terror can be anywhere, even living amongst you.

There’s a lone part in me that feels a film that harnesses it’s screen time as much as this one does isn’t always beneficial. Hereditary epitomizes the negative effects that can arise from a production willing to sacrifice portions of their exposition and rising action for a more meaningful finale. Thereby doing this they cut their margin of error off significantly. However, this takes just a bit too long to get up and running. Aster’s patience is admirable for certain—especially as a debut outing—and while this decision was ultimately insurance for character development, there’s too much of an ample omnipresence shed upon the preparation in comparison to that of the unfolding present-day actions partnered with the finale. Aster sure didn’t leave his characters in the dirt however. As the morality and disposition of all of them are modified by the ending one way or another. Sadly that primitive instance is just something a film can fall victim to when taking a leap of faith like this here with a narrative.

As in the aforementioned, every last piece of character growth, dialogue, or even inevitable unhingement is immaculate. Not shocking but once again, all of this is credited to Aster. He entangles so many contradicting and interlaced senses of paranoia that nearly every character becomes engulfed in. Not only figuratively but literally as well. Perhaps the scariest part of it all is the fate that’s greeted to them by the dissolution. By that time, every persona has been exhaustively analyzed. There’s nowhere else to go with them, they’ve reached their ultimatum and peak, making for one hellishly absolved conclusion. Glad that Aster had the willpower to walk away from the final product instead of attempting to condone an extended welcoming.

While the over abundance of hype attached to the movie might not have been entirely fulfilling, Hereditary will take advantage of its ability to ruin you. Not that I’m hoping it does, but it just might. Assuming they campaign hard enough to make an appearance at next year’s Oscars for a Toni Collette nomination, you’ll be seeing more of this film as we go farther throughout the year. As for now, enjoy the mental derangement of this movie along with the nightmares and sleepless nights that are to come.

Overall Grade: A-

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Director: Roar Uthaug
Writers: Geneva Robertson-Dworet, Alastair Siddons, Evan Daugherty (story by)
Stars: Alicia Vikander, Dominic West, Walter Goggins, Daniel Wu, Kristin Scott Thomas

Synopsis: Lara Croft, the fiercely independent daughter of a missing adventurer, must push herself beyond her limits when she finds herself on the island where her father disappeared.

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Ye of little faith, Warner Bros., opening the film with a stock shield and stock accompanying tune. It’s certainly jolting to hear that sliver of As Time Goes By again after a yearlong exhibit of logo variants—some total (King Arthur, Blade Runner 2049, It and Game Night), some partial (Wonder Woman, Dunkirk, and freaking Geostorm). Why the little fanfare and the bereft of embellishments? Geostorm gets to change its music but a film about a gaming icon gets zilch? There won’t be any self-indulgence here to use more pomp, it’ll just be properly reflecting the material’s built-in popularity. At the absolute least, it’s a sign that the studio believes its effort adapting a video game won’t be a(nother) wreck.

And that’s what Tomb Raider is: not a wreck. Not entirely—the script has some bumps—but what a joy it is to the adaptation outsmarting the subgenre’s “Four Horsemen” of straight-facedness, half-heartedness, lore-drunkenness, and plotting-the-plotlessness—and intermittently lighting up the screen with bona-fide cred of being a tentpole-scale adventure film.

Michael, we love you, but Mrs. Fassbender’s gaming prowess is unquestionably a league above yours. In Tomb Raider, Lara (Alicia Vikander) isn’t an archaeology graduate; she’s a youthful, free spirit who bike-delivers food around London at New York-minute pace. Other than this, players of the (thus far) two entries in Square Enix and Crystal Dynamics’ rebooted series about the adventurous vixen will recognize the borrowed gears. Lara’s father, Richard Croft (Dominic West), in his search for the world beyond has gone to Yamatai Island—the resting place of Sun Queen Himiko—and, well, gone. Although the world, including Lara’s guardian Ana (Kristin Scott Thomas), deems his dead, Lara refuses to; the guided discovery of her father’s secret hideout and Himiko-related documents give her room to hope. A plane flight, some skips, one sprint and a swing later, off Lara goes on her first adventure, not knowing she’ll collide with the artifact-hoarding mercenary group Trinity, its determined leader Mathias (Walton Goggins), and eventually the fabled Sun Queen herself.

In terms of porting the 2013 game to cineplexes, writers Geneva Robertson-Dworet and Alastair Siddons deftly walk the line between “staying true…”—essential character beats (first kill, splinter removal) and set pieces (plane-parachute, shipwreck) are intact—and “…but surprise!”—either through remixing (research vessel Endurance is now a corroding fishing boat) or relocating the aforementioneds, or streamlining (just one soul, Daniel Wu’s Haddock-like Lu Ren, is trapped on Yamatai with Lara). All that fan-servicing, however, has them deserting the game’s soul and finest selling point—watching the birth of a survivor. Right from the first scene, Vikander’s Lara is a near-total contrast to Camilla Luddington’s—in the boxing ring, amazingly toned, and born-crafty. The character remains empowering, but she’s now on a path of less-compelling evolution by starting off as a semi-badass rather than, quite literally, zero skill points. It’s unfathomable to see Tomb Raider not carrying over the game’s in-neon-signs emotional scaffold and lending a human touch to the emulation process.

That said, Vikander and director Roar Uthaug’s ability to entertain with as much octane as the film’s polygon-rich counterpart provides a great shelter for any flaw. Vikander charms as Lara, completely basking in the freedom of performing without being under pressures of the golden-statue kind. How nice it is to see The Man from U.N.C.L.E.’s Gaby Teller live on in Lara—crackling, funkily domineering and, when need be, affecting. And thanks to a presence that seamlessly unites seraphic and athletic, the actress magnifies the thrill when she passes or temporarily stumbles any of director Uthaug’s moments bombastic, or more bombastic, obstacles, all of which channel the visceral trait of those in the director’s last film, The Wave. No one-upping the game’s set pieces, though.

Notably, if one’s role on set isn’t leading, say protagonist or director, prepare to be sidelined by the writing in the last stretch. Victims are plenty—the editing rushes, the lensing feels off, and the music’s immutable aspect comes forth—though none are clearer than the trio of Wu, Goggins and Scott Thomas, capable actors who were given proper build up only to find their roles reduced to filler. It seems like the writers have given in to the committee’s request to prioritize “a great launch pad for a franchise” over “a great debut.”

But remember that sense of fun? Whenever Tomb Raider falters, it’s always there to provide cushion. Hopefully it can do so in real life, too, and influence box-office returns to where part two is confirmed, to where this surprisingly diverting rendition of Lara Croft can sprout truly and naturally—maybe even with enough force to be the first absolutely curse-free video-game adaptation. “As you think, so shall you become,” said Bruce Lee; get to work on a logo that will give Ms. Croft a future then, Warner Bros.!

Overall Grade: B-

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Hear our podcast review on Episode 265.

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Director: John Krasinski
Writers: John Krasinski, Scott Beck, Bryan Woods
Stars: John Krasinski, Emily Blunt, Millicent Simmonds, Noah Jupe

Synopsis: A family of four must navigate their lives in silence after mysterious creatures that hunt by sound threaten their survival.

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Silence. Virtually every human or every living creature has been drowned in the properties of silence at a certain period in their life. How could someone adapt to having to live in silence for the rest of a lifetime? How would a family? John Krasinski, not only questions viewers with these, but examines the unifying significance of grief that a family faces in the middle of already ongoing tragedy. Such tragedy that rests as the vigor for the films innate drive. Krasinski truly does deserve to be the recipient of such needed acclaim. While this isn’t profound enough to be a revolutionary marvel, it wouldn’t be the same if he wasn’t attached.

As much as I feared that the majority of the films lurking sense of doom was to be flagrantly ignited by constant jump scares—while admittedly there are a handful of them—Krasinski is no greenhorn in this situation. He maintains the foreboding thriller-ish roots he’s set out before him and doesn’t abandon that when shall I say, things hit the fan. He coaxes in the audience with a secondary struggle between a family at large, which isn’t as formulaic as it may seem due to its cogency toward the narrative and eventual finale. The palpable undercurrent of tension in the midst of this restrained shelter of confinement throughout the films aura of terror is constantly stacked upon each forthcoming pillar, being just as heart-pounding, palm-sweating, nail-biting as one can expect. Who knew Jim from The Office could build such authentic tension?

Despite the scarcity of any supporting characters, this family contains enough development and arcs to sustain the gaping holes of any other contradicting personas or argumentative standpoints from non-existing characters. Therefore since most of the movie is in sign language, every actor/actress is nuanced enough to the point where there’s no one trying to outperform each other. Millicent Simmonds’ character is surely the most intriguing however, just because of how sublime of an actress she is and how fundamental is she is to the narrative. It does become quite difficult to be completely on board with everything they’ve prepared for us however. As even in sign language some of the script that’s being performed tends to get quite tacky between authenticating the families bond. Attempting to show the strength they have and the unity that brings them together after a certain event, but its vision is just too dense and blurred to construct. The majority of it all is pure exposition anyway, so it surely doesn’t benefit our characters and general focus.

Even within the opening prologue of the film, we’re fed a spoonful of the apprehensive events that are sure to tag along to the rest of the production. There are instances in the middle of these wretched events that mirror the presence of claustrophobia yet exhibit the soundless, scathing pain are characters have to remain in even in the most horrific of monstrosities. And for a film revolving entirely upon the necessity of surviving parallel to the companionship of silence, sound is one of the most affluent ingredients towards A Quiet Place’s continuously striving dominance. Once the rising action has its first true stepping stone in the direction of the climax, the sound mixing and editing take hold of the wheel. Furiously agitating the rapidity of chest-pounding heart beats and sharp adrenaline rushes. It makes the mild level of gore unbearable due to maniacal threat and panic at hand.

While there isn’t any startling twist nor some unexpected revealing detail, this film flourishes in its own personal small accomplishments and successes. This fortunately, discloses everything for a polished transition to a new scene or sequence. Even in the face of doubt or fatality, I adore how there’s always something new to build upon. The film is persistent in throwing curveballs at you and Krasinski is constantly strangling the audience with unfortunate predicaments, one after another. Some more exhausting than others of course, yet all equally draining. The full progression of it all relies solely around based pessimism and angst but doesn’t tarnish the basic evolution of the film, demonstrating that even in such dire circumstances there’s still affection and knowledge to be processed and learned.

As much as a factor of the element of seclusion and the always abrupt setpieces are, there’s this subconscious niche that feels a bit slovenly knitted together in relation to how the film actually comes to be. The whole “if they can hear you, they can hunt you” ploy and the brusque nature of these creatures is a correlation to the uncertainty of their incursion, yet it doesn’t completely seal away all of the films doubt about whether this tale is sentient enough to remain striving. Excluding the opening, it struggles quite extensively to be something more than just an ambition. The beginning commences a riveting segue into the meat of the film but also supplies a skittish execution with the level of momentum and urgency they have until something truly of worth happens. All of that is ultimately made up though due to the extremely unsettling conclusion. By the end, there’s hardly anyone else to put hope in to because of how the audience and characters have accepted what feels like a finality at this point. Also because a certain character fate in particular breaks every single emotion you might’ve had left. Most impressingly, all of it feels perfectly warranted and it actually knows the path it desires to take after that event has transpired.

It brings me pleasure in that I’m able to say, A Quiet Place is indeed, great. While it does wear on some of its characters with certain plot decisions and narrative dissonance, I admire the impetuous suspense that stays mostly consistent throughout the entirety of the runtime. And plus, it’s got a killer ending. I know I’ll never forget that finale accompanied by the screams that lingered all throughout the auditorium. It’s a definitive crowd-pleasing, must-see.

Overall Grade: B+

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Hear our podcast review on Episode 266, coming soon.

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Director: Ava DuVernay
Writers: Jennifer Lee, Jeff Stockwell, Madeleine L’Engle (based on the book by)
Stars: Storm Reid, Levi Miller, Oprah Winfrey, Reese Witherspoon, Mindy Kaling, Zach Galifianakis, Chris Pine

Synopsis: After the disappearance of her scientist father, three peculiar beings send Meg, her brother, and her friend to space in order to find him.

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“Sweet dreams aren’t made of this, and it’s tough to get up and flee.” Not Eurythmics, USA.

Such is the reality of Meg (Storm Reid), a teen who has shut off her science-loving, open-minded self when the disappearance of her father, NASA physicist Alex (Chris Pine), made her a target for bullies and indifferent adults. For the longest time, she thinks he’s abandoned her when in fact, after interacting with the tesseract aka wrinkled time that grants access to worlds beyond, a dark force called The It has entrapped him. And just when Meg gets told by many in the same day that letting go will do her good, she receives news about Alex, alive, well and in need of a way back. As the saying goes for any adventure, “it’s dangerous to go alone,” rallying behind Meg are her prodigious brother Charles Wallace (Deric McCabe), blue-eyed classmate Calvin (Levi Miller) plus three cosmic peacekeepers—sprightly Mrs. Whatsit (Reese Witherspoon), walking encyclopedia Mrs. Who (Mindy Kaling) and poise incarnate Mrs. Which (Oprah Winfrey).

Meg’s pre-rescuer reality is also the viewer’s, an interesting attribute for a film about crossing dimensions and also an aching point to bring up. While A Wrinkle in Time is commendable for rendering itself as a sincere, passionate, all-the-way-’til-Sunday broadcast of life’s virtues— optimism, determination and, especially, generosity—the message is so wonkily assembled it does little to exorcise dark seeds—frustration, confusion, and questions. You would think director Ava DuVernay will nail the visualization of Madeleine L’Engle’s prose since, cerebrality aside, the source material provides more space than Selma for her to provoke hearts and demands more focus than 13th to properly cover the subject matter. Thing is, the filmmaker does both—attempts are visible—but it’s constantly obscured when Spencer Averick’s editing is inspired by VMA 2009 Kanye. The constant hopping, even in the least chaotic of moments, and evident truncating diminish DuVernay’s efforts to patch the spottier acting, allay the novel’s density, and flaunt an improved visual sense. Since time moves jaggedly rather than flowy here, watching the film mirrors to reading a book with parts of it dispersed all over the galaxy, waiting for someone to tesser to where they are. But after a couple of sections are gathered, disappointment remains as they don’t seem to connect, or at least give the illusion of connection. Channel the inner child, the director asks before the screening; that happened, and one can’t help but keep maturing when flow is drained and the writing grows clunkier.

It’s tiring and heart-bruising to see A Wrinkle in Time unable to impress in a manner that matches its intention— clearly and smoothly communicate a tribute to empowerment that, when heard, will reaffirm. It may even cure, if current times are considered. But credit where it’s due, and the film promises to excite anyone who loves music, fashion, hairdo, and makeup— no matter the level. Sure, Reid’s quiet confidence and her performance as the thematic surrogate delight, enough to compensate the weightlessness of her co-star Miller (and what is he doing here? And Michael Peña and Zach G, too?), but she and the emotions become auxiliary to the vivifying and Sadé-featured soundtrack, Paco Delgado’s intricate dresses (particularly those for Mrs. Who), lavish follicle designs from Kim Kimble, and beautifying techniques courtesy of LaLette Littlejohn. Time, thanks to its invisibility, enables those tasked with depicting it to add as much color, in all senses of the word, to their hearts’ content, so why not go all out? Glad that it did when it could.

That said, it’s unfortunate, and upsetting, when right now A Wrinkle in Time resembles a more-attuned music radio station or an enlarged Pinterest for costume and hairstyling inspirations rather than this fantasy-set (yet crucial) chicken soup for the soul. There’s no dismissing the ambition of DuVernay and company, but tessering is required to be where a better version of the film is screening. Paging Dr. Who.

Overall Grade: C

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Hear our podcast review on Episode 264, coming soon.

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