Director: Francis Lawrence
Writers: Justin Haythe, Jason Matthews (based on the book by)
Stars: Jennifer Lawrence, Joel Edgerton, Matthias Schoenaerts, Charlotte Rampling, Jeremy Irons

Synopsis: Ballerina Dominika Egorova is recruited to ‘Sparrow School,’ a Russian intelligence service where she is forced to use her body as a weapon. Her first mission, targeting a C.I.A. agent, threatens to unravel the security of both nations.

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In Russia, birds watch you—some may also shadow you, influence you then terminate you. This is the skill set of a “Sparrow,” a sect of the Russian intelligence community with personnel intensely trained to entice marks and peck them—until death, if necessary—to obtain nation-debilitating info. They were real (and could still be in existence) if we are to put stock in the experience and experiences of former CIA operatives Jonna Hiestand Mendez and Jason Matthews.

Matthews is also the spotlighter of this particular breed of spy; his field journal being the award-winning, CIA-approved (!) book that director Francis Lawrence’s latest derived from. And somewhat unsurprisingly, accompanying Mr. Lawrence into the (cold) warzone for information is again Ms. Lawrence, Jennifer Lawrence, here as Dominika Egorova, the prima ballerina who unfortunately meets every dancer’s kryptonite—a leg snap—in front of a full house. Since not having the means to tend her ailing mother (Joely Richardson) can’t be an option, Dominika, at the suggestion of her eldritch uncle Vanya (Matthias Schoenaerts), agrees to grow wings of ultimate manipulation at a school headlined by the icy Matron (Charlotte Rampling). The task of the bird? Snuff out codename MARBLE, the Kremlin mole who has been making CIA’s business in Russia a breeze through frequent interactions with CIA agent Nate Nash (Joel Edgerton).

Although Red Sparrow places Lawrence the performer at the forefront of its promos—the way she has Dominika declaring either loyalty or humanity as “baggage” or “soul-saving,”  depending on who is in the room, renders the actress at her most magnetic yet—this is more a showcase for Lawrence the director. As most who lives in the MTV-still-loves-music era ought to know, the Austrian-American filmmaker kept style on speed dial when his forte was exclusively visualizing chart-toppers, same goes during the making of his pre-Hunger Games features. Turns out all is well, maybe even improved, when the glitziness and poppiness coursing those Damita Jo, J-Lo or Britney B music videos aren’t out to play. It’s hard to believe that Red Sparrow’s helmer and that of Constant-reeves and I Am Legend are the same; the man whose flair is fuel is also a deft practitioner of artful simplicity. Methodical camera placements, a gentle push or pull, and where the leads occupy the frame—the efficiency-favored aesthetic disarms those spoiled by the swankiness of today’s spies—like the later Bonds, Kingsmen, or Lorraine Broughton of Atomic Blonde—and reminds them that, as Matthews’ writings show, being a spy isn’t living out a blockbuster. Case in point: After an exchange between Nash and the mole turned sour, Nash sprints to the U.S. Embassy rather than hops into an Aston that can autopilot to “RZ Alpha Zulu 22.”

And Lawrence’s change-up saves Red Sparrow more often than it has to. Once again, it’s the direction that offsets writer Justin Haythe’s confusion of bloat for world-building (thought The Lone Ranger and A Cure for Wellness would have provided great notes), which over-stretches the telling of the tale to 140 minutes and is strange for a film that has subtle tricks to depict long stretches of time passing. It also distracts fans of the screen’s coolest players of imposing figures, physically and vocally—Schoenaerts, Jeremy Irons, and Ciarán Hinds—from the disappointment that comes when such a glorious union is made solely to add gloss to the frame. It, too, has us looking out for both Dominika and Nate (despite an interpersonal connection that never grows beyond an outline), especially when failures come to see them. Speaking of failures, while the uncompromising nature in portraying brutality serves the oppressive mood well, they do tease the specter of exploitation when the film, as if aware of its two-plus hours of life, really takes it time before moving on to the next scene (or, gulp, to the next part of the punishment).

Those issues aside, both Lawrences go to battle with the right vision and exercise it to the fullest. In building a world where redactions thrive, they go in hiding nothing—he behind the camera and she in front. Each person makes up a wing preventing Red Sparrow from becoming one with the bumpy terrain right underneath.

Overall Grade: B

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Hear our podcast review on Episode 263!

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Director: Duncan Jones
Writers: Michael Robert Johnson, Duncan Jones
Stars: Alexander Skarsgård, Paul Rudd, Justin Theroux

Synopsis: When his girlfriend vanishes, a mute man ventures into a near-future Berlin’s seamy underworld, where his actions speak louder than words.

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Hidden deep within the criminal underbelly that’s sheathed by the soaking wet, not-so-distant Berlin, lies a population of cynics. Among the presence of artificial intelligence and these now evolved gangsters is a displaced, local mute bartender, Leo. Mute is not merely a film, but more so a visualization of the descent of Duncan Jones’ career. Jones has always garnered such avid amounts of admiration personally, due to the painstakingly high level of devotion that was so discernible from his debut film(s). His first being 2008’s Moon, which at its current period resounded as untreaded waters for the science-fiction genre. However, we’ve all become fully conscious of the calamity known as Warcraft. Henceforth with Mute, Jones’ deterioration as a visual craftsman has alas, finally submerged him.

The enshrined mournful sense of atmosphere allows for an even larger-scale magnitude of contrast to the likes of Blade Runner. While the comparisons are admittedly uncanny—not just structurally but aesthetically—the validity of that argument feels unjustified. Mute’s technicality is in a completely different ballpark in terms of value, so shredding it’s universe to pieces simply feels like a gist where one compares every somewhat stylistically similar science-fiction film to that of Blade Runner. Of course there’s no denying that the set design is quite obnoxious indeed, sloppily utilizing generic sci-fi inner city tropes (rain, smoke, neon lights) to further exalt a zealous, neo-noirish grime. Yet the viewer can never unlock that sense of futuristic realism. Visual storytelling attempts to manifest such graphic anecdotes that creators can only hope become embedded into an environment for their exploitation. And with that, Mute isn’t nearly as vivid as Jones is wanting it to be.

The story alternates between narratives as it tends to shift attention from our main(?) plot with Leo, played by Alexander Skarsgård, who’s searching for his lost girlfriend Naadirah. While also following the endeavors of two Americans who become entangled in that progression, one being Cactus Bill (Paul Rudd) and his acquaintance Duck (Justin Theroux). This film doesn’t ever corroborate a truly clear enough focal point. They allot and equal amount of time for both Leo’s story arc with the subplot of Bill and Duck, leaving viewers with no general consensus or even a clear motive for our supposed antagonist. There’s even instances where the Cactus Bill storyline surpasses an intrigue than the principal account. That extent of that internal issue dissolves in to an overshadowing of the story and once we’ve reached a *climax*, there’s no intensity nor a sense of payoff. Due to the lack of a more pertinent set-up and a non-disclosed storyline, every fragment has simply perished by the end. By that point, there’s precisely no engagement or assertion left to give.

Skarsgård and Rudd are the only faithful vitality attached to this film. They carry the scarce heap of substance and lack of development for their respective intertwining stories. And on the other hand are the only people in the movie that look like they might want to be there. There’s only so much emotion an actor can transmit when given such a painfully muted (pun intended) screenplay. With the blatantly foul attempts to make the most of the script, but even then every character among Leo or even Bill, lack any depth of complexity. They’re penned and become woven in to the page-to-screen adaptation as one-dimensional personas but with virtually no personal eruption or direction built-in. The only thing that ever comes off as relatively authentic is the relationship between Leo and his partner. They’re opening prologue somewhat displays the mutual affection for each other and is the only veritable aspect when magnifying the story structure and such.

Perhaps the modest silver linings I can possibly squeeze out of this insipid effort of a film, all derive from their technical components. While not mind-shattering, Clint Mansell’s score isn’t wholeheartedly awful, as it manages to synthesize a few idyllic chords to authenticate the sci-fi era and romance. Gary Shaw’s cinematography doesn’t quite achieve that level of abhorrence either. It’s only true struggle is how it’s employed, but it’s quite unremarkably harmful nonetheless. Omitting those couple of tangencies, every other audio/video feature can only be eminent for how abysmal they are. Down to the wonky editing, lighting, and most embarrassingly the choreographed action for the two scenes that actually expand upon the opportunity. There can’t be any excuses for that, especially in a universe with as much freedom as this one pertains. All of these adjustments could’ve been made had production been more secure, but what happened during that time is now the past.

Let’s just hope Jones is given another chance to redeem himself as he’s journeyed onto an odd path as of now. Again, perhaps if the production was handled more superior this could’ve been the ‘spiritual’ sequel to Moon that I was looking and hoping for. For now I suppose we’ll just have to stick with excessively subpar incarnations before we can get another true gem from him. At least it’s still better than Warcraft.

Overall Grade: D

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Hear our podcast review on an upcoming Extra Film.

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Director: Alex Garland
Writers: Alex Garland (written for the screen by), Jeff VanderMeer (based on the novel by)
Stars: Natalie Portman, Jennifer Jason Leigh, Tessa Thompson, Oscar Isaac

Synopsis: A biologist signs up for a dangerous, secret expedition where the laws of nature don’t apply.

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A hit in both critical and fan circles, Alex Garland’s directorial debut, Ex Machina, presented a culmination-of- sorts for much of the teeth-cutting evidenced by Garland’s writing credits for Danny Boyle’s 28 Days Later and Sunshine. His latest work, adapted from the Jeff VanderMeer novel of the same name, brings its writer/director’s penchant for modestly-budgeted- yet-gorgeous, ideas-led science-fiction with horror elements – a niche housing few voices – to its next logical step. While Ex Machina’s cast have since turned their attentions to vastly more commercial fare (though Oscar Isaac makes an appearance here), it seems only a matter of short time before Garland himself is entrusted with a production of Nolan-esque scale. One does drool at the prospect.

An interrogation opens Annihilation, introducing us, as it unfolds, to Lena (an excellent Natalie Portman), her vague responses to Lomax’s (a sparingly-utilised Benedict Wong) questions offering a clue as to the ambiguous unfolding of her story. The picture is then ours to complete, retracing Lena’s steps from the university in which she lectures biology, to a short-lived military career and the mysterious vanishing of husband, Kane (Oscar Isaac). Kane, of course, does return, but his non- explanation does little to placate Lena’s understandable scrutiny, a befuddlement in his gaze mirroring her own from the opening scene. This confusion, it turns out, can be blamed squarely on The Shimmer, an unexplained membrane of greenish/purple-hued light encircling a wide, forested park, at the centre of which stands a lighthouse, assumed to be the epicentre of the phenomenon. Kane’s condition, now quarantined and in a life-threatening mess of things, prompts Lena to volunteer her expertise to an investigative four-member team of sciency girl power (a point not lost on Lena as she remarks, “All women?”) led by Dr. Ventress (Jennifer Jason Leigh), as they attempt to search for answers to questions they don’t even know to ask.

Visually, Annihilation is an unerring triumph. Though made on a comparatively paltry budget to most A-list casted sci-fi, clever use of lighting adds weight to the most horrifying moments while the most pastoral are bathed in vibrant, hyper-real tones. The Shimmer quite literally shimmers in the ubiquitous lens flare that, in other films, I’ve taken to be a distraction; here it enhances. (Of course, all this adds up to a point about urging readers not to wait for the Blu-Ray release; this is a proper big screen event.) And it’s because all this technical balance works so well that the questions at the heart of Annihilation merit their attention: Why is Kane sick? Why can’t they remember simple things?

…What will they find at the lighthouse?

Like Ex Machina before it, but perhaps more like his Sunshine screenplay, Annihilation is first and foremost an ideas film. This I write as a disclaimer for those unfamiliar with the marketing practices of glossy sci-fi features: the trailer, aside from showcasing some of Annihilation’s awesome spectacle, doesn’t prepare you for the rabbit hole down which it delves. Deeply. That this film features a third act to my mind reminiscent of Ken Russell’s Altered States and Jonathan Glazer’s Under the Skin is, frankly, applause-worthy, and speaks ultimately to an ambition far wider than we’re used to seeing in our multiplexes. My own reservations about an entirely needless final shot aside, I couldn’t be more anxious for Mr. Garland’s follow-up, hopefully un-Netflixed project.

Overall Grade: A-

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Hear our podcast review on Episode 262, coming soon.

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Director: Brian Crano
Writers: Brian Crano
Stars: Rebecca Hall, Dan Stevens, Jason Sudeikis, David Joseph Craig

Synopsis: A woman on the brink of a marriage proposal is told by a friend that she should date other men before spending the rest of her life with her boyfriend.

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Some romantic comedies work better as guilty innocent fun, and should strictly function as such, but
those with a message can be a tricky thing to successfully accomplish, even when that message is
admirable and worth pursuing. This is Brian Crano’s goal with Permission, a film that attempts to dissect our modern view of love, relationships, and marriage, by asking the question on many rational minds; are we okay no longer knowing what else is sexually out there? In marriage, we lock ourselves in with our respective significant other, “till death do you part” as they say; perhaps that should excite you, but Crano urges you to consider its ramifications, a potential emptiness as a result. Crano is asking all the right questions, except for arguably the most important one; “How do I depict these notions successfully, and with consistency?” Perhaps Crano is just inexperienced, but unfortunately his execution is way off, even offensively so.

Permission stars Rebecca Hall and Dan Stevens as a loving couple, Anna and Will. To give you a sense at how “loving” their relationship is, Will (who works in residential construction) is mentally preparing for a marriage proposal, all while building his and Anna’s future home. One night, while out to dinner with their good friends Hale and Reece (themselves a loving couple, with Hale also being Anna’s brother and Reece being Will’s business partner), the two friends challenge Anna and Will on their loving commitment to one another; are they curious as to what else may be out there? This thought provokes Anna and Will to take on the challenge, giving each other the freedom to temporarily open their relationship and sexually explore (a “hall pass” of sorts; and no, not the film of the same name starring Owen Wilson and Jason Sudeikis, though coincidentally Sudeikis also appears in Permission).

And this is all established in the first five to ten minutes.

Such a thin setup is severely felt throughout the film; as Anna and Will sexually venture off, we still
struggle to know who they are outside of just casual sex. As such, the entire film just comes off as most casual sex does; it’s just too superficial. It’s even more unfortunate that Brian Crano has a great juxtaposition to work with, coupling Anna and Will with their friendly couple in Hale and Reece. Hale and Reece are the antitheses to Anna and Will, as two men who want to find ways to bring themselves even closer together by considering adoption and family life, only to push themselves further apart in the process. Crano struggles to perfect this trapeze artist routine, and the balance just feels off; bouncing back and forth from Anna and Will to Hale and Reece actually does the film less good, and instead of creating a dramatic duality between both couples it all just feels too randomized, and not of a piece with the final product. It’s an even bigger shame that the performances, especially Rebecca Hall and Dan Stevens, are actually very good here.

These are all objective flaws, ones you could pick apart in most any film. Where Crano loses all credibility is in his depiction of casual sex, especially from the female point of view. Anna finds herself a new male interest in musician Dane (Francois Arnaud), while Will simultaneously pursues an older Lydia (Gina Gershon). It would be one thing to sense a genuine connection forming between these respective new “couples”, but we only get that between Anna and Dane, who genuinely work for each other’s affection (for the most part, until Anna blatantly comes out and tells Dane, “I was just using you for sex.”). Will, on the other hand, is practically stalked by Lydia, leading him on to not only a sexual escapade, but a drug-fueled date of ecstasy and a sharing of deepest secrets; it’s supposed to be a funny sequence, but it’s just crass. Is sex really this easy? Or, as the movie inadvertently implies, do women make it that easy? In Permission, the women approach and ask for it, and the men keel over to it. Not only does that approach fail in providing a dual frame of reference between man and woman (something a movie like this actually needs), but it implies there’s less genuineness on our loving minds, and I would argue it’s unintentionally sexist and mean-spirited.

This leads to a “devastating” climax, and I use quotes because that is Crano’s intended goal. The truth
is, the ending does not work at all, when in fact it actually diminishes the film’s initial intentions. There was something to be said for a couple to grant themselves the ruthless freedom they did, only to find themselves drawn even closer together because of it; this would have been the more devastating and sinister route, but Crano doesn’t trust his intentions. Instead, he vouches for the easy way out, the one that feels more saddening on the surface, when in fact it just feels too safe. This is a perfect embodiment to what Permission as a whole feels like, and ironically similar to failed relationships, it’s just one big missed opportunity. Crano rightfully understands that relationships are not easy, but his film unfortunately is.

Overall Grade: D+

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Hear our podcast review on Extra Film:

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Director: Ryan Coogler
Writers: Ryan Coogler, Joe Robert Cole, Stan Lee and Jack Kirby (based on the comics by)
Stars: Chadwick Boseman, Michael B. Jordan, Danai Gurira, Lupita Nyong’o, Letitia Wright, Angela Bassett

Synopsis: T’Challa, after the death of his father, the King of Wakanda, returns home to the isolated, technologically advanced African nation to succeed to the throne and take his rightful place as king.

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Holy Bast.

All RTJ asks of T’Challa (Chadwick Boseman) is to “step into the spotlight.” He abides, and afterward adds four more moves into the act: weave spectacle for the masses, pave a future for his cinematic peers, give representation a mighty chance, and set a formidable seat at the superheroes’ table.

Holy Bast, right?

Contrary to popular belief, Wakanda is real; it’s just hidden behind a force field and the guise of an impoverished, aid-averse, and agrarian nation. Sitting above a deposit of a powerful and readily weaponizable ore called vibranium calls for that kind of security, though. Black Panther takes place post-Civil War, after T’ Chaka (John Kani) has died and T’Challa is ready to sit on the throne. Expectedly, his fitness to be the people’s ruler, as well as their panther-esque guardian, will be tested; the villainous forces being Afrikaner gun monger Ulysses Klaue (Andy Serkis) and former black-ops soldier Erik “Killmonger” Stevens (Michael B. Jordan), an animal that profits from chaos and a warrior who believes the world’s oppressed must be armed to win, respectively.

While Black Panther’s journey will surprise no one in these superhuman-crowded times as this is an origin story, it’s the only thing director Ryan Coogler and company let unfold traditionally. As for the sights, the sounds, the interactions, the personality, and most crucially how a particular emotion is sought—all listen to what the “MCU bible” preaches but interpret the lines in a way like no other. Giving colors to the aesthetics and apparels isn’t novel—see the Guardians of the Galaxy series—yet d.o.p. Rachel Morrison and costume designer Ruth E. Carter, both Oscar nominees, have the hues spell regality rather than funky, character before style. The hero’s complete understanding of responsibilities will no doubt happen, but Coogler and co-writer Joe Robert Cole attach to the process a weight made up of familial dynamics and the sight of the marginalized. One swashbuckling score? Got it, though how about we switch the horn-string duo by melding the sounds the jungle with canopy with that in the jungle built from concrete? The result from composer Ludwig Göransson is outstanding; a marriage of tribal and trap that’s guaranteed to thrill. In all, Black Panther demonstrates the result of letting the oft-overlooked give the formula a whirl—marvelous, pun heck-to-the-yes intended. Statement-making, even.

Then there’s the cast, pouncing onto the scene bursting with impression. The lads are solid—Serkis relishes in being rabid; Boseman summons charisma without breaking a sweat; leave it to Forest Whitaker (as the king’s advisor Zuri) and Daniel Kaluuya (as tribe chief W’Kabi) to nail “quiet grace”—but Jordan goes above and beyond to give the world, ours and MCU’s, its second Loki: compelling, attitude-aplenty, layered, and perpetually on-point delivery. Remember to save your heart from the deep when Killmonger says that haunting line.

That being said, it’s the ladies of Black Panther who ultimately triumph; no one in their crew is someone like Everett Ross (Martin Freeman), or filler. Gorgeously fierce, scalpel-sharp, and—particularly true for the principal trio of security head Okoye (Danai Gurira), spy Nakia (Lupita Nyong’o), and quartermaster/sister Shuri (Letitia Wright)—wholly capable of turning armors into a trend, the actresses make every bit of their screen time matter, flaunting either the sinews that assemble them or the Wakandan spirit that empowers them. And Coogler knows where to best prove the point: a dynamite casino shootout-then-car chase sequence set in the neon-streaked Korean city of Busan. Hooting is almost a must when Okoye scoffs at our “primitive” reliance on guns as bullets fly around her, and later on proves how much of a car-killer her metallic spear can be.

Like every performance, certain things could have been better in retrospect. For Black Panther, must the editing be that hectic when Coogler, as seen in Creed, understands that jumpiness doesn’t necessarily correlate to ramping up the excitement? And at times, in the service of clarity, CGI replaces Boseman’s performance without shame, turning what is envisioned as rugged into rubbery. Thankfully, we can, and will, let them slide, for the panther seldom loses momentum and there’s a pattern of a peak provided after a dip. By the end, we shall stand, perhaps cheer as if the Astros just win again, as a testament to how enthralling and precedent-setting the past 134 minutes have been.

Yes, you better hail. This royally blooded cat does not play.

Overall Grade: A

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Hear our podcast review on Episode 261.

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