Director: Ryûsuke Hamaguchi
Writers: Ryûsuke Hamaguchi, Eiko Ishibashi
Stars: Hitoshi Omika, Ryô Nishikawa, Ryûji Kosaka

Synopsis: Takumi and his daughter Hana live in Mizubiki Village, close to Tokyo. One day, the village inhabitants become aware of a plan to build a camping site near Takumi’s house offering city residents a comfortable “escape” to nature.

It took Ryûsuke Hamaguchi around 40 minutes before he dropped the title card in his 2021 Oscar-winning film Drive My Car. A magnificent film regardless of that type of specific heat check, the renowned Japanese director seems particularly aware of how his next film might be perceived. In that case, he sheds any notion of playfulness by opening the film with the title card at frame one: Evil Does Not Exist. And as soon as that’s out of the way, Hamaguchi offers his hand to his audience to guide them somewhat aimlessly through a forest. Lush trees slowly creep in and out of the frame as we look skyward, unsure of where we are, how we got there, where we’re going; but it’s soothing, especially when treated to the rich score of Eiko Ishibashi, which will most certainly be a talking point for audiences after the film. But over time, as the credits interject themselves into the serene images of greenery, the leaves are replaced with empty branches and decay. Now, this could be due in part to the time of year, but if there’s anything about Hamaguchi’s films that become immediately clear, it’s that every image is clearly calculated to invoke a thought or emotion in the viewer. And within mere minutes, the standard act of letting credits roll becomes a thesis statement in its own right. There’s nature, there’s the people that inhabit nature, and there’s the people who invade it. 

Takumi (Hitoshi Omika) lives in Mizubiki, a small village an hour or two from Tokyo. Hamaguchi introduces him rather silently. With that, over the course of a few scenes, we begin to get a sense of his routine and person. With little emotion, he chops wood efficiently and serenely gathers fresh water. It’s only upon his friend arriving to help carry the several gallons of water back to the car that he says anything. After a short interaction that captures the kind of person Takumi is, as well as his clear knowledge of the surrounding flora, he’s off to pick up his daughter, Hana. There’s a lot of driving in this film, and for a filmmaker like Hamaguchi, who often keeps the camera still and slow, he makes such an interesting choice when using vehicles. There are multiple sequences of the film wherein the camera appears to be set up in the trunk, looking out behind the car. It mimics a rear view camera, which we also see during one extended sequence, but to a much greater scale. It shakes with the opening and closing of a car door, rocks as the vehicle goes over gravel, and captures the sounds of nearby pedestrians and turning signals. As easily as Hamaguchi is able to transport us to the calm beauty of the outdoors, he can just as easily place us in the claustrophobia of a trunk. It’s this style of engrossing direction that Hamaguchi is able to excel at.

One of the most noticeable elements of Evil Does Not Exist is the ways in which the camera ever so subtly lingers. In most instances where a character exits the frame, Hamaguchi holds in serenity. It’s a reminder that the nature we find ourselves in on a consistent basis exists outside of us. We as people are not simply living on the land, but rather, we are living alongside it. Just because a character leaves Mizubiki to venture back into the city doesn’t mean that the hamlet or the surrounding woods freezes. It exists far beyond the scope of what these encroaching outsiders can imagine. It is in this infinite beauty, or rather, the desperation to protect and preserve it, wherein Hamaguchi is able to mine the emotional depths of his latest film.

The residents of Mizubiki convene at a meeting in which a company is laying out their plans for a new glamping resort. The forum is taking place in order for the residents to state their concerns or pose any questions regarding the resort. And it doesn’t take long before both the viewer and the residents of Mizubiki realize what’s occurring. This forum is basically for show. The two representatives attending are just talent agents, who, in their words, are “not qualified to reply” to certain statements being made. It’s a deeply frustrating experience exacerbated only by the fact that we know the outcome of this forum is already written in the profit margins of a spreadsheet. These representatives can take all the notes and feedback they’d like, from community criticisms to constructive, thought-out personal statements alike. But upon bringing it to upper management, the notion of cost comes up without hesitation. Damn the environment they’re encroaching upon and all who live nearby. In the eyes of the company president, a small enough pollution within the necessary legal parameters isn’t worth the loss of any possible profits. To put one of the more eloquent and thoughtful monologues of the film into more blunt, matter-of-fact terms, sh*t always rolls downhill. Whether it’s the literal overflow of a septic tank from the glamping resort, or upper management basically instructing employees to tell the village residents to piss off, the company was not there to listen; they were merely there to look better to local authorities and to proclaim what will be happening. It’s an anger-inducing sequence, reminiscent of Todd Haynes’ masterful Dark Waters, another film interested in the ways in which corporate greed and business jargon are used to destroy local communities and the very ground beneath our feet.

One can’t help but think of the title of this film in relation to a scene that occurs shortly after a request for a second forum is made. Takumi is discussing whether or not local deer will bite glamping residents. He assures them that they are docile and tend to avoid humans, unless they’ve been shot by hunters and can no longer run. Instead, they will stand and brace for an attack if they must. It’s here that Hamaguchi’s grand title feels as if it takes some shape. In this reading, evil does not exist naturally, but instead, it is created. It’s born out of desperation, brought on by the nature of human greed. To fault a gut shot deer for standing its ground in adrenaline-fueled fear and defense would be illogical. And the same logic should be given to both the earth itself, but also to the people who defend it. In this case, it’s the residents of Mizubiki. You can only remain quiet and inquisitive so long before realizing that there’s only a single path ahead.

In its first two acts, Hamaguchi’s Evil Does Not Exist leaves you with much to contemplate. It’s a patient film that rewards its audience with an enriching world and set of ideas. Even so, this feels far more direct than Hamaguchi’s approach in Drive My Car. Take, for example, a sequence in the final act of this film. It mirrors an earlier sequence, only this time, there has been a fundamental shift. It’s a disorientingly scary one, and is best experienced wholly in the moment. Hamaguchi once again leaves us with a coda to rack our brain, but not with the intention of being mysterious for the sake of shock. Instead, he and his films innately understand that life is hardly ever made up of two paths. There are many, and in many cases, it’s hard to tell which is the right one and which is the wrong one to take.

Grade: A-

Director: Rhys-Frake Waterfield
Writers: Rhys-Frake Waterfield, Matt Leslie, A.A. Milne
Stars: Scott Chambers, Tallulah Evans, Ryan Oliva

Synopsis: Not wanting to live in the shadows any longer, Winnie-the-Pooh, Piglet, Owl, and Tigger take their fight to the town of Ashdown, leaving a bloody trail of death and mayhem in their wake.

People who denounce the Winnie-The-Pooh: Blood And Honey franchise have not been exposed to the cruelty of the original Grimm Brothers fairy tales. It’s what makes this film creature spectacular and alluring; this vicious violence mixed with childhood fantasies. It deconstructs the nostalgia bait and turns it on its head, dismantling this sacred place given to particular films and TV series. Instead of honoring and revering a beloved childhood creature like Winnie-the-Pooh, it ravages it, destroying its saccharine fantasy-like cultural impact.

The second installment from the franchise Winnie-The-Pooh: Blood And Honey is directed by Rhys Frake-Waterfield and written by Matt Leslie. The first installment starts by killing the father in a Freudian attack on the fatherly/authoritarian social order, Piglet and Pooh dismantle their honorary father Christopher Robin, and by that, they are free from the grasp of his love. The sequel starts with Pooh, Piglet, and their new friends from the Hundred Acre Woods of Hell, Owl and Tigger, wreaking havoc on the world, killing more victims and attacking nearby towns. Christopher Robin’s character arc gets messier and more ridiculous than in the previous film with a missing kid brother turning out to be a bigger secret than anybody has anticipated. A different actor plays Christopher in the sequel which makes his character appear even more idiotic than the past film. All the more fun for audiences.

It’s hard to look at Winnie-the-Pooh: Blood and Honey 2 without a direct comparison to the first film. The first film lagged and lost its essence, stalling in pace and narrative improvement. The second film has built on the first but the talking mean nightmarish Poohverse characters have stripped the mystique of the first film. The mute monster trope that found its fame with Jason Voorhees returned to the stage with the Terrifier series, and despite the Pooh franchise extending that, the sequel has lost it with the babbling, gurgly monster talk.

There’s something cathartic about this film. The danger is so far away and detached from reality. Who will go into the woods and meet their end at the hands of half-animal, half-human monsters from a dark fairytale? Fools and horror movie characters who usually deserve what comes to them. It’s not The Cabin in the Woods, Wolf Creek kind of fear where characters from an eerily familiar setting face horrifying consequences; this seems like an unrealistic, demented situation where stupid people seem pulled into this trap through a hidden magnet in their brains. It’s the most guilty-pleasure fun anyone can ever watch, especially if they seek fun after a boring, long workday at the office. 

The sequel is cheesier and more fun to watch. As is the fact that none of the human characters are sympathetic or well-fleshed out. They all seem to exist in a syrupy, unrealistic world where people exist just to be prey to those mythical, bloody, and honey-thirsty creatures. By stripping all the human characters of any sympathetic, likable traits, the filmmakers and writers tone down the gorefest that can sometimes be overpowering in the film.

So what is the root of this genre? Senseless, dull, stupid violence where villainous, mask-wearing characters rarely speak, have a background story or even bother to explain themselves. This is when people won’t even bother delving into Jigsaw’s backstory or the creepy Hostel surgeons. Winnie-the-Pooh, clan-like Art the Clown from Terrifier, are eerie, voiceless monsters that only relish the art of dismembering humans in as messy a way as possible. According to box office numbers, these films are faring well. But what can their massive success tell about today’s modern society? For starters, there is a lot. Imagination and creativity rooted in the familiarity of original tales and standard formulas seem to be a recipe for success. The world may or may not be ready for another wave of torture porn, but are the heydays of the aughts unhinged, sadistic, bloodbath of the early aughts gone, never to be revisited by another filmmaker? It seems like the degree of grim believability that the early aughts torture porn crown jewels –The Collector, Martyrs, High Tension– have showcased has now become a thing of history. What remains is a hybrid film genre between slashers and senseless violence. Winnie-The-Pooh: Blood And Honey 2 is undoubtedly one of them.

Grade: B+

Director: Arkasha Stevenson
Writers: Tim Smith, Arkasha Stevenson, Keith Thomas
Stars: Nell Tiger Free, Ralph Ineson, Sonia Braga

Synopsis: A young American woman is sent to Rome to begin a life of service to the church, but encounters a darkness that causes her to question her faith and uncovers a terrifying conspiracy that hopes to bring about the birth of evil incarnate.

Horror is the genre most subjected to remakes, sequels, and origin stories; all of which are entirely unasked for by genre fans. These projects, particularly in the past decade or so, have been lifeless and without the vigor and dread that the original film to this follow-up (or predecessor) contained. But, there is the rare chance that one of these movies might surprise you. Fifty years have passed since the classic horror flick The Omen. The son of the devil, Damien, arrives at the hands of the Thorn family, and all hell breaks loose. That film has remained relevant within the horror genre, with filmmakers constantly reciting moments from it. But do we need to know about the events that occurred before that? 

In essence, no, we don’t. There is little to no need for us to know the ins and outs of how this fiend was created. But Arkasha Stevenson has been tasked with doing so with The First Omen  – a prequel with the same amount of terror and trepidation that the original contained. While you may not have wanted these answers, the Brand New Cherry Flavor director makes the process worthwhile by crafting one of the most solid studio horror legacy pictures in recent memory. It is backed by a stellar lead performance by Nell Tiger Free, who is firing on all cylinders, and bloody, dire imagery that may shock folks. True genre fans will feel blessed. 

The film’s cold open involves Father Brennan (Ralph Ineson) running to a chapel, where he is meant to meet someone who will give him answers to an uncanny happening taking place. Father Harris (Charles Dance) is sitting in the confessional booth, speaking about a woman being possessed. There is some hesitation on his part; Father Harris seems afraid to say every horrifying detail. Running out of words (and time), he presents Father Brennan with one last clue – a picture of a group of nuns holding a baby, who will eventually become the vessel for a creature that will shift the way people see religion for good. Father Brennan is shocked by what his comrade says, left rather speechless for a few seconds. 

When he finally manages to get his words out, it is already too late. Tragedy strikes as a falling painting, which slices a piece of Father Harris’ head. The last image we see of him contains a smile – a facial reaction that oozes hopelessness and damnation – and this is the first hint at bloody stakes The First Omen goes to, as well as the attempts by Stevenson at intercutting gore with camp through the nun-possession movie canvas that we are used to seeing. Throughout the film, Stevenson implements campy sensibilities in the narrative. It can be in the form of an actor’s line delivery or a narrative thread quickly developing somewhat ridiculously. Although it doesn’t work entirely, the majority help broaden the mysterious tone of the story. 

After that introduction, we meet our protagonist, Margaret Daino (Tiger Free), who is about to take the veil in a few days. She has relocated to Rome – the classic location for most nun-horror movies – to do the lord’s deed at a local orphanage. Before she does become a nun, her roommate, for the time being, Luz (María Caballero), motivates Margaret to take a trip downtown and go to a discotheque for one last night of freedom. The two head towards the strobing lights and pulsating techno-pop tracks that echo throughout the area, which lead to Margaret becoming enamored after a few drinks. What Stevenson does brilliantly in this relatively simple transition from the brightly lit convent to the blue-hued discotheque is making it feel like it is a whole different world that Margaret is slowly discovering. 

As the drinks pour and conversations start developing, the soundtrack becomes more energetic, almost as if it forces Margaret to embrace the free-form nature of this setting. Even though there is joy in the air, an uneasy feeling emerges; we see this through a hypnotic, distorting effect caused by the crowd dancing, swaying from left to right. What Margaret doesn’t know is that this trip will be the catalyst for something sinister lurking. After the night out, everything becomes darker; the place initially coated with a bright, luminescent light is now swallowed by dread and unease. However, there’s a wave of light amidst the darkness in the way of a young girl named Carlita (Nicole Sorace). And Margaret vows to protect her against this forthcoming evil. 

The First Omen doesn’t complicate its story that much. Of course, there are a few twists and turns to make the audience second guess. This is your regular nun-possession horror movie modified into a project that tips its hat to the films that came before while maintaining a sense of identity. The only moment you feel it is losing its uniqueness is during the ending sequence, in which Stevenson forces the foreseeable tie-in with the 1976 picture in a way that feels quite lazy. Nevertheless, the rest flows smoothly and without restrictions. From the first scene, you feel director Arkasha Stevenson’s grasp on the genre and her film’s classical look – reminiscent of the big studio horror pictures from the 70s and 80s. 

You feel the gloss of the multi-million dollar budget coating every frame, yet with some weight to it induced by the filmmaker’s talent, a quality lacking in the recently released films from the Hollywood giants. A primary reason these horror films fail to engage the audience is that the company heads tend to restrain the filmmaker at the helm. That isn’t the case with The First Omen. Every few minutes, you get a visual or image that immediately puts you on edge – oozing dread and disquietude. Stevenson doesn’t want to hold back at all; she implements body horror and elements of nunsploitation as the essential gadgets to build up the scares, ensuring a thrilling experience for genre fans. 

As a treat for genre fans, these moments come with a couple of easter eggs, referencing legendary films like Andrzej Żuławski’s Possession and The Texas Chain Saw Massacre. And it is all captured by the talented cinematographer Aaron Morton, who has had his hand in several legacy projects like Evil Dead (2013) and the recent Lord of the Rings series. While The First Omen has many things going for it, I believe its best asset is the performance by its leading lady, Nell Tiger Free, the film’s beating (and terrifying) heart. She plays a caring mother figure for the entirety of the film, yet her emotions vacillate constantly—switching from exasperation and horrification to worry and angst in seconds. 

Nell Tiger Free commits to every bit Arkasha Stevenson brings to the table, so her character becomes very compelling. It is quite a physical and demanding role. But she is later rewarded with her version of the classic subway scene in the aforementioned Possession, channeling her inner Isabelle Adjani. She screams her heart out while the creature inside devours her. And it is beautiful to watch cinematically. Many filmmakers have made their renditions of that scene, looking for ways to make them both different and equally haunting; the one I often recall is Gaspar Noé’s in Climax. However, Stevenson takes a more direct approach without making it seem like a scene-by-scene copy. 

It is in this scene – and many others that are scattered across the film’s runtime – that you see how Stevenson uses shock factor without ever feeling exploitative, yet tipping her hat to the Grindhouse nunsploitation flicks that inspired her vision for The First Omen. For me, that is what makes this legacy project function properly. It has its unhinged moments where everything goes to hell in a handcart, and, at the same time, Stevenson provides moments for the audience to breathe.

Grade: B+

Director: Sam Taylor-Johnson
Writer: Matt Greenhalgh
Stars: Marisa Abela, Eddie Marsan, Jack O’Connell

Synopsis: The life and music of Amy Winehouse, through the journey of adolescence to adulthood and the creation of one of the best-selling albums of our time.

When one watches Sam Taylor-Johnson’s acutely misguided biopic Back to Black, based on the life of Amy Winehouse, the temptation to hiss at the screen and Matt Greenhalgh’s script is almost too difficult to resist. The team behind Back to Black decided they would not look into “anyone’s particular version” of Winehouse’s story, but instead be guided by Amy’s lyrics. The claim becomes that the film is Amy’s version of Amy. If that is the case, why is it that almost everyone who actually cared about her is almost erased from the narrative and people who abused her, including her father Mitchell Winehouse (Eddie Marsan) and her ex-husband Blake Fielder-Civil (Jack O’Connell) come off as near saints?

The film begins with a voiceover of Amy (Marisa Abela) reading her application to a performing arts school. “I just want to be remembered as a singer.” Amy is running through the streets. Is she free or being chased? Neither Taylor-Johnson nor the script seem to care. It is a bookend for rubbish. The scene shifts to Amy speaking with her beloved grandmother, Cynthia (the always excellent Lesley Manville) encouraging her to do what she loves. Cynthia’s memory box, which includes photographs of her with Ronnie Scott, is the touchstone we are given for Amy’s deep and abiding love of jazz. The focus moves to Mitch singing the standard “Fly Me to The Moon.” It’s supposed to be some kind of establishing scene for who Amy is, but it comes off more as Mitch’s “I coulda been a contender” moment.

Mitch makes money as a cabbie and when he’s driving Amy home to Janis’ (Juliet Cowan) house, old resentments bubble up. Amy is lamenting that people just don’t care about great jazz artists in the contemporary world and being pissed about Mitch’s infidelity and abandonment of her mother and his children when she was only nine. Mitch doesn’t want to argue and points out that she almost lost Cynthia’s precious memory box within hours of being given it. Amy is already a “problem child,” and neither of her parents are willing to deal with her.

Janis stares absently at her daughter and notes that one of her boyfriends has called. Promiscuity and drunkenness are at the foreground. Amy takes off her shoes and immediately goes to write “What is it About Men” before engaging with what she views as unsatisfactory sex with her older lover Chris Taylor (Ryan O’Doherty).

Going quickly through the motions to show that Amy “Ain’t no Spice Girl,” a long-time friend introduces her to Nick Shamansky (Sam Buchanan) at a gig where she sings “Stronger than Me.” Amy doesn’t shy away from the fact she’s written it about Chris, and they laugh at his humiliation. Before you can blink, Amy is inking a contract with Simon Fuller’s 19 Management in 2002. 

There are lots of “I can’t believe you are only eighteen and writing such worldly songs” moments. Plus a few “Amy really is only eighteen and she still wants to hang out with her friends” moments. Her childhood friend Juliette Ashby (Harley Bird) is there as a cheerleader, but later becomes almost antagonistic when they share a flat together. Amy’s drinking and bulimia is interrupting her sleep. For someone who was there at pivotal times in Amy’s life and did what she could to help her friend, she, like others, are relegated to the background.

It’s made clear that Amy is happiest when she is singing in small jazz clubs. Her raw authenticity isn’t shaped by record company demands. Mouthy and rebellious, Amy is not going to go gently into being a product defined by a label. What she is doing is because she loves Sarah Vaughan, The Specials, and Lauryn Hill. Her teachers were the music of Charlie Parker, Thelonius Monk, Tony Bennett, and Billie Holiday. 

Cue the meteoric rise of her first album “Frank” and her move to Camden. Her heavy drinking to deal with nerves, and then just her heavy drinking. Despite the success of “Frank” the A&R people want her to be less Amy Winehouse. Ditch the guitar, be less “trashy” and come up with something new they can sell overseas.

The film is designed to concentrate on her relationship with basic white boy and Pete Doherty hanger on Blake Fielder-Civil and their on again, off again relationship. She’s playing pool learning about “life,” in a pub when she comes across him. The script dares to suggest that it was Blake who introduced her to The Shangri-las. There are lines which are so cringeworthy most screenwriters would blush at putting them into a character’s mouth. “My favorite writer is Bukowski,” Amy tells Blake, a man who looks like he’s never opened a book in his life.

Amy’s adoration for Blake and their clearly co-dependent relationship is juxtaposed with her adoration for Cynthia. Cynthia is her inspiration; the woman who styles her hair, the person who gave her leeway to follow her dreams. Other than Nick Shamansky, she’s the only person who seems to give an unselfish damn about what is happening to the increasingly tragic songbird.

Cynthia quietly reminds Amy about Charlie Parker and his death. She’s clued in on what everyone else wants to ignore. Amy is not just a chain smoking, weed smoking, hard drinking, working class diva, but due to Blake’s influence an addict succumbing to crack, heroin, self-harm, and annihilation.

Few managed biopics will directly attack the people who make them possible. Hence, Mitch comes off as a parent who just wants what is best for Amy. Completely ignoring his complicity in forcing his child to tour to the point of exhaustion. The film doesn’t want to investigate how her promoter Ray (Ansu Kabia) becoming her manager doesn’t provide her with any kind of safety net. The script also pretends that Amy found crack all by herself and that Blake was dealing with “Crazy Amy,” instead of feeding off her. It isn’t Blake who decides to get in touch with Amy again once “Back to Black” is a world-wide phenomenon, but his dealer.

Marisa Abela does a passable impersonation of Winehouse, but she is a cheap karaoke version of her when it comes to busting out the music which made Winehouse a phenomenon. One doesn’t even need to be a fan to understand how intuitively she understood music and her vocal genius.

What Sam Taylor-Johnson has put together is both sanitized and profoundly ugly. The compositions are amateurish which is a shame because Polly Morgan is not an untalented cinematographer. The only scene which fundamentally works is the remote acceptance of the Grammy awards. Abela’s awe at seeing Tony Bennett and Natalie Cole award “Rehab” goes beyond the impression of Amy she was doing for most of the film and has the ring of truth other aspects of the film avoided.

The question with biopics scraping into the lives of those who died too soon is what are they trying to tell the audience about the subject? For every Lady Sings the Blues there is a The United States vs. Billie Holiday. For every Spencer there is a Seberg. Anton Corbijn’s Control written by Matt Greenhalgh had the benefit of Anton’s personal experience as a photographer for Joy Division. Despite its flaws, at least Baz Luhrmann’s Elvis captured why Presley was irresistible. Whereas films like Bohemian Rhapsody and Judy are Oscar bait for their stars. Then there are the abject failures such as I Wanna Dance with Somebody, and One Love. Marisa Abela is talented, so too are Andra Day, Naomie Ackie, and Kingsley Ben-Adir but nothing they can do will make a bad film good. 

Back to Black is not only a terrible film; it is muddled and exploitative. Andrew Dominik’s Blonde has competition for the worst way to depict someone who was a victim of celebrity. Amy Winehouse not only deserved better from the people who were supposed to help her navigate her psychological and physical well being, she deserves not to be trauma entertainment.

Grade: F

Director: Vera Drew
Writers: Vera Drew, Bri LeRose
Stars: Vera Drew, Griffin Kramer, Lynn Downey

Synopsis: An aspiring clown grappling with her gender identity combats a fascistic caped crusader.

Vera Drew’s scathing, viscerally original The People’s Joker begins as it must: With a disclaimer. Even before the bulk of the necessary studio cards appear, Drew wants (er, has) to make it clear that the film you are about to see is, if nothing else, a parody, one that is “completely unauthorized by DC Comics, Warner Bros. Discovery, or anyone else claiming ownership of the characters and subjects that it parodies and references.” She cites the United States Copyright Act of 1976, fair use, and credits her team. Not that any of that would stop the aforementioned brass to try landing a few punches before it made its way into the world in its current form.

That it even exists in the real world today is something of a miracle, given how hard David Zaslav and co. worked to make sure it was locked away in cinematic Arkham forever. After being scheduled to premiere at the Toronto International Film Festival in 2022, the film was abruptly pulled from the program, with TIFF’s website stating, “The filmmaker has withdrawn this film due to rights issues.” While Drew has since made it clear that Warner Bros. Discovery did not technically send her a cease-and-desist letter… let’s just say, if it sounds like Christian Bale and it responds to the Bat signal, it’s probably Batman. 

After a litany of negotiations between the involved legal teams, it was agreed upon that The People’s Joker could, in fact, premiere at TIFF, but for a sole midnight screening before being shuttered off to the edit bay before future audiences could feast their eyes on the lampoon that releases in theaters on Friday. But if there were any preconceived concerns about this cut being a sanitized version of Drew’s dream satire, feel free to leave them at the door. Somehow, some way, this thing is more alive than any DC Studios product can dream of being, with a whole lot more heart behind it, too. Whether they like it or not, odds are viewers will appreciate The People’s Joker enough to make up for the derision of every lawyer WB has ever deployed against passion projects of this sort combined. (And there are very few, for obvious reasons.)

The origin story of Batman’s longtime nemesis being reframed as a tale of trans identity might not be your first approach were you making a parody of the Joker, but then again, you’re not Vera Drew. This tale is wholly her’s, not a multiversal version of Arthur Fleck’s villainous turn, but a unique, artfully-rendered way for Drew to detail her own coming of age in a world where trans artists still fight  (and often fail, better read as “are silenced”) to get their proper due. Much of The People’s Joker has DIY greenscreens as backdrops, fitting for a film that was fully funded and designed through crowdsourcing efforts. 100-plus artists and animators contributed their work to the film, helping Drew rebuild Gotham City through a wholly dystopian, satirical lens.

That means that, while their names may seem recognizable, plenty of altered Batman adversaries do make their way into the final cut. There’s Ra’s Al Ghul (David Liebe Hart), this particular Joker’s hero and comedic inspiration, though unlike the character Liam Neeson played in Christopher Nolan’s Dark Knight movies, this one is pronounced “raish”. His late-night appearances on an SNL-style comedy show — which featured Lorne Michaels in all but face and voice — taught the Joker that “it didn’t matter that [she] was a shitty, miserable person; [she] just needed to become a comedian, because comedians are shitty, miserable people.” Mr. Freeze (Scott Aukerman), The Riddler (Trevor Drinkwater), and The Penguin (Nathan Faustyn) all feature somewhat-prominently as fellow aspiring comedians that the Joker dubs her chosen family (because every queer coming-of-age film needs one of those). Even Batman (Phil Braun) shows up, though in this rendition on the Caped Crusader’s story, he’s an abusive, closeted gay man with far-right politics. 

Everything about Drew’s film screams singularity, but that’s not to say it doesn’t recall identifiable observations that viewers of all walks of life can latch onto. In addition to these reimagined characters, the Joker — whose deadname is bleeped throughout the film — notes that her sexual awakening occurred when watching the Batman films of yore starring Val Kilmer and George Clooney, with a particular focus on the prominence of their nipples popping through their Batsuits. 

These details, coupled with a scarily-spot-on comedic sensibility, elevate Drew’s film from what could easily be viewed as a patchwork pastiche from an obvious fan of DC lore to a biting critique of societal expectations told by way of recognizable cultural entities. Its artistic choices and style, which border on amateurish greenscreen animation, shouldn’t be seen as detractive eyesores; the exact opposite is the point, and it’s delivered with such confidence that it’s impossible to look away.

Despite its personal undertones and its undying courage, The People’s Joker is decidedly littered with home-run swings that result in massive whiffs. You may cringe at the incessantly bombed jokes and its janky tonality. As a narrative work, it doesn’t quite pass the smell test. And it’s often too reliant on well-documented incel tropes, veering dangerously toward a dark tunnel that would entrap a lesser work of mockery in a world occupied by Twitter troll’s first stand-up specials. 

Yet the beautiful thing about this movie’s lasting imprint is that it’s intended not to be one of comic-book-level significance, but of a film that foregrounds its message and its existence, almost in equal measure. I implore you to find me a film that dares to throw as many jabs as this one — celebrities abound, from John Lasseter to RuPaul, get caught in its crossfire — while simultaneously managing to imbue itself with as much of its filmmaker’s soul as this does. “Why so serious?”, indeed.

Grade: B+

Director: Alex Pillai
Writers: Alexander J. Farrell, Greer Ellison
Stars: Charithra Chandran, Sebastian Croft, Tanner Buchanan

Synopsis: Follows a pair of childhood friends: Amelia and Archie. Archie has always kept his love for her a secret, but just as he builds up the courage to declare his feelings, Amelia falls for Billy Walsh, the new transfer student.

The new Prime Video romantic comedy How to Date Billy Walsh is amiable enough—even affable. However, the problem with director Alex Pillai’s (Chilling Adventures of Sabrina) film is that it never separates itself from the countless entries in the young adult genre. The film lacks the sense of the characters’ lives continuing beyond the movie’s end, nor does it provide a satisfying enough conclusion to cater to its audience.

Which, frankly, makes me think, “You had one job!” I imagine Digman would tell the director, “I’m the guy who does his job. You must be the other guy.” Hey, if anything, I’ve learned that when you have a chance to work on a quote from The Departed, you take it.

How to Date Billy Walsh follows the story of two lifelong childhood friends, Amelia (Alex Rider’s Charithra Chandran) and Archie (Heartstopper’s Sebastian Croft). Amelia has been the apple of Archie’s eye for quite some time, but he has difficulty declaring his feelings for her. Despite numerous awkward moments, it’s hard to believe Amelia has no clue. As an adolescent, right before he was going to confess his love, Archie panics and tells Amelia that he is gay, which may explain her obliviousness.

Much of the script focuses on Amelia’s tragic backstory. She lost her mom to cancer at a young age and is being raised by her father (The Big Bang Theory’s Kunal Nayyar), who is seeing a new woman. Amelia struggles to give her a chance, haunted by her mother’s advice to find happiness and pursue it. That’s when Billy Walsh (Max Winslow and the House of Secrets’s Tanner Buchanan) enters her life.

Billy is a classic cliche in the YA movie genre, with flowing hair and a leather jacket, strutting into her new school as the new transfer. Of course, subverting a trope becomes a cliche in itself. He’s a loner, but kind and always carries a book in his pocket to read at a moment’s notice. (Billy is essentially Jess Mariano without the attitude and excessive hair product.) Naturally, Amelia, like every other girl in life, is taken with him.

The script from Greer Ellison (Butterfly Kisses) and Alexander J. Farrell (Refugee) borrows a storytelling device from Cyrano de Bergerac. Archie pretends to be a love guru but disguises himself using an aging app. His advice to Amelia backfires, leading to mishaps like darkening her eyebrows or dressing like a Catholic schoolgirl before being rescued by a car smaller than a grocery cart.

The script needs a more balanced tone, which the director is responsible for not rectifying. There are some weird, out-of-place musical numbers, and physical comedy gags that raise eyebrows. For instance, in a song, an underage student smacks the rear end of an older adult teacher, making the juxtaposition uncomfortable and certainly not funny. The subplot of Croft’s Archie advising Chandran’s Amelie is cheesy and abandoned too quickly, which would have given the comedy more structure, which it desperately needs.

While the film struggles with its love triangle, I found the father-and-daughter relationship between Nayyar and Chandran sweet, with notes of melancholy. The movie would have benefited greatly by making Amelie the central character, with Billy and Archie moving to the background while exploring Amelie’s trauma of childhood abandonment and grief. 

This adjustment would connect with her inability to show interest in healthier relationships and give the narrative greater depth. That includes looking at the film through a specific cultural lens, which would be far more interesting. How to Date Billy Walsh had no chance of reinventing the wheel but failed to complete its ordinary YA structure, which it strives for. Pillai’s film is too schizophrenic when it comes to its story, tone, and themes because of its lack of coherence and consistency.

And that’s a shame because this nice young cast does everything they can with the material provided for them. 

Grade: C-

Director: Zarrar Kahn
Writers: Zarrar Kahn
Stars: Ramesha Nawal, Omar Javaid, Bakhtawar Mazhar

Synopsis: After the death of the family patriarch, a mother and daughter’s precarious existence is ripped apart. They must find strength in each other if they are to survive the malevolent forces that threaten to engulf them.

In Flames, the latest feature from Zarrah Kahn, was the first Pakistani film to appear in Director’s Fortnight at Cannes and was Pakistan’s entry to Best International Film at the Oscars, so it is fair to say that it has attracted quite a bit of attention internationally. The Buzz is justified. 

Mariam is a young woman with a lot to deal with. When we first meet her and her family, they are saying goodbye to her recently deceased Grandfather. We later learn that in recent years, her Grandfather has been supporting her family ever since the death of her Father. With no stabilizing male figure in their lives, the family is thrown into a precarious financial and living situation. At the same time, Mariam meets and falls in love with Asad, a fellow medical student, who sweeps her off her feet. Sadly, their relationship takes an unexpected turn. As her life becomes more and more complicated, Mariam starts experiencing more and more strange phenomena, is she losing her mind? Or is something more sinister going on? 

The film takes its time before ramping up the tension, which is no bad thing. Khan seems happy to ease the audience into this world using gorgeous establishing shots and an almost documentary-like style to immerse you in the lives of its characters; you get a real sense of these people and their lives. They feel like real people with relatable concerns about normal things like paying the bills, saying goodbye to an important family figure and dealing with complicated family relationships, all whilst juggling school and everyday life. There is even a sequence early on that almost plays like a gentle romantic comedy, the effect of which is devastating later. The film goes to such lengths to ground itself in reality so that when the plot demands that paranormal things start to happen, it’s earned. 

On the surface, the story requires the sort of ritual to stop the living from being tormented by the dead that horror fans will likely recognize well, but below the genre conventions, In Flames deals with hefty themes like misogyny and mental health. It is no coincidence, for example, that our protagonist and her Mother are constantly vulnerable to the whims of the men in their lives, men whose intentions are not always pure and whose motives are often dishonorable. Whether the behavior of these men is a byproduct of a curse seems irrelevant when the impact of their actions is something with real consequences. 

As Mariam’s and her family’s situation deteriorates, these threats appear to multiply in number, which correlates with an acceleration in the visions that torment her. Is what she is experiencing real? Or is it an understandable consequence of the trauma and grief that she must be feeling from the tragedy and stress of their situation?

By the time In Flames answers that question definitively, it doesn’t make all that much difference to how you experience the film, you already know how you feel and you wish nothing but the best for Mariam and her family. A sure sign that a filmmaker has done their job well. 

Special praise should be reserved for Ramesha Nawal, as Mariam. She plays the role of a dutiful daughter and sister with ambitions to make it as a doctor beautifully. Her gradual disintegration as her situation and mental health deteriorate is perfectly performed. It would be all too easy in a role like this to overplay the psychological thriller part of the story, descending into a recognizable and overwrought madness. Nawal never does that and it is to her and her director’s immense credit. 

In Flames brings a lightness of touch to a psychological thriller that compels you to root for its characters, not because they are heroic, or because they do something remarkable to save themselves, but because they are simple, vulnerable people with enough on their plate already. They could be any of us. Their struggle is universal and relatable; and something that audiences of all types can identify with. In Flames will likely be a small release outside of Pakistan but I do hope that it finds a wider audience. It deserves to.

Grade: B+

Director: Dev Patel
Writers: Paul Angunawela, John Collee, Dev Patel
Stars: Dev Patel, Sharlto Copley, Pitobash

Synopsis: In order to prevent a deadly explosion, an illicit crack team has 24 hours to drive two truckloads of nitroglycerine across a desert laden with danger.

Monkey Man, Dev Patel’s directorial debut, straight rips and f*cks, grabs you by the throat and simply won’t let go. It is a revenge-fueled, vengeful thriller through Mumbai’s gritty and sweaty streets and the unseemly acts of the rich and powerful that go on high up in towers and shadowy smoke-filled rooms. 

However, a haunting element to Patel’s Monkey Man draws the audience in. This is not just an action film that should be labeled John Wick in Mumbai, but a thriller for the freaks, the downtrodden, Dalits, slumdogs, hustlers, prostitutes, and the religiously oppressed fighting against a system that is stacked against them. 

The story follows “Kid” (Patel), a fighter who goes by the moniker “Monkey Man.” He is an underground fighter who throws fights for the club’s owner, Tiger (District 9’s Sharito Copley). Fight after fight. He lets a wide array of freaks and geeks beat him to a bloody pulp for little money and always about half of what he agreed upon. 

Knowing he needs a steady and good-paying job, he sets up a con, stealing the purse of a wealthy hotel manager, Queenie (Ashwini Kalsekar). He arranges a return but refuses the few bills Queenie offers as a reward and makes his play. He asks for a job, proudly proclaiming his grunt-filled resume, doing any job that no one else wants. Or is there another plan? An eagle-eyed viewer will notice Patel’s ever-so-subtle use of the surroundings; blink, and you’ll miss it. 

When Alphonso (Million Dollar Arm’s Pitobash), who is basically Queenie’s VIP hotel concierge, and whom she coldly refers to as “Inbred Goat Fucker” (now there’s a sequel spinoff I’d sign off for), asks his name, he tells Alphonso “Bobby,” which is written on the can of bleach in front of him. Bobby positions himself next to Alphonso, wanting a job serving VIPs. Of course, after the fighter buys a gun, we begin to wonder what his goals are and the endgame.

Monkey Man is Dev Patel’s first feature film behind the camera, and his directorial debut is a bloody, bone-crunching anarchy. The Slumdog Millionaire and Lion star also wrote the script. Patel is on record, wanting to create an action-filled narrative with more significant meaning. At the same time, many may view his Monkey Man as a typical revenge thriller. Frankly, you can’t argue that point since it’s a classic genre popular in film (Nobody) and television (Reacher) today. 

Nevertheless, Patel has a real eye for stylized action, pace, and tone for a first-time filmmaker behind the camera that is jaw-dropping. (You’ll also notice a few nods to his previous movies in his filmography.) Monkey Man also shows the genre through the lens of fighting back against a caste system of oppression that supposedly has been eradicated, but the invisible lines of oppression remain. 

This is where Patel and his film separates himself from your typical Hollywood thriller. Patel’s film explores subtle themes of nonconformity, resistance, community, and, ultimately, solidarity. The freshman filmmakers aren’t afraid to examine shadowy figures involved in murder, illicit drugs, sex trafficking, and the trauma of forced displacement with the backdrop of the Diwali festival, which celebrates the “victory of light over darkness, good over evil, and knowledge over ignorance.”

Yet, while the additional depth and subtext are appreciated, Patel’s Monkey Man, make no mistake, is a rip-roaring, hair-raising, and invigorating action film. The movie has three great action sequences that build throughout and reverberate throughout the picture. You can see some similarities and influences between Monkey Man and other revenge thrillers. I will call them an homage rather than downright stealing (John Wick franchise, Kill Bill), but the setting and perspective give the genre a fresh coat of paint that makes it new again. 

Monkey Man is a triumph. Dev Patel announces himself as a new action star and a filmmaker to watch in the future. Breathless, bold, and blunt, his film doesn’t, well, monkey around. In a world where good versus evil usually means abuse of money and power, Monkey Man knows the only currency that matters is haunting memories. 

And the Kid/Monkey Man/Bobby is carrying receipts that need to be cashed in.

Grade: A-

Director: Louise Woehrle

Synopsis: Jimmie and De, former classmates in Charlotte in the 1960s, connect decades later after a shocking discovery compels them to face how the legacy of slavery in America links the two men in unforeseen ways.

If there was one thing you could always count on when it came to ESPN’s “30 for 30” documentary series, it was an acute sense of nostalgia. Most of the stories on which each film focused were relatively well-known quantities, from Jordan Rides the Bus — a look back at Michael Jordan’s short-lived baseball career and the dramatics that preceded it — to The Fab Five — a reexamination of the University of Michigan’s 1991 basketball recruiting class, which featured Chris Webber, Jalen Rose, and Juwan Howard. Occasionally, these documentaries dove beneath the surface of old game footage; episodes like Unguarded, the story of Chris Herren, a former basketball prodigy whose career was derailed by drug and alcohol abuse, uncovered lesser known stories about athletes and teams we may have heard from had their journeys unfolded differently.

But those aforementioned undertones of nostalgia and a keen desire to redeliver sports fans to the glory days were what really drove the Worldwide Leader’s success when it came to “30 for 30”. That’s just a small part of what makes a documentary like Louise Woehrle’s A Binding Truth so refreshing: As by-the-numbers as it is in format, it tells a sports story that is truly unknown, but only in a precursory  sense. After an introduction to its main players through that lens, it uncovers something deeper and wholly heartbreaking, and places an emphasis on how the undisclosed darkness of the past can be atoned for in the future.

Jimmie Lee Kirkpatrick was called “the next Jim Brown” when he was in high school, a star running back in North Carolina who made waves when he left Second Ward High, a public school for African Americans, to enroll at Myers Park High, a predominantly white school in Charlotte. In the decades since his career ended, he has been honored and awarded for his trailblazing accomplishments, but during his playing days, he faced harsh resentment and racism due solely to his presence on Myers Park’s team. Early on in the film, we see Jimmie and his sister, Nancy, listening to recordings of their mother being interviewed by a Charlotte historian, and discussing how she and Jimmie’s father felt about his decision to leave Second Ward for Myers Park. “In this world, if there’s an opportunity offered [to] you,” she recalls in the recording, “It’s time to move up.”

That’s the general gist of the documentary’s first chapter, and it’s easy to imagine a film that would stop digging there; to tell a story of integration through the eyes of a former football star and the few other Black students that roamed the halls during his time in school. And while it does dedicate a fair bit of time to those before times, it’s in the film’s introduction of De Kirkpatrick, an old schoolmate of Jimmie’s at Myers Park, where its soul truly lies. The two boys would pass each other in the hallways and jokingly say, “Hey, cuz,” due to their last name, not paying any mind to a potential connection beyond a matter of coincidence. As Jimmie fought the state of North Carolina’s decision to seclude him from the Shrine Bowl — an All-Star showcase for high school football players in which Jimmie would have been the game’s first-ever Black athlete — De watched his classmate’s courage in awe, eventually writing about it in his college essay application to Harvard. 

Decades later, after taking a liking to a three-part series in the Charlotte Observer about Jimmie’s post-Myers Park football career and life that followed, De reached out to the journalists in hopes of reaching Jimmie. When they connected, Jimmie asked De what the “H” in his full name — H.D. Kirkpatrick — stood for, to which De replied, “Hugh.” Jimmie proceeded to tell De that he knew a great deal about De’s family; that his great-great-grandfather, after whom De is named, owned Jimmie’s great-great-grandfather, revealing to De his family’s history of slaveholding. “It’s like the floor fell open,” De says as a new title, “Hugh ‘De’ Kirkpatrick” dissolves onto the screen beside him, “And I slid down into the past.”

What De describes next as a siren calling him into the history of his family and of slavery is what really sets the film in motion, primarily because it’s what sets these two men on a tandem journey of research and self-discovery. Woehrle charts both men’s individual lives and the way their respective histories brought them together by letting Jimmie and De do most, if not all of the talking. Not once, by my count, does she jump in with a question intended to draw out emotion; she lets their shared journey unfold as authentically as it may have in reality. 

It’s as admirable as it is heavy, how these two men have optioned their connection into teaching opportunities, educating the public on race relations and America’s history have paved the way for a different future. The inclusion of scenes featuring Jimmie and De giving speeches in recreation centers and high schools is actually an interesting comment on what the typical documentary sets out to do, given how A Binding Truth’s substance makes it an exception to the rule. 

At no point does Woehrle’s film reinvent the wheel; it’s littered with still photographs and on-screen texts acting as exposition and filling in gaps the on-cam interviews — another documentary-ism — don’t elucidate. But it’s not the type of documentary that needs to go to overly dramatic lengths in order to tell its story, nor should it. It’s academic but not cold or distant; its intimacy, and the intimate bond its main subjects have formed through their shared familial history, is a beautiful calling card, however complicated their paths to one another may have been. They now walk stride-in-stride on one united path together; to watch that unfold is reason enough for A Binding Truth to be worthy of your time.

Grade: B

Director: Julien Leclerq
Writers: Georges Arnaud, Hamid Hilioua, Julien Leclerq
Stars: Franck Gastambide, Alban Lenoir, Sofiane Zermani

Synopsis: In order to prevent a deadly explosion, an illicit crack team has 24 hours to drive two truckloads of nitroglycerine across a desert laden with danger.

Has there ever been a modern remake as misguided as Julien Leclercq’s readaptation of Georges Arnaud’s The Wages of Fear (Le salaire de la peur)? The question begs to be asked because there’s nothing retained from Arnaud’s text and Henri Georges-Clouzot’s 1954 adaptation, apart from the nitroglycerin of it all. Of course, some will say pitting a remake against its original source material is unfair, especially when the sociopolitical context is different, and filmmaking techniques have evolved. They may be right: holding the original to such a pedestal can, at times, draw unfair critiques between a modern, fresher take on the source material when pitted against the classic. 

But when the film was already reinterpreted for an American audience through William Friedkin’s Sorcerer, questions of Julien Leclercq’s latest take on the book (and, by extension, film adaptations) are raised, especially when the entire film looks and feels like it wants to be a Fast & Furious knockoff instead. The movie even begins with a massive car chase in the desert as we get introduced to Fred (Franck Gastambide) carrying a supply of life-saving vaccines to a small village for Dr. Clara (Ana Girardot). The two are romantically involved but are working to bring medical supplies to an unnamed village while terrorist groups attempt to kill them in their journey toward the village. 

The action is shot and staged with the energy of a Justin Lin-directed F&F film as if Leclercq used these movies as the primary point of reference instead of looking at what Georges-Clouzot and Friedkin brought to the table to reinterpret the material. Credit where credit is due: at least the action sequences are competently shot and staged, bringing some form of energy to an otherwise monotonously dull picture. The film’s best sequence involves Fred and his brother, Alex (Alban Lenoir), as they attempt to defuse mines (by sandwalking), with Fred ultimately stepping on a large anti-tank mine. The tension is palpable, and it’s the only time in which the movie feels like it has any connection with The Wages of Fear. 

The rest of the film is all over the place – after its odd F&F beginnings, it moves to then flashback to a James Bond-esque spy thriller where we learn more about Fred’s past as a bodyguard, with a (predictable) mission going wrong, which leads Alex to be imprisoned. Following this, an unnamed (shady) company reaches out to Fred and promises freedom for Alex if he helps them on the transportation of nitroglycerin from an NGO outpost to the village, where an oil well is about to explode and destroy everything in its sight. The only way to prevent cataclysmic destruction is to use nitroglycerin, a terribly unstable substance that can topple anything in its distance if not handled properly. 

Of course, the mission doesn’t go as smoothly as the company says it will, with terrorists on their tail and an unstable, unpredictable route making it difficult to control the nitroglycerin inside the trucks. The route is what mainly makes Clouzot’s The Wages of Fear and – by extension – Sorcerer such riveting pieces of anxiety-inducing cinema, but it’s the relationship between the main characters that ultimately gains your investment in those pictures. In Leclercq’s version, the relationship between the main characters is so thinly developed that Leclercq’s (and co-writer Hamid Hlioua’s) attempts to give each protagonist some form of humanity by recycling the most egregious clichés. 

Every character arc is seen a mile away, from the unbrotherly love shown by Alex (sucker-punching Fred as soon as they reunite) to their realization that they shouldn’t hold disdain for one another as Fred steps on the mine. And how about the film’s sole female character, reduced to being a sex object for Fred but isn’t given any form of agency or development beyond her attachment with the protagonist? Girardot tries her best to elevate the shoddy material she’s given, but unfortunately can’t overcome the trappings Leclercq and Hlioua put her in. 

It gets even more ridiculous when the film ends in the vein of a heist thriller, with endless double-crosses that ultimately hamper its emotionally stirring end for one of its protagonists, who already had his fate tattooed on his face as soon as the movie opens. Leclercq doesn’t even know how to effectively blend genres together that he attempts to riff on a plethora of action franchises instead of making his Wages of Fear adaptation an important reinterpretation of Arnaud’s original book, while also celebrating the legacy marked by Clouzot and Friedkin’s adaptations. 

Making it more action-driven isn’t necessarily a problem if the character relationships and the core of Arnaud’s story remain intact and as thrilling as they were. But there are little thrills to be had in this hackneyed version of a literary and cinematic classic, one that still inspires some of the best filmmakers working today, seventy years after its release. 

Grade: D-