On this episode, JD and Brendan discuss Bong Joon Ho’s first film since winning three Oscars in Mickey 17! Crazy that it’s been six years since Parasite graced the silver screen and became a pivotal moment in cinema history. Mickey 17 may have been delayed several times, but we are super thrilled to finally see the latest from the great Bong Joon Ho.
Review: Mickey 17 (4:00) Director: Bong Joon Ho Writer: Bong Joon Ho Stars: Robert Pattinson, Naomi Ackie, Steven Yeun, Mark Ruffalo
Director:Peter Browngardt Writer:Kevin Costello, Alex Kirwan, Peter Browngardt Stars: Eric Bausa, Candi Milo, Peter MacNicol
Synopsis: Porky Pig and Daffy Duck are Earth’s only hope when facing the threat of alien invasion.
It’s safe to say that the Looney Tunes brand has seen better days. It’s not as though there is anything wrong with the Looney Tunes, but it seemed that after Coyote vs. Acme was shelved, even though the film was completed, they were at an all-time low. The newer generations hardly know about the Looney Tunes – I mean, the Space Jam sequel barely came within $100 million of the original, and it starred one of the most well-known athletes in the world – and the older generations that grew up with them aren’t exactly clamoring for a return either. Then comes along The Day the Earth Blew Up: A Looney Tunes Movie, the first-ever feature-length Looney Tunes movie created for a theater audience.
The Day the Earth Blew Up follows Daffy Duck and Porky Pig (Eric Bauza masterfully voices both Daffy and Porky) as orphaned farm animals taken under the care of Farmer Jim (Fred Tatasciore). After Farmer Jim seemingly passes away, it is up to Daffy and Porky to look over the home they grew up in. Unfortunately, a massive hole in the roof causes them to fail their inspection. Then comes one of the more fun and traditional Looney Tunes sequences: the pair look for jobs, constantly failing as nothing fits their skillset. This scene, which looks like a classic Looney Tunes episode (down to the aspect ratio and intro), highlights one of the film’s most endearing qualities: love for the Looney Tunes brand.
Other films involving beloved TV characters from an older generation (Tom and Jerry, for example) feel a need to do something too different from what the characters are known for. They stretch too far outside the realm of comfort and instead make something that isn’t just uncomfortable; it’s lazy. Daffy is reckless, constantly wanting to smash things with his massively oversized mallet that he can pull from just about anything and anywhere. At the same time, Porky is clumsy but much more reserved and thorough about the tasks at hand. This is who these characters are, and director Peter Browngardt doesn’t force them to be anything other than their usual selves. Much of the heart in this film came from Daffy and Porky coming to terms with who they are in a meaningful way to both the characters and the fans. In a reasonably strong feature debut, Browngardt appeals to the characters and the audience, providing sequences that bring forth nostalgia in humorous back-and-forth banter.
Their failure to search for a job brings them to a diner where Porky lays eyes on Petunia (Candy Milo), an equally clumsy pig whose awkwardness Porky overlooks, only seeing her beauty. He is instantly in love, which makes the stuttering pig even more nervous. However, when she tells the two about her job at a gum factory, they realize this might be the perfect opportunity for them. For a while, this job works out, and it seems as though Porky and Daffy will be able to save their home, but when something weird begins happening to the gum, turning all the people who chew it into mindless zombies, it is up to Porky, Daffy, and Petunia to save the Earth.
The Day the Earth Blew Up: A Looney Tunes Movie is about as perfect as a Looney Tunes movie could be today. It’s a straightforward film that feels like a well-thought-out expansion of the show that became popular in the 1940s. The massive slew of writers (11 writing credits and 4 story credits) never get in the way of each other and bring out the best qualities of these characters. All the while, they are still managing to create something relevant for today. Some of the writing didn’t always work (a boba tea joke fell flat), but others, such as Petunia’s search for a “new flavor,” brought some self-reflection and potential advancement for this series. One of the best aspects of this film is that while it does remain a traditional Looney Tunes narrative, there is an understanding that change is needed, but change is required from the people who care; it can’t come from the corporations that run these brands – which the film being released at all after being dropped from Warner Bros. MAX streaming schedule and shipped off for other distribution gives this plot even more heft – and needs to happen from the people who want to make a good product the best they can.
Making the best product they can might be the best thing this film does. From the fun direction to the amusing writing and committed voice performances, everyone displayed a level of respect for these characters that had all but been forgotten. The Day the Earth Blew Up isn’t going to change animation, and it won’t be a paradigm shift for the Looney Tunes brand; instead, this well-made and fun film will serve as a reminder to fans old and new that these characters are still here, and they’re still as looney as ever.
Director:Mark Anthony Green Writer:Mark Anthony Green Stars: Ayo Edibiri, John Malkovich, Juliette Lewis
Synopsis: An iconic pop star returns after decades missing.
Throughout time, as music composers, singers, and bands have achieved prominent statuses in the world, they have also cultivated avid followers and listeners of their work, with some garnering fanbases of millions around the world. In some cases, fans are obsessed to an almost religious level of following, counting down the days to the next album release, social media post, or public appearance. Celebrity devotion expands across the entertainment industry, from music to movies to television, and now even to content creators.
It is this concept of celebrity worship that is built into the premise of Mark Anthony Green’s Opus. Alfred Moretti (John Malkovich) is a singer whose sound captivated everyone in his heyday, topping the charts across the board. After a 30-year long disappearance, Moretti announces his grand return with a new album, an announcement that shocks the world. As a way for Moretti to promote the album, which is claimed to be the greatest composition in recording history by his manager Soledad Yusuf (Tony Hale), a select few members of the media and press are invited to come to his hidden sanctuary and take part in listening to it. However, as they arrive, the guests begin experiencing many odd happenings, particularly some odd behavior from the staff present, and later Moretti himself.
Many of the bizarre occurrences that follow in Opus are seen through the eyes of Ariel Ecton (Ayo Edebiri), a budding journalist who is trying to get her hands on a big story to impress her boss Stan Sullivan (Murray Bartlett) as well as make a name for herself. Edebiri is great in the role, fully committing to the movie’s premise. As in most horror movies, Ariel represents the audience’s feelings towards the strange events at this sanctuary, often pointing out something is wrong as other characters doubt her, all while trying to learn more about Moretti and his followers to write an exposé on them, while also bringing a dry sense of humor to some of the proceedings at first.
However, it is Malkovich as Moretti who steals the movie in every frame he is in, playing the pop star persona in as charismatic and outrageous a manner as possible, while slowly revealing the darker, twisted nature of his character and his motivations as the story progresses. His rapport with the characters, especially Ariel, is well executed, and as a singer, he performs the songs written in the script rather well, even with an actual performance at one point on a stage that is among the movie’s most entertaining scenes, and all backed with an eerie score from Danny Bensi and Saunder Jurriaans.
Where Opus struggles most, however, is with its script, especially as it tries to address a lot more as the reveals begin, while also not reaching any definitive conclusions. With Moretti, the movie shows how his celebrity status and his music has an effect on listeners that creates a cult-like following, as others at his sanctuary hang on his every word as if it were gospel, though it never explores what they really want to achieve beyond what is shown in the movie, save for a moment towards the climax which tries to answer that. In some moments, Opus even echoes some scares from another A24 distributed horror movie, Midsommar, as well as some of its insights into large followings of people doing questionable things.
The same applies to its commentary on social media and the press, sporadically showcasing how discussing something being wrong on a grand scale can sometimes spread a stronger message and gain more popularity, and how paparazzi and journalists can go after celebrities in a manner that can personally affect them, as represented by Bartlett, Juliette Lewis’ Clara Armstrong, a massive TV personality with her own talk show, and Stephanie Suganami as Emily Katz, a social media influencer. However, much like its discussion on the cult-like celebrity status artists can achieve, these aspects are mostly reserved to footnotes heading into Opus’ final act.
As a result, by the time credits roll on the movie, many of the events and the spectacle they showcase can feel empty in hindsight. While it has good performances, a great soundtrack, some entertaining sequences, and a few inventive scares, there is a frustrating lack of basis given to many of the decisions made by the characters, and by the end, its attempts to tie everything together thematically, and in turn, narratively, can feel rushed and incomplete. Opus may not be a failure on every level, but it is certainly a disappointing, scattershot watch.
This week on the InSession Film Podcast, using JD’s virial tweet as inspiration we talk about the best shots of the 2020s so far, and we continue our Best Picture Movie Series with the 1962 masterpiece Lawrence of Arabia!
– Best Film Shots of 2020s (5:00) We are halfway through the decade (where does the time go!?) and we’ve seen a lot of great films over the last five years. Which means we’ve seen some astounding cinematography and film shots that have stunned us in one way or another. JD’s essay on Aftersun is a testament to that very fact. However; there are dozens and dozens of other great film shots that we wanted to talk about as well.
– Best Picture Movie Series: Lawrence of Arabia (55:15) We continue this series with simply one of the best films ever made in Lawrence of Arabia. It’s serendipitous that our scheduling lined up the way it did because Lawrence of Arabia is one of the most visually breathtaking films you’ll ever see. You want to talk about the best shots, every frame in that film is a painting. The craft is nothing short of extraordinary. But it’s also a sophisticated character study that’s just as compelling in its drama and psychology.
If you want to help support us, there are several ways you can help us and we’d absolutely appreciate it. Every penny goes directly back into supporting the show and we are truly honored and grateful. Thanks for your support and for listening to the InSession Film Podcast!
Director:Dan Berk & Robert Olsen Writer:Lars Jacobson Stars: Jack Quaid, Amber Midthunder, Jacob Batalon
Synopsis:When the girl of his dreams is kidnapped, a man incapable of feeling physical pain turns his rare condition into an unexpected advantage in the fight to rescue her.
Have you ever gone into a movie with an admittedly fun and inventive concept and were immediately disappointed as soon as the lights in the cinema went down and the projector turned on? This was my reaction to Dan Berk and Robert Olsen’s Novocaine, a movie that tries desperately hard to be the next Crank but possesses none of the verve, kineticism, and energy required for this action-comedy hybrid to work well, or at least be on the same level as what Mark Neveldine and Brian Taylor brought to the table in 2006. Shot with the lethargic energy of a television pilot, writer Lars Jacobson fills Novocaine’s screenplay with enough Ryan Reynolds-esque cynicism that one wonders if its lead star, Jack Quaid, can do so much more than the quip-heavy characters he has sadly been typecast in ever since starring in The Boys.
Our lead star plays Nathan Caine, an introverted banker who suffers from Congenital Insensitivity to Pain (CIP). This rare condition makes him entirely numb to any form of physical pain. As a result, he lives a somewhat secluded life, with his only friend being someone he speaks to through a video game interface (voiced by Jacob Batalon). However, Nathan’s life will change when he meets Sherry (Amber Midthunder), the bank’s new employee, with whom he falls madly in love. The two quickly connect, and a romance blossoms, but their idyll is short-lived as, the next day, armed bank robbers clear its vault and kidnap Sherry as a hostage, leading Nathan to figure out a way to rescue her, even if it means using his unique condition to his advantage against a horde of antagonists.
What are the robbers’ demands? Who knows! This is never explored, and neither does the B-storylines with the detectives (played by Matt Walsh and Betty Gabriel) attempting to uncover the people behind the robbery feel in any way meaningful. Still, this is a minor issue in the grand scheme of the picture since we’re not here to see the police investigate, but Jack Quaid kick major ass while portraying someone who feels zero amount of pain. Yet, for some inexplicable reason, Berk and Olsen never take advantage of this semi-high concept to the fullest, always preferring to stick Quaid in situations where quips are more important than fists instead of staging elaborately kinetic and playful action sequences where the comedy is found in how Nathan accidentally inflicts massive pain upon his enemies, while he feels nothing.
Many will compare Novocaine’s self-aware, grating humor to the likes of Deadpool, but even the first two films (not so much Deadpool & Wolverine, because it looks so ugly) understood that the thrill of seeing such a character to life isn’t necessarily in the meta-humor (though it is part of the enjoyment) but through its no-holds-barred, hard-R action. While imperfect, David Leitch’s Deadpool 2 remains the best example, as the funniest scenes involve heads being severed or an invisible Brad Pitt being electrocuted, with a great sense of play and comedic timing. The action was playful and always in service of the comedy that made the character such a staple in comic book entertainment. The reason why Deadpool & Wolverine didn’t work was simply because of its overreliance on cynical jokes and a complete ineptitude in crafting cathartic and playful hard-R action, in faithful service of the character’s comedic traits, which Novocaine also falls victim to.
Cinematographer Jacques Jouffret never gives Novocaine’s action its own language or propulsive energy – all of them are flatly shot and haphazardly edited, with even the “gnarliest” moments of its respective sequences (such as Nathan putting an arrow in an assailant’s ear, as one example out of many) cutting away from the violence. Why have such a concept that allows its directors to play with form and give a unique visual touch to the action if they’re not going to do anything with a camera that barely moves or acts as our eye to Nathan’s inadvertent superhero origin story? He doesn’t want to use his condition as an unfair advantage to (accidentally) dispose of one-note antagonists, but it’s the only way that will lead him to Sherry. That alone creates moments of comedic tension worth visualizing, and as undercooked as Jacobson’s script may be, there’s still enough material to make this movie an exciting one, especially if it’s visually exciting.
But why does it look so murky and unengaging, as if it’s afraid to find its own identity in an era where cinema is more and more corrupted by television? (Not my words, Denis Villeneuve’s, who’s 100% right). There isn’t a single image you can extract from Novocaine that feels like a movie or at least gives a form of emotional catharsis so we can latch onto the action (and, by extension, the protagonist). If it wants to be an action/comedy in the grand tradition of Neveldine/Taylor’s Crank, it has to convey its energy primarily through its visuals, which Mark Neveldine and Brian Taylor brilliantly did in that film and their subsequent collaborations. Their staggering pop art throughout their work (not so much their solo careers) is what made them household names in “vulgar auteurism,” whether this is a valuable movement or not.
Yet, Berk and Olsen seem afraid of giving Novocaine flavor and personality through its photography and action and would prefer to have this movie feel indistinguishable from the barrage of “content” that gets released to expand an infinite algorithm for a streaming service. And since the movie will come out on VOD two weeks after its theatrical release, as studios no longer support what makes a movie stand the test of time, what’s the point? It’s flimsily shot, unfunny, has no energy to support its action or comedy, and Jack Quaid has sadly tarnished the promising talent he had by playing the same character over and over again with zero nuance or emotional texture that will make us care for him and the burgeoning romance he has with Sherry. On the other hand, Midthunder is underused, and her arc is sadly telegraphed from the start. She fares much better in Mark Anthony Green’s Opus, which also comes out on the same weekend.
Quaid desperately needs to find compelling work that will allow him to expand his range instead of being cast as a variant of Ryan Reynolds, who has grown in wanting to develop movies as commodities to sell Aviation Gin instead of art that will have real perennity ten or even twenty years from now. I’d hate to see that happen to Quaid because he was terrific in Christopher Nolan’s Oppenheimer despite his limited screen time. Nolan knew how to utilize his talents effectively and show the world that he was much more than what the Hollywood machine had sadly typecast him as. I’d like to see more of that from him and less of the unfortunate trajectory he is currently undertaking with Companion and Novocaine, vacuous products with no personal style and memorable value.
When I made a comment about Charlotte Wells’ Aftersun on Twitter (I’m sorry, I will always call it that), I never dreamt that I would be here writing an actual essay on it. But I’m grateful to those who replied asking for it. Aftersun is one of the very best films of the decade, and I’m eager to dive into why the scene in question is so profoundly moving. For those who are confused, I replied to a prompt asking for the “best shot” of the 2020s so far, and my response was this image:
I can (perhaps ironically) barely articulate the devastating effect this had on me when I first saw Wells’ masterpiece. Aftersun is a deeply poignant exploration of memory, nostalgia, and the imperceptible distance between past and present. The film intricately weaves together fragments of recollection to present an emotionally resonant father-daughter relationship. In a film full of evocative scenes, there is one in particular (captured in the still above) that stands out. It takes place in a dimly lit hotel room where an old CRT television, a few books, and a reflection on the TV screen render some of the most stunning visual storytelling of the last decade. This scene encapsulates Aftersun’s broader themes of memory, loss, and the extensive influence of melancholy.
Before we get into the hotel scene we need to set up some vital context. A crucial layer of Aftersun’s structure is its framing device—Older Sophie (Celia Rowlson-Hall), a clear stand-in for Wells herself, is a conduit for this story as it unfolds. The majority of the film operates as a flashback, a deeply personal act of reflection as older Sophie revisits her childhood memories and attempts to reconcile them.
She has no narrative arc. She serves no other purpose. She is exclusively a vessel through which the past is explored. This will become very important as we explore the symbolism and emotion of the hotel scene.
With that foundation set, let’s go back to young Sophie (Frankie Corio) and the vacation she is on with her father, Calum (Paul Mescal). Before we return to the hotel, it’s worth emphasizing that Wells features a few great moments previously that also tap into the film’s thematic underbelly to help pave the way. Specifically, I’m thinking of the scene where Sophie is first toying with her camera.
Or this intensely heartfelt shot with Sophie sitting on a chair up against the wall on one side of the frame, in contrast to her father emotionally unraveling in the bathroom on the other side of the frame. Coupled with the hotel scene we’re about to discuss, and the film’s most iconic moment at the end, this is an image that will instantly come to mind for many viewers with Aftersun.
Or, in what might be my second favorite scene of the film, there’s a powerful moment in which Sophie is laying down on the bed in the hotel (these hotel scenes just murder me) that are intercut with her father once again in the bathroom, this time brushing his teeth. Sophie mentions that she feels down, and after Calum asks what she means, Sophie begins this incredible monologue talking about that feeling of coming home after a great day and feeling drained. So tired, in fact, that you feel like your bones don’t work. The dialogue itself here is astute, but it’s what Wells does with the camera that I find even more captivating. At the beginning of the scene, Sophie is on the bed with the camera right side up. When the moment intercuts to Calum, his reflection is in the mirror but upside down. However, as Sophie begins her stirring speech, the roles become reversed as the camera is pointed at a mirror reflecting Sophie on the bed, but soon pans to a despondent Calum who is both in frame and reflected at the audience in the bathroom mirror. The moment ends with Calum spitting at his reflection in the mirror in disgust with himself.
All of these moments immaculately pave the way for the hotel scene about halfway through the film. Let’s first talk about composition. It’s a slightly low-angle, stationary shot with the camera pointed at the TV in the hotel room, alongside a few books on the left side of the frame. Sophie has once again hooked up her camera to the TV, so we can see what she’s filming in real time. At first, it’s quite playful as she’s pointing out the size differences between their beds. She then aims the camera at Calum and he starts a little dance that embarrasses her. The dynamic in those early moments is wonderfully charming and deeply relatable to both parents and sons and daughters.
But then she goes to interview her father, and she states that she’s celebrating her 11th birthday, before asking him about what he thought his life would be like when he was 11. To which he becomes despondent once again and asks Sophie to turn off the camera. She hesitates, but obliges him. Wells, however, doesn’t cut and continues to linger on the TV, which is now blank, although we can still see Sophie and Calum in the reflection of the glass on the TV.
As an aside, I love the line where Sophie says, “fine, I’ll record it in my mind camera.” It’s an endearing moment and the delivery by Corio is perfect. It simultaneously speaks to the nucleus of Aftersun as it relates to memory. We’re always recording in our mind camera. There’s a never-ending roll of film in our brains that captures the beauty of life for us to look back on as we get older. It’s kind of funny how an innocuous line of dialogue in the middle of a deeply layered sequence like the hotel scene can carry so much thematic weight. Especially when the main intent of the line is to offer a brief moment of levity.
Anyway, getting back to the interview, Sophie asks Calum, “what did you do for your 11th birthday?” Calum goes on to tell the heartbreaking story that no one remembered that it was his birthday. Eventually he told his mom, she got angry and made his father go out and buy him a toy. Calum does his best to shrug off the moment, stoically looking out the window, as he tells Sophie that his toy of choice was a red phone. It’s quietly devastating. Even in the moment, Sophie denotes that his answer is “deep.”
This is why older Sophie, as a conduit, matters to this moment. This is a memory that would have likely carried weight with her regardless, given the interaction between the two and Calum being vulnerable with her by telling that story. But, of course, this memory would be even more impactful as she grows up and recognizes the connection between Calum’s sadness and what we see at the end of the film (his fate). There is something profound, almost transcendent, about Wells using art in this way. Creating a character who is looking back at the footage that she captured when she was a child and reflecting back on it enables her (and us) to explore it in a different way. All of this occurs while symbolically using reflection as narrative and thematic tool to redolently articulate the crossroads of your love of film and the deep memories you had of your father.
The passion and sophistication by Wells here is hard to fathom from a first-time filmmaker. Aftersun is about, in a word, reflection. And in this scene where reflection is the nucleus. Yes, it’s Sophie reflecting back on this memory. However, because of Sophie’s question about his birthday, Calum is forced to reflect back on, and wrestle with, a memory that clearly compounded his melancholy. Watching Calum and Sophie’s literal reflection, on a blank, stark TV screen, in an isolated hotel room, isn’t just potent symbolism. The emotional pathos underneath is a volcano erupting.
The framing of the shot is obviously deliberate, with the old television screen, dark and reflective, functioning as a metaphorical and literal portal into memory. The reflection of Calum on the TV screen is ghostly and fragmented, emphasizing his absence both in the present moment and, as the film suggests, in the future. By positioning the father as an apparition within a technological relic, Wells underscores the impermanence of both memory and physical presence. It’s the perfect cypher for how memory often works in our lives.
As I noted earlier, it isn’t just this scene, it’s pretty much how Wells shoots Aftersun at large. Outside of the examples above, you could consider certain close-ups on body parts, parasailers as they drift by, reflections off the water, or singular objects that have some sort of meaning (a polaroid that is beginning to develop, for example). All of these visuals poignantly tap into Sophie’s relationship with her father because in every one of these instances, Wells cuts before we see them fully formed. That’s the brilliance of the cinematography (from Gregory Oke) and editing (from Blair McClendon) in Aftersun. Together they reinforce the love between Sophie and Calum, but also how fractured they are as well.
Memory is complicated and can often be unreliable. You don’t always have the pieces. By capturing Calum through a reflection rather than directly, the film visually manifests how memories are often distorted, incomplete, or muddled by emotion. The TV screen, which typically serves as a mechanism for storytelling and recorded images, becomes a stand-in for the fragmented recollections of a young girl trying to piece together an image of her father years later. The imagery that Wells’ uses to emphasize how time alters perception, preserving and distorting a vital moment in Sophie’s life, is nothing short of sublime.
Additionally, while the TV is a haunting element, the books in the frame—titles such as How to Meditate and Tai Chi—further deepen the interpretative layers of the moment. Perhaps suggesting an attempt at some sort of psychological peace, self-discovery, or even escapism for Calum. But what if they’re just a splinter of Sophie’s memory? Maybe she wanted to remember her father as someone who was doing something to battle his demons.
The scene perfectly exemplifies Aftersun’s deeply personal excavation of love and loss. Calum, though present in the scene, feels distant, as if he is already a memory rather than a tangible figure. The use of reflections, darkness, and obscured perspectives serves to evoke a profound emotional response from the viewer, mirroring Sophie’s struggle to reconcile past happiness with her underlying grief. It’s a microcosm of the whole film, with Wells crafting a stirring moment that evokes deep pathos, materializing everything that preceded it and foreshadowing further what is to come later.
Through masterful cinematography and symbolic imagery, Charlotte Wells crafts a film that lingers long after it ends, much like the memories it seeks to depict. Something that clearly affected more than just me given the response to my tweet.
For those interested, here is our review of Aftersun on the podcast when it came out:
Director:Bong Joon Ho Writer:Bong Joon Ho, Edward Ashton Stars: Robert Pattinson, Naomi Ackie, Steven Yeun
Synopsis: Mickey 17, known as an “expendable,” goes on a dangerous journey to colonize an ice planet.
After gaining true critical acclaim and acceptance (like winning four Academy Awards), a director may face a double-edged sword. On one side is the supposed blank check. When you win an Oscar, a studio may support you in making whatever you wish. On the other side are the ridiculous expectations. Post-Oscar, those expectations get raised to near impossible levels. And this is where Bong Joon Ho sits with the release of Mickey 17. And for better or worse, Director Bong made exactly the movie that he wants, expectations be damned.
In the not-so-distant future, Mickey Barnes (Robert Pattinson) and his friend Timo ( a delightfully grimy Steven Yeun) sign up to board a spaceship after fleeing from a loan shark. Unfortunately for Mickey, the only way he can join is to become an “expendable,” meaning he is a disposable worker who is cloned so he can be reproduced after being worked to literal death. This technology has been banned on Earth, due to a horrific crime, but is being used in outer space by a twice-failed politician Kenneth Marshall (Mark Ruffalo) and his wife Ylfa (Toni Collette). The film picks up four years after the beginning of the voyage as they arrive at the planet Niflheim. Mickey 17 (the 17th version of our protagonist) is thought dead at the hands of the native creatures of the planet, eventually known as Creepers. Of course, at this point, Mickey 18 (also Pattinson) is created and when 17 returns, the problems begin as two expendables are not allowed to live at the same time.
Although much of this plot setup is science fiction in nature, Mickey 17 is, at its heart, a romance. Mickey’s partner, Nasha (Naomi Ackie), who is a security agent on board, has been with him since the beginning of the journey in all of his numerical iterations. The movie depends on their connection and thankfully, the chemistry between Ackie and Pattinson is palpable. Through a montage of their relationship, we find moments to enjoy between the two of them, so when both Mickey 17 and 18 are in scenes with her, we run through a gamut of emotions: excitement, wonder, fear, concern. Despite the outlandish nature of much of the film, some of the quiet moments, like Mickey adjusting Nasha’s uniform, are among its best. Nasha is the only one who seeks to understand Mickey, instead of simply seeing him as a tool to be used for the mission. Bong Joon Ho, as a director and writer, must find a way to balance the comedy and drama and luckily, this is what he has done for his entire career. He, along with his wonderful cast, manage to create a world in which we can laugh while also rooting for these characters to ascend to a better situation.
This is also, of course, a movie that focuses on the evils of capitalism and the horrors of what we, as humans, do to our environments. The violence enacted on the Creepers is both disturbing and unsurprising and lets us know exactly who to root for. This has been covered in his previous films, and some viewers may see his messages as “too on the nose” or repetitive, but that is purposeful. Director Bong is not trying to be subtle, as shown especially through Ruffalo and Collette’s over-the-top performances. It would be easy to see these characters as direct corollaries to our current leaders in America, but I think that would be missing the point. Instead, they are symbolic of humanity’s worst instincts and how easily we (regardless of nationality) can be corralled by bad actors, in general.
Mickey is all of us, and not in the sense of his journey being our own. But Mickey is seen as corporations see us. We are to be used, discarded, and replaced. All the better if our old memories and skills can be implanted so they don’t have to waste money and time retraining a new employee. The companies know that we have no choice but to work if we want to survive, so they push us to the brink. You’ll work an 8 hour shift? How about 12 instead? And for less money. What are you going to do, quit? They know that we cannot survive if we do. Mickey’s story is a heightened one, but not an unfamiliar one.
Pattinson’s portrayal of both 17 and 18 prove that he is one of the very best actors working today. Everything from the accent choice to his willingness to be both foolish and aggressive make these characters full. None of the scenes featuring both Mickeys feels out of place or false. Even if the film did not delineate who is who in a physical way, we are aware of their differences; how they walk, how they talk, their attitudes. This is because of a combination of Pattinson’s abilities and Bong Joon Ho’s direction (along with Director of Photography Darius Khondji). Visually, the film is on par with Bong Joon Ho’s best work. It combines the creature effects of Okja and the setting of Snowpiercer, all while creating something that feels new and fresh.
As the story moves forward, it moves away from comedy without truly leaving it behind. The balance is everything. There is a clear message being taught here and Bong Joon Ho does not shy away from being didactic. Humanity has proved repeatedly that we need lessons, that we miss the obvious. In some types of film, subtle symbolic work has an impact. Mickey 17 is not that kind of movie. We need to be told what is wrong with our world before we destroy it and others like it. More importantly, we need to remember the importance of the self. We cannot let personal guilt, corporate greed, and insecurity rule us. We are better than that. Director Bong gives us a gift; forgiveness of the self, the ability to push back against a horrific system, and most of all, the importance of love.
With Mickey 17, Bong Joon Ho shows us that he is disinterested in giving a film that is thought of as “the next step” in what we want after Parasite. Instead, he takes the opportunity to return to ideas that he deeply cares about like the treatment of humans and the world around us. He mocks those in power while still remembering that many of them are to be feared. But he never forgets that, to move past our fear, we must have something worth fighting for. As long as we have each other, we cannot be defeated by the elite. There is a way out and forward.
This week on Women InSession, we discuss our favorite big costume movies and what makes it a really fun genre of film! Extravagant costumes in film have been a staple since the beginning of the art form. They’re glamourous and make for great eye candy on camera. It’s a style of film that we really enjoy, making this a really fun conversation.
Panel: Kristin Battestella, Zita Short
On that note, check out this week’s show and let us know what you think in the comment section. Thanks for listening and for supporting the InSession Film Podcast!
On this episode, JD and Brendan discuss the new Scott Derrickson romantic sci-fi thriller The Gorge! While this wasn’t on our radar much, we were hoping to be surprised given all the talent involved, on-screen and off, but unfortunately it’s a big misfire.
Review: The Gorge (4:00) Director: Scott Derrickson Writer: Zach Dean Stars: Miles Teller, Anya Taylor-Joy, Sigourney Weaver
Synopsis:An earnest theater director has the task of remounting her former mentor’s most famous work, the opera Salome. Some disturbing memories from her past will allow her repressed trauma to color the present.
At first, Seven Veils is impenetrable. Seven Veils is a complicated film. There is a wall between audience and narrative. That wall is intentional as the narrative needs it to be there to chip away slowly and methodically at the answers to many of the questions posed. The wall falls as Jeanine’s (Amanda Seyfried) memories about her previous experience with this production of the opera “Salome” and the trauma of her childhood is revealed.
As it plays on the screen, the script is near inaccessible. The script, written by director Atom Egoyan, would work better if more concrete details had been made clear. The characters, the dialogue, and the images always skirt around the truth. It’s like a whirlpool that never actually sucks us in. We circle closer and closer, but we never go completely down. It makes the revelations that do come more satisfying that we weren’t spoonfed any answers, but with that satisfaction comes more confusion as other questions are raised.
The layers of Egoyan’s script are sometimes played all at once and out of linear order. There are shifts to the voice over narration that are sometimes meant to be apt quotes from the original play, “Salome” by Oscar Wilde, sometimes meant to be Jeanine’s essay that was meant to accompany the program, sometimes meant to be a part of the video journal she’s making for the show’s website, and sometimes are meant to be direct addresses to Charles, her former mentor who died and stipulated to his loved ones that Jeanine remount his most famous production. The ebb and flow of these is strange, and cacophonous at times, bits of narration add to the confusion about what the film is trying to say. It’s similar to the dissonance of when the diegetic music from the “Salome” opera is mixed with Mychael Danna’s non-diegetic score.
The muddiness of the script never interferes with the heavy feelings of dread we can sense in each scene. Egoyan’s long time collaborator, cinematographer Paul Sarossy, uses digital photography to achieve a sharpness to the picture that evokes danger and heightens our sense of fight or flight. There is one scene in particular very early on that means nothing to us then, but everything to us at the end.
Jeanine is making her way through various aspects of the production until she comes to a team working on the projection of a visual element that shows a young girl, highlighted in a golden yellow, walking through a black and white forest. Jeanine steps forward to watch the clip as it’s put together and as she turns, her body casts a shadow on the screen and the overlay image of the forest plays on her face while her shadow contains the little girl. It’s a spectacular use of visual imagery to convey the inner mind of a character.
As the film progresses, we see the trauma Jeanine has endured, first at the hands of her abusive father (Ryan McDonald) and then as her deepest horrors are used by the man she loved, Charles, to imbue his vision with more of an edge. The beauty of Amanda Seyfried’s performance is that she understands Jeanine’s pain so well that with a flick of her incredibly expressive eyes, she can call the deepest emotions needed for a scene. Seyfried has built a performance that exceeds the parameters in the script and speaks more volumes than the words ever could. It’s Seyfried’s performance that keeps the film watchable.
The complicated nature of the main plot, not to mention the subplot, eventually lead to a pretty good idea of what the film means. Or, really, what we hope it means. Atom Egoyan has little interest in giving us more than the barest of details to figure out everything Seven Veils is trying to say. It’s a film you’ll continue to think about and puzzle over. It’s a film that has a visual style that sticks in your mind and rattles about as you attempt to solve it. In many ways, Seven Veils is stunning, but the inaccessibility of the script leaves much to be desired and too much to be irritatingly pondered to be truly enjoyable.
Some were shocked to see Best Actress go to Mikey Madison when Demi Moore’s comeback story was right there for people to feast on. Anora swept and catapulted Sean Baker to a new level of greatness as he waved goodbye to his days as an underappreciated indie director. Adrien Brody crushed Timothée Chalamet’s dreams of becoming the first ’90s-born actor to snag a Lead Actor Oscar win. No Other Land won Best Documentary even with no U.S. distributor and hostile film industry moguls in attendance. I’m Still Here rightfully became the Best International Feature, the first for a Brazilian movie at the Oscars.
Some surprises are disappointing, but others are a delight. Like Paul Tazewell winning Best Costume Design for his magical work on Wicked, becoming the first Black man to ever win this award and opening an ocean of opportunities for BIPOC artists to gain deserved recognition for their hard work behind the cameras of major films.
A tweet from my dear friend Whitney Anne Adams, a costume designer and protégé of the renowned Catherine Martin, caught my interest as she sang Tazewell’s praises. What follows is an insightful post-Oscars conversation with Whitney, delving into highlights of the past award-season achievements in costume design, the brilliance of Paul Tazewell, and what his win means for other BIPOC costume designers. Enjoy!
Jaylan Salah: How did you feel about this year’s Best Costume Design Oscar nominees?
Whitney Anne Adams: This year’s Best Costume Design nominees were fantastic —all brilliant and worthy of their nominations. I also had the great pleasure of being an additional assistant costume designer for a few months on A Complete Unknown last year, and it was an honor and a pleasure to work under the guidance of the great Arianne Phillips.
Jaylan Salah: Which film stood out to you in its costume design? Why do you, as a costume designer, think that Wicked costumes shine more than any other nominee this year?
Whitney Anne Adams: All these nominees had stunning designs, but I was blown away by the artistry and imagination of Paul Tazewell’s work for Wicked. He’s created shapes and textures we’ve never seen before. And just the sheer magnitude of builds and costume pieces is astounding. It’s quite difficult to create a fantasy world unlike our own and have it all make sense and feel grounded. He also had the task of making something new and different from the stage production but still keeping the essence of those characters and nodding to the original designs. He walked the thinnest, most difficult tightrope quite successfully and beautifully.
Jaylan Salah: How did you feel when you heard Paul Tazewell’s name announced as the winning Costume Designer for his work in Wicked? What was your history working with Paul, and how do you describe his work ethic?
Whitney Anne Adams: I was so very excited for Paul—it’s so well earned and so well deserved. Early in my career, I was a stitcher and a sometimes costume dresser substitute at the La Jolla Playhouse and got to work on costumes Paul designed for the Broadway-bound musical Memphis. His designs were gorgeous then, and he was so kind and wonderful to every single person working on the production. He has an incredible work ethic and always strives for the best possible design onstage, but never at the expense of his team. I’ve loved his work for years and am just over the moon for him. It’s been so wonderful to see him lifting his entire team on social media throughout the awards season, too.
Jaylan Salah:What does this historic win mean for future BIPOC designers? Has costume Design, as a category, celebrated diversity in its nominations throughout the years?
Whitney Anne Adams: I hope this win further shows the diverse makeup of the costume department and costume designers. We are one of the most diverse sections of the industry, and it’s beyond time that awards started reflecting that. Since the Academy Award for Best Costume Design was first presented in 1949, only 26 nominations out of 540 have been awarded to BIPOC honorees, with now seven wins as of last night. Only three Black designers have ever been nominated, and now two of them have won. Celebrating Ruth E. Carter’s recent two Oscar wins and Paul’s last night was so exciting. I grew up idolizing Eiko Ishioka and her stunning Oscar-winning work for Bram Stoker’s Dracula. The list of BIPOC nominees is too short, and I hope it will grow longer next year. As we embark on the start of another season of discussions about costume design, I hope we all take personal action to seek out and watch diverse stories and designs and recognize the brilliant work of talented artists from the many communities that make up the industry both in America and across the world.
Costume Designer Ruth E. Carter is the first Black woman to win two Oscars, both for her work on Marvel’s Black Panther films.
Jaylan Salah:Was there a film you enjoyed last year and wished had been on the Oscars’ Best Costume Design list?
Whitney Anne Adams: Like every year, there was so much wonderful work this year, but some of my other favorite costume designs were Emmanuelle Youchnovski’s The Substance, Sarah Evelyn’s The Fall Guy, Megan Bijou Coates’s Shirley, Brittany Loar’s Nickel Boys, Antoinette Messam’s The Book of Clarence, Alexis Forte’s Smile 2, and Mitchell Travers’s Mother’s Instinct.
On this episode, JD is joined by InSession Film writer Zach Youngs to discuss Alex Parkinson’s new film Last Breath! It is the ultimate “dad movie” and will be on cable network some time soon. Something we say complimentary, it’s a good thriller and a captivating story.
Review: Last Breath (4:00) Director: Alex Parkinson Writers: Mitchell LaFortune, Alex Parkinson, David Brooks Stars: Woody Harrelson, Simu Liu, Finn Cole, Cliff Curtis
This week on the InSession Film Podcast, Gerald from The Awards Garage joins us to discuss the 2025 Oscars and we continue our Best Picture Movie Series with Robert Wise’s iconic 1961 musical West Side Story!
– 2025 Oscars (0:42) We begin the show this week by delving into the chaos that was the 97th Academy Awards. Conan ending up doing a great job, but due to circumstances outside of his control, the structure of the ceremony was a bit odd. Some categories had clips. Others had the “fab five” set up. The Bond tribute was weird. But the show also featured some great winners and amazing moments as we celebrated what was a great year in film.
– Best Picture Movie Series: West Side Story (1:25:40) We continue this series with one of the most iconic musicals of all-time. West Side Story was nominated for 11 Oscars and it won 10 of them, including Best Picture of course. Its dance and choreography was revolutionary. The songs are captivating. Its use of color is evocative. There’s so much about West Side Story that is excellent on its own terms, but it’s also been one of the most inspirational films in the decades afterward. This was a really fun conversation to have, and we were thrilled to catch up with it again.
Best Picture Movie Series – 1960s: Lawrence of Arabia
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Synopsis:Engaged in a mysterious relationship with her dead best friend from the Army, a female Afghanistan veteran comes head to head with her Vietnam vet grandfather at the family’s ancestral lake house.
Seeking help for your mental health is still stigmatized. It’s seen by the world outside that you’re not normal or that you have something wrong with you. It’s especially hard when people you love aren’t supportive of the journey. People deny themselves guidance and help because they can’t admit that there’s something wrong. It may not even be a big thing, but it can turn into one if not dealt with.
That’s the situation in which we meet Merit (Sonequa Martin-Green). She’s a former soldier, returned from Afghanistan, in group therapy because of a court order after a negligent incident at work. Her friend, Zoe (Natalie Morales), is with her as well, but we learn quickly she is only present for Merit because she’s dead.
The reason why Zoe’s dead is built up throughout the film, and when pieces begin to fall into place, we think we know what happened. We make an assumption based on limited facts and it’s not until Merit finally comes to terms with what caused her to be haunted by Zoe, that we understand. Writers Kyle Hausmann-Stokes, Cherish Chen, and A.J. Bermudez zig when we think they’ll zag and catch us dropping our smug look when the devastating truth about Zoe’s death is revealed. It’s a script that challenges our notions about soldiers and challenges our perceptions of what life was like for soldiers deployed to Iraq and Afghanistan.
There is a beauty to the structure of My Dead Friend Zoe. Credit for that has to go to director Hausmann-Stokes and editor Ali Greer crafting the visual look of the film like a person’s memory. As Merit self medicates by running punishing distances, snippets of her life with Zoe flit in. These inserts aren’t plot, but a glimpse of how Merit saw the friend she loved. The flashbacks feel like Merit has been holding herself back from remembering everything. They’re placed in an order that builds the tension, but refuses to reveal more than we need in any given piece. Later, as Merit has her panic attacks, the sound and speed of the images are chaotic and disjointed as Merit tries to suppress them from the forefront of her mind.
However, the technical wizardry wouldn’t work if the core friendship didn’t have great chemistry. Martin-Green and Morales feel so comfortable with each other. Merit and Zoe’s friendship is the kind of friendship that’s more like family. The two of them are great at the goofy rapport with Martin-Green as the straight man and Morales as the loose cannon. They are even better in the hard scenes, the memories Merit is attempting to suppress. There’s a deep sadness to these moments, but it’s more for the memories of our own friends who have left us in one way or another. This relationship feels so real and lived in. Sonequa Martin-Green and Natalie Morales are absolutely perfect in these roles.
If there is fault with My Dead Friend Zoe it’s that its plot drags a little once the Alzheimer’s subplot is in full swing. Ed Harris is as good as he always is as Dale, but it feels a little like something tacked on. Merit could have been escaping to escape, but instead she’s escaping to a larger problem that helps the resolution, but only just. It might have been better if Dale was more of a voice for mental health. He, as the one family member that Merit looks up to the most, could have been a guiding light rather than another echo chamber like Zoe trying to tell Merit to get over it.
My Dead Friend Zoe is a terrifically funny and very thought provoking film. It isn’t one that will leave you easily and you won’t want it to. The leads are terrific and the script is very well written. It will make you want to call a friend you haven’t heard from in a while just to reminisce about what made you friends in the first place.
Director:Lucile Hadžihalilović Writers: Geoff Cox, Lucile Hadžihalilović, Alante Kavaite Stars: Marion Cotillard, Gaspar Noé, August Diehl
Synopsis: Jeanne, a 15-year-old orphan, witnesses the shoot for a film adaptation of the fairy tale The Snow Queen, and she becomes fascinated by its star, Cristina, an actress who is just as mysterious and alluring as the Queen she is playing.
One director who deserves more attention and love for her curation of elemental and dream-like cinema is Lucile Hadžihalilović. Starting her career as an editor, working primarily with provocateur and rabble-rouser Gaspar Noé (who is her husband) on films like I Stand Alone and Carne, Hadžihalilović has spent most of her career in the shadows, from which her work is born and caressed in, gaining light and love from the care and gentleness that the French director gives to them. Her surrealist touch takes the viewer on a journey of finely curated images that seem conjured from her dreams and nightmares–the two intertwining to create a hypnotizing atmosphere and slow-burning, gloomy tone. Few directors like her always take viewers into different ventures each time they present a film. And Hadžihalilović has provided some of the most unique in French cinema in the past couple of decades with films like Evolution (2015) and Innocence (2004).
In an interview with Lucile Hadžihalilović for the Guardian following the release of Earwig back in 2022, film director and writer Mark Cousins asked if she would’ve preferred to have been directed in the silent era. Hadžihalilović replies, “There was a faith in the power of the images, an intensity and often poetry in silent film that is wonderful and that we have lost.” “Silent films can be really close to the language of dreams”, she continued. There used to be a magical sensation upon each image that went through the sprocket. The wonder of cinema is not far from being gone. But the films from the silent era and golden age indeed had imagery and sequences that felt dream-like and ultra-realistic, easily perceived in your sleep and daily life.
The lack of sound made viewers rely on visual storytelling rather than articulated phrasings and dialogues, allowing emotions and narrative to be conveyed through composition and minute details in the performances. Gestures, shadows, lighting, movement, and much more were at the forefront of the picture, where a subconscious discussion occurred between the director and the viewer. That’s what happens with Hadžihalilović’s films. They convey more with the images themselves rather than the dialogue per se. She taps into our indescribable visions at night during our slumber and creates cinematic parables about innocence and transformation. Her latest project, The Ice Tower (La tour de glace, screening in competition at the 2025 Berlin International Film Festival), is no different. Casting a spell onto the audience, Hadžihalilović once again puts you in a trance, guiding you into a story of yearning and social indoctrination between reality and fantasy.
Utilizing Hans Christian Anderson’s fairy tale ‘The Snow Queen’ as inspiration for the constant shift between reality and fantasy, The Ice Tower follows teenager Jeanne (Clara Pacini), the eldest girl in the foster home in a tiny, icy village in 1970s France. On one fine morning, Jeanne escapes the foster home to go to the big city–the way many other fairy tales have begun. (Alice, bored by a riverbank, finds an escape from her rudimentary life via a rabbit hole that sends her to Wonderland; Peter Pan takes Wendy and her brothers away from their draining home to Neverland.) One of the first things that happens to Jeanne is being adopted briefly by a group of teenage girls at a local ice rink.
Jeanne sees something in Bianca, the group’s leader—free-spiritedness and exuberance, qualities she does not recognize in herself. She then becomes fond of Bianca even though she does not know the girl in the least. She’s attached to her personality since Jeanne has been isolated from the world for most of her life, stuck in a foster home full of abandoned souls. This is why, after this encounter, Jeanne creates a new persona while in her escapist ventures, naming herself “Bianca”. From this point on, Hadžihalilović begins to add Mulholland Drive-like elements of duality, in which reality and fantasy blur with one another. It is not as surrealist as David Lynch would cover it, but the French director does a split between dimensions to elaborate more on female independence and identity.
Using the pseudonym of “Bianca”, Jeanne wanders around for a place to stay as day turns to night. She goes deeper into the rabbit hole and ends up in a place where dreams come to life: a soundstage. Inside, a film crew is working on an adaptation of Hans Christian Anderson’s tale ‘The Snow Queen,’ a frostbitten production where reality and fiction blur. This adaptation stars dive movie star Cristina van den Berg (Marion Cotillard, reuniting with Hadžihalilović for the first time since Innocence in 2004) as the Ice Queen, a figure that is equally mesmerizing as it is malevolent. It is directed by Dino (Gaspar Noé), a filmmaker known for some visceral and confrontative pictures; Hadžihalilović slowly adds more self-referential notes to this already confounding piece.
The allure of cinema is tied with the lead characters’ darkness and melancholy. The soundstage becomes a portal, not just into the world of filmmaking, but into Jeanne’s subconscious–a place where the past, present, and imagined futures collide. The artificial glow of studio lights, the “playing dress-up” effect of the makeup and costumes, and the tangible effects and sets make Jeanne tether between self-discovery and self-destruction. As Bianca, the young girl manages to get a role as an extra in the film and catches the attention of the glamorous European actress–initiating the first steps of a dicey, dual fascination. The two worlds between the film-within-a-film intersect as the allure Cristina and Jeanne/Bianca have for one another increases.
Her perception of Cristina is one centered around erotic allure. Meanwhile, we don’t know what the actress wants with the young girl from the get-go. Does she see herself in her? Is Cristina’s past reflected in Jeanne’s eyes? Hadžihalilović develops this mystery via her usual playful methods of constructing surrealist imagery. The characters in the film slowly drown in this darkness that does not seem to dissipate. The shadows show their sorrows, sense of abandonment, yearning, and fractured identities, primarily Cristina and Jeanne/Bianca’s metaphysical intertwining. As one is graced by the screen and killed after the light immersed from the sprocket fades, the other receives life from the gaze of another, then ought to bask in the gloom.
Throughout the film, Jeanne looks with admiration at women who have an allure or poise that she wants and does not know how to attain, much like the attraction Naomi Watts’ Diane Selwyn has for Laura Harring’s Rita in Mulholland Drive. There is a desire for an escape, a psychological intimacy connected to an illusion, or these characters’ unattainable dreams. Instead of utilizing sexual chemistry and eroticism, Hadžihalilović focuses on the fascination that young girls have with older women who have a certain elegance and slickness to them. Hadžihalilović has her protagonist who, coincidentally looks a bit like Lucile herself (bob-cut and all), experiences the vast land of promises and perils that is to come in her later years as she ages.
It reminds me of Dorothy experiencing and learning more about life through treacherous and lively scenarios in The Wizard of Oz. However, The Ice Tower is much more reliant on the despondency beneath the facade of magnetism. Hence, using a film-within-a-film narrative gadget and self-referential tone breaks the illusion of glamour, revealing the loneliness and uncertainty that lurk beneath. Jeanne/Bianca’s admiration is not wholly passive but more so transformative. The young girl mimics and adopts the bad and good traits of those she idolizes, whether an ice-skating teenager or a prima donna movie star, obscuring what she deems as admiration and self-reinvention. This double-edged sword is a pretty liberating thing for Jeanne. However, at the same time, it is a disorienting one that pulls her deeper into a world full of facades.
In The Wizard of Oz, Dorothy seeks self-discovery within her ventures, crossing the yellow brick road to find herself. Jeanne has a road of her own, yet it is more ambiguous and shaped by longing rather than certainty. This film-within-a-film gadget helps reinforce this thematic thread by accentuating how cinema can be a fragile construction depending on the viewer and the performer. Hadžihalilović uses cinema as an art form for escape and reflection. She utilizes her dreams to forge her stories, although they also reveal some personal afflictions Hadžihalilović might have, even if she does not want them to appear as such. Her latest work shows you that there is an undeniable allure in transformation and breaking of innocence. However, Hadžihalilović also tells you that sadness is amidst it all, even in the most enchanting illusions.
Cinema is a tool to tap into dreams and nightmares, and it is constructed by people who try to capture what was once in their heads briefly. It is enchantment through and through from the moment light leaves through the sprocket. Hadžihalilović takes advantage of her image curation to capture that allure from both sides of the plain: the creators and their creations, the process and the end product, all told through a coming-of-age fairytale about identity, isolation, and remembrance. Perhaps there is something more to it that I’m not catching at the moment. (This often happens when you watch many movies during a short period at film festivals.) But rest assured that The Ice Tower is the type of picture whose images linger for a long while and, somehow, are transmitted into your dreams. We are given the ability to traverse that world again without being at the cinema. It is a weird experience to capture and describe through writing. But that is the magic of Lucile Hadžihalilović’s cinema.
Synopsis: Follows Elvira as she battles against her gorgeous stepsister in a realm where beauty reigns supreme. She resorts to extreme measures to captivate the prince, amidst a ruthless competition for physical perfection.
Cinderella’s story is a tale as old as time, retold a million times, decade by decade, in various forms and genres. Of course, the one that first comes to mind is the classic 1950 animated Disney film we all saw as kids. But this story has been changed and remodeled to the point where there are new meanings. For example, Jaques Demy did his rendition back in 1970 with Donkey Skin (Peau d’ane), utilizing his vivid, swift cinematic movements and mixing them with a sinister undertone in the colorful fantasy world to create a touching film about disguise, femininity, and hedonism. Most recently, in a further stretch, there’s Sean Baker’s Palme d’Or-winning Anora, a modern-day Cinderella story about a Brooklyn sex worker who marries the son of a Russian oligarch, which later becomes an exploration of the faux American dream, female agency, and loneliness.
These are some of the ways in which the classic tale has been retold. However, I don’t think we have seen a version like Norwegian director Emilie Kristine Blichfeldt’s feature-length debut, The Ugly Stepsister (Den stygge stesøsteren, screening in the Panorama section of the 2025 Berlin International Film Festival), where blood is spilled, and the macabre is dwelled in. If you have scoured through the straight-to-streaming weekend releases list, you may have seen some trashy horror versions of Cinderella. But Blichfeldt’s, although it has its own sense of trashiness and gore attached, has some meat on its bones, to the same degree it has bodily transformations and splatter–utilizing body horror as the catalyst for its scares and messaging.
The Ugly Stepsister follows Elvira (Lea Mathilde Skar-Myren), a lonely girl living in the shadows of her own home, as her stepsister Agnes (Thea Sofie Loch Næss) gets all of the attention, including that of her mother Rebekka (Ane Dahl Torp). The two have different world views, induced by their respective forms of isolation. Elvira is sidelined by everyone around her, while Agnes tries to make everything perfect to comply with the standards put upon her by her mother and society. Most importantly, Agnes wants to ensure she is the prettiest girl at the ball for the “prince charming” of this fantasy world, Prins Julian (Isac Calmroth). There’s a reason why “prince charming” is in quotes. One of the changes that Blichfeldt makes to the classic tale is making the desired prince a complete and insufferable scumbag.
Prins Julian is the complete opposite of what a prince is supposed to be or behave like. Calmroth does everything he can to make the audience loathe him entirely. And he succeeds easily. Everyone wants the attention of Prince Julian, even the saddened Elvira, who has fever dreams about him. Elvira will go to lengths that Agnes wouldn’t, although, if tested, there is a chance. However, what Elivra decides to do, with the encouragement of her stepmother, who wants perfection nonetheless, is brutal and bloody. She breaks her body and picks it apart for the sake of beauty and allure–the sheer magnetism that her stepmother views as the most essential facet a woman should have.
From pimple-popping to nose jobs and eye corrections, Elvira undergoes many surgical cosmetic procedures handled by Dr. Esthetique (Adam Lundgren), whose methods are more brutal and cruel than any other doctor. But what can you expect from a mad doctor with that name? For some reason, he reminded me of Dr. Satan from Rob Zombie’s entertaining shlock-and-sleaze fest House of a Thousand Corpses, where the character is precisely what the name entails–a satanic doctor willing to do the most malevolent acts–and adding to the film what it needs tonally and scares-wise, embracing the trashiness as well as the camp. From the name Dr. Esthetique alone, you notice that Blichfeldt is not treating The Ugly Stepsister with subtlety or poise. Instead, her approach is similar, in more ways than one, to Coralie Fargeat’s in The Substance.
The two directors, Blichfeldt and Fargeat, use a sledgehammer approach to their film’s messaging and body horror, where everything is in your face at all times. What they want to say with their genre works is more than evident from the get-go, and the two repeat their points on multiple occasions, which might bother many viewers who seek something more analytical or complex. In the case of The Ugly Stepsister, there is an excessive recirculation of the thematic thread and some of the narrative beats seen in previous Cinderella incarnations. However, Blichfeldt’s tonal control and utilization of genre convictions are so effective that you go along with the ride and its full unmasked commentary on aging, beauty standards, identity, and female independence. This is all accomplished through horrifyingly beautiful body horror constructions that will make the weak stomached queasy and cause their spines to tingle.
I don’t want to spoil any of the concoctions Blichfeldt and her team makes so that you see them yourself. They do not reinvent the wheel in the least. But these moments are so gripping because they are utilized in the story–and how they tie to the themes–and the tangibility they contain, making it feel real and pain-inducing. Blichfeldt is not afraid to let the camera linger on the harsh surgeries and beauty methods that Elvira endures. The images are heightened by Lea Mathilde Skar-Myren’s dual-toned role, performing a balancing act between delicateness and ferocity in her debut role. She gives way to the pain, and you feel how these methods are taking a toll on her heavily. This creates some much-needed empathy in a film that is very much reliant on the gnarly.
It is a key facet that permits the audience to connect with the story amidst its trashiness and lack of subtlety. Skar-Myren is tasked with a lot; this is a physical and demanding role, especially for a screen debut. So, it is very impressive that the young actress managed to work through all those demands and give The Ugly Stepsister some heart. Blichfeldt’s take on Cinderella delivers much shock and awe with its body horror elements and bloody finale when the clock strikes twelve. In the battle of excess and crudeness, there is plenty of entertainment to be had with this picture. A classic tale is turned upside down. Blichfedt ups the ante while maintaining the same dosage of empathy in the story. Always welcoming of genre pictures, the Berlin International Film Festival has opened its arms to The Ugly Stepsister. Will audiences do the same as well when the time comes?
Synopsis: In a time when pro wrestling for women was illegal all over the United States, a small town single mother embraces the danger as she dominates America’s most masculine sport and becomes the first million dollar female athlete in history.
Sports films, without a doubt, inspire audiences in ways that other genre films simply don’t. Whether they are epic underdog stories about breaking out of poverty or smashing the glass ceiling of gender norms, their ability to uplift us knows no limits. It’s no different for Ash Avildsen’s film Queen of the Ring, which recounts the triumphant life of Mildred Burke, America’s first million-dollar female athlete. A true display of the American Dream through the formidable elegance of a woman who isn’t afraid to take up space.
Queen of the Ring rolls the clock back to 1930s America, when Mildred Bliss, later known as Mildred Burke (Emily Bett Rickards), has dreams to make her life more than what it is. A single mother born of a single mother seeks to break into the world of wrestling after attending a show with said mother, Bertha (Cara Buono). Among the crowd of mostly men, Mildred’s eyes beam with excitement, stoking a fire inside of her that would burn for years to come. From the moment the match starts to its conclusion, Mildred knows that the ring is where she’s meant to be. Sitting in front of the two women is G. Bill Wolfe (Tyler Posey), who would go on to introduce Mildred to the man who would help make her dreams of becoming a wrestler a reality, his father, Billy Wolfe (Josh Lucas).
During this time in American history, it was illegal in parts of the country for women to wrestle one another, and a risk for trainers to take any on. After Mildred proves herself to Billy by taking out a man in the ring, he agrees to train her. As their professional relationship builds, so does their personal one, and it’s not a healthy environment, whatsoever. Mildred begins to dominate in the ring making money, but, more importantly, also starts making a name for herself. As she builds her career, she knows that to secure her wealth for herself and her son she must hold Billy to a promise he made to her, and marry her. As the couple grows further apart, the roster of female wrestlers grows, putting Mildred up against odds only a woman could face.
Avildsen has the tough job of bringing an athlete to the screen that unfortunately never received the recognition she deserved. Adapting the book of the same name by Jeff Lean, there are undoubtedly moments of Mildred’s life that will get lost within the wider cinematic story. What Avildsen does well in this film is not shying away from Mildred’s struggles, especially when it comes to gender-specific problems. These include marrying a man you don’t want to in order to have a stake in the business you built, or breaking the cycles of abuse, even when it feels impossible. There are plenty of social issues that are touched on, but also plenty of room for the showmanship and physicality of the sport to still have its time to shine.
Where Queen of the Ring truly makes its impact is with the film’s leading performances. Rickards makes it glaringly obvious that she was dedicated to this role; her physical performance alone makes this film worth watching. She fully transforms into her role as Mildred, capturing her fiery passion for her sport and the dominating force she is in the ring. Paired with her on-screen slime ball husband, Lucas plays Billy almost too well; his charm pulls you in, ignoring all his red flags. Their chemistry is what pushes the film along in its slower moments. The supporting cast has solid work from rival promoter, Jack Pfefer (Walton Goggins), and wrestling maven Gladys Gillem (Deborah Ann Woll), but their presence is short-lived and often overshadowed by some rather lackluster work from Posey, Buono, and Adam Demos as Gorgeous George.
The film makes sure to incorporate real female professional wrestlers, so if you are a pro wrestling fan, there will be more than a few faces to keep an eye out for. It’s striking to see so many muscular women on screen together, sharing the screen instead of competing for a spot. Kamille, Toni Storm, Trinity Fatu, Britt Baker, and more all command the screen in Queen of the Ring, showing off their physical abilities as the art form it is. Their inclusion in the film showcases how Mildred’s story transcends generations, how far female wrestling has come, and where it still can go. The stunt work with Rickards is mesmerizing; paired with the hazy glow of the ring lights, their work feels like a ballet routine that just so happens to be surrounded by ring ropes.
Mildred’s characterization in Queen of the Ring is mostly captivating, and she’s incredibly easy to root for. She’s young, beautiful, and a hard working single mother. Her path is a dangerous one, as she continuously places her body on the line for a job that is illegal for her to have. As her career grows, so does her amount of supporters; the film makes it a point to mention that she is a hero to everyone. The film falters in its pacing with telling Mildred’s story; many impactful moments later in the film feel like a “blink and you’ll miss it” scenario. The film lingers on more high-spirited in-the-ring fights, which makes for an entertaining film but leaves the more real elements of Mildred undiscovered.
The film works best when Mildred is in the ring grappling and sparring with whoever is unlucky enough to be her opponent. Visually, the film excels in this regard too, with cinematographer Andrew Strahorn capturing the glow and glamour of the squared circle showcasing the period seemingly effortlessly. Whether getting ready in the brightly lit beauty mirrors showing the drama behind the scenes, or the chaos in the ring while popping bones back into place, Strahorn’s work does a lot of heavy lifting. Unfortunately, it can only lift so much while Queen of the Ring packs one too many needle drops of modern rock covers that do not blend well with the film or its visuals at all.
Overall, Queen of the Ring is a story that is needed right now, as it shows the lengths those who are marginalized must go to be seen and heard. While the film suffers from its minor issues, its strong leading performances and dedication to the message are more than worth the price of admission.
Director: Paul Dektor Writers:Theodore Melfi, Christopher Wehner Stars: Peter Dinklage, Shirley MacLaine, Kimberly Quinn
Synopsis:Phil’s a dreamer. Most dreams don’t come true. Phil hates that. But that’s not going to stop Phil from dreaming.
The concept of the American Dream is a goal chased by many film protagonists. It’s a way for the audience to connect with a character. We’ve all chased this concept in some form or another. It could be entrepreneurship, a scientific breakthrough, athleticism, or some other form of amassing fame and wealth. What makes Phil (Peter Dinklage) different from the audience is that, as an economics professor, he knows that wealth is relative and assets are the key to real financial power.
It’s a very 1770s concept of the American Dream. If you own some land or property, you have the power. Phil believes that if he can somehow buy a house, things will start looking up for him. He wants to use an industrial sealant on the paper cut of his issues. This is where the film should keep its focus. Phil’s struggles with the concept of not coming close to affording a house. It’s a problem that many of us face because, unlike our parents, our first salaries didn’t afford us even the possibility of a down payment on a house. Yet, the script pulls a few threads and becomes a bit tangled.
Screenwriter Theodore Melfi and screen story creator Christopher Wehner throw a lot of ideas at the wall and try to make them all stick. In addition to his passion for economics, Phil is also an aspiring novelist. He’s a cliché in that when grad student Claire (Michelle Mylett) gushes over his paper, the two of them start a relationship. He starts another affair with Maggie (Kimberly Quinn) who is attempting to get him to back out of his deal with Astrid (Shirley MacLaine) because Maggie believes Phil’s scamming Astrid. These threads do resolve, but it’s almost like the writers tried to tell the story from a few different angles and decided on everything instead of sticking with one idea.
There are many scenes that don’t quite work, mainly because they haven’t been earned with enough set up. The end of the film especially doesn’t earn the big hearted wrap-up. It’s likely because there are too many ideas at play to really get emotionally involved with Phil or his problems. While we understand why he unravels, we don’t understand how he’s going to continue after becoming whole. Though, these problems don’t matter because the film, in spite of itself, is entirely watchable.
It feels like a dramedy from the late ’90s or early 2000s. Something mid-budget that would star two top actors at the time, or at least a commanding star presence on either side of the gender divide. It’s your basic package that feels cozy and lived in. It doesn’t do anything fancy or flashy, but moves forward pleasantly even with a prickly hero because we know he has a dream and a heart that can grow.
That coziness is thanks to the always curmudgeonly, but loveable Peter Dinklage. He’s an actor with the presence to make an uninteresting man into an intriguing one. He’s completely in command of this character like it’s one he has in his back pocket at all times. He’s played every kind of character one can, but it’s the simple ones like Phil that remind you how good he is. He can make anything more watchable.
All in all, American Dreamer has its moments. It’s not quite the next great film you’re going to watch, but if you want something to relax into that might suck you in in spite of yourself, American Dreamer is the one. There are much worse ways to spend 98 minutes.
On this episode of Chasing the Gold, Shadan and Erica discuss the 2025 Oscars and give their reaction to this year’s crop of winners! It was a wild show, a messy ceremony, but one heck of a ride. Lots to discuss regarding the 97th Academy Awards!
On that note, check out this week’s show and let us know what you think in the comment section. Thanks for listening and for supporting the InSession Film Podcast!
Director:Alex Parkinson Writers:Mitchell LaFortune, Alex Parkinson, David Brooks Stars: Woody Harrelson, Simu Liu, Finn Cole
Synopsis:A true story that follows seasoned deep-sea divers as they battle the raging elements to rescue their crew mate trapped hundreds of feet below the ocean’s surface.
A film about a profession the vast majority of us know nothing about can be jargon heavy. Things like saturation diving, being able to work at extreme depths for longer periods, or DPO, dynamic positioning officer. There are lots of new words or familiar words with strange new meanings. Films like this get bogged down and lose some humanity, but there is something different about Last Breath. This film keeps its heart amongst the new environment we’re thrust into.
The story is about the divers in harm’s way, first and foremost. It helps that director and co-writer Alex Parkinson co-directed and wrote a documentary feature, that shares a title with this feature, that also covers this true story. He has first-hand knowledge of these people and while many interactions have been dramatized (as well as personal details change), the heart of the story beats because it has real people and their interviews behind it.
Writers Mitchell LaFortune, David Brooks, and Parkinson also stray from some of the tropes that are common to tough guys in tough jobs films. The hard edged veteran, Dave (Simu Liu), is serious and seemingly emotionless. Many other characters in the first scenes call him “The Vulcan,” like the logical Mr. Spock from the “Star Trek” franchise. Unlike a typical tough guy, though, Dave’s toughness comes from a genuine place of safety. He doesn’t want Chris (Finn Cole) thinking of his fiance, not because he’s mean, but because he’s in an extremely dangerous situation and needs the only other person down there with him to watch his back. Simu Liu is getting good at playing this type of character in these types of manly tearjerkers. See his work in last year’s Arthur the King. It’s a shame the rest of the plot, even if true, is too easily predictable.
Most of the rest of the story follows the pattern of similar stories. It’s a pretty boilerplate drama. There is tension and it gets your heart pumping, but there is a nagging feeling in the back of your head. There is a character’s life at stake and as the helpless crew in the ship and the helpless Duncan (Woody Harrelson) in the underwater diving bell waiting to pull his divers to safety, are tense, it never feels like it will surprise. Even as the climax occurs, there’s a sheen of predictability that never quite wears off. The falling action stalls and the climax plateaus for far too long. Last Breath was only ever going to end one way and, at a certain point, you wish the filmmakers would just get on with it.
Though, while you wait for something truly surprising to happen, you can marvel at the images of the environment. If more than a modicum of CGI was used, the effect was seamless. Parkinson and cinematographer Nick Remy Matthews captured some terrific underwater action that looks very practical and keeps the reality of the moment. Connecting those visuals with the incredible sound by mixer Aleksandar Bundalo and editor Archie Lamont creates a tremendous impact. There is a scene where the diving bell impacts the metal of the underwater manifold and the sound makes you jump and makes your teeth hurt simultaneously. Everything underwater was truly stunning.
A film like Last Breath isn’t setting out to reinvent cinema or to splash us with a great deal of melodrama. It sets out to tell a true story well and to make us empathize with a group of people that do the dirty work of keeping the houses of Europe supplied with heat. It’s an interesting story if a bit predictable. Last Breath is a film that reminds you that, as much as it sucks to sit and stare at TPS reports all day, at least you don’t have to risk your neck for a faceless natural gas company who doesn’t want to spend the money on robotics research and development that could prevent anyone from having to risk their life like this.
