Director: Gary Ross
Writers: Gary Ross, Olivia Milch; George Clayton Johnson, Jack Golden Russell (characters based on)
Stars: Sandra Bullock, Cate Blanchett, Mindy Kaling, Awkwafina, Rihanna, Sarah Paulson, Helena Bonham Carter, Anne Hathaway, James Corden, Richard Armitage

Synopsis: Debbie Ocean gathers an all-female crew to attempt an impossible heist at New York City’s yearly Met Gala.

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OK, seriously, why is the wholly girl-powered spinoff of Steven Soderbergh’s Ocean’s Trilogy is still in one piece? Like 2016’s Ghostbusters, it has femmes doing what the fellas have done! There are twice more the number of gals here, too! Sandra Bullock is a philanthropist and she’s the team leader, so there’s a full-blown SJW! Boys, where are you all?!

Actually, just hush. Muzzle that debasing campaign you’re thinking of igniting or those litmus tests you’re about to host. Everyone in Ocean’s 8 aims to impress — not to hear regressive spiel, in other words — and “with zest” plus “with gloss” are the aptest descriptors for how that job went down.

Right after promising that “a simple life” is all that will be pursued after a five-year stint, Debra “Debbie” Ocean (Sandra Bullock) signals her best genes — those that steal — that it’s safe to reemerge. New cosmetics? Tell the clerk they’re returns. Someone checking out of their hotel suite? She’ll re-check in under their names. According to promotional writings, Debbie is an “estranged sister” to (the now-dead) Danny, and yet that banquet-ready look, cool-flame magnetism and purloining prowess, which Bullock depict with built-in spark, has her more like his double. In that spirit, it’s time to recruit some folks to loot a loaded target — actress Daphne Kruger (Anne Hathaway), or specifically her neck which is to be wrapped with six pounds of Cartier diamonds for the Met Gala.

The ensemble essence, the backbone of the other Ocean’s three heists, is what Ocean’s 8 doesn’t form as well as it wanted to. As seen in Free State of Jones, that is director Gary Ross’ foible: having to manage two-plus number of players, in this case near-10. Unlike that Civil War-set yarn, however, there is more than one cast member — the “Louise” to Debbie’s “Thelma” (Cate Blanchett); an Indian jeweler seeking independence from family (Mindy Kaling); a curbside sleight-of-hand mistress (Awkwafina); a non-Russian-and-very-Rastafarian hacker (Rihanna); a skittish fence-turned-mother (Sarah Paulson) and a hapless dresser (Helena Bonham Carter) — who each can easily summon the kind of fizz that eases Ross’ trial. It also lets some of the squad members overpower the stereotypes — strictly surface-level, thankfully — that have been woven into their characterization.

But the brightest belle of the break-in? Hathaway. The actress is a firecracker being Daphne, the mark with extra instead of blood in the system (diamonds are acupuncture points pressed rather than a girl’s best friend!) and this habit of hunting you down because you haven’t pampered her. There’s only gold to gather seeing Daphne as the virago who wears designer brands (all those days at Runway finally changed you, huh, Andy?), or the “Anne Hathaway” that the web’s wicked-tongued has tirelessly manufactured.

On that note of “gold,” the glam-fond fiend among us will have a swell time watching Ocean’s 8. “Do not run a job within a job,” Lou said to Debbie, and recalled the latter’s brother’s screen debut, at one point, but that’s the game the visual department is playing here. And under the “Ocean”-ship of costume designer Sarah Edwards, they almost steal the film away. Barrier comes in the form of Olivia Milch and Ross’ scribing, which devoted a sizable effort to make the getting-even subplot involving Debbie’s wanker ex, Claude (Richard Armitage), tick. Though unfold with little carefreeness that is somewhat a discord to the rest of the footage, it installs relevance to the crew’s actions, along with this meta bit that Debbie has factored every player into her plan — those she can see and those who can see her.

Wait, does that make Debbie’s peers also some sort of “Ocean’s Avengers”? Can we think about this, or will it has the bros acting as if the lid of a certain Greek container is ajar? These eyes want to see Debbie and company evolve in their next pilfering, so maybe one will put the thought on hold for now.

Overall Grade: B

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Hear our podcast review soon!

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Director: Bart Layton
Writers: Bart Layton
Stars: Evan Peters, Barry Keoghan, Blake Jenner, Ann Dowd

Synopsis: Four young men mistake their lives for a movie and attempt one of the most audacious heists in U.S. history.

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Wild. Absolutely wild. American Animals is an unyielding, unabashed thrill ride that mixes documentary, psychological thriller and heist tropes into one seamless experience. BAFTA winning writer-directer Bart Layton has echoed his brilliant skills as a documentarian (The Imposter was easily one of the best docs of 2012, I don’t care what The Academy says) in ways that are incisively clever, but simultaneously he creates a dramatically tense heist film that somehow makes the experience as insightful as it is visceral.

American Animals centers on Spencer Reinhard and Warren Lipka, two college students in Lexington, Kentucky who become trapped by the mundane rhythms of life, and are looking for some sort of spark. Reinhard, who attends the liberal arts college Transylvania University, gets an idea to steal the very rare, but very authentic, book of paintings by John James Audobon called Birds of America, which is located in Transylvania’s Special Collections Libarary. Warren bites on the idea and together they spend months planning the heist. Along the way they realize they need more help and reel in Warren’s friends Eric Borsuk and Chas Allen. The four of them end up creating the most inept heist of all-time, arguably.

The nucleus of American Animals is rooted in Layton’s direction, editing style and ability to harmoniously transition between documentary-style interviews and the film’s dramatic re-telling of these events. And to be clear, this isn’t “based on a true story” as the opening titles will tell you, it *is* a true story. Ironically though, while the real-life Reinhard, Lipka, Borsuk and Allen offer up credence to the authenticity of this being true, Layton intentionally re-creates these events through juxtaposing perspectives, thus questioning what’s real and what isn’t. This actually did happen, but how did it happen? We don’t really know, and the contradicting viewpoints of these characters hazily render the “truth” as something more individual. Perhaps sometimes what we perceive as true is just a manipulation, a notion that is becomes poignant in how Layton reflects on those questions.

Those thematic layers are thought-provoking, but they’re also fun to watch. Layton’s editing approach gives American Animals an energy that compliments the meta humor that sprouts as a result of interweaving the real-life people with their fictional characters. The first act often showcases the fictional versions of Reinhard and Lipka reacting promptly to what is being said in the documentary-style interviews. At times they look into the camera to comment on the lunacy of what’s going on. We also see several scenes play out in two different ways because of the aforementioned varying perspectives. Layton isn’t necessarily inventing a new wheel, as we’ve seen this style before, but it’s the extremes Layton goes to that makes American Animals invigorating.

Many meta films will directly comment on the “true” stories they are telling, such as The Big Short and the Wolf of Wall Street recently, but American Animals is literally half a documentary. It’s half a dramatic re-telling. And often times those two worlds collide. It’s also insane because part of third act shifts from heist film to a psychological character study. In theory, Layton’s approach should not work. And maybe it won’t work for some audiences. But Layton’s grasp on the material, and his strengths as a filmmaker, keep the experience singular. Everything has its place. The meta commentary, the heist itself, the human interactions that drive much of the story, the question of why they did this, it all comes together in a way that’s rare.

Of course, Layton isn’t the only star of the film. Portraying these characters are Evan Peters (Lipka), Barry Keoghan (Reinhard), Blake Jenner (Allen) and Jared Abrahamson (Borsuk) respectively, and they’re all very good. Keoghan gives a riveting introspective performance. Peters is more loud, but in a way that is necessary. Abrahamson gives a somewhat devastating performance in the emotion he aims for, and there are a few moments that are very striking as a result. Jenner isn’t asked to do much, but he arguably has the most nuanced scene of the whole film where he gets cathartic toward the other individuals. In fact, it could be the best moment of acting in Jenner’s young career so far.

American Animals is one of the most unique experiences of 2018 so far. Perhaps its editing and tonal shifts will be too cumbersome for some audiences, but for me, there’s a lot of profound layers to Layton’s direction that allows this story to be much more than just another movie about something that actually happened in real life.

Overall Grade: A

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Hear our podcast review on Episode 276, coming soon!

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Director: Carla Simón
Writers: Carla Simón
Stars: Laia Artigas, Paula Robles, Bruna Cusí

Synopsis: After her mother’s death, six-year-old Frida is sent to her uncle’s family to live with them in the countryside. But Frida finds it hard to forget her mother and adapt to her new life.

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Widely decorated in its native Catalonia and winner of Best First Feature at last year’s Berlin Film Festival, Summer 1993 recounts the experiences during the acutely observed titular period of first-time director Carla Simón. Shot largely in the same locales as the real events, the film tells the story of Frida (Laia Artigas), a young girl sent to live with her aunt and uncle following the loss of her mother to AIDS. Tragically common in the lives of many Spanish children in the late 80s and early 90s, the film captures this broader concern with microcosmic focus. Comprised of small, cumulative moments, Summer 1993 builds its sandcastle almost imperceptibly, grain by grain, and is all the more powerful for it.

Opening as Frida prepares to move from her Barcelona home to the countryside, there’s an air of ‘the after’ about the events of Summer 1993. As the wider film takes place in the wake of her mother’s death, a later scene sees Frida graze her knee while playing, or rather it doesn’t. We don’t actually see Frida fall; we see the immediate aftermath. In a later scene, Frida’s younger cousin Anna (Paula Robles) falls into a nearby river. We don’t, however, witness the fall itself, merely Anna’s father Esteve (David Verdaguer) scooping her from the water. So, there is a tangible element of ‘post’ about Summer 1993; it is a film where reactions to and coping with significant moments are valued more than the moments themselves. It is with a crash, then, that when the film finally catches up with events onscreen in its final moments that it captures them with absolute immediacy: an outpouring of inarticulate emotion that speaks volumes. En route, we accompany Frida climbing trees; gazing absently from the car; having blood taken; taking baths. Small moments. Cumulative moments.

While themes of parental responsibility loom large over proceedings, the story is absolutely Frida’s to tell. Indeed, the weight of the narrative is borne almost solely on her shoulders by Santiago Racaj’s diminutive camerawork. We observe at eye-level with Frida and Anna, the adults’ frame often only in full frame when seated. This approach recalls other child’s-eye films such as the recent The Florida Project, or, perhaps more appropriately, Víctor Erice’s The Spirit of the Beehive. Indeed, there is something of the young Ana Torrent beneath the stubborn veneer of Artigas’ Frida, though her Frankenstein’s monster is less defined.

Summer 1993 is unassuming, deft and, ultimately, honest. And the impression that confronting those sun-drenched months was cathartic for Simón is unavoidable. A shortage of narrative conflict has, for some, served as justification for criticism, but embellishing the personal with the impersonal surely couldn’t have pierced Frida’s fragile defences. Like the family dramas of Hirokazu Kore-eda, Summer 1993 builds its conflict from within, appealing to the thoughts and feelings of its players to prize us in. In this respect and many others it succeeds.

Overall Grade: A

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Director: Ron Howard
Writers: Jonathan Kasdan, Lawrence Kasdan; George Lucas (characters based on)
Stars: Alden Ehrenreich, Emilia Clarke, Donald Glover, Paul Bettany, Phoebe Waller-Bridge (mo-cap & voice)
Synopsis: During an adventure into a dark criminal underworld, Han Solo meets his future copilot Chewbacca and encounters Lando Calrissian years before joining the Rebellion.

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Han Solo and Ridin’ Solo — normally the mash-up in 2012’s Kinect Star Wars is the far, far away galaxy’s variant of Rebecca Black’s Friday, but there was a time it was a bona-fide mood booster. The “time” referred here would be between last June and this March, when the second Star Wars Story piqued attention with on-set bedlams and one transatlantic hiccup. Since keeping a little optimism has always been good practice, back to YouTube it was to pick up the blaster, put it on the side, and jump inside the Falcon, Wookiee in tow…

Nevertheless, Solo is here at last, with zero delays and (for now) no lawsuits. To stay presentable after trading paint with such great turbulences is admirable, though when the lovable scoundrel’s backstory ends only executives will have their spirits in Cloud City. There’s enough swashbuckling action to stay for the ride for the rest, but don’t be surprised when none of it moves you afterward.

It’s awkward then that Solo’s foundation is one of emotion, in particular the love between two youngsters, Han (Alden Ehrenreich) and Qi’ra (Emilia Clarke), who call a grimy mining planet that prizes forced labor home. In keeping with big-screen Star Wars tradition of loss making the first narrative move, the duo is separated; him to a tribe-less life and she to the arms of high-rolling gangster Dryden Vos (Paul Bettany). For the (unofficial) Father of Rogues to reunite with Mother of Dragons, he will need to partner career smugglers (Woody Harrelson and Thandie Newton), befriend a hairy beast (Joonas Suotamo), master sabacc (a high-stakes card game) and Kessel Run in record-breaking parsecs.

Unlike Rogue One in which, amid the familiarity, has a smidge of mystery — so how did the Rebels steal the plans?  — Solo operates solely on what has been known. It makes the film less of a discovery and more of completing a checklist with items including “here’s the blaster,” “here’s a Wookiee,” “here’s Falcon” and “here’s memorable quote.” And under the penmanship of the Kasdans, father Lawrence and son Jonathan, they don’t get to surface at any place other than the one designated; no interaction with “B” is permitted until “A” has been marked. But in characterizing someone who finds his mojo by discarding rules and breaking limits, such organization is detrimental as it ensures audiences can never interact with Han beyond the iconic level. The hero’s growth is always cold to the touch, as a result.

Somewhat livelier, yet still a partial effort as a whole, is Ehrenreich’s performance. Channeling Harrison Ford and emulating the measures he used to inhabit Han aren’t simple tasks, and after some mental adjustments it’s clear that Ehrenreich nails the “impish” and “daring” parts. The lack of “goofy” and “charming” to combine with the former two, however, glues the actor to this image of “a rogue who looks like Han” when he should be in his shoes. Not that Ehrenreich doesn’t try — his willingness is tangible — but the unfortunate lapse downplays the character’s quest to rekindle with Qi’ra and can’t quite reflect how Han, from culture’s standpoint, deserves a monument.

And since it’s all about Han in Solo, other characters don’t make, or don’t get to, make much of an impression. Where they falter in substance they compensate in great, great looks; all playing this cape game that is nothing short of eye-catching. To anyone who’s about to write a listicle on this: Playboy Lando Calrissian (Donald Glover) better be in first, if ranked, or at the end, if unranked. Speaking of Lando, despite with limited screen time and space he can’t help but be the epicenter whenever he’s present, and that’s a testament to how on-point Glover is in exuding the signed-by-Billy Dee Williams marque of suavity and slyness.

There are other victories, too — Ron Howard’s tendency to be choppy in the face of scale is welcomingly muzzled; every line from Lando’s droid temperamental lover/activist L3-37 (Phoebe Waller-Bridge) is a tickler, and Bradford Young’s fluid photography supplies constant delight even if light on vibrancy. Yet, none are the fruit that really benefits Solo, a film that, while seemingly purposed to seek out the junior behind the famed smuggler, is devoted to  cap at superficial Star Wars-branded amusement. Not great, Solo is, as a result, but at least it doesn’t grate like that unholy (though admittedly addictive) song.

Come to think of it, it’s unnerving when the dancing game somehow presages the reception of Solo thus far — that in a setting tailored for Han, Lando is the one who has the spotlight. Hmmm, where are the SW theorists when you need them?

Overall Grade: C+

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Hear our podcast review soon. We reviewed the first Star Wars Story, Rogue One, on Episode 200!

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