Director: Anna Emma Haudel
Writers: Anna Emma Haudel, Maria Limkelde
Stars: Johanna Milland, Josephine Park, Clint Ruben

Synopsis: The Venus Effect is a romantic comedy about daring to love ourselves and each other.

Everyone remembers their first sexual awakening. Whether you were like me and fell in love with an alluring Uma Thurman in 1997’s Batman & Robin, or found it later in life, it’s a formative moment that guides us through our sexuality. In Anna Emma Haudal’s The Venus Effect, a young woman finds herself questioning her own sexuality in a charming rom-com that doesn’t hold back on the complicated emotions that come with being your true self. A refreshing LGBT story that depicts love in its multiple layers of lust and care, that is welcoming of all walks of life.

If you are anything like me, I watched the trailer for The Venus Effect and within the first 3 seconds I was hooked, similar to how the film’s main character Liv (Johanne Milland), a freckle-faced plant caretaker, is when she first lays her eyes on Andrea (Josephine Park), a spunky bright-haired woman who stumbles her way into Liv’s life. From the outside, Liv has a perfect small-town life, living in a small but cozy apartment with her boyfriend Sebastian (Clint Ruben) and working on her family farm. She comes from a loving nuclear family who often sit down for dinners together. Liv is quiet, taking life in through the lulls of everyday life, tending to the flowers or wishing for a more active sex life with Sebastian. Her life is quickly turned on its head when Andrea makes an unforgettable impression on Liv, awakening new feelings inside of her.

After their first encounter, Andrea requests to borrow Liv’s car, to which Liv, who doesn’t appear to have a spontaneous bone in her body, agrees. It might’ve been the costume Andrea was wearing to the “pussy” themed party she was headed to, but their connection is instantly felt. Small smirks litter Andrea’s face, who is a few years older than Liv, as she can tell Liv is totally checking her out. The next time the two women meet is the following day; Andrea returns the car and makes her way back to her makeshift home sat in the middle of a field. Liv finds her way there, and sparks fly as Andrea requests to take Polaroids of Liv.

The beginning of Andrea and Liv’s romance in The Venus Effect doesn’t start out in a conventional way; after going to a wedding for a friend of Andrea together, they find themselves waking up still drunk in the back of Liv’s station wagon. Although Liv still very much has a loving boyfriend waiting for her at home, she can’t help but let her mind wander about her feelings for Andrea. In the morning, the two have their first passionate moment with one another, leaving Sebastian in the rearview mirror. Liv and Sebastian’s final moments as a couple come to an end in a surprising way that adds some much-needed conflict to the film, giving Liv some hard consequences to deal with.

What is so profound in the film’s 1 hour and 45 minute runtime is it’s a queer story that is accepting from the get go. When Liv reveals to her family that she is no longer dating a man, but instead a woman, there’s shock at first but never does the family degrade Liv or denounce her as their own. It’s worth noting that Liv’s only brother is gay, and came out years before she did. They are a family that is riddled with drama, later in the film their lives are shaken when Liv’s parents tell their children that they are getting divorced. By no means are they perfect, but their willingness to accept one another for who they are is refreshing, especially for their sexuality.

The Venus Effect shows Liv’s and Andrea’s relationship as deeply flawed, and that’s what makes it feel incredibly real. Head over heels for one another at one moment and breaking up with the other a second later, they show that sexual chemistry isn’t the only thing that holds a relationship together. Andrea is more experienced in being out than Liv is, and has more friends who are in the community. Often leaving Liv to feel like an outsider in her own relationship with her inexperience. Wanting a more quiet and reserved life butts heads with Andrea’s want for a city apartment away from rural life.

Where the film hits the brakes is with the drawn out conflict of Liv’s parents getting a divorce. A budding relationship gets lost in the mess of a hetero couple’s disinterest in one another. Liv feels that her life has slowly begun to fall apart after meeting Andrea, loss of friends, and now the family life that she had once held dear is falling away. For a large part of the film’s final act Andrea and Liv rarely have any interactions, or are even shown on screen together, almost making the audience forget who this rom com is even about. The film lacks moments that develop Andrea and Liv’s love, and even when the film ends on a tear jerking moment, it makes you yearn for a few more minutes with them.

Writer and director Anna Emma Haudal, along with writer Marie Limkilde, create a story that plays like a later-in-life coming-of-age story through a woman questioning her sexuality. Focusing on Liv draws the audience in with an everyday looking woman with tired eyes and a curious spirit. They do quite a bit of work in the first few acts of the film finding out who Liv is, which makes it all the more frustrating when her moments of self-discovery are cut too short. Andrea, who injects much of the film’s humor, lights up the script, and played by someone with a sliver less charisma than Park, would be much less entertaining. Paired with stunning cinematography from Valdemar Winge Leisner, their love is captured in a dreamy atmosphere that often feels like a fairy tale.

Overall, The Venus Effect finds a young woman in need of finding herself and coming to terms with life’s many obstacles. Enchanting lead performances make for an easy watch even when the film loses its momentum near its final moments. A welcoming LGBTQ story that finds its stride in the warm glow of new love and moments that make us human.

Grade: B

Directors: Zar Amir Ebrahimi, Guy Nattiv
Writers: Elham Erfani, Guy Nattiv
Stars: Arienne Mandi, Zar Amir Ebrahimi, Jaime Ray Newman

Synopsis: The Iranian female judoka Leila is at the World Judo Championships, intent on bringing home Iran’s first gold medal.

International sports competitions have been meant, not only for showcasing the talents of individuals or teams, but as a friendly competition between nations. Unfortunately, many of these competitions have brought out the worst in nationalistic agendas from cheating to penalizing athletes should they not perform as the state expects. It’s especially true of Iran, which places its citizens under strict and unyielding codes of conduct within and without the country.

That is what makes Tatami unique. While other sports film conflicts are about individual pride, status, or greed; this film is about national interest. Leila’s (Arienne Mandi) leaders aren’t worried she will lose in the grander scheme of the competition, but that she could potentially lose to an Israeli. The escalation of tensions at home brings tension to the fights on the tatami, which is a Japanese straw mat covering the fighting surface. It makes for a daring story by screenwriters Elham Erfani and Guy Nattiv. They take us from the adrenaline of sports to the adrenaline of political intrigue without missing any emotional beats from either. We want Leila to win and we want her to escape oppression. 

Tension like this is hard to sustain, but cinematographer Todd Martin, as directed by Zar Amir Ebrahimi and Guy Nattiv, excels at it. Every bout that we see is filmed from a different angle at first. We see the combatants from above or from behind one woman or another. We’re made aware of how large the square of tatami and the arena it’s housed in are by the movement of the camera. Even as we are in close with the combatants as they grapple, it never feels off balance or confusing. It’s controlled until the last moment when the fight or flight response kicks in. The Steadicam jostles as the characters run. Each and every movement is precise and well executed. The fact that the film is shot in lush black and white is an added effect evoking the boxing noirs where a fighter is put in a precarious situation.

There are two matched scenes that create a perfect bookend for the film and highlight the best of Tatami‘s technical prowess. Directors Ebrahimi and Nattiv give us a visual language early on, showing us trust, concern, and duplicity in equal measure through the staging of their characters. The first of the scenes is on the team bus with women in the various seats, the camera pushes in, up the aisle and it turns to see Leila, boxed in by another woman. The camera then turns to see Maryam (Zar Amir Ebrahimi), looking over at Leila, but with no one next to her. The next time these two are on the same bus, they are next to each other and they look at one another. The journey to that moment is filled with anger, betrayal, fear, and doubt. Neither scene has dialogue, but the actresses are speaking volumes with their looks.

Zar Amir Ebrahimi has the tougher role in Tatami as a conflicted coach who has been in the same situation as her athlete. Ebrahimi pulls off this conflict with such grace. Her expressions and body language say far more than a script full of monologues could. The brilliance of her performance comes out of her character’s reaction. She plays Maryam as an intricately layered woman who is revealed in pieces and through conflict. Her ability to evoke something meaningful with a twitch of her lip or an opening of her eyes, is remarkable. Ebrahimi steals every scene she’s in and when she does get her big monologue at the end, it is devastating.

Tatami is a high wire act of political tension and sports drama. It’s a film that lets neither end of its story down. If you’re a fan of films that call out political oppression, this film is for you. If you’re a fan of great sports dramas, this film is for you. It’s a film that excites and inspires while never letting us forget the realities the fiction is based on and the price some pay to do what they love.

Grade: A

Director: Celine Song
Writer: Celine Song
Stars: Dakota Johnson, Chris Evans, Pedro Pascal

Synopsis: A young, ambitious New York City matchmaker finds herself torn between the perfect match and her imperfect ex.

Celine Song’s masterful, heartbreaking debut feature, Past Lives, didn’t have a tagline because it didn’t need one to sell itself. The romantic drama about two once-intertwined souls who reconnect after losing touch for decades was as straightforward as they come, yet what made it one of 2023’s strongest films was the meticulous manner in which it handled its reasonably basic narrative. Intelligent, wistful, and endlessly painful in the ways that make you long for the feelings it stirs within you regardless of the accompanying ache, it’s a film that is wholly in touch with the sort of emotions only art can inspire. At least, that’s what you believe until you meet someone who causes similar, deep sensations so deep that they feel right, wrong, and entirely foreign, all at the same time. Past Lives is a terrifying movie because of how recognizable it is: It imagines a reality that you’ve probably lived, even if you didn’t realize it at the time.

Song’s sophomore effort, Materialists (in theaters on June 13 from A24), has a tagline – “Some people just want more” – but it similarly doesn’t require one, though the reasons are different this time. For one, it’s a modern romantic dramedy being released during a time when filmgoing audiences seem starved for thoughtful fare of the sort; Anyone But You and Babygirl were mere starters, just hearty enough to whet one’s appetite without spoiling dinner. But it also could have been released on its own promise, given the fact(s) that its director is hot off the heels of a hit that garnered two Oscar nominations (Best Picture and Best Original Screenplay, Song’s own), and that its stars, with no shade to the likes of Greta Lee, John Magaro, and Teo Yoo, are among Hollywood’s brightest in terms of marketability and feasibly-photoshopped physical features.

The lead here, Dakota Johnson, plays Lucy, a Manhattan-based matchmaker who is responsible for nine marriages but is referred to by her pals as “the eternal bachelorette;” a notable nepo baby, Johnson has paved a path independent of her parents’ dating back to the Fifty Shades franchise in the early 2010s and including everything from A Bigger Splash and Suspiria to Madame freaking Web. Opposite our favorite neighborhood (clairvoyant) spider-woman is Chris Evans as John, a struggling actor who works catering jobs to make rent and lives with a tandem of shitty roommates; you might remember Evans from his time as Captain America. Rounding out Materialists’ dynamic trio is Pedro Pascal, playing this romance’s resident macho millionaire, Harry; Pascal has starred or appeared in everything short of a NEON movie (though I’m sure it’s coming) and makes his Marvel foray next month as Reed “Mister Fantastic” Richards in The Fantastic Four: First Steps. This film, the one starring all three and in which not one dons a latex-based costume, has next to no reporting on its budget, but one has to assume that 75-percent of that imaginary number went straight into their pockets.

Jokes aside, it’s safe to say that Materialists, cute catchphrase and all, needed no introduction. Yet what I hope people are willing to do is consider its excellence beyond its inherent external sheen, with glimmers bouncing off of its top-billed stars’ trophy cases and Song’s unofficial first-look deal with the studio behind its domestic release. For while Materialists is certainly a showier (and shinier) production than Past Lives ever was – even after the critical acclaim and awards nominations – it remains just as incisive an examination of the human heart as its filmographic predecessor. The apartments here, for the most part, are much larger and nicer than anyone’s homes in Past Lives, as are the clothes, the car services, the date nights, and the accessories, scrupulously selected to tie every perfect outfit together. But its core tenant is the same blend of smart, earnest, humanistic, and, above all, authentic that made Past Lives such a phenomenon for an unknown director whose claim to fame was that her first film’s love triangle was loosely autobiographical.

We still lack (and clamor for) the details regarding what went down during Song and Challengers/Queer scribe Justin Kuritzkes’ courtship, but as long as they keep writing such devourable screenplays that chart the maps for such luscious, delectable films, who’s to say they owe us anything? What Materialists argues at first, on the other hand, is that we owe ourselves everything when it comes to love; that we should play the field until we find the perfect partner, the one who dots every “i” and crosses every “t.” Lucy’s job is to help the singles of New York find the ideal match – it is called matchmaking, after all – but her approach is comprehensive and considers every variable. A number of cleverly-edited montages (kudos to Keith Fraase, Song’s editor on Past Lives and a frequent collaborator of Terrence Malick’s) are peppered throughout the film and show us precisely what Lucy has to keep in mind when setting up dates for prospective paramours. “Nothing over 20 BMI,” one client notes sternly. “I get along a lot better with girls in their 20s,” another offers, pushing 50 himself. “I deserve someone who fulfills all of my criteria,” says the customer with a list of musts longer than the restaurant menu she and Lucy are sitting in. It’s a dirty job, but someone’s gotta do it.

And Lucy is incredibly good at it. She finds a way to twist an anxious bride’s words from “I’m marrying him to make my sister jealous” to “I’m marrying him because he makes me feel valued.” She also pitches marriage as a business deal, a has-to-end-sometime search for a “grave buddy.” As for Lucy’s love life, she’s happy on her own, for now. Her apartment is well-kept, as is her routine. Until she is approached by a handsome private equity tycoon (Pascal’s Harry) at the aforementioned success story’s wedding. Harry is the groom’s brother, and with his equally-rich sibling matched off, he happens to be next on the ring-shopping block. Naturally, as this is a movie starring movie stars, he takes a liking to Lucy, and though she initially balks at the proposition, she entertains a drink and a dance in hopes that she can win his business by night’s end. Only the evening doesn’t conclude on Harry’s arm, but in John’s car. Yes, Evans’ ruggedly-sexy Broadway dreamster snagged a busboy gig at Harry’s brother’s nuptials, and goes so far as to deliver Lucy’s drink of choice before she can have Harry fetch it for her – “Coke and beer,” she says, marking the first time anyone has ever ordered such a combination. She and John have a history, you see, a complicated one that fizzled due to conflicting dreams and financial insecurity, not due to a lack of love for one another. 

“I don’t want to hate you for being poor,” Lucy tells John in a flashback, “But it’s very hard.” It’s a cutting barb to hear from a partner, but Song isn’t afraid to shy away from writing and depicting exchanges that couples have perhaps always wanted to share and never felt comfortable enough to commit to. “I’m trying so hard to make you happy,” John replies, with Lucy delivering a final blow in response. “I know. And it’s almost enough to make me happy.” These are the sorts of concerns that Harry doesn’t arouse, and if there were any real concerns, his $12 million penthouse would dispel them in perpetuity. Much of Materialists is made up of conversations between a woman and a man in which one seems to be pitching themselves to the other, as though a relationship is a business proposition. And for Lucy, that makes sense: She views everything through the lens of mathematics and sensible decision making, which leads her down the Harry road even if the John road is more familiar and enticing, despite its plethora of potholes and construction-related delays. This serves Song’s “will they/won’t they” framework quite well on a basic level, with the practical dialogue she has her characters engage in only aiding the concoction, like decorative frosting atop an already decadent wedding cake.

There are layers to the cake, too, like Harry’s own insecurities – including one particular reveal that is too good to spoil and too hilarious to bother explaining – John’s emotional baggage, and Lucy’s self-deprecative streak. That the film is never too keen to hitch its wagon to one thread alone allows for plenty of back-and-forth between Lucy’s connection with both men, as well as a side plot featuring Zoë Winters’ Sophie (Lucy’s most demanding and hopeless case) that initially feels out of place but finds a footing of its own and ends up factoring intimately in with the ongoings of our main characters’ journeys, both together and individually. It’s Johnson’s movie for the most part, with her wealth of lines and significance to the film’s principal dramatic arc(s) making certain that she is never off-screen for very long, if at all. The whole picture basically boils down to being a chapter in Lucy’s exploration of personal growth, and Pascal’s Harry plays a significant part, putting on the charm offensive and looking devilishly grand while doing so. But Evans is the true standout, providing yet another slab of evidence that the Marvel portion of his career was a loss for us all. His John has all the makings of a classic romantic dramedy character – the flailing ex who still loves our lead because of her flaws, not in spite of them – and Evans’ knack for embodying deep emotion in every line and shift in body language will only make you wish he’d squirmed out of Disney’s clutches sooner. 

Of course, it’s a credit to Song’s raw filmmaking abilities that got each of these three stars attached, and a more extravagant hat-tip should be directed her way due to how successful the writer-director is in ensuring that none of them are ever backed into one of the film’s many potential corners, no matter who’s commanding the frame at any given point. Lucy runs the show; Harry has his moments, but also has his millions, and the two are often inextricable; John is somehow the most complex and most relatable character, but only because Song allows him to be both at the same time. A lesser filmmaker would have made Evans play the bumbling boy bestie whose employment is constantly on the fritz and whose rent is perpetually six months behind; in the early 2000s, he probably would have been gay or rejected. Both the occupational and financial concerns are true of John here, but he’s also an emotional figure worth investing in for the long haul, and not just because he gets the movie’s most indelible line down the home stretch. 

It’s clear that Song has a love for the genre in which she’s now crafted to undeniable triumphs, and while Past Lives is this critic’s preferred entry, there’s something thrilling about watching the burgeoning auteur level up in a mainstream way that doesn’t involve superheroes or Mattel. And when you think about it, the only thing differentiating the “accessibility,” for lack of a better word, of Song’s debut effort from her sophomore is the inclusion of subtitles. That’s a conversation for another day – though it’s not one we should still have to have – because it’s worth reiterating that Materialists exists on its own merits, not those set by the success of the movie its director made two years prior. Far too often do we compare one’s past work (or lives) to their new offerings in hopes that a hole might be worth poking through when we should instead be appreciating the fact that a filmmaker has done more than one thing in their careers, no matter how long they’ve been working. In Song’s case, the career is but two features in, and Materialists serves as an indication that her well of stories worth telling shan’t run dry anytime soon. And thank goodness for that: In terms of films by Celine Song, love stories or not, some people just want more.

Grade: A-

Director: Rithy Panh
Writers: Elizabeth Becker, Pierre Erwan Guillaume, Rithy Panh
Stars: Irène Jacob, Grégoire Colin, Cyril Gueï

Synopsis: Three French journalists travel to Cambodia in 1978 after receiving an invitation from the Khmer Rouge regime, embarking on a perilous adventure

“Where is the line?” 

This is a line uttered by one of the main characters in Meeting With Pol Pot, and is a deeply important question for all leaders to be forced to answer, especially when making grand proclamations about bettering society. There are many of us, including this reviewer, whose knowledge of Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge is limited to footnotes and lines in punk rock songs from the early 1980s. So, putting “Holiday in Cambodia” aside, you will likely assume correctly that a film that elucidates some of the deeply troubling history in that country is the definition of a tough watch.

And yet, despite the director (and co-writer), Rithy Panh, literally living through these events and being the only surviving member of his immediate family, the film uses differing styles that create distance and never dives into the true brutality, at least in visual form. The decision to use both puppetry and an overlay of actual film footage is a smart, if unexpected decision. It would be easy to go for shock value that only narrative film could accomplish, but there needs to be respect for the actual, real human beings that suffered. So, Panh uses screens and animated carved miniatures. This accomplishes a few things. First, it symbolizes the levels of “truth” that characters must wade through. But more importantly, it also shows the lengths that governments will go to in order to design their own truth. Words matter. There is a line. But leaders will stop at nothing to dodge around it. 

The film follows outsiders, three French journalists, who were invited to speak with Pol Pot in 1978, near the end of the Khmer Rouge, which ruled Cambodia during that time. Lisa Delbo (Irène Jacob) heads this group, joined by Alain Cariou (Grégoire Colin), and photographer Paul Thomas (Cyril Gueï). The film does a tremendous job of distinguishing these three, instead of making them all cookie-cutter reporters. Alain has a relationship with Pol Pot through letter writing while Paul is definitely the most radical of the group. Lisa occupies a middle ground, until she begins to see the truth of the crumbling of Democratic Kampuchea.

The pace is deliberate and, like life, the truth slowly opens up to both the audience and the journalists. Jacob, a deeply talented actress who is mostly known for her early career work, is given an opportunity to dominate the screen, sometimes in a wordless manner, and the film is better for it. Watching her process the unimaginable horrors that are occurring to the Cambodian people, as well as her own personal losses is truly a sight to behold. Panh astutely allows these scenes to breathe and holds the camera tight on her expressive face. And still, the film is balanced. There are also moments for Alain and Paul, as well as the Cambodian people actually affected by these horrors.

Despite said horrors, Meeting With Pol Pot also takes the time to show the beauty of the landscape. Cinematographer Aymerick Pilarski, aided by the script, takes us on a visual tour of 1978 Cambodia. It is easy for Westerners to make assumptions about this part of the world, without appreciating its people and its grandeur. Although some terrible things happen amidst these vistas, the story hinges on not just the unraveling of a mystery, but also on the importance of human lives in the face of lines being crossed by the minute. 

And yes, the meeting (or meetings) with Pol Pot do happen, but the film certainly takes its time getting to it. This may be a feature, as opposed to a bug, as we feel the exact same kind of frustration that the journalists feel. They are controlled by the whim of a leader, just as we are by the script and direction keeping us at bay. But, to the film’s credit, when those meetings do occur, they are well worth the wait. I will not ruin the powerful impact of those conversations, but even if the audience finds the pace difficult, it is rewarded by the climax of the film.

There are no easy answers. Not to why terrible things happen. Not for what is the correct form of government. But once again, there are lines. If living in 2025 has taught us anything, it is that those lines can be crossed if we allow it to happen. In the modern world, we are no more immune to this disgusting behavior of leaders than the people of Cambodia were from the Khmer Rouge in the late 1970s.

Grade: B+

Director: Len Wiseman
Writers: Shay Hatten, Derek Kolstad
Stars: Ana de Armas, Keanu Reeves, Ian McShane

Synopsis: An assassin trained in the traditions of the Ruska Roma organization sets out to seek revenge after her father’s death.

While watching From the World of John Wick: Ballerina, a spinoff from the world of John Wick, it’s hard not to think the filmmakers missed a huge opportunity to blast the energetic guitar riffs and commanding vocals of Pat Benatar’s hard rock anthem, “Heartbreaker.” Not only is Ana de Armas a heartbreaker in the film, but she’s also—quite literally—a finger-breaker, toe-breaker, leg-breaker, skull-breaker, rib-breaker, eye-socket-breaker, and, most likely, a breaker of several other internal organs.

However, that’s beside the point. While Ballerina never quite lives up to the exploits of the original John Wick films, it features up-tempo, aggressive, and high-energy action sequences from star Ana de Armas—most notably a jaw-dropping, flamethrower fight scene that’s sure to go down in action movie history. The film moves at a breakneck pace, embracing familiar action tropes while cleverly subverting a few along the way.

The story follows a classic revenge thriller format. We’re introduced to de Armas’s character, Eve Macarro, as a child (Victoria Comte), playing with her father, Javier (The Guilty’s David Castañeda), in the yard of a waterfront mansion. Javier remarks that young Eve looks just like her older sister—someone she cannot remember. (Strangely, there’s no mention of a mother.)

As the story unfolds, the mansion is raided by a nefarious crew. Javier valiantly fights them off while hiding his daughter in a secret passageway within the crumbling walls of the estate. The attack is led by the film’s main antagonist, “The Chancellor” (Picnic at Hanging Rock’s Gabriel Byrne), who gives Javier a cruel ultimatum: kill himself to save his daughter’s life, or keep fighting and seal her fate.

Somehow, Eve survives and is taken in by a friend of Javier’s—Winston Scott (Ian McShane), the enigmatic owner of John Wick’s favorite refuge, the Continental Hotel. He arranges an interview for her with the head of a Russian organization known as the Ruska Roma, a secretive group that trains assassins under the guise of ballet instruction. The Director (Anjelica Huston) offers Eve a place in the program, teaching her to become the assassin who will avenge her father someday.

Ballerina was directed by Len Wiseman, who was a head-scratching choice to put at the helm. For one, Wiseman is obsessed with style over substance as proved by the  Underworld series—something the John Wick franchise seems to be on the surface, but is actually a commentary or stylized satire on our obsession with violence, with its highly stylized and exaggerated reflection of our need for bloodthirsty catharsis, like a cinematic rage room that can be therapeutic. 

Ballerina lacks that quality in the beginning, but finally, slowly but surely, finds its way there. The script by Shay Hatten, who you loved for his work on John Wick: Chapter 3 – Parabellum and John Wick: Chapter 4, but who committed cinematic crimes against humanity with Rebel Moon – Part One: A Child of Fire and Rebel Moon – Part Two: The Scargiver, is obsessed with a vain attempt to force a puzzle piece into Chad Stahelski’s world-building that feels like a cheap imitation. 

However, as the story progresses, you become immersed in a character’s obsession with control that is enthralling, especially in the glorious carnage of the third act. Sure, there are some beats where Byrne’s villain is so over-the-top and stereotypical that he becomes one-note (including a howlingly bad scene where he orders an attack). Plus, the introduction of Norman Reedus’s mystery character feels like a cheap attempt to humanize the titular character. 

Still, the action and comic relief are so entertaining in Ballerina, paired with de Armas’s commanding turn, that you can forgive most missteps or flaws. I’ve come to understand this as the “Wick Effect,” or the halo effect of violence, leaving us both thrilled and satisfied. The story follows a standard setup, but the brutal carnage is bloody poetry in motion, an action-packed pirouette that will surely leave fans of the franchise satisfied, along with the promise that future installments can build and improve upon this foundation.

You can watch Ballerina only in theaters June 6th!

Grade: B-

Director: Carlos Sedes
Writers: Ramón Campos, Gema R. Neira, Jon de la Cuesta, Ricardo Jornet, David Orea, Javier Chacártegui
Stars: Carmen Machi, Ivana Baquero, Tristán Ulloa

Synopsis: A murder mystery about a young widow who is the prime suspect in her husband’s stabbing death.

One has to wonder how A Widow’s Game (La viuda negra), based on the true story of a gruesome murder that shocked a nation, ends up so tepid in its approach to the classic crime film genre. There are very few surprises in the experience, and it barely explores the motivations or psychology behind why someone would murder a loved one. The entire narrative remains shallow, never diving deep enough to understand—or even depict—how manipulative predators truly operate.

Netflix’s A Widow’s Game feels like little more than a Saturday night Lifetime movie, barely elevated by its otherwise respectable cast.

The story takes place in Valencia, Spain, where a driven and well-known female police detective, Eva (Aida’s Carmen Machi), begins investigating the murder of Antonio Navarro Cerdán (Álex Gadea)—an engineer who was brutally stabbed in the garage of his apartment complex in Patraix—on a hot August day. The crime scene is handled with little flair, going through several standard tropes: pointing out the blood, referencing a struggle, and emphasizing the sheer violence of it all.

Of course, you get one guess what happens next: the victim’s wife, Maje (Pan’s Labyrinth’s Ivana Baquero), arrives in tears, demanding to see her husband, whom she claims she hasn’t been able to reach. The woman flooding those doe-eyes with crocodile tears has good reason to put on a show. We soon learn she was unhappy in her marriage, resentful of the “boring” monogamous married lifestyle, the long hours she worked as a nurse, and going to bed at a regular hour beside her husband, rather than with whatever random man she preferred to shack up with on any given night.

Directed by Carlos Sedes (Velvet), A Widow’s Game’s true story is less suspenseful and intriguing than a Dateline murder mystery. This is curious since the script is attributed to six—I said it—six scribes (Ramón Campos, Gema R. Neira, Jon de la Cuesta, Ricardo Jornet, David Orea, Javier Chacártegui), which makes you wonder if all the rewrites watered down the product, taking away any personality of the story and verve of the crime. 

The structure should have been creative, examining the crime through several different lenses, but the transitions are muddled and offer little intrigue or suspense. Without going too deep to understand the characters, predictability remains king, leaving out a fascinating part of a genre staple, or even capturing the tragedy and humanity of the actual crime. 

Even an actor like Tristán Ulloa (Netflix’s Warrior Nun) can’t breathe life into a character who should evoke disgust, horror, and pity, but instead comes across as flat and forgettable. The fine cast, including Machi and Baquero, seems stuck in their shells, with Machi’s turn understandable, but the latter is a cliche instead of a three-dimensional human, pure evil or not. 

A Widow’s Game’s final product is formulaic and utterly predictable. The first act establishes Maje’s character, who is hardly three-dimensional. In the second act, she begins to plot heinous acts. The third act focuses on how the police catch the killers. The story isn’t just lazy and uninspired—it fails to let the audience truly know the victim, the affected family, or even the killer(s) beyond their one-note motivations. 

If the filmmakers do not care about such a story, especially a real-life tragedy, then why should we?

You can stream A Widow’s Game (La viuda negra) exclusively on Netflix!

Grade: D+

Director: Choi Yun-Jin
Writer: Choi Yun-Jin
Stars: Yoo Hae-jin, Lee Je-hoon, Choi Young-joon

Synopsis: In 1997, when the Asian financial crisis hit Korea, Gukbo, the number one Soju company, is on the brink of bankruptcy. In the high-stakes market of M&A, In-beom, a young, ambitious associate at global investment firm Solquin, heads back home to take Gukbo as his first target. Hiding his greediness, In-beom approaches Jong-rok, an executive loyal to Gukbo, as an innocent consultant aiming to rehabilitate Gukbo.

Some interesting ideas are at play in Choi Yun-Jin’s Big Deal, which tracks the fall of the number one Soju company in South Korea, but few actively lead anywhere. The movie, which sets itself up as a corporate drama about an up-and-coming associate gaming the system to his advantage, seems like it will be a cautionary tale on the dangers of unfettered power, as the ones who are on top will always be invincible, while the people who are trying to climb to reach those heights will be the first ones out of the equation. 

That alone makes for a riveting first half, as the audience is introduced to In-beom (Lee Je-hoon), as he explains to his boss, Gordon (Byron Mann), why Gukbo, the Soju brand, is ripe for the taking. We know something that Jong-rok (Yoo Hae-jin, who also recently starred in Yadang: The Snitch) doesn’t know when he eventually meets In-beom and posits himself as a consultant looking to help the company avoid bankruptcy, when he actively wants to cause it. When Gukbo eventually goes bankrupt, this is where the movie should theoretically spice itself up as it reaches toward a heavy courtroom drama that’s full of twists and turns. 

Yet, writer/director Choi Yun-Jin never gives us a compelling reason to care about anyone on screen, or the plot that keeps overcomplexifying itself as alliances are made, broken, and made again. Who should we trust, or latch onto, when one joins a specific side, and joins another, to then rejoin their initial side as the movie progresses? It’s clear everyone is in this for themselves, but Yun-Jin never clearly defines the narrative paths that either In-beom or Jong-rok take, no matter how hilariously over-the-top or stultifyingly dramatic it gets. 

Near the film’s midsection, a pivotal dramatic turn occurs that sours In-beom’s actions to the point where he feels deep remorse for what he’s doing. It’s a fairly dark scene that, in all respects, is treated with as much care as possible, yet is quickly brushed over when, a few sequences later, a hilarious development arises at a trial where Gukbo attempts to keep hold of their assets. That massive turn never gets mentioned again, and the characters don’t necessarily evolve in response to that narrative development. 

I’d love to go into details, but it’s one scene closely linked to a character’s arc that’s best left for you to discover. Some will sit with it and think it further develops In-beom’s change of heart, but Yun-Jin muddles the waters further by confoundingly making him switch alliances  every couple of scenes. As impassioned as Je-hoon and Hae-jin may be in their respective roles, their sense of alchemy isn’t well-defined, and, as a result, makes the audience uninterested in the matter-of-fact proceedings that occur, even if Yun-Jin has an arresting sense of style. 

The movie also features plenty of scenes in the English language, which would add some texture if the characters didn’t say the F-word every 0.5 seconds. It’s a nitpick, sure, but The Wolf of Wall Street (a movie Yun-Jin desperately wants to cite), this is not. It doesn’t contain the free-flowing dialogue that allow characters to frequently swear, as in Martin Scorsese’s film. In fact, they seem to hamper the walking-and-talking nature of Yun-Jin’s movie, and don’t at all sound as integral to the conversations as they were in The Wolf of Wall Street, ultimately creating a frequently jumbled experience that’s far more interesting when it focuses on the character relationships than attempting to recreate an aesthetic that does not, in any way, serve this production. 

When Big Deal ultimately ends with the most abrupt and unearned coda, essentially relegating its final scene to a mid-credits tag, one gets the sense that this story, which sounded tantalizing on paper, is not that significant of a…big deal. If it were, I’d absolutely tell you this is a deal none of you can refuse. However, this isn’t the case, and, as visually impressive as the film may be, this deal has little to no value for anyone who decides to acquire part of their time in front of a screen…

Grade: C-

Director: Matty Hannon
Writers: Mike Balson, Matty Hannon
Stars: Matty Hannon, Heather Hillier, Robert Baty

Synopsis: The lives of two strangers are changed forever when they cross paths on the surfing adventure of a lifetime, discovering love, downshifting and four charismatic horses.

Like a László Kovács-shot from the New American Wave, The Road to Patagonia is a documentary that feels like a Wim Wenders fever dream, but also retains its unique identity as one man’s quest toward identity, exploration, and self-reflection.

The documentary is directed by Matty Hannon, who is also its central subject as he travels from Alaska to Patagonia. However, instead of focusing on the final destination, the film truly embodies the saying, “the journey is the treasure,” by allowing us to enjoy Hannon’s travels—like Gulliver’s before him—rather than eagerly anticipating his ultimate conquest at his last stop.

Like a modern-day Bodhi (Patrick Swayze in the stunning Point Break), Hannon follows his own philosophy. He harmonizes with the wind and the ocean. He captures moments as he finds himself stuck in his tent surrounded by a pack of wolves, or during his encounters with bears and moose. The documentary has no dull moments; it’s one adventure after another, showcasing 16 years of Hannon’s vibrant, adventurous life and captivating viewers with the honesty and sincerity of his narration and the up-close and personal videos he has been recording of himself throughout the years.

The documentary takes a profound turn when Hannon is joined by his girlfriend Heather Hillier, and, as viewers, we witness their blossoming love story. Hillier’s presence as Hannon’s companion shifts the mood of the film from a lone traveler’s conquest to a loving couple on the road, traversing mountains, oceans, and deserts, discovering lost civilizations and rare animal breeds. As they cut the roads together on their motorcycles, taken by the beauty of the landscape, they decide to slow down. 

The film paints a somewhat naive, nostalgic view of the world. Admittedly, no one asked Hannon to write a thesis in anthropology, but the weakest point of a rather well-structured and constructed narrative is when Hannon veers into identifying the dichotomies of the world as black and white, east and west, etc. But when it’s all about the surf, the mountains, the dusty bumpy road, and a nomad lifestyle of two people who fell in love together in the most unlikely of circumstances, that’s where the documentary finds its strength.

One of the highlights of the documentary is the stunning cinematography by Hannon and Hillier. All the footage is shot by both of them, highlighting their artistry as well as their deep personal connection to the subject. It’s impressive, though, how poetic and ethereal their imagery is, shooting through a dreamlike, angelic filter that gives a fairytale aspect to Hannon’s journey. It takes many elements from Robby Müller’s style, as well as the visual simplicity of footage documentary filmmaking. 

Some people are not born to settle in one place. They have restless souls that take them like tumbleweeds in the wind across continents, vales, and mountains. Hannon is one of those wanderers across the rugged earth. But instead of glorifying his White man conquest where his freedom to roam around countries and continents hassle-free and smoothly is of course, unproblematic and fun, he lays out his life as it is. He doesn’t sugarcoat or sand the rough surface. He doesn’t make a hero of himself, but stretches it as far as possible, with all the little idiosyncrasies involved. Even as the documentary staggers a little too long, in this case, the runtime is fully forgivable, for this stunning exploration of man, love, and nature is worth the wait.

The Road to Patagonia is on the Icon film channel, and will be in UK cinemas from 27 June.

Grade: A-

Directors: David Joseph Craig, Brian Crano
Writers: David Joseph Craig, Brian Crano
Stars: Nick Kroll, Andrew Rannells, Amanda Seyfried

Synopsis: Stranded in rural Italy without transportation or language skills, an American couple on the verge of adopting tries to reconnect during a disastrous vacation, as their fears and relationship problems threaten to boil over.

It’s very hard to communicate with a person who doesn’t share a common language. As much as Americans believe English is ubiquitous, there are many people out there that don’t understand a single syllable of it. Most English speakers also have more trouble with language than they admit even if it’s a language they recognize. A spoken language is never an academic exercise and a person who has spoken that language their entire life wouldn’t be likely to speak as basically as what you would learn in a classroom. A lot can be misinterpreted. That is one of the central conceits of I Don’t Understand You.

When Dom (Nick Kroll) and Cole (Andrew Rannells) get to Italy to celebrate their anniversary and try to avoid the anxiety that comes with their hopes about adopting a child, they run afoul of many of these sticky situations including within the horror piece of the film. The script, written by David Joseph Craig and Brian Crano, is very funny in this situation of increasing misunderstanding when it comes to a simple accident. The escalation is anxiety inducing and the body count becomes funnier as Dom and Cole assume it has to be the last death every time.

Though, when coupled with the other plot, the one where Dom and Cole are about to become parents, there is a dissonance. It’s tough to say what’s exactly wrong, but there is a pervasive feeling that there is something off. The script is funny throughout, but the sincere story of adoption and the couple’s anxieties around parenthood is a little too much of a swing in the other direction for the zaniness of accidental murder to land.

It also takes far too long to get to the gory bits. The lead up being this utterly charming gay couple and their struggles with adoption makes you want to just watch their relationship and maybe have more heart to hearts about parenting. The completely funny and valid section where the two of them accidentally kill some people feels too separate. It almost feels as if that section of the film is some kind of anxiety dream. Like the two of them somehow share a subconscious for several hours and then snap out of it during the drive back to their hotel. It’s a tough transition to unpack and it feels very obtuse.

What never feels false, though, is the chemistry between Nick Kroll and Andrew Rannells. These two feel so very comfortable with each other and their banter is hysterical. Kroll brings his “guy who thinks he knows everything” persona and Rannells brings his lightning delivery and wit. They have an effervescent style and you almost want just a road trip movie with the two of them as a couple because their car scenes are so enjoyable.

It’s hard not to like I Don’t Understand You. It’s just also hard to be clutching your heart at something sweet and touching, then covering your mouth with the shock of arterial spray. There’s no clear demarcation or strong tonal shift. It just sort of happens in the moment. It may be that the time anticipating the murder and the blood is more anxiety producing than the actual murder and blood, but it’s hard to say. You really just have to give the film a shot and know that you might choke up due to a sweet couple adopting a baby and choke down bile at some gruesome makeup a few minutes later.

Grade: B