MOVIE REVIEW: Saturday Night Fever

Posted on by Steve Clifton.

Growing up on Buffalo’s west side in the 70’s was an unique experience. Mine was a predominantly Italian neighborhood, and many nights the aroma of home cooked pasta sauce permeated the air as we sucked the last flickers of daylight out of a pickup game of baseball in the telephone company parking lot. December 1977 was my eleventh year of existence, and my affinity for the flicks was still in its infancy. My attention was beginning to turn toward the fairer sex, and many evenings were spent torn between organizing my baseball cards and staring longingly at a copy of 16 Magazine with Kristy McNichol on the cover. December 1977 is also significant for me in that it gave us one of the seminal 70’s films, Saturday Night Fever.

Being eleven, I wasn’t able to see Saturday Night Fever on the big screen, and quite frankly, I can’t truly recall when I did first catch it. Perhaps on HBO at a friends house, or on VHS at some point, but regardless, I remember the film attaching itself to my developing cinephilia like a tick on the underside of a neighborhood stray. I was enamored with the coolness of Tony Manero (John Travolta), strutting down the street in his polyester finest, tearing up dance floors with a confidence of someone who knew exactly where he was supposed to be. I became infatuated with the alluring Stephanie (Karen Lynn Gorney), with her seductive dance moves and affinity to know just about every celebrity, even Paul Anka! And I couldn’t get enough of the music. The disco era gets a lot of hate, but for us that were kids caught smack dab in that awkward transition between the 70’s and 80’s, it remains a part of who we are. The falsetto pipes of Barry Gibb and his brothers transcend time, along with the film that launched them into orbit. The Bee Gees defined the sound of the era, and remain the gold standard for anyone lucky enough to have waltzed across a lighted dance floor under a revolving, sparkling orb.

Another drawback of being so young was my inability to partake in the forbidden rituals that took place within the confines of the local discotheques. My impression of what happened behind those glowing doors of debauchery were formed from films like Saturday Night Fever, or from that older kid in school who told tall tales of how he knows someone who gets him in and gets him free drinks. In hindsight, he was full of bullshit, but back then, he was a god. But not all was lost. Us kids had our own escape- the roller rink- a carpet walled palace where all of our favorite tunes blared forth from behind a little booth inhabited by the one guy who could make or break your night with the timing of the infamous “couples only” skate. Get caught in line for pizza or in the bathroom at an inopportune time, and the chance to roll-sway awkwardly with your school crush could go up in a blaze of regret. Damn you, roller rink pizza and your alluring cheesy goodness! But one time- a time I remember like yesterday- when I was standing just off the rink as that sudden announcement was made, Beth Lorenz grabbed my hand and led me out onto the floor. For the next three minutes, which felt dreamlike, I was consumed in a haze of dreamlike wonder that would sustain itself for days. For that brief moment in time, it was me, Beth, and the brothers Gibb, rolling in unison to “More Than a Woman”. And. Nothing. Else. Mattered.

Why do I bring this up? This December marks the fortieth anniversary of this transcendent film, and a local theater here in my hometown (South Portland, ME.) just showed it on the big screen for one night only. To be able to revisit a film I hold so dearly (it’s a top ten of all time) in a format I never got to enjoy all those years ago, well, it was a moment I couldn’t pass up. It was a Wednesday night, not a typically boisterous evening in southern Maine, so the twelve people in the theater wasn’t a big surprise. Aside from a couple of old cougar ladies whose loins still clearly burned for 70’s era John Travolta, the mood was mostly subdued. But even if the theater had been sold out, once the screen lit up with that Brooklyn backdrop and The Bee Gees’ “Stayin’ Alive” pulsing in my ear holes, I had left this mortal plane- seduced by the magic of the 70’s era style and the music that defined the time.

Most people saw Saturday Night Fever for the dancing, but there was a lot more to this film when the story took a breather from the dance floor. There is an authenticity to these characters. Tony’s lower-middle class family, arguing over the amount of pork chops on the dinner table, or moping around upon learning that Father Frank Jr. is leaving the church, are sincere moments, both funny and tragic with a squeeze of melodrama. Tony’s friends- the womanizing, hot headed Brooklyn punks who spend their nights riding the coattails of Tony’s popularity, or scuffling with the crosstown rival gang, the Barracudas, lend themselves as societal foils to Tony’s growth as a person. And the tragedy of Annette (Donna Pescow), the girl infatuated with Tony who can’t get out of the way of her own insecurities. She could have been used as nothing more than a slutty female cliche, but her story is handled in a way that makes us feel sorry for her.

And then there is Stephanie, the outwardly confident career woman who likes to remind Tony of all the positive things going on her life, all of the people she’s met, and how he has no direction in life. What we find in her is a vulnerability- a need to convince herself and those around her that she’s got everything under control, which is the furthest thing from the truth. Her relationship with Tony eventually leads to those walls coming down, while at the same time, Tony strives for improvement. They are different people by the end of the film.

It’s important to remember the era when the film was made. I never fault any work of art taken in context with the social norms from which is was born. Racial slurs and misogyny are on full display, and watching it on screen today can be uncomfortable, as it should. Some difficult sexual scenes, pushing the envelope just far enough to cause unease, also resonate in a way that makes you feel like they shouldn’t have gone there. But I can see the impact of these scenes as necessities in the growth of the character arcs. None of it feels cheap or gratuitous.

But what of my experience? Well, finally getting to enjoy Saturday Night Fever with all of the bells and whistles that the theater experience provides was everything I could have hoped for. It was transportive. As Tony and Stephanie locked hands in the dance studio, spinning, laughing, one with the world as Barry and the boys crooned from the turntable speakers, I found myself forty years in the past, in the same roller rink that I called home most Saturday nights, skating in unison with Beth Lorenz one more time.

Guardians of the MOVIE REVIEW: Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2

Posted on by Steve Clifton.

For weeks, the Disney/Marvel marketing machine has been dropping 30-second nuggets of hype on our television screens, promising copious amounts of adorable Baby Groot shenanigans and Drax the Destroyer punch lines. And while Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2 makes good on those promises, this is a decidedly different experience from Volume 1, mostly in that there is a lot less galaxy guarding and a lot more reconciling with daddy issues. It’s a cinematic equivalent of spending two hours on a therapist’s couch, with a few action sequences thrown in to appease any of the natives who might be getting restless.

Spending time addressing personal relationships between characters shouldn’t surprise anyone up to date with Marvel’s film library. Marvel historically uses sequels as association points for their future cinematic plans. In order for the Guardians to move forward, it was necessary to take a step back to fine tune some character arcs and throw a few lingering contrivances to the curb. Despite somewhat fidgety pacing and Director James Gunn’s compulsion to wring many of his gags of every last drop of usefulness, Guardians Vol. 2 mostly succeeds as a fun, humorous addition to the Marvel pantheon, and a workable catalyst for the summer 2017 onslaught of blockbuster entertainment.

When Guardians Vol. 1 premiered in 2014, only ardent Marvel comic book fans were in the loop on this collection of characters, none of whom looked like any of the Avengers we had become accustomed to seeing on screen. It was considered a big risk for Marvel Studios- stepping out of their cinematic comfort zone- playing with toys from the back of the closet- hoping audiences would embrace these second tier creations. And it worked. But whenever something works, it undoubtably comes with an added burden to carry forward…. expectations.

So what is Gunn & Co. to do, now faced with the unenviable task of taking this ragtag cast of B-list characters to the next level? Fanboys are a brutal lot. Just look at the backlash lobbied against nerd demigod Joss Whedon when his vision for Avengers: Age of Ultron didn’t meet with the ridiculous standard set forth from within grandma’s basements across the globe. Gunn could have taken the easy route. He had his golden ticket to fall back on- Chris Pratt, who’s boyish charm and charisma elevate even the most outlandish of flawed premises. He could have served up another helping of intergalactic cheese, ending with a typical, “and I’d have gotten away with it if it weren’t for you meddling kids,” mustache twirling villain meets a predicable and mildly anticlimactic demise. Make no mistake, all of this exists here, but Gunn also layers in some emotional character beats that add a depth and complexity to these characters both as individuals and as a team.

Guardians Vol. 2 lays a lot of its chips down on dealing with family conflict, the need for acceptance, and the power of redemption. In Peter Quill (Pratt), questions about his past are answered, not necessarily to his liking, but in a way that allows him to determine the type of person he ultimately chooses to become. His curiosity about his father has always consumed him, yet what keeps him whole is the memory of his mother and the Walkman she gifted him. She was the one that was always there for him, until she wasn’t. Not even an all powerful, scene chewing Kurt Russell wielding promises of immortality is going to stand between that.

For Gamora (Zoe Saldana) and Nebula (Karen Gillan), sibling rivalry- a construct of a father with ulterior motives- comes to a violent head, where festering animosities collide in a burst of emotion and enlightenment. Gillan’s tortured, angry Nebula is a stand out, and the catharsis she and her sister work toward is earned in every respect.

For Rocket (Bradley Cooper), the facade of being a wise talking douche-bag is challenged. What he discovers about himself is a true need for others- a compulsion to be a part of a family- and his propensity to distance himself from others is a wall of his own construct to shield himself from having to admit as such.

Refreshingly, much of the emotional weight of the film falls on the dark blue shoulders of Yondu (Michael Rooker). He is the Severus Snape of the series, altogether loathed and loved within the course of an hour. His is the redemptive spirit that holds court over the film, ultimately rebinding the family unit that has been tested.

Don’t be concerned with all of the Freudian psychoanalysis however, for when these themes start to weigh the film down, you can count on another influx of Baby Groot (Vin Diesel) antics or a bout of infectious Drax (Dave Bautista) belly laughing to lighten the mood. Gunn is fully aware that a need to see spaceship battles and explosions are requisites he cannot ignore completely, even if his dual commitment to developing his characters and his need to sate his audience’s desire for action sometimes struggle to play nicely together.

Visually, Guardians Vol. 2 sticks with the same motif that worked in the first film, using a color palate and set designs that feel like a space opera created by Dr. Seuss. The battle scenes are ambitious, but sometimes feel a bit too busy and suffer as a result from a cacophony of sight and sound that is impossible to decipher. The soundtrack is becoming an important “character” in the series as well, and again regales us with an eclectic mix of 80’s nostalgia, eagerly ripped from the stereo of our parent’s sedan or from the “middle-aged white persons” list in karaoke bars. Seriously, you know you’re cranking “Brandy” when the opportunity presents itself.

I suppose it’s apropos that Guardians Vol. 2 would be the film that topples The Fate of the Furious from the domestic box office perch. A series that roots itself in family, supplanted by another. Guardians and Furious seem to be kindred spirits, both harboring in over the top action yet allowing for room to breathe and grow. Guardians has positioned itself to move nicely forward, having rid itself of much of the personal baggage leftover from Vol. 1.

Yet, there will be a bit of backlash against Guardians. It’s standard for these types of films. I don’t like to throw around the term critic proof, as films like this are usually categorized. Everything should be considered for subjective analysis, even if it will rake in a mountain of cash regardless. Don’t tell me I need to lighten up, or that it’s a “popcorn movie.” Let’s not fool ourselves into thinking any blockbuster film shouldn’t be held to the highest standard. The minute we stop caring about characters and how they fit into ongoing stories is the minute we start enabling studios to churn out cinematic chum that blind masses of filmgoers will swarm towards in any regard. Do you really think the majority of people flocking to the theaters for Marvel movies are looking for something with depth? Ask yourself…how many people got up after the screen went blank, oblivious to the five post credit sequences still to come? How is this still a thing with Marvel movie audiences? Marvel doesn’t have to try anymore. They could easily cater to the lowest denominator, and yet, they don’t. They still care about the fans, unlike that Michael Bay franchise that somehow continues to gorge itself on the shekels of middle class Americans. They still see a need for character development and conflict. I’m not saying don’t criticize, just be careful what you’re criticizing. Be upset about the way that Guardians handled Quill’s daddy issues if you need to, but don’t be upset that they brought them up and fleshed them out. Know the difference between criticizing and whining. We should always want the best effort, and I think for the most part Marvel has delivered. Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2 being no exception. We are Groot.

MOVIE REVIEW: Personal Shopper

Posted on by Steve Clifton.

Kristen Stewart is a polarizing actress. It took me a while to come around on her. Her brooding personality and the pained expression of someone who seemed to want to be anywhere else on the planet, set her off on the wrong foot with movie fans uninvested in choosing sides between Team Edward and Team Jacob. It’s taken some time, but she continues to shake the stigma of those Twilight films, and has proven herself worthy of recent acclaim for her work in indies such as Still Alice and Clouds of Sils Maria. In what could be her best work to date, she teams up again with her Clouds director Oliver Assayas, in Personal Shopper.

Maureen (Stewart) is seeking something. Many things actually. As a medium, she seeks to make contact with her deceased brother, looking to make good on a sibling promise in which the first to die would attempt to make contact from the other side, proving that something exists after we leave this mortal coil. Trying to determine whether her encounters with the spiritual realm are truly her brother is a more difficult challenge, and she is often haunted by the task both literally and as a sense of duty. We first meet her wandering the dark halls of a mansion that may have been ripped from the mind of Guillermo Del Toro. There is a slow burn of unease that builds throughout the film’s opening minutes, but Assayas’ ideas are bigger than simply setting us up with cliche horror tropes, even though there are a couple of genuinely unnerving moments.

Maureen also seeks identity. As a personal shopper to a young, wealthy socialite, she often reflects on her desire for a better path in life, yet she lingers, generally as unnoticed as the spirits that routinely haunt her. She obsessively seeks truths from beyond as she dutifully scans racks of designer clothes and high priced jewels to outfit her employer’s lavish lifestyle.

Even the relationships she does have, with her employer and her sister-in-law specifically, seem to move about her in a quickened pace, leaving Maureen alone with her thoughts on many occasions. It’s here where Stewart is at her best, and her natural, moody personality tends to play as a strength during her extended moments of personal reflection. She excels when she has nothing to say, and that isn’t a criticism.

The biggest interaction she has in the film however, is with her phone and the anonymous stalker that texts her for the better half of the second act. I feel like Assayas plays with this trope a little too long, building up a tension that ultimately doesn’t pay off as satisfactorily as I had wanted. But, it all serves a grander purpose, as Maureen is forced to self examine herself in a way she hadn’t been willing to do before. She is forced to confront her fears. She admittedly wants to be scared, and it takes the realizations posited by an unnamed and unseen person to bring her to this point.

Personal Shopper isn’t going to be everyone’s cup of tea. It rides a fine line between ghost story and thriller, but neither is really the point. This is a story about finding an identity and a purpose, and allowing for self discovery in the process. There is a quiet beauty to Personal Shopper, much like Clouds of Sils Maria without the shots of the lush Swiss countryside. There is a lot to unpack in this film, and trying to decipher all the subtext and metaphor may occupy you for a bit after the credits roll, but that’s what fills my bucket as a movie fan. Or, you might find this to be a boring, pointless slog, which is of course your prerogative. If you hated Clouds of Sils Maria, this might challenge your patience as well. But it won’t be because of that girl from Twilight.

MOVIE REVIEW: Beauty & the Beast (2017)

Posted on by Steve Clifton.

Piggybacking off the success of recent live action adaptations to its animated library, Disney unveiled its modern retelling of the tale as old as time to audiences this weekend. Based on the box office reports, a lot of audiences at that. And while the Twitter-verse and various blog sites continue to hem and haw over the necessity of another visual iteration of this story, I will simply tell you that you should ignore it at your own risk, because the experience is breathtakingly magical.

In the name of full disclosure, I’m a bit bias toward Beauty & the Beast. I was under the employ of the Mouse when the animated film came out, and the future Mrs. and I had our first date at a showing on Disney World property. I hold that film in very high regard, both as a masterpiece of animated filmmaking and for the sake of nostalgia. To that end, please accept this film on its own merit. Don’t muddy the waters trying to compare it to previous versions, animated or otherwise. I won’t belabor this post with words outlining a plot we are all familiar with. Suffice it that the core of the story remains, with a little bit of fluff in spots which only serve to enhance the story, not alter it. No childhoods are being ruined here.

Disney has turned the production value up to eleven. Previous animated to live-action adaptations have fared well- I look at Maleficent, Jungle Book, and Pete’s Dragon as good examples- but none of those fine films can touch the majesty on display with Beauty & the Beast. It would be criminal if the Academy were to ignore these set designs and costumes next February. If I must find a reason to criticize, I did find some of the visual effects and visual editing to be a touch blocky in spots, but never distractingly so. For the most part, the scenes that really mattered came off seamless.

As for that “other” big thing being bandied about on the Interwebs, I will not dignify it with debate here. I’ll just say, if THAT truly does hold you back from seeing this film, then I feel sorry for you that your life is so devoid of joy. It is much ado about nothing, and I implore you to take it as such. There is a line in the film, and I paraphrase it here…”People who are angry say a lot of things…it’s up to us whether or not to listen.”

The cast works on every level, but Emma Watson is a pure revelation, whether aided and abetted by Autotune or not. She is a voice the next generation of young girls needs to rally around. Knowing what she stands for and how she manages herself in a world that is built to obstruct her as a strong woman, makes her presence on screen all the more engaging and important. And she is enchanting at every turn.

Don’t let the cynics dissuade you. Beauty & the Beast is a magical, dazzling spectacle of pure enjoyment, even though you know how it all shakes out in the end. Each flicker of a candelabra or twirl of a ball gown is handled with the utmost of care. When I look back at my own time at Disney, I fondly recollect those moments when the real magic was being made. For every ignorant adult that couldn’t stop complaining about the long lines, or the prices, or whatever, there were dozens of children, young and old, laying eyes upon Cinderella’s castle for the first time, eyes wide and full of wonder, unsullied by the cynicisms that consume too many of us. And when a young girl in my theater, perhaps all of six years old, squealed “BELLE” when the character first pops on screen, I realize that Disney is still making magical moments. This is still the tale as old as time. And it is timeless.

phpxnctheamSTEVE CLIFTON has been writing moderately well on the Internet at this blog, Popcorn Confessional, for the better part of the last decade.  His love for movies can be traced back to the North Park Cinema in Buffalo, NY circa 1972, when his aunt took him to see Dumbo.  Now living in Maine, Steve routinely consumes as much film, television, and books as time will allow.  He also finds time to complain about winter and Buffalo sports teams.  He is a big fan of bad horror films and guacamole, and mildly amused by pandas.

MOVIE REVIEW: Logan

Posted on by Steve Clifton.

About ten minutes before my screening of Logan, 20th Century Fox’s latest venture into the X-Verse, a family of four wandered in, popcorn and sodas in hand. Mom, Dad, two kids. Two very young kids. Like, ten-ish at best. I don’t judge. How you parent your kids is on you. Maybe these people did the requisite homework on Logan. Maybe they didn’t. I’m leaning toward they didn’t. They never left, so here’s to them for sticking it out. But if the countless F-bombs and butt shot from the Deadpool 2 teaser ahead of the feature didn’t waver them, I’m thinking the 137 minutes of Logan led to a few awkward family moments. When they got home, those parents might have had some ‘splainin’ to do.

Logan earns its “R” rating, and then some. Filmgoers amped up for a paint by number, CGI, save the universe extravaganza should be warned that disappointment lurks. Logan is an intimate character portrait unlike anything we’ve seen in the guise of a superhero movie to date; Nolan’s Batman trilogy included. And we are so better off for it.

It’s the year 2029. Logan (Hugh Jackman) is old. The indestructible mutant is worn out; limping, broken physically and mentally. We find him living out his existence driving a limousine, under the guise of his given name, James Howlett. He tolerates obnoxious, frat boy businessmen and bachelorette parties between alcoholic benders intended to help mask the pain he endures from the adamantium that has finally turned his body against him. It is a shock to see the once unbreakable X-Man in such disrepair.

In a way that isn’t fully explained in the film, the mutant population is nearly extinct. No new mutants have been born in years, and little hint to what happened is given other than a brief mention of ‘that thing that happened at Westchester.” It can be presumed that the aging Professor Xavier (Patrick Stewart), suffering from dementia and seizures, probably had something to do with it. Now over ninety years old, Professor X lives contained within an abandoned metal silo south of the border, hidden from the government that has deemed him the most powerful weapon of mass destruction in the world. He is cared for by the Albino mutant Caliban (Stephen Merchant) and Logan. The dynamic between Logan and Xavier is one of reluctant bedfellows. His respect and admiration for Xavier is ever present, but he assists in Xavier’s care more as a sense of duty than a preference. Xavier, in his moments of clarity, just wants to be able to pee in peace.

The story begins to take off when a frantic woman, Gabriela (Elizabeth Rodriguez), begs Logan to take her and an eleven year old mutant girl, Laura (Dafne Keen), to North Dakota, where a mutant haven called Eden supposedly awaits. They are being chased by cybernetically enhanced soldiers called reavers, led by Donald Pierce (Boyd Holbrook), belonging to the Transigen corporation, where Gabriela once worked as a nurse and cared for children who were being bred and raised as mutant soldiers. Laura, we learn, was bred using Logan’s DNA, and she shares her powers in the same capacity as her “father.” The apple does not fall far from the tree. Laura is as feral and ruthless as Logan, and we haven’t seen a tandem dish out this level of bloody mayhem since Hit Girl and Big Daddy patrolled the streets of New York. If you found the violence in Kick-Ass not to your liking, buyer beware.

When Logan, Xavier, and Laura are forced to the road in an old pick-up truck to flee the reavers, the film borrows elements from Mad Max: Fury Road, Midnight Special, and most notably the 1953 western, Shane. Logan becomes a classic chase movie, where the good guys do their best to stay a step ahead, even though we know confrontation is inevitable.

This is a film to be commended for foregoing conventional blockbuster enhancements. Director James Mangold chooses to linger instead on intimate character dynamics which are some of the best moments on screen. This feels like a true life expose on familial relationships. Of fathers and sons. Fathers and daughters. Of friends who have been through everything together and somehow lived long enough to ruminate together about all of it. Jackman and Stewart are the doing their best work with these characters. No other X-Men film comes close. And Dafne Keen is a revelation; equal parts unsettling in her ferociousness and admirable in her confidence on screen with these franchise heavyweights. But even as the film slows down in spots to wallow in intimate moments with its characters, have no fear, there is plenty of snicktedy snickt action to enjoy in all of its limb flying, bloody goodness.

Logan is an emotional ride, and there will be moments, especially at the end, that will resonate long after the credits have rolled. This isn’t going to be for everyone. Mystique isn’t going to pop in to save the day. Logan is the closest thing to a “real” movie the superhero genre has even gotten. There are no capes. No apocalypse. No eating of Shawarma. Just a broken old man and one final mission.

phpxnctheamSTEVE CLIFTON has been writing moderately well on the Internet at this blog, Popcorn Confessional, for the better part of the last decade.  His love for movies can be traced back to the North Park Cinema in Buffalo, NY circa 1972, when his aunt took him to see Dumbo.  Now living in Maine, Steve routinely consumes as much film, television, and books as time will allow.  He also finds time to complain about winter and Buffalo sports teams.  He is a big fan of bad horror films and guacamole, and mildly amused by pandas.

MOVIE REVIEW: Get Out

Posted on by Aaron White.

About eight months ago, I was riding in a car with a friend.  Jason, we’ll call him.  Jason is not a close friend.  We see each other a couple of times a year, on Facebook occasionally, but we do not converse regularly.  Jason is Black.  After exchanging the normal pleasantries, I took the conversation to what felt like an appropriate direction.  I asked him if he’d seen Straight Outta Compton.

Yeah.  I did that.

Jason is a good guy.  Turns out he had indeed seen Straight Outta Compton, and we had a robust conversation about it.  But for the last eight months, the fact that I asked him that question has bothered me.  Why didn’t I ask him if he had seen Sing Street?  Or Neighbors 2?  Instead, I asked my Black friend if he’d seen the NWA biopic, and regaled him in conversation about Gangsta rap and its influences on modern music, neither of which hold any interest for me.  I just subconsciously assumed it probably did for him.  It felt like a natural question at the time.  Ever since, I’ve felt kinda stupid for being so shallow.

Then, along comes Jordan Peele’s debut film, Get Out.

Racism is the central theme which drives Get Out, but I’m not convinced its purpose is to educate White people as much as it is Peele giving a wink and a nod to Black people, not in a tongue-in-cheek way, but in an “I get it” way. In a “this is for you” sort of way.  There are so many layers and metaphors in Get Out, we could have hours of conversation and never cover all of them.  I’m not sure we’re supposed to.  It would be insulting to Black people to even feign comprehension regarding their plight in America today.  Many of the narrative nuance in Get Out likely won’t even register with White people, because it simply can’t.  “I understand where you’re coming from”, proclaim many well intentioned White folk.  No.  No, you don’t.

Now, I’m not talking about Neo-Nazi, hang ’em from the trees, Jim Crow style racism here.  Not at all.  Get Out isn’t that forthcoming and isn’t going to make it that simple for you.  I’m talking about the White, “liberal racism” that permeates society; a construct by mostly young, well intentioned, social justice warriors that jump up on soap boxes to renounce racism, and to profess that they will champion our Black friends against the evil racist scourge.  Then they drop their bullhorns (or log off Twitter), jump into their Prius’ and drive back home to their suburban abodes where most Black folks don’t bother going,  because they live with an inherent fear that doing so will just result in having the police called on them, or worse.  Because being White still comes with its priveledges.  And Get Out, if nothing else, wants you to at least understand that much.

Most White people won’t see beyond the standard genre tropes, label Get Out a cool thriller, and never grasp the impact the film may be having on the Black people sitting right next to them.  On screen, they’ll see an innocent Black man get asked for his identification by a police officer for no discernible reason. It’s familiar, and it angers us because we know its supposed to.  And they will laugh at the ignorant old White people in the film that make statements like, “I know Tiger Woods” and “I would have voted for Obama a third time if I could have.”  That’s where I got it.  That’s when I understood what Peele was doing here.  There is no difference in those dumb statements than in me asking Jason if he’d seen Straight Outta Compton.  That’s when I finally understood that no matter how much outrage I felt over the horrors of racism plastered all over my television screen, I could never truly understand the impact, because it was not my reality.

As a filmmaker, Peele is sure-handed and confident in his vision.  Many of the requisite genre tropes are subverted in favor of scenes of social awkwardness.  A few jump scares are sprinkled in, but the true “horror” lies mostly within the subtext and has no inclination to coerce reactionary gasps and screams from the audience.  That doesn’t imply there aren’t plenty of payoffs to enjoy, especially in the climactic moments.  Just don’t go in looking for a white knuckle experience.

Daniel Kaluuya plays Chris, the protagonist, with a cautious skepticism that gets progressively more intense as he realizes things at his girlfriend’s parent’s home are not as inviting as they might have seemed.  His eyes widen fearfully with each passing frame.  Allison Williams is Rose, the girlfriend that insists their trip to introduce Chris to her parents will be a good time, because they “aren’t racist.”  I won’t give away any of the twists and turns that drive the narrative once Chris and Rose arrive at the family home…in the middle of nowhere…where there are no issues with privacy.  Read into that what you will.

I feel like Get Out may be a catalyst for a new generation of self awareness.  No film in recent memory stands out as more of a barometer for the current racial divide that continues to fester in this country.  And Peele gets away with it by disguising it as a horror film.  It’s an interpretive, cinematic dance, subtly unveiling the Black experience in our society, peeling back deeper revelations as it progresses, and leaves us with plenty to chew on.  White people are being schooled, never having known they’ve even stepped inside a classroom.

 

phpxnctheamSTEVE CLIFTON has been writing moderately well on the Internet at this blog, Popcorn Confessional, for the better part of the last decade.  His love for movies can be traced back to the North Park Cinema in Buffalo, NY circa 1972, when his aunt took him to see Dumbo.  Now living in Maine, Steve routinely consumes as much film, television, and books as time will allow.  He also finds time to complain about winter and Buffalo sports teams.  He is a big fan of bad horror films and guacamole, and mildly amused by pandas.

MOVIE REVIEW: Split

Posted on by Steve Clifton.

Fear is suffocating.  To wake up, dazed and unknowing, in a dank, windowless, unfamiliar room, the only point of recall a heavy mist of inhalant with the sole purpose to get us to this point.  As the memory fog begins to lift, and the frightful recollection of the strange man who stole you from your normal life comes clearer, the dread and the panic start to set in.  You are trapped.  Welcome to the reawakening of maligned director M. Night Shyamalan.  Welcome to Split.

It probably needs to be said; I have a rather “split” appreciation for Shyamalan.  I love The Sixth Sense and Unbreakable, and am passively entertained by Signs and The Village.  But then, Shyamalan started to go a bit off the rails.  Lady in the Water was uninspiring, and The Happening was borderline unforgivable.  To go from one of the most masterful twist endings (Sixth Sense) to Marky Mark telling me that the grass and trees are conspiring against me broke my thriller movie loving heart.  And don’t even ask me how he got funding for a project after the abomination that was After Earth.  But, like a bad relationship I just can’t quit, there I was watching Split.  And everything I originally liked about M. Night Shyamalan came rushing back.  This is where he belongs; smaller world, condensed storytelling, a place in which he can utilize his deft, up close visual style.  A place to confine his narrative in a much more personal way.  And no angry trees.

Even though this film is smaller in scope to some of Shyamalan’s more recent work, the story still manages to tread into larger and interesting places.  Kevin (James McAvoy) suffers from Dissociative Identity Disorder (because apparently Multiple Personality Disorder needed a new name), wherein the personalities of twenty three others roam within the confines of his brain.  Only a handful surface for our purposes here; the dominant, particular Dennis, the proper, soothing Patricia, the 9-year old, playful Hedwig, and the semi-flamboyant fashionista, Barry.  These appear to be the most dominant personas of Kevin that jockey for first chair position through most of the film, but there is the threat of a yet unseen twenty fourth personality that lingers.

Shyamalan wastes no time getting to the meat of the story.  Casey (Anya Taylor-Joy) leaves a teen birthday party with two friends (we’ll call them friends, but because Claire is such a distant presence socially, acquaintances is probably more apropos), Claire (Haley Lu Richardson) and Marsha (Jessica Sula).  The girls are quickly rendered unconscious by the personality of “Dennis” and taken away.  When the three wake up in a drab, square room (with an oddly pleasant bathroom), disoriented and scared, Shyamalan begins to peel the layers back on the mysterious kidnapper and his psychological struggle.

A lot of the film is standard, “held in captivity” fare, in which the girls conspire and attempt various means of escape to little effect, but the demeanor of Casey; calculated, thoughtful, almost attempting to beat the villain at his own game, opens up for discussion what Shyamalan was trying to do here.  Flashbacks to Casey’s childhood are peppered throughout the film, and we learn that she is also psychologically damaged.  Is there a subtext here indicating that only the damaged can understand the damaged?  It’s clear that Casey and Kevin come from similar abusive backgrounds, and while they clearly have landed in different areas of mental strife, they are in many ways kindred spirits.

Just when the film starts to get claustrophobic, Shyamalan pulls away to asides with “Barry”, as he visits his psychologist, Dr Fletcher (Betty Buckley).  Within these scenes, the internal struggle that Kevin endures begins to reveal itself.  Dr Fletcher notices the nuances in “Barry’s” behavior, indicating some of Kevin’s personas are exerting dominance over others, and the threat of that aforementioned twenty-fourth persona, heretofore known as “the Beast” becomes more distinct.  I have to admit, the concept of “the Beast” was something that didn’t really connect for me.  I feel like Shyamalan couldn’t resist the urge to shoehorn a supernatural element into the story, and I’m not really convinced it was necessary nor effective.  For all of the intriguing dialogue to be had about mental illness, and the tension built around the peril the girls were in, something got lost once “the Beast” arc really took center stage, and I don’t think he completely stuck the landing.

Add Taylor-Joy to your “ones to watch” list.  Her turn in The Witch in early 2016 was a revelation, but here she shows a different style of nuance as the tactical, careful Casey.  Richardson and Sula are fine in their roles, but ultimately serve as wooden indians.  But let’s cut to the chase.  James McAvoy is on another level here.  His portrayal of the many faces of Kevin chews up scenes that would make Nicholas Cage bow in unworthiness.  He is diabolical, disturbing, and outright impossible to ignore.  I dare say it’s his best work to date.

Absent was the big twist to the plot, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a shock ending that will be sure to please Shyamalan fans.  In the end, I had a great time with Split.  It’s a return to form for Shyamalan, and I want to see him continue to play in this sandbox.  It’s an indication that he has matured as a storyteller.  Perhaps we can chalk up his unfortunate foray into big budget fare to ego, or the need to sow his wild oats on a grander scale.  Whatever the reason, here’s to hoping he has settled down.  Here’s to hoping he has identified that one personality that suits him best.  We’ll all be better off for it.

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STEVE CLIFTON has been writing moderately well on the Internet at this blog, Popcorn Confessional, for the better part of the last decade.  His love for movies can be traced back to the North Park Cinema in Buffalo, NY circa 1972, when his aunt took him to see Dumbo.  Now living in Maine, Steve routinely consumes as much film, television, and books as time will allow.  He also finds time to complain about winter and Buffalo sports teams.  He is a big fan of bad horror films and guacamole, and mildly amused by pandas.

MOVIE REVIEW: La La Land

Posted on by Steve Clifton.

From the street, a baby grand in the middle of a supper club beckons her; the crescendo of a smooth jazz arrangement filling the night air like a clarion call.  She stands and looks at him, mesmerized.  I sit in a dark theater and look at her looking at him, mesmerized.   What happens in the next two hours can only be described as a dizzying spectacle of genuine magic.  A cinematic mish-mash of wondrous set pieces, decorated with a vibrant color palette, lit with appropriate mood lighting, and accompanied by musical numbers ranging from soulful to toe-tapping.  It’s the perfect backdrop in which to watch America’s newest sweethearts pursue their dreams and each other.  This is the City of Stars.  This is La La Land.

I need to be upfront with something.  La La Land was like Hollywood lobbing me a softball the size of a beach ball and giving me a telephone pole to hit it with.  Let’s suffice it to say this film was square in my wheelhouse, so my excitement level was dialed to eleven before I even started the car to head to the theater.  It’s rare to have such high expectations for something and have them met, but as I went into La La Land with five star expectations, I walked out having had a six star experience.

What writer/director Damien Chazelle has crafted here is a pure spectacle in all of the best possible ways.  Culling from the golden age of Hollywood musicals, when Fred twirled Ginger around the soundstage, Chazelle captures the glamour of a bygone era and places it neatly into a modern world. Thankfully, he doesn’t burden it with overproduced glitz (ala Baz Luhrman).  Instead, there is a beauty to these production numbers.  There is a dreamlike quality to most of them; perfect asides that enhance the burgeoning love story of Mia (Emma Stone) and Sebastian (Ryan Gosling).  When the film does veer into more rambunctious musical territory, as it does with the side bar narrative of Sebastian’s rising career with modern jazz band The Messengers (led by a guitar playing John Legend as lead vocalist Keith), it never feels forced or unnecessary.  It all feels appropriate; keeping us grounded in the now. Just when you allow the magic of old Hollywood to take you away, a well timed cell phone ring or smoke alarm reels you back in.  Getting antsy with all of the jazz?  Here’s an 80’s cover band performance to enjoy. It’s all part of the larger experience. There is a purpose to everything Chazelle does.  

There isn’t really a deep narrative that drives La La Land.  This is a story about dreamers, and the courtship of Mia and Sebastian is purely a means to an end.  The chemistry between Stone and Gosling only serves to enhance the experience of getting there.  Their relationship checks off all of the right boxes as the movie forges on, but everything they experience together as a couple feels natural and never melodramatic.  Chazelle isn’t interested in cliches.  Time is better spent with walks through a deserted studio backlot, or inside a dimly lit nightclub listening to jazz music.  We are invested in this couple.  We want to see them succeed.  So when the time comes where conflict is necessary, it rings true.  And it hurts.

What we ultimately learn from La La Land is that dreams always come with a price.  Perseverance is required, but it comes with a healthy dose of self doubt.  The world will chew you up and spit you out, because it couldn’t care less about your dreams.  Hollywood is the perfect setting for just such a story.  It is a land of dreamers who rarely get the opportunity to do.  And what about sacrifice?  You can’t have it all.  You may one day beat the odds and achieve the success you seek, but it might be at the cost of the fantastic partner who has been by your side the whole time.  The one that believed in you unconditionally might be the one who gets pushed aside; a tragic consequence to the realities of life.  If the dream is the goal, you have to be willing to look back across a crowded nightclub, with a wry smile and a knowing nod, and be okay with what you had to give up to get here.  Here’s to the fools who dream.

 

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STEVE CLIFTON has been writing moderately well on the Internet at this blog, Popcorn Confessional, for the better part of the last decade.  His love for movies can be traced back to the North Park Cinema in Buffalo, NY circa 1972, when his aunt took him to see Dumbo.  Now living in Maine, Steve routinely consumes as much film, television, and books as time will allow.  He also finds time to complain about winter and Buffalo sports teams.  He is a big fan of bad horror films and guacamole, and mildly amused by pandas.