INGRID GOES WEST (B) - What starts out as a light-hearted romp poking fun at social media addicts turns dark in the third act, without necessarily landing on either side of the argument about millennials and their damn phones.
Aubrey Plaza is manic as the title gal who gets institutionalized for a while after going postal on her Instagram idol (for not inviting Ingrid to her wedding) and then reinvents herself in Los Angeles, setting her sights on a new victim, Taylor Sloane (Elizabeth Olsen), a vapid photographer and solipsistic social media maven. Ingrid is funded by about $60,000 in cash from the estate of her mother, whose apparent slow, painful death has scarred Ingrid and left her as socially and emotionally bereft as a junkie.
This debut by millennial writer-director Matt Spicer never loses its jolt of energy, but it's a bit sloppy as it throws its shares of errant punches in trying to make a major statement about the way we live today. (It's as if the younger generation is having trouble focusing!) Despite its limitations, "Ingrid" is never less than entertaining and driven toward an inevitable messy ending.
Plaza -- every comedy bro's favorite platonic best pal, exemplified in 2009's "Funny People" -- dives into her role as fangirl-slash-stalker. She has way more verve than one screen can hold, and she handles physical comedy well, using more than just those big expressive eyes of hers. Olsen, the ultimate entitled white girl, slips into Taylor's skin neatly, without turning Taylor into more of a cartoon than she needs to be.
The secret weapon here is O'Shea Jackson, Ice Cube's son who played the rap star in his movie debut "Straight Outta Compton"). He is a natural, dynamic presence whose smile lights up a screen. He plays Dan, a Batman-obsessed wannabe screenwriter who, when he isn't selling drugs, manages the apartment complex where Ingrid holes up. The flirtations and frustrations between Dan and Ingrid are beyond charming, serving to balance out the savage snark permeating the rest of the film. That negative energy is best exemplified by Billy Magnussen as Taylor's menacing, cocaine-fueled brother, Nicky. Magnussen sweeps through the proceedings like white privilege on PCP, and the climactic showdown between Nicky and Ingrid catches poor, lovable Dan in the cross-fire. Feelings are hurt, lessons are learned, texts go unreturned. (Watch Ingrid's face fall when she sees the three dots indicating Dan is responding only to have the dots disappear.)
The final shot proves that Spicer has little hope for the future of the Kardashian generation, suggesting that there are no true happy endings but merely the enticing possibility of a reality-show sequel.
This debut by millennial writer-director Matt Spicer never loses its jolt of energy, but it's a bit sloppy as it throws its shares of errant punches in trying to make a major statement about the way we live today. (It's as if the younger generation is having trouble focusing!) Despite its limitations, "Ingrid" is never less than entertaining and driven toward an inevitable messy ending.
Plaza -- every comedy bro's favorite platonic best pal, exemplified in 2009's "Funny People" -- dives into her role as fangirl-slash-stalker. She has way more verve than one screen can hold, and she handles physical comedy well, using more than just those big expressive eyes of hers. Olsen, the ultimate entitled white girl, slips into Taylor's skin neatly, without turning Taylor into more of a cartoon than she needs to be.
The secret weapon here is O'Shea Jackson, Ice Cube's son who played the rap star in his movie debut "Straight Outta Compton"). He is a natural, dynamic presence whose smile lights up a screen. He plays Dan, a Batman-obsessed wannabe screenwriter who, when he isn't selling drugs, manages the apartment complex where Ingrid holes up. The flirtations and frustrations between Dan and Ingrid are beyond charming, serving to balance out the savage snark permeating the rest of the film. That negative energy is best exemplified by Billy Magnussen as Taylor's menacing, cocaine-fueled brother, Nicky. Magnussen sweeps through the proceedings like white privilege on PCP, and the climactic showdown between Nicky and Ingrid catches poor, lovable Dan in the cross-fire. Feelings are hurt, lessons are learned, texts go unreturned. (Watch Ingrid's face fall when she sees the three dots indicating Dan is responding only to have the dots disappear.)
The final shot proves that Spicer has little hope for the future of the Kardashian generation, suggesting that there are no true happy endings but merely the enticing possibility of a reality-show sequel.
THE LITTLE HOURS (B+) - This Pythonesque romp never tries to be more than what it sets out to be: a ribald showcase for some very funny people riffing on grueling life in the 14th century.
Plaza, Alison Brie (TV's "Mad Men" and "Community"), and Kate Micucci ("Don't Think Twice") play a trio of randy nuns chafing under the soul-deadening oppression of an isolated convent. The story is inspired by The Decameron, Giovani Boccoccio's medieval-era series of stories set in the countryside outside Florence in the time of the black plague.
A brilliant cast has a rollicking time riffing on olden times in a carefree way not seen since "Monty Python and the Holy Grail." John C. Reilly is perfectly goofy and a bit rueful as Father Tommasso, the priest in charge of the convent, who, like prelates of that time, acts like more of a mobster than a man of the cloth -- dipping into the sacramental wine, telling lies, and bedding the head nun, Sister Marea (a subdued Molly Shannon). He is sweet and lovable, though, and he has no control of his flock.
Beautiful Allessandra (Brie) feels like a prisoner of her parents, who send money to the convent and deny her desires to be married off, essentially because they can't afford a dowry. (Paul Reiser has a blast in a cameo as her father, dashing her dreams in one simple conversation.) Plaza's Fernanda is a hellion, drawing Macucci's Ginerva into trouble on a daily basis. Brie finds a neat groove as the yearning maiden cross-stitching her life away. Plaza and Micucci have wonderfully expressive eyes -- the former mostly shooting daggers and the latter more broadly comic, along the lines of Marty Feldman in "Young Frankenstein."
Dave Franco offers up his typical clueless stoner persona as Massetto, the common serf who escapes from a nobleman after getting caught bedding the lord's wife and lands a new laborer gig at the convent -- from the frying pan into the fire. Nick Offerman is hilarious as Lord Bruno, a vulgar petit-bourgeois conspiracy theorist who harps on the decline of civilization like a Chicken Little Trump supporter, hyper-aware of ethnicities and obsessed with "Game of Thrones"-like regional political intrigue. In one of his funniest deadpan lines, he warns his kittenish wife (Lauren Weedman) that their lavish lifestyle (eating rabbit and lentils) might end any day with an invasion of pope-loving Guelphs; enjoy the "luxury" now, he intones, before they are reduced to "eating chicken, like a bunch of fucking Croatians."
The hunky Massetto is catnip to the horny maidens at the convent, who abuse him like a stable mule for their carnal pleasure. Franco ("21 Jump Street," "Neighbors") thrives in awkward situations, and here he is tortured, alternately, by threats of sheer medieval harm and by female lust, a flesh-and-blood version of the comedy/tragedy masks. Jemima Kirke (HBO's "Girls") shows up (off-key, as usual) to raise the stakes and lure the gals into bouts of drinking, lesbianism, drug use and sorcery.
The gals are bawdy as all get-out, but the silliness hits its peak when Fred Armisen shows up as Bishop Bartolomeo, who has seen his share of crude behavior but never the likes of the litany of sins he must sort out with this crew. Armisen is automatically funny, and here he is as much straight man among the surreal antics rather than the guy with the lampshade on his head.
Writer-director Jeff Baena ("Joshy," "I Heart Huckabees") creates a controlled chaos, a heady mix of the modern and medieval. (He even manages some genuinely tender moments at the end.) He gets in and out in 90 minutes, strategically spacing out the gut-busting one-liners. He juggles a big cast, parceling out the goodies judiciously so that the all-star players gel into a cohesive whole.
Plaza, Alison Brie (TV's "Mad Men" and "Community"), and Kate Micucci ("Don't Think Twice") play a trio of randy nuns chafing under the soul-deadening oppression of an isolated convent. The story is inspired by The Decameron, Giovani Boccoccio's medieval-era series of stories set in the countryside outside Florence in the time of the black plague.
A brilliant cast has a rollicking time riffing on olden times in a carefree way not seen since "Monty Python and the Holy Grail." John C. Reilly is perfectly goofy and a bit rueful as Father Tommasso, the priest in charge of the convent, who, like prelates of that time, acts like more of a mobster than a man of the cloth -- dipping into the sacramental wine, telling lies, and bedding the head nun, Sister Marea (a subdued Molly Shannon). He is sweet and lovable, though, and he has no control of his flock.
Beautiful Allessandra (Brie) feels like a prisoner of her parents, who send money to the convent and deny her desires to be married off, essentially because they can't afford a dowry. (Paul Reiser has a blast in a cameo as her father, dashing her dreams in one simple conversation.) Plaza's Fernanda is a hellion, drawing Macucci's Ginerva into trouble on a daily basis. Brie finds a neat groove as the yearning maiden cross-stitching her life away. Plaza and Micucci have wonderfully expressive eyes -- the former mostly shooting daggers and the latter more broadly comic, along the lines of Marty Feldman in "Young Frankenstein."
Dave Franco offers up his typical clueless stoner persona as Massetto, the common serf who escapes from a nobleman after getting caught bedding the lord's wife and lands a new laborer gig at the convent -- from the frying pan into the fire. Nick Offerman is hilarious as Lord Bruno, a vulgar petit-bourgeois conspiracy theorist who harps on the decline of civilization like a Chicken Little Trump supporter, hyper-aware of ethnicities and obsessed with "Game of Thrones"-like regional political intrigue. In one of his funniest deadpan lines, he warns his kittenish wife (Lauren Weedman) that their lavish lifestyle (eating rabbit and lentils) might end any day with an invasion of pope-loving Guelphs; enjoy the "luxury" now, he intones, before they are reduced to "eating chicken, like a bunch of fucking Croatians."
The hunky Massetto is catnip to the horny maidens at the convent, who abuse him like a stable mule for their carnal pleasure. Franco ("21 Jump Street," "Neighbors") thrives in awkward situations, and here he is tortured, alternately, by threats of sheer medieval harm and by female lust, a flesh-and-blood version of the comedy/tragedy masks. Jemima Kirke (HBO's "Girls") shows up (off-key, as usual) to raise the stakes and lure the gals into bouts of drinking, lesbianism, drug use and sorcery.
The gals are bawdy as all get-out, but the silliness hits its peak when Fred Armisen shows up as Bishop Bartolomeo, who has seen his share of crude behavior but never the likes of the litany of sins he must sort out with this crew. Armisen is automatically funny, and here he is as much straight man among the surreal antics rather than the guy with the lampshade on his head.
Writer-director Jeff Baena ("Joshy," "I Heart Huckabees") creates a controlled chaos, a heady mix of the modern and medieval. (He even manages some genuinely tender moments at the end.) He gets in and out in 90 minutes, strategically spacing out the gut-busting one-liners. He juggles a big cast, parceling out the goodies judiciously so that the all-star players gel into a cohesive whole.
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