In our neck of the woods, we don't get all of the year's releases made available to us by December 31st. We will finalize our best-of in a month or so. Watch this space. For now, here is a list of 2025 releases so far that have scored a B+ or higher and will compete for the top spot.
SONG SUNG BLUE (A-minus) - For the number of tragedies that occur in this film -- about a husband and wife performing in a Neil Diamond tribute band -- it is tough to call it the feel-good movie of the holiday season. But what a joyful experience it was at the cineplex to behold the fervor that Hugh Jackman and Kate Hudson brought to the story of a Wisconsin couple chasing their dreams in the 1990s.
Riffing on a real-life tale (and a 2008 documentary of the same name), Jackman plays Mike "Lightning" Sardina, a natural performer who jams in tribute bands but longs to front his own act. He is 20 years into recovery for alcohol addiction, and writer-director Craig Brewer provides a memorable introduction to the character via the AA meeting process (with a bookend to close the movie). Mike stumbles on the idea of being a Neil Diamond "interpreter," and he meets and falls for Patsy Cline interpreter Claire. He dubs them Lighting and Thunder, and they start to gain a following around the Milwaukee area.
Nothing is easy for them. They are divorced parents. (In fact, the kids are one of the best parts of the movie, especially Ella Anderson as Claire's daughter, Rachel.) Money is always tight. Mike, a Vietnam veteran, has a congenital heart condition; Claire suffers an accident that sends her into a spiral of depression and threatens their career.
With Jackman and Hudson all in, you might not care that the proceedings have a whiff of Hallmark to them at times. The actors sing Diamond's songs, and the movie resounds with Diamond's earnest ballads and jangly rockers. At times I sang along. I laughed, I cried. (I can't remember the last time I heard so many sniffles from a crowd -- and it wasn't just the old ladies.) It helps to have an appreciation for "Cherry Cherry," "Cracklin' Rosie," and "I'm a Believer," and tolerance for "I Am I Said" and, yes, "Sweet Caroline." There is a wonderful running gag about Mike's insistence on opening each set with the obscure Arabic-accented deep cut "Soolaimon." Eddie Vedder was a fan and had them open for Pearl Jam.
Jackman and Hudson are backed by a fine cast of character actors, including Michael Imperioli (as a Buddy Holly impersonator), Fisher Stevens, and an absolutely over-the-top Jim Belushi. Brewer has a tangible appreciation for quirky denizens of karaoke clubs and the public's yen for the classic radio hits of their youth. He captures the working-class grit of the characters -- down to the dirt under the fingernails of Mike, who is a mechanic by trade, and Claire's very Wisconsin accent (a tad overdone at times by Hudson).
Brewer wrote the script with Greg Kohs, who helmed the documentary 17 years ago. Whether you like his movies or not, you have to admit that Brewer knows how to put a film together. He broke through 20 years ago with "Hustle & Flow" and "Black Snake Moan," and he recently acquitted himself well with "Dolemite Is My Name." Here he whips his two stars toward passionate performances -- both as actors themselves and the energy of the characters they play.
I don't really need to know anything about the real Mike and Claire in order to appreciate "Song Sung Blue." I'm sure much is made up and twisted around to make it palatable to the masses. That's the point. It's a movie, fiction. It's 133 minutes of old-fashioned entertainment, and it couldn't have arrived at a better time.
JAY KELLY (C) - The decline and fall of Noah Baumbach continues. At this point, he is at the hobnobbing-with-George-Clooney stage of his flirtation with the Hollywood in-crowd. This profile of a movie star who wakes up at 60 and realizes that he is isolated from friends and family is trite, cloying and painfully twee.
Maybe it's the curse of his ex, Jennifer Jason Leigh, but ever since Baumbach took up with Mumblecore's ur-gal Greta Gerwig, he has succeeded with "Frances Ha" and not much else. He was revived in 2019 by "Marriage Story," but since then he has whiffed on a Don DeLillo interpretation; flopped magnificently by co-writing "Barbie" with Gerwig; and now he masturbates for 2 hours 12 minutes with "Jay Kelly," a movie that isn't even good enough to be criticized as derivative.
Clooney plays a thinly veiled version of himself -- suave, charming, talented, faux self-effacing -- as he hopscotches the world battling a late-in-life crisis involving his grown daughters, his loyal manager and his fawning entourage. He seems blind to the true extent of his luck-of-the-draw, and though on the brink of a valedictory tribute from the Italian film industry, he considers pulling the plug on the whole celebrity circus. Even so, he swans in crisp couture suit jackets, slums with his fans, and gets all puppy-eyed as he seeks belated approval from his daughters. (Riley Keough is thoroughly wasted as one of them.) All the while, he is adored and fussed over by rich Italian eccentrics. (Alba Rohrwacher is forced to demean herself as a fawning fan. She edges out a criminally mistreated Laura Dern in that regard.)
Jay actually wanders back to his past, George Bailey-like, wistfully observing his most memorable moments, tearing up at these mundane, sepia-toned dalliances. Yes, we've seen this all before, ad nauseam. This is Fellini for Dummies. It is Bargain-Basement Bogdanovich. (The end credits refer to the film, preciously, as a "Noah Baumbach picture.") Running gags and wisecracks get beaten into the ground. (There must be a dozen references to Jay insisting on a slice of cheesecake in his regular rider, even though he claims he never liked cheesecake. It was unfunny the first time.) And speaking of hang-dogs, Adam Sandler (from Baumbach's "The Meyerowitz Stories") hams it up as Jay's mensch of a manager, going around affectionately calling people "puppy" and ironically wearing a neckerchief simply as a glaring plot invention that fails to pay off in the end.
The film is full of cutesy touches by Baumbach that threaten to rot your teeth they are so treacly. Gerwig's steep decline continues in the role of Sandler's hectoring, scatter-brained wife, featured exclusively through phone calls involving their kids, which is as interesting as it is in real life when parents think their children are fascinating subjects of discussion. In my "Barbie" review, I predicted that Baumbach and Gerwig might "become the beloved it-couple in front-row seats at
awards shows, head-nodding toward Wes Anderson in the back." We're getting closer.
It has been 20 years since "The Squid and the Whale" and 15 since "Greenberg." Like Jay Kelly, Baumbach had a great run. Maybe, like Jay, Baumbach is surrounded by sycophants who don't want to rock the boat and tell him to snap out of his fantasy world.
BONUS TRACKS
I'm pretty sure this was the first time I danced in the aisles to a song over the closing credits of a movie. The hymn "Holly Holy":
Mike and Claire initially rehearse to a rollicking version of "Cherry Cherry," celebrating that giddy piano riff. Here is Diamond in the mid-'90s working it out on David Letterman's show:
The very first episode of MTV's "Unplugged," when it was hosted by Jules Shear, put together a hootenanny circle to perform Diamond's composition "I'm a Believer," which had been a hit for the Monkees:
"Song Sung Blue" was our annual Christmas Day outing. For the record, here is our full list from previous years,
in order of preference, updated:
THIS IS SPINAL TAP (1984) (A) - I might as well just link to the "quotes" section of IMDb for the pioneering mockumentary. While the novelty has long worn off, this goof on pompous British metal bands still has a hit rate that is unmatched.
The film often is barely more than a series of divinely inspired comedy sketches, many with punchlines you can still quote 40 years later. "Well, it's one louder." "This piece is called 'Lick My Love Pump.'" "No, we're not gonna fucking do Stonehenge!" "What's wrong with being sexy?" "Mime is money." "I shouldn't talk, though, I'm getting a little shaggy myself." "We've got armadillos in our trousers." "How could I leave this behind?" "It's a fine line between stupid and clever." "Hello, Cleveland!" And the marquee: PUPPET SHOW and Spinal Tap.
Part of the genius here is not so much the send-up of a pretentious band; it is the rich history of Spinal Tap, from fresh-scrubbed skiffle players, through the psychedelic flower-power '60s, into their calling card as one of England's "loudest bands," known for cycling through countless drummers who meet untimely deaths -- most notably the one who perished choking on vomit (just not his own). Add to the mix a growing rancor between the band's co-leaders, Nigel Tufnel (Christopher Guest) and David St. Hubbins (Michael McKean) -- complete with a conniving new-age Yoko villain (June Chadwick) -- and you've got a strong narrative arc to put some meat on the bones of an 82-minute lark. Harry Shearer ties it all together as the dim-witted bassist (the band's "lukewarm water") -- whether he's having an on-stage mechanical malfunction, jamming out to "jazz odyssey," or trying to pass through airport security with a foil-wrapped zucchini down his pantleg. Rob Reiner, as the fictional filmmaker Marty DiBergi, is the ultimate straight man.
A parade of ringers passes through with spot-on turns: Ed Begley Jr., Fran Drescher, Billy Crystal, Paul Benedict, Paul Shaffer, Anjelica Huston, Bruno Kirby, National Lampoon veteran Tony Hendra as their bumbling manager, and Fred Willard as a square Air Force officer welcoming the band to another humiliating gig.
One of the keys here is the authentic musical background of McKean, Guest and Shearer, who not only improvised much of the dialogue but wrote and performed the songs. And credit goes to Reiner for his vision, which also riffs on the form of the "rockumentary" itself, such as "Don't Look Back," "The Song Remains the Same," or "The Last Waltz" -- right down to the details of the lip sores and fatuous guitar solos. Guest would go on to get accolades over the years for his string of hilarious mockumentaries, with many people assuming he made this one, too.
Let's not overthink it. Relish the song lyrics, the zingers, the pitch-perfect British accents, the shaggy hairstyles, the divine improv. It all landed at the right moment in time, and it was an instant classic.
SPINAL TAP II: THE END CONTINUES (C) - Reiner's final film turned out to be this tepid sequel reuniting his fellow senior citizens. Let's be kind to the boys and grant them their valedictory. Such generosity is especially warranted considering this is Reiner valedictory.
A tip of the hat to Christopher Guest, Michael McKean and Harry Shearer, who all look like old women, as Reiner's Marty DiBergi catches up with the band -- scattered around the UK and America performing demeaning tasks in semi-retirement -- and follows them as they convene and rehearse for a farewell concert. The film has a promising start, as DiBergi tracks down the lads in their obscure circumstances -- Nigel Tufnel running a cheese and guitar shop; Derek Smalls a proprietor of a glue museum, and David St. Hubbins gigging in a mariachi combo.
But soon the unintended irony kicks in, as a loving tribute to musicians who have lost a step is rendered by a bunch of comedians whose best days are behind them. As vivid as the one-liners from the original remain to this day, the limp sequel effervesces after the credits roll. The core quartet brings in a different brand of ringers -- drummers like Lars Ulrich and Questlove, who gingerly decline to occupy the hot seat, and then big-time dinosaurs like Paul McCartney and Elton John. McCartney is his usual annoying, cloying self, while John actually injects some life into classics like "Flower People" and "Stonehenge."
The narrative -- will they pull it together for the reunion show? -- barely holds together. Jokes thud. Cameos from the likes of Bobbi Flekman and Artie Fufkin lack any zip. It's all rather quaint but mostly unnecessary.
WAKE UP DEAD MAN (C) - I can't remember the last time I've seen such a dud of a cast, and one so lacking in direction in the face of a convoluted script that tries to be more clever than it is. The third entry in Rian Johnson's "Knives Out" series is an exasperating bomb.
Josh O'Connor lacks the heft to carry this ribald story of a parish priest who gets caught up in a small-town murder mystery, and he is surrounded by second-tier actors, most of whom serve as mere placeholders. Daniel Craig, the star of the trilogy as detective Benoit Blanc, has little to play off of and instead spouts Johnson's throw-away dialogue, the one-liners plummeting into a comedic void, eliciting barely a cricket. (It's probably for the best that this is being released mainly on Netflix and not to muted cinema crowds.) Josh Brolin, who seems to have generally just worn out his welcome, emotes to the heavens as a MAGA monsignor who covets a missing jewel that incites the mayhem. Brolin seems about as relevant these days as his dad is. ("I know you are, but what am I?")
Veterans Glenn Close and Thomas Haden Church are shadows of their former selves, and the rest have very little to do. That includes Mila Kunis yelling a lot as the local police chief; Jeffrey Wright as a sassy bishop; Andrew Scott ("Blue Moon") as a frustrated author; Kerry Washington as a generic lawyer; Cailee Spaeny as a disabled cellist, for some reason; a defanged Jeremy Renner as a doctor with the nerves of Don Knotts, and Daryl McCormack ("Good Luck to You, Leo Grande") as a hackneyed social-media influencer. Yeah, the star power doesn't exactly jump off the page; nor does it leap from the screen. (And we thought the second film in the series, "Glass Onion," had a B-list cast ...)
Johnson trots out hoary chestnuts like the spritely character who repeatedly startles the protagonist by seemingly coming out of nowhere. The biblical wordplay is unrelenting. A typical joke suggests that the blinding of Saul at Damascus might have been merely a "bad case of pink eye." It's the cartoonish kind of movie in which a single punch knocks a man out cold (even if he is a former boxer) -- and then have him wake up next to a dead body and mistakenly think he killed the person. (What high jinks!) Kunis and Craig even have the temerity to make a reference to "Scooby-Doo," which is a challenging bar for "Wake Up Dead Man."
The narrative plods along and tips its hand often. If you think a man of the cloth who dies on Good Friday isn't going to be "resurrected" a couple of days later, you won't be winning this year's kindergarten connect-the-dots championship. And Johnson takes his sweet time slathering on the plot points. Did I mention this is nearly two and a half hours long? You are stronger than I am if you can make it through this without pacing or wandering off for a bit to check your email.
There are clever notes here and there, but nothing rises to that spoofy Agatha Christie level of giddiness of the 2019 original, "Knives Out," with its enthusiastic performances from the likes of Jamie Lee Curtis, Michael Shannon, Toni Collette and Alec Baldwin (with an assist from newcomer Ana de Armas). What felt fresh six years ago seems fully played out. We now have solid evidence of diminishing returns, and while we admire Johnson's throwback energy, it turns out he just could not capture lightning in a bottle again.
BUGONIA (B) - Here is my theory of how "Bugonia" made it to the big screen: Will Tracy -- an Onion and John Oliver contributor who broke out in 2022 with "The Menu" -- and co-writer Jang Joon-hwan penned this taut dark comedy about conspiracy theorists that was about 95 minutes long. Then Greek director Yorgos Lanthimos came along and said, "Don't worry about the final half hour; I've got this" -- and ran the whole thing off the rails.
Lanthimos drew attention with his avant-garde early work, "Alps" and "Dogtooth," but has made one good movie ("The Favourite") in the past 15 years. We had hopes that this heavyweight bout between Emma Stone (playing a CEO who is kidnapped over her company's environmental crimes) and Jesse Plemons (playing a man who believes that Andromedans are plotting to kill off earthlings). And it does sizzle, thanks to a clever script and its two stars, until jumping the shark into silliness in the final reel.
You need an appreciation for horror and sci-fi (or the nostalgic production values of the original "Star Trek" TV show) and patience for logical leaps in order to make it to the end of the film. You'll have to believe that a character with a broken kneecap can hobble away beyond the pursuit of security guards and law enforcement. You must withstand whipsaw changes in main characters' motives and actions.
However, for at least the first hour, this is an endlessly clever exercise that allows Stone and Plemens, two of the best actors of their day, to play to their strengths -- she as Michelle, a type-A CEO, and he as Teddy, the aggrieved conspiracy merchant who drags his mentally handicapped cousin into his felonious scheme, apparently out of a basic love for honeybees and their survival (and inspired by his mother's cancer that he attributes to Michelle's company). His is a familiar type -- smart enough to know how to look for information; dumb (or mentally ill) enough to fall victim to confirmation bias. Meantime, newcomer Aidan Delbis, as the cousin, brings nothing fresh to the familiar trope of the dimwitted patsy.)
It is fun to watch Michelle ply her business-school training and HR jargon when trying to talk her way out of her chained existence in the basement of the beat-up rural home. (It looks like the kind of house that a grown man would inherit -- decor, dust and all -- after his parents die.) It's a kick to watch her kick off her heels as she prepares to fight off the cousins during the initial kidnap attempt, using her self-defense training. As the trailer reveals, Plemons is a ticking time bomb who is not averse to ape-sprinting across a dining room table to furiously attack his captive in the middle of dinner.
Your mission is to decide whether two-thirds of a very good movie are worth the eye-rolls it takes to make it to the final credits. I managed it.
BONUS TRACK
"Bugonia's" climax makes compelling use of Marlene Dietrich's interpretation of Pete Seeger's "Where Have All the Flowers Gone," even if it feels unearned at the end:
STILLER AND MEARA: NOTHING IS LOST (B+) - Comic actor/director Ben Stiller, with an assist from his sister, performs a deep dive into his parents' lives, a public grieving and reconciliation as he picks through the extensive family archives after Jerry Stiller's death in 2020. Even though, as you'd expect, Ben pulls his punches a few times, he stumbles on some profound insights into the marriage and careers of the beloved comedy team from the 1960s and '70s.
Jerry Stiller met Anne Meara in the 1950s, and theirs seems like an authentic love story. His insecurities drove them toward success, while her talent and timing were critical to their success. They became staples on the "Ed Sullivan Show" in the 1960s, but they eventually embarked on successful solo careers in TV (and her on stage). Their marriage survived until her death in 2015.
The treasure trove here is Jerry Stiller's voluminous archives -- home recordings of the duo creating and rehearsing bits; family films when the kids were small; meticulously curated news clippings that tracked Ben's career. Ben Stiller takes the opportunity to evaluate his own performance as a husband and father, and the making of the film offers him an chance to repair his foundering marriage to actress Christine Taylor. He also bonds sweetly with his sister, Amy, also a comic actor.
Ben walks a fine line between mawkish and reverential. He mentions his mother's alcoholism but doesn't dwell on it and instead champions her late-life sobriety. He strongly implies that his father could be both a sweetheart and a tyrant, but he keeps it respectful. Jerry Stiller had an almost debilitating craving for approval. In one recording, Meara describes the duo's workaholic patterns as "joyless."
It would have been more fascinating, of course, to have been a fly on the wall to any Stiller and Meara couples-counseling sessions back in the day; their marriage skills are admirable. (Their act liked to riff on their mixed marriage -- he was Jewish, she was Irish.) But this is the next best thing to being there, and Ben Stiller is an engaging host who comes across as humble and grateful not only for what his parents passed on to him but also for the opportunity to present it all to the world.
COME SEE ME IN THE GOOD LIGHT (B) - It's never easy to watch someone die. This documentary takes the approach of a Hollywood drama in chronicling the final couple of years of poet and activist Andrea Gibson whose uphill battle against cancer is doomed all along.
As brave and determined as Gibson (above right) comes off here, there is no sugarcoating the challenges Gibson faced alongside a devoted wife, Megan Falley, a fellow poet. We spent plenty of time in hospitals and at chemotherapy sessions, and no aspect of their home life seems off-limits to the film crew. The hero's journey is two-fold: one is to position Gibson for the inevitable; the other is to root for Gibson to put on one last farewell performance (her shows had the energy of punk concerts at times) before death comes.
Director Ryan White has previously tackled such subjects as Serena Williams and Dr. Ruth Westheimer. Some of his scenes here feel awfully staged -- he gets the lighting just perfect at times, and his establishing shots can be downright Spielbergian. But he knows he has a compelling story, and he's there for the key moments.
We get to observe Gibson's writing process. The couple come across as insightful and honest. White does not overstay his welcome over 104 minutes. He provides an opportunity for the viewer to take a heartfelt journey and to pause afterward in gratitude.
BONUS TRACKS
Over the closing credits of "Stiller and Meara," Sonny & Cher with "Unchained Melody":
SENTIMENTAL VALUE (A) - Norway's Joachim Trier makes intricately emotional films for adults. And he has the talented Renate Reinsve in his regular troupe. Here, they reunite from "The Worst Person in the World" to tell a powerful story of a successful man trying to reunite with the daughter he has long neglected.
Reinsve (above left) is Nora, a theater actress (who has a TV show under her belt) with a chronic case of stage fright. She and her sister are estranged from their father, a well-known filmmaker who abandoned them and their mother when they were kids. Now that their mother, a psychologist who worked out of their beloved childhood home for years, has died, the father has returned to reclaim the family house. Gustav (Stellan Skarsgard) also seeks to kick-start his dormant career with a screenplay he presents to Nora, asking her to star in the film. She rejects the offer without reading the script, because she cannot imagine working with him.
Gustav turns to an American star, Rachel Kemp (Elle Fanning) to play the role and to shoot the film in the family house that he, too, grew up in -- including a scene depicting his mother's suicide in the 1950s. The production bumbles along, as Gustav tries to adapt the film in English and Rachel struggles to find the right accent and overall tone for the role meant for Gustav's daughter. Nora -- stunned by the end of an unhealthy romantic relationship and convinced that she is only 20 percent sane -- bonds with her sister, Agnes, and her tow-headed nephew.
No one can so subtly convey a range of emotions, sometimes within seconds, like Reinsve. Her face at rest is a placid mask, like Isabelle Huppert's, but both actresses speak volumes with their eyes or a flick of an eyebrow. Skarsgard turns in a melancholy performance as a 70-something drunk and aged playboy.
The ringer here, though, is Inga Ibsdotter Lilleaas (above right) as the sister, Agnes, who grounds the film (as a trained historian, she delves into her grandmother's mental troubles that followed working with the anti-Nazi resistance). She adds nuance beyond the typical daddy-daughter drama and steals every scene from her heavyweight co-stars. And it's a cliche to suggest that a building is an additional character in a film, but Trier makes that childhood home come alive, using arch camera angles to suggest a knowing and seeing being that lurks in the four walls.
About halfway through I paused to register my gratitude and luck at getting to enjoy this in real time, and then I dove back in, never once checking the time but instead savoring every moment of the two hours and 13 minutes, not a second wasted. The final 20 minutes perfectly tie up these loose ends, at least to the extent it is possible to heal generational wounds.
D(E)AD (A-minus) - Film experiences don't get much more joyous that this absurdist comedy about a man who stalks his family after he dies. The film's website succinctly explains the plot: "Tillie (Isabella "Izzy" Roland), a floundering young woman and her charismatic, alcoholic father (Craig Bierko), struggle to resolve their fractured relationship in the weirdest possible way: after he dies, his ghost appears in mirrors to haunt everyone in the family but Tillie."
Roland wrote the screenplay (directed by Claudia Lonow, Roland's real-life mom) and it positively sizzles with snappy dialogue and a galloping plot that careens across 96 giddy minutes thanks to a talented no-name cast. It is a clever take on the father-daughter dynamic, with Tillie flabbergasted throughout as to why her dad is snubbing her, even in death. Roland slips in some serious insight amid the mayhem.
The rich cast includes Roland's fellow comedian Vic Michaelis as her type-A sister, Violet; Lonow, a TV veteran, as Frankie, who is driven crazy by the reappearance of her dead ex-husband; Brennan Lee Mulligan as a deadpan phone-center drone who becomes a target of Tillie's crush; and veteran comic Eddie Pepitone as a Rabbi brought in to conduct an exorcism.
This plays like an extra-long episode of your favorite sitcom, and I mean that in a good way. It is an "Addams Family"-like romp with a sharp modern sensibility and terrific comic timing. Don't miss the truly independent gem made for $250,000 in Kickstarter funding.
HAMNET (B) - In which Chloe Zhao goes medieval on our asses. The director of "The Rider" and "Nomadland" spirals back centuries to show us William Shakespeare and his wife, Agnes, grappling with the death of the son who inspired "Hamlet."
If you can make it through the brutal slog that is the film's first hour, the second half (after the child dies) cobbles together a decent story of an estranged couple, brought back together in the final 20 minutes with the debut staging of "Hamlet," leading to a profoundly moving final scene. But that first hour is a chore, and I was tempted to just walk out. Jessie Buckley (Agnes, a nature lover and borderline "witch") and Paul Mescal (earnest wordsmith Will) are pitted against each other in an emotionally wrenching crying contest for more than an hour. Both performances -- rendered often in extreme close-ups -- crank the pathos to 11. Toss in a couple of screeching childbirths and the truly horrific death throes of an 11-year-old boy, and it's virtually unwatchable.
Buckley ("Wild Rose," "The Lost Daughter") and Mescal ("Aftersun") are formidable talents. But Zhao -- who has worked wonders with amateur actors, successfully mixing in Frances McDormand in "Nomadland" -- pushes her stars too far into the realm of misery porn.
In the end, however, Buckley and Mescal finally get a reprieve from the maelstrom. At the climax, the world suddenly goes quiet ("The rest is silence") and they exchange a long glance -- her leaning on the stage like a groupie, him in the wings, triumphant -- and we are reminded of their implicit, unspoken connection that whole time. It is a stunning moment of filmmaking that makes it worth the effort to tough it out until the end.
Chloe Zhao ("The Rider," "Nomadland") is back with a drama about Shakespeare and his wife (Paul Mescal and Jessie Buckley) and their son who died young, "Hamnet."
Brazil's Kleber Mendonca Filho has been hit-and-miss (compare "Aquarius" with "Neighboring Sounds" and last year's "Pictures of Ghosts"), but we'll steel ourself for his latest 2.5-hour period piece, "Secret Agent."
Will Arnett stars in a moody film from Bradley Cooper about a man who stumbles into standup comedy during the dissolution of his marriage, "Is This Thing On?"
A documentary looks back at high school AV muckrakers who broke a big story about environmental harm in New York in the 1990s, "Teenage Wasteland."
Gus Van Sant is back with a '70s period piece about a hostage-taking at a bank, "Dead Man's Wire."
GEORGE ORWELL: 2 + 2 = 5 (A-minus) - This examination of the work of George Orwell -- which remains persistently prophetic in its warnings of totalitarianism -- is another powerful but overstuffed documentary from Raoul Peck, who previously splashed the screen with the written works of James Baldwin in 2017 with "I Am Not Your Negro."
Peck blends old film footage with modern clips that puts Orwell's polemics -- mainly "1984" and "Animal Farm" -- in perspective, and he threads the two-hour presentation with dispatches from a tuberculosis clinic where Orwell spent many months in his final years. Peck emphasizes that condition with sounds of wheezing on the soundtrack, and by the end of the film it is obvious that it is western democracy that is gasping for its last breaths as much as the subject was in the 1940s.
Reminders of World War II-era repression, as echoed in the dictatorial regimes of today, abound throughout the film. Peck provides a seamless blend of news events spanning from 100 years ago to today. We watch modern slaughter in Ukraine and Gaza and elsewhere, and we are treated to excerpts of speeches by Nobel peace laureate Maria Ressa of the Philippines, which are particularly poignant. The sense of urgency is unrelenting throughout the film
But like with "Negro," it is difficult to absorb it all. The viewer must contend with an onslaught of images, along with narration of Orwell's writings, plus text flashing on the screen identifying people and events. At times it is all too much to take in, and like with "Negro," it makes you want to just go read the source material.
Three is an overemphasis on 1984 (including movie clips from the 1950s version and the 1980s version), and Animal Farm is slighted -- reduced to more of a visual element than its substance. Peck does do a fine job of humanizing his subject. He goes back several times to a photo of an infant Orwell (born Eric Arthur Blair) in the arms of his dark-skinned nanny in India at the dawn of the 20th century, and he gives credit to Orwell, a privileged Eton graduate, for his empathy toward oppressed peoples.
There is a quote from Orwell addressing the dichotomy within the man, calling himself both a snob and a revolutionary. The film wraps with a quote attributed to Orwell toward the end of his life (living on the Scottish island of Jura) -- "All that matters has already been written" -- but you get the sense that Peck here has just scratched the surface. To the library we go.
BONUS TRACK
Our title track, completely unrelated, from the Violent Femmes:
I'm an atheist who does not like musicals, so when considering my reviews of these two films -- brought back last month by the Guild Cinema -- take what I say about them with the proverbial pillar of salt.
HAIR (1979) (B) - The hit stage musical that partly epitomized the emergence of the Baby Boom in 1968 was finally brought to the screen at the end of the 1970s by Milos Forman, in a visually powerful film that must have seemed wistful and nostalgic for the previous decade even back then.
A long-haired Treat Williams (above) leads a spirited cast belting out old hits like "Aquarius," "Good Morning, Starshine" and "Let the Sunshine In," and dancing to the mesmerizing choreography of Twyla Tharp. John Savage plays the wide-eyed Oklahoma farm boy who falls in with a tribe of happy hippies frolicking in New York City on his way to Army duty in a matter of days. He also falls in love (like they do only in old-fashioned movies) with a rich girl played by Beverly D'Angelo.
This succeeds where "Jesus Christ Superstar" fails -- they don't try to sing every bit of dialogue, thankfully, and the songs have hooks and swing to them. Ringers abound. Nell Carter blasts out a couple of songs. Renn Woods sets the tone early on with a soulful version of "Aquarius." Punk chick Annie Golden is adorable as the tribe member expecting a child and not really caring whose it is. Ellen Foley pays homage to "Black Boys" in song. Charlotte Rae has a blast lusting after Williams when he crashes a high-society dinner. And devil-eyed Richard Bright stands out as an Army sergeant who gets rolled by the stoners.
Forman (coming off a long break after "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest") is in command from start to finish. He lionizes the anti-war spirit of the times, and he loads some scenes with hundreds of extras, particularly effective in the climactic crowd scene depicting a protest outside the White House. The kinetic energy created by Tharp's choreography never lets up, and rather than come off as arty or showy, it feels natural and propels the film with its inventive visuals.
The final act seems completely removed from the original stage show, as the hippies cook up a caper to rescue their Oklahoma pal from service in Vietnam. The bittersweet twist at the end feels like an homage to the death of the Sixties.
JESUS CHRIST SUPERSTAR (1973) (D+) - What in tarnation? I struggled mightily to understand this cinematic mess or find a hook to keep me watching. I failed.
"Jesus Christ Superstar" is the poster child for musical mayhem disguised as art. Theater people! Norman Jewison's adaptation injects modern elements into the story of Jesus and Judas during the week leading up to the crucifixion of Christ. It is bookended by scenes of a theater troupe rolling out into the Israeli desert to launch the god-forsaken production and finally loading back up onto a bus to drive off after the sacrifice of Our Lord. Whatever.
The music from Tim Rice and Andrew Lloyd Weber is brutally atonal at times, with nearly every word "sung." There are two standout tracks -- the title number and Yvonne Elliman's tender "I Don't Know How to Love Him" -- but most of the songs are forgettable if not irritating. The story is a mess. The character depictions are a farce. Jesus is played by blond, blue-eyed Ted Neeley.
All of this would be eclipsed and rendered as beta satire by Monty Python's "Life of Brian" six years later. As usual, the Python troupe ruined biblical epics for good. But even without the send-up, "Jesus Christ Superstar" plays as self-parody throughout.
BONUS TRACKS
Here is the cast of the 1968 musical performing "Aquarius/Let the Sunshine In" on the Ed Sullivan show and taking over the studio for the infectious conclusion:
Yvonne Elliman, iconic with "I Don't Know How to Love Him," one of the few highlights from "Jesus Christ Superstar":
The title track from "Superstar." Dig those white afros, backing up Carl Anderson as Judas:
