Author: jose

“Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny” is somehow both never boring and never really entertaining. It walks a line of modest interest in what’s going to happen next thanks to equal parts innovative story beats and the foundation of nostalgia that everyone brings to the theater. It’s an alternating series of frustrating choices, promising beats, and general goodwill for a legendary actor donning one of the most famous hats in movie history yet again. It should be better. It could have been worse. Both can be true. In an era of extreme online critical opinion, “Dial of Destiny” feels like a hard movie to truly hate, which is nice. It’s also an Indiana Jones movie that feels difficult to truly love, which makes this massive fan of the original trilogy a little sad.

The unsettling mix of good and bad starts in the first sequence, a flashback to the final days of World War II that features Indy (Harrison Ford) and a colleague named Basil Shaw (Toby Jones) trying to reclaim some of the historical artifacts being stolen by the fleeing Nazis. Jones looks normal, of course, but Ford here is an uncanny valley occupant, a figure of de-aged CGI that never looks quite human. He doesn’t move or even sound quite right. It’s the first but not the last time in “Dial of Destiny” in which it feels like you can’t really get your hands on what you’re watching. It sets up a tone of over-used effects that is the film’s greatest flaw. We’re watching Indiana Jones at the end of World War II, but it doesn’t feel like we are. The effects are distracting instead of enhancing. Again, this won’t be the last time.

It’s a shame too because the structure of the prologue is solid. Indy escapes capture from a Nazi played by Thomas Kretschman, but the important introduction here is that of a Nazi astrophysicist named Jurgen Voller (a de-aged Mads Mikkelson), who discovers that, while looking for something called the Lance of Longinus, the Nazis have stumbled upon half of the Antikythera, or Archimedes’ Dial. Based on a real Ancient Greek item that could reportedly predict astronomical positions for decades, the dial is given the magical Indy franchise treatment in ways that I won’t spoil other than to say it’s not as explicitly religious as items like the Ark of the Covenant of The Holy Grail other than, as Voller says, it almost makes its owner God.

After a cleverly staged sequence involving anti-aircraft fire and dozens of dead Nazis, “The Dial of Destiny” jumps to 1969. An elderly Indiana Jones is retiring from Hunter College, unsure of what comes next in part because he’s separated from Marion after the death of their son Mutt in the Vietnam War. The best thing about “Dial of Destiny” starts here in the emotional undercurrents in Harrison Ford’s performance. He could have lazily walked through playing Indy again, but he very clearly asked where this man would be emotionally at this point in his life. Ford’s dramatic choices, especially in the back half of the film, can be remarkable, reminding one how good he can be with the right material, and it made me truly hope that he gets a brilliant drama again in his career, of the kind he made more often in the ‘80s.

But back to the action/adventure stuff. Before he can put his retirement gift away, Indy is whisked off on an adventure with Helena Shaw (Phoebe Waller-Bridge), the daughter of Basil and goddaughter of Indy. It turns out that Basil became obsessed with the dial after their encounter with it a quarter-century ago, and Indy told him he would destroy the half of the dial they found. Of course, Indiana Jones doesn’t destroy historical artifacts. As they’re getting the dial from the storeroom, they’re attacked by Voller and his goons, leading to a horse chase through the subway during a parade. It’s a cluttered, awkward action sequence that’s only power comes from seeing Harrison Ford on a horse again—a hero riding through a parade being thrown for someone else.

Before you know it, everyone is in Tangier, where Helena wants to sell her half of the dial, and the film injects its final major character into the action in a sidekick named Teddy (Ethann Isidore). From here, “Dial of Destiny” becomes a traditional Indy chase movie with Jones and his team trying to stay a step ahead of the bad guys while also basically leading them to what they’re trying to uncover.

James Mangold has delivered on “old-man hero action” before with the excellent “Logan,” but he gets lost on the journey here, unable to stage action sequences in a way that’s anywhere near as engaging as the way Steven Spielberg does the same. Yes, we’re in a different era. CGI is more prevalent. But that doesn’t excuse clunky, awkward, incoherent action choreography. Look at films like “John Wick: Chapter 4” or a little sequel that’s coming out in a few weeks that I’m not really supposed to talk about—even with the CGI enhancements, you know where the characters are at almost all times, what they’re trying to accomplish, and what stands in their way. That basic action structure falls apart often in “Dial of Destiny.” There’s a car chase scene through Tangier that’s incredibly frustrating, a blur of activity that has no weight to it, and no real stakes. It should work on paper, but you can’t get your hands on it. A later scene in a shipwreck that should be claustrophobic is similarly clunky in terms of basic composition. I know not everyone can be Spielberg, but the simple framing of action sequences in “Raiders of the Lost Ark” and even “The Last Crusade” is gone here, replaced by sequences that cost so much that they somehow elevated the budget to $300 million. I wished early and often to see the $100 million version of this movie.

“The Dial of Destiny” works much better when it’s less worried about spending that massive budget. When Indy and Helena get to actual treasure-hunting, and John Williams’ all-timer score kicks in again, the movie starts to click. And, without spoiling, it ends with a series of events and ideas that I wish had been foregrounded more in the 130 minutes that preceded it. Ultimately, “The Dial of Destiny” is about a man who wants to control history being thwarted by a man who wants to appreciate it but has arguably allowed himself to get stuck in it, either through regret or inaction. There’s a powerful emotional center here, but it comes too late to really have the impact it could have with a stronger script. One senses that this one was sanded down so many times by producers and rewrites that it lost some of the rough edges it needed to work.

Spielberg reportedly gave Mangold some advice when he passed the whip to the director, telling him “It’s a movie that’s a trailer from beginning to end – always be moving.” Sure. Trailers are rarely boring. But they’re never as entertaining as a great movie.

In theaters now.

“Ruby Gillman, Teenage Kraken” is a cheerful, colorful animated film about a shy, academically gifted young girl with a protective mother and devoted friends who transforms into a huge creature as a metaphor for adolescence, with multi-generational conflicts. Yes, it is similar to the terrific “Turning Red,” but this story has its own delights. One of the best family films of the year, “Ruby Gillman, Teenage Kraken” has humor and heart, buoyant energy, witty and imaginative visuals, and never-less-than brilliant voice talent.  

Ruby (Lana Condor) and her family live in a coastal village called Oceanside. Her mother, Agatha (Toni Collette), is a successful realtor, her father, Arthur (Colman Domingo), runs a gift shop, and she has an energetic little brother Sam (Blue Chapman). Ruby does not look like the other kids at school. She’s blue. And where a human’s hair should be, she has something fishy. Agatha tells her to explain that the family is from Canada, which seems to satisfy everyone. Her mother also cautions that she can never go in the water or even on a boat. That puts a lot of limits on her social life in a beach-centric town. 

Ruby has a crush on Connor (Jaboukie Young-White), a boy she’s tutoring in math, but she cannot find the nerve to invite him to the prom. When he falls into the ocean, though, she impulsively jumps in to rescue him. And then, well, you saw the title. Her transformation leads to connections to relatives on her mother’s side of the family she never knew existed, including Uncle Brill (the always-delightful Sam Richardson) and a deliciously imperious grandmother Kraken queen (voiced by Jane Fonda) known as Grandmamah (emphasis on the third syllable, please). 

At first, Ruby is shocked and embarrassed by her Kraken-hood. But thanks to Grandmamah’s encouragement, and a new bestie classmate, Ruby sees how her new abilities have the potential for doing good. The new friend is the instantly popular new girl at school, Chelsea Van Der Zee (Annie Murphy of “Schitt’s Creek”). They have something in common. They are both sea creatures; Chelsea is a mermaid. Grandmamah has told Ruby about the war between the Kraken and the mermaids, but Ruby thinks her friendship with Chelsea could lead to a new era of peace and unity. 

The film’s settings are beautiful, with charming seaside buildings and an ocean environment so marvelously tactile we can almost smell the sea spray. The movements underwater, whether peaceful or turbulent, are vivid and realistic. The high school environment is funny and evocative, with the prom variously described as “a post-colonial patriarchy construct” and “a hormone-fueled benchmark of adolescence.” And there are very funny jokes about topics not often the subjects for humor: escrow and ASMR. 

The film’s characters are endearing and expressive, with thoughtful, vivid detail (Connor’s hair is a wonder), all voiced with warmth and spirit. Ruby’s human legs have a slight rubbery elasticity suitable for a gawky teenager. As a Kraken with glowing suckers on her tentacles, her personality still shines through. Chelsea’s glorious red hair is a bit of a wink to Disney’s Ariel but also a signifier that this supremely confident high school alpha girl seems to have it all together while everyone else is just trying not to do anything too humiliating. Fonda is clearly having a blast as the Queen of the Oceans; she’s supremely magisterial, a warrior at heart, but also a doting grandmother delighted to teach the newest heir to the Kraken legacy about her new world and her new powers. I got a particular kick out of Richardson’s Brill, the goofy but affectionate and always-on-your-side uncle everyone deserves. And watching Condor’s Ruby go from being ashamed and terrified to being proud of her authentic self should help us all wonder what more we are capable of. 

Now playing in theaters. 

Due to his high profile death from AIDS early in the crisis and its galvanizing effect on the movement, Rock Hudson is arguably more known now as an icon of LGBTQ history, then for the films in which he starred. That is certainly the point of view of Stephen Kijak’s latest documentary “Rock Hudson: All That Heaven Allowed,” which richly explores his personal life while taking a cursory look at his filmography.

This is true to the doc’s source material, Mark Griffin’s 2019 biography Rock Hudson: All That Heaven Allows, which weaves the history of Hudson living as a closeted gay man in midcentury America within the framework of his most popular films. Viewers looking for an in-depth history of his diverse work as an actor will likely leave disappointed, though they will learn a lot about Hudson’s personal life and conflicted interiority.

The doc begins with a story told by Hudson to a fellow aspiring closest gay actor about a dream he had in which he were the center of a sparkling diamond. This dream supposedly was the anchor to which Hudson clung throughout his tumultuous career in Hollywood. It’s through this frame the filmmakers posit that much of his choices in life – including his reluctance to come out even post-Stonewall – stemmed from his desire to achieve and maintain this stardom.

Using a plethora of archival video and photography, Kijak plots the life of Hudson—born Roy Harold Scherer Jr.—from his childhood in Illinois to his stint in the Navy during WWII to his early days and later ascent in Hollywood. Kijack pays special attention to Hudson’s relationship with agent Henry Willson, who created the name and the star persona that fans knew as Rock Hudson. 

The filmmakers do not shy away from the lilac and lavender aspects of old Hollywood, exploring the various ways queer stars hid their personal lives and fought to keep their names out of tabloids like Confidential. This includes an in depth look at Hudson’s brief arranged marriage to Wilson’s secretary Phyllis Gates and the damage it caused to both parties. 

All of this is rich and thorough. However, the formatting of the documentary remains curiously uneven. For the first 45 minutes or so, Kijack uses solely voiceover from various interview subjects, some new recordings and some archival, who either knew Hudson personally or have insightful commentary on his life and career. However, the last hour of the film shifts to on-camera interviews with various living people, some of whom were part of Hudson’s inner circle like “Tales of the City” writer Armistead Maupin and Hudson’s ex-boyfriend Lee Garlington, and a particularly touching interview with his “Dynasty” co-star Linda Evans who discusses their controversial kiss on the show.

While the shift in format is certainly do to the availability of these subjects and their proximity to Hudson during his lifetime—the private photographs supplied by Garlington of the two on vacation together will surely tug at your heartstrings—the execution of this shift is creaky and would have have felt less abrupt had the filmmakers chosen to weave these on camera interviews from the beginning. 

The film also heavily relies on the editing format from the excellent 1992 experimental essay “Rock Hudson’s Home Movies” in which filmmaker Mark Rappaport uses footage from Hudson’s films—out of context—in order to cheekily make gay entendres and nod to queer readings of his films when watched with the knowledge of Hudson’s orientation, whether they’re actually there or not. While Rappaport’s use of this technique was playful and subversive, the way it’s employed by Kijack is often far too on the nose and rings hollow.

One aspect of this documentary that does shine as bright as Hudson himself is the way it highlights the deep friendships he had with his co-stars Elizabeth Taylor and Doris Day, and their steadfast support of him after his diagnosis. Aside from some enlightening excerpts from his close friend George Nader’s diary, much of the documentary’s look at the cover up and then impact of Hudson’s diagnosis of AIDS often comes across like a Wikipedia entry, but its use of archival footage of both women, and especially a fiery speech made by Taylor, brings a much-needed personal touch to this sequence.

Kijack smartly ends this section on a bittersweet note. AIDS activist Bill Misenhimer states “it’s hard to say he saved anyone because no one was saved. Everybody died,” but noted that Hudson’s announcement of his diagnosis “gave people hope.” Each living member of Hudson’s inner circle also shares how many friends they lost, with one friend recalling “all we did was go to funerals and fundraisers” and another stating how it inspired him to get tested. Kijack then contrasts audio of a reporter revealing that funding for AIDS research skyrocketed in the year after Hudson’s death with chilling footage of the AIDS Memorial Quilt being laid on the Mall in Washington, D.C. 

Kijack does not end the doc on this bleak note, rather allowing a ray of hope to shine through via one of Hudson’s final interviews in which he shares he’s not afraid of anything anymore. It is this quiet strength “Rock Hudson: All That Heaven Allowed” aims to project, and although the documentary has structural issues, it is this strength that will likely inspire those who may not know Hudson’s work to seek it out, and remind a new generation that, despite seemingly insurmountable difficulties, it was possible for some of our queer forebears to find a little slice of happiness, despite living in a world that told them they were not welcome. 

On Max today.

America is often ridiculed internationally for its affinity for the flag. A symbol of patriotism hung outside of homes, worn on shirts, pasted on bumper stickers, etc., the flag is an omnipresent force in the visual fabric of America. Yet what has garnered quite a bit of controversy over the past few years is another similarly revered symbol: the anthem, alongside its cultural rejection. Whether it’s kneeling as it plays or refusing to sing along, the simplest of actions are powerful displays of opposition and touchy subjects for the country’s most loyal “patriots.”

Of course, this disillusion is rooted in the systemic oppression of anyone outside the majority. Produced by Ryan Coogler, director Peter Nicks’ documentary “Anthem” follows composer Kris Bowers (“Brigerton,” “Green Book”) and producer D.J. Dahi (“Self Care” by Mac Miller, “Money Trees” by Kendrick Lamar) as they trek across America, looking to reinvent the anthem. 

The documentary takes the format of a road film as Dahi and Bowers travel to American genre-centers like Nashville, Detroit, and the Bay Area, meeting with musicians and discussing their love for the art form. All of these individuals perform, as well as relay the histories, importance, and qualities of their genres. Across all groups, the sentiment is the same: music is love, music brings people together, and the anthem doesn’t truly accomplish either. 

As they travel the country interviewing a breadth of artists, every interaction is marked by a bothersome sense of artifice. There’s a lack of genuine chemistry within the conversations, and it feels more like checking boxes than thoughtfully engaging with the subjects. Dahi and Bowers lack chemistry and rapport as well, feeling like two talented students stuck together for a group project. 

The camera is always strongly felt by the people in front of the lens and it leads to a rigidity that takes the emotion out of the sentiment. It renders these conversations as educational spiels instead of empathetic discussion. The value of what is being said is undeniable, but in a documentary that’s thesis is rooted in empathy and unity, there’s a counterintuitive emotional distance between the subjects that translates even further through the screen.

“Anthem’s” format is equally formulaic. Dahi and Bowers drive to a city, listen to their subjects play, and then interview them. This repeats itself throughout the entirety of the documentary, and while it works to get all the information outlined, it’s fatiguing. Perhaps these downfalls are a result of the film’s ambition, tracking a transnational exploration of music, interviewing figures in the community, and crafting a song to end it all. It’s a lot of information to crush into 98 minutes, and while a longer documentary was a feasible solution, the lack of communion between the subjects is a trickier fix.

However, what is most fascinating about “Anthem” is its investigation into the legacy of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” and the hypocrisy that has followed it from its origin. Francis Scott Key wrote the American anthem to the tune of a British song, cementing an off-the-bat philosophical complication that only continues to prove itself in terms of representative problems today.

The project of “Anthem” is special and compelling, but the documentary lets itself down. There is a notable neglect to include much of the musical process. We meet gospel singers, country singers, Native singers, jazz singers, etc., but we are hardly privy to how Dahi and Bowers actually compose the song to include these genres. The conversations between the artists across the country are shown as they write the lyrics and discuss the issue of a hopeful v. critical tone, but the music itself feels forgotten. 

There’s a wonderful analogy when Dahi and Bowers visit Detroit, where the jazz musicians reveal the key to their performance. Jazz is a conversation with all the players, they must work together, listen, and know when to play and when to let another player shine. It’s the documentary’s whole philosophy, and while it works on paper, the execution teeters on connecting its feeling to its format. 

“Anthem” is a love letter to the art form, as well as the diversity in the country where many of these genres originated, but it fails to fully realize itself. The American fight is one that rears itself against racism and stuck-in-the-mud traditionalism. Naturally, the symbols of these forces are just as hard to change as the minds themselves. “Anthem” takes on this daunting task, making a concerted effort to display the beauty of culture in the United States, and music’s intrinsic tie. Yet while acknowledging the importance of its thesis, it doesn’t fulfill the full empathy required to inspire.

On Hulu today.

The topic of motherhood has long provided the horror genre with some of its greatest stories. From “Rosemary’s Baby” to “The Babadook,” there is something inherently scary about watching your beloved child be overtaken by evil forces or reckoning with the idea that becoming a parent makes us vulnerable to just about every terrible thing in our world (and beyond). In Daina Reid’s new film “Run Rabbit Run,” fertility doctor Sarah (Sarah Snook) meets these tensions head-on when her precocious seven-year-old daughter Mia (Lily LaTorre) begins to claim she’s actually Alice, Sarah’s sister who disappeared when she was Mia’s age. 

Reid’s ghost story uses innocuous objects to layer on the film’s sense of unease. First, Mia shows up with a white fluffy rabbit, and she quickly becomes obsessed with it, to the point where she begins wearing a self-made pink rabbit mask. The bunny, which she names Rabbit, ominously hops around the house, a harbinger of the bad things still to come. When Sarah tries to get rid of Rabbit, it bites her, the first of many injuries she will incur as she spirals over memories of her missing sister, her estranged mother, and recently departed father. The film’s conflict is centered between mother Sarah and daughter Mia, but it also includes a thorny relationship with Sarah’s mother, Joan (Greta Scacchi), creating a cycle of guilt from childhood sins and feeling like she’s not doing enough for her kid. 

Rabbit is not the only troubling thing in Hannah Kent’s script. In setting up Sarah’s narrative, Kent shows the audience how much Sarah’s been pushed to the brink even before anything unexplained begins. She’s divorced and co-parenting with her ex-husband, Pete (Damon Herriman), who has moved on and in the process of starting a new family of his own. Sarah is also dealing with the death of her dad, his things still piled up in her garage yet to be sorted through. And then there’s her mother, an ominous figure also losing her memories to dementia. When Mia’s problems escalate, she at first tries to be the strong parent doing what’s right for her child, but then, she starts to hurt herself in the process, and by extension, hurts Mia. 

In a marvelous departure from her best-known role as Shiv Roy in “Succession,” Snook brings a motherly sense of care and duty to her character. She’s attentive and affectionate in ways many of us haven’t seen her. Her calm, collected demeanor quickly erodes in the face of so much uncertainty and stress. Snook’s attention and care for LaTorre’s Mia is deeply felt, and their bond is evident from the first scene when mother wakes up her daughter with a birthday gift. LaTorre looks at Snook with large expressive eyes that shift from confused and scared when she’s inexplicably bleeding to burning with rage when she screams that she’s actually Alice. But in moments of Mia’s clarity, LaTorre runs to Snook and embraces her tightly for safety, establishing the close relationship between the pair early on; giving us a sense of what will be lost once Rabbit enters the frame.  

Sarah’s descent to madness mirrors the haunting landscape of the film’s setting in Waikerie, Australia.  There ate windswept horizons, imposing cliffs, stormy clouds over luscious green hills, flutters of birds flying in droves by her old home, and what looks like trees sprouting out of a purple river. The film wallows in a weatherbeaten palette, with lots of pale yellows and dusty grays, in the daytime. At night, darkness takes over, and even well-lit homes and cozy bedrooms start to feel unsafe. Cinematographer Bonnie Elliot carefully plays with these moods to create a visual sense of Sarah’s spiral. The film’s aesthetic becomes increasingly erratic as she loses her grip on reality. When Sarah goes in and out of a dreamlike state, images may look hazy or disorienting in their closeup, then harshly come into focus when she returns to reality. When Sarah starts to lose control, Snook physically takes her character to that dark place, but the film’s camera immerses the viewer in her unease. 

Motherhood, like extreme moments of grief, can be among the most life-changing experiences – a clear demarcation of life before and after the event. Sometimes, it can also be coupled with extreme feelings of isolation, which in this horror movie, makes a person vulnerable to the ghosts of their past. “Run Rabbit Run” is a solid spooky tale without anything too flashy like a Babadook to haunt our dreams and memes but chilling enough to make us sit up in our chair and scan the screen for the next sign of danger. While a fluffy white rabbit may be a symbol of innocence, it leads Sarah down a nightmarish version of “Alice in Wonderland.” The mothers in this film are haunted by the mistakes they made. Joan never seemed to have recovered from Alice’s disappearance, and Sarah’s barely buried trauma resurfaces her own feelings of regret over failing her daughter. And once Sarah is through the looking glass, are she and Mia safe? Are any of us?

On Netflix now.

Just enough of Apple TV’s latest high-profile thriller works to recommend it, even if it never quite achieves the heights it should with its premise and captivating leading man. Idris Elba has had a fascinating career in that he has the screen charisma to be a movie star, and yet his most popular roles remain on the small screen (“The Wire,” “Luther”). Here, despite the presence of some strong supporting performers, he uses every bit of that magnetism in a way that almost becomes a detriment to the project in that it loses altitude a bit whenever he’s not centered. I walked away from “Hijack” thinking that Elba could easily carry an action show like “24”—an obvious inspiration for this real-time thriller—but that I’d rather see him kicking ass on the big screen in a “John Wick”-esque franchise instead. That I began to unpack the career of the star over the seven chapters of “Hijack” is a bit telling regarding the quality of the thrills here in a show that’s consistently interesting but never quite as engaging as it should be, largely because of how many characters it tries to bring onto this overbooked flight.

Written by George Kay (the recent Netflix adaptation of “Lupin”) and directed by Jim Field Smith (“Butter”), “Hijack” opens with the final passengers boarding a 7-hour flight from Dubai to London. One of those last people on board is Sam Nelson (Elba), who exchanges a few texts with his ex-partner that makes it clear that things are a bit rocky on the home front. She even tries to encourage him not to come to London. He ignores that instruction and ends up on a flight from Hell when the journey is overtaken by five hijackers. Led by a stoic gent named Stuart (an excellent Neil Maskell), the hijackers seem to have a highly coordinated plan, including a way to emotionally manipulate their way into the cockpit, although Kay has a habit of parsing out information in a frustrating manner. For several episodes, it’s not even clear what the hijackers’ intentions are or what they hope to accomplish (a folder named “Demands” appears more than halfway through the series), which could theoretically add tension by making us feel like confused passengers on the plane, but the show so consistently leaves the vessel that it just starts to feel like a cheap trick.

Instead of locking us in our seats with Sam and the rest of the kidnapped passengers, “Hijack” jumps to the U.K. to also include the people who will try and stop a tragedy from the ground. The great “Torchwood” star Eve Myles plays Alice Sinclair, one of the air traffic controllers who first understands the severity of what is happening on the flight. Myles give a smart no-nonsense performance, often the voice of reason that elucidates the stakes of each escalating situation—usually that the logical thing to do would be to shoot the plane out of the sky. Much of “Hijack” consists of Sam trying to lower the stakes of the hijacking so that doesn’t happen, which makes for some of the most interesting writing and performing by Elba. If the British government—or the Hungarian one they’re flying over—suspect that they could have another 9/11 on their hands, they won’t hesitate to kill everyone on board. Elba conveys how much his character’s background as a business negotiator makes him aware that he may have to give into his tormentors at times just to keep everyone calm.

Sam and Alice aren’t the only ones on edge as the Home Secretary and other British power players debate what to do with an uncontrolled plane headed for one of the biggest cities in the world. These scenes are admirable on a political level, but they ultimately serve as a detriment to “Hijack” by reducing tension every time we leave the plane. Similarly, Neil Maskell is solid as a cop who become deeply involved in the case to a connection he already has with Sam, but his arc too serves to clutter more than anything else. “Hijack” undeniably works best when it’s Elba vs. Maskell, and I wished for more juicy scenes between the two actors instead of subplots about what was happening on the ground.

Still, “Hijack” builds to an impressive final chapter, an episode that really allows Elba to use all of his skills to try and save the day. He understands that sheer force won’t stop a hijacking, turning Sam into a negotiator more than an action hero. And yet even the final episode goes on a few scenes too long in a way that stretches disbelief. Everything that works about “Hijack” has a bit of fat around it that should have been cut away. And I’m not really sure any of it would have worked without Elba, sitting in the seat of his career, unsure where he’s going to land.

Whole series screened for review. Starts on Apple TV+ on June 28^th, with episodes dropping weekly.

It’s been five years since director Boots Riley’s riot of a debut, “Sorry to Bother You,” dominated conversations. With a deft hand that crafted comedy with punchy social critique, “Sorry to Bother You” put Riley’s creativity and contributions to Afro-Surrealism on the map. The style he implemented in that film proves to be not a one-and-done, but a jumping-off point, as he reaches into his toolbox of absurdism and humor yet again in his new Prime Video series, “I’m a Virgo.”

The show follows Cootie (Jharrel Jerome), a 13-foot-tall, 19-year-old Black man raised in Oakland. Jerome, noted most for his dramatic work as Kevin in Barry Jenkins’ “Moonlight” and Korey Wise in Ava Duvernay’s “When They See Us,” stretches his legs (quite literally) into funky new territory with this series. 

Cootie is sheltered. His adoptive parents (Mike Epps and Carmen Ejogo) keep him cooped up in the house for fear that when people discover him, he will be ogled, tokenized, and eventually disposed of. They keep him fearful with headlines of the giants who came before him, who now exist only in graveyards, science labs, or museums. So when Cootie decides to venture out of their home against their wishes, we’re equally skeptical but intrigued of how the world will receive him. What ensues is an absolute romp of a coming-of-age story, chock full of Cali culture, first love, friendship, and biting social examination.

The 13-foot-tall gimmick runs the gamut of physical comedy and day-to-day hilarity. Cootie’s size is accomplished through CGI, forced perspectives, and practical doll-size props, all of which work extremely well in Riley’s world. It’s incredibly kitschy, and the fun of it remains intact even when it isn’t believable. Through tickling sequences, we learn how he eats, uses the bathroom, and eventually, in one of the series’ most memorable moments, has sex. 

Jerome embodies Cootie’s physical and social awkwardness with fun-loving empathy. His naivety causes us to view him much like his parents do, with protective care. Jerome manages the clumsiness and curiosity of Cootie without infantilizing him and, in the funnier moments, shows his comedic edge. Whether it’s using superspeed to test the romantic waters with counter worker Flora (Olivia Washington) at the Bing Bang Burger joint, downing a plate of tacos like it’s nothing, or assisting his friends in doing two-wheel donuts in their convertible, Jerome’s Cootie is a joy to watch.

Absurdity is the series’ truest commitment, and it functions not only for laughs but thematic support as well. A perfectly cast Walton Goggins plays “The Hero,” a millionaire with a super-suit á la Iron Man (but in the worst of ways). He’s basically a supercop on steroids, flying over Oakland, lauding the importance of law and order, and alerting Black teens that “three or more people dressed in similar clothing may be prosecuted as a gang.” Goggins is absolutely insane in his portrayal, but it’s exactly what the show needs in a ludicrous antagonist. 

The Hero’s character represents the problems with the police but levels up by meshing that point with the world’s obsession with superheroes. Cootie idolizes The Hero’s comics but learns that with real-world implications, The Hero is not a protector of the people but of America’s classist, capitalist rhetoric. Capitalism is on full display in “I’m a Virgo.” From tackling the inaccessibility of healthcare in a particularly damning episode to a throughline of a cult of Steve Jobs lookalikes who name Cootie as their messiah, Riley explores the consequences of the institution with varying senses of gravity. 

Even in opaque representations, the integrity of the commentary is not lost. When an agent approaches Cootie and books him as a model in a series of fashion installations where he, a giant Black man, terrorizes white mannequins, Cootie knows it’s “f**cked up.” Yet he chases the bag, sacrificing a shred of his dignity for a check.

“I’m a Virgo” has fun with its coming-of-age format while also staying true to the struggles of that life era, particularly for a young Black person. Navigating friendship, first loves, and spreading your wings from the parental grasp is one set of universal hurdles, but learning how to endure a political landscape that puts a target on your back is a beast of its own. With an incredible roster of talent animating this world, “I’m a Virgo” is a laugh riot, a pulsing social document, and an empathetic character study. Riley’s quick wit, surrealist creativity, and nuanced social investigation add this series to his history of absurdist excellence. If another five years is the cost of a third edition, it’ll be worth the wait. 

Whole series was screened for review. “I’m a Virgo” premieres on Prime Video today.

Some memories are too painful for us to carry day to day. There are compartments in our minds where we store our heaviest memories to protect ourselves from despair. This is especially true for traumatic events—happenings so large there’s no control over our reactions. Some people can move on without remembering, but for others, the answers are a necessity to living. They give people the insight they need to know themselves better to heal wounds and move on emotionally.

In “Revoir Paris,” memory is a mystery to be solved. Mia (Virginie Efira) rides her motorcycle all over Paris, searching for answers about a devastating mass shooting at a local bistro. She was there, and she survived, but she can’t seem to remember how. The opening scenes show Mia going about her life, working on the radio, and spending time with her boyfriend Vincent (Grégoire Colin). But later, she’s alone, writing at the bistro. There’s a birthday being celebrated at a neighboring table. The mood is calm and pleasant. She gets ink on her hands from her fountain pen and goes to the bathroom to wash it off. But before Mia can return to her table, she hears gunfire and screaming. The scene, though brief, is appropriately terrifying—it’s not just what we see but what we don’t see. Director Alice Winocour doesn’t show us where the gunshots are coming from, instead focusing on the panic of the bistro staff and guests. The scene cuts before we can see how exactly Mia survived.

Months later, Mia’s life has not returned to normal. She feels distant from her work and Vincent. And so begins her journey to remember the past to move forward. With determination, Mia tries to get answers about where she ended up during the shooting and what happened to the kind cook who held her hand and comforted her. On her journey, she meets and speaks with other survivors of the attack, all struggling in their own way. One woman accuses Mia of barricading herself in the bathroom, refusing to let anyone else in, which Mia doubts despite being unable to prove it. She meets another survivor, a teenager named Félicia (Nastya Golubeva), and they quickly form a bond. Mia has a very different dynamic with another survivor, a banker named Thomas (Benoît Magimel), who is recuperating in the hospital. These connections all bring Mia comfort and help jog her memory.

“Revoir Paris” has a sensitivity to it, a warm texture despite the abundance of cool blue tones. Its somber visual style of the film is reminiscent of Atom Egoyan’s early work with its quiet, confessional tone and vibrant splashes of color. Much like Egoyan’s “Exotica” and “The Sweet Hereafter,” every character in “Revoir Paris” is connected by grief and sadness. The characters often look forward when speaking or look to the camera, allowing us to witness the emotion on their faces. As the story drifts from person to person, face to face, it all begins to feel dreamlike. The image of Mia on her motorcycle only enhances the feeling that we’re drifting, days and nights blurring together. Sometimes the film shifts perspective to other survivors, narrating their feelings and memories. It’s a very human way to explore trauma, reminding us that Mia is one of many hurting.

As Mia, Efira gives a subdued performance enhanced by her expressive face. Much like her previous starring roles in “Benedetta” and “Sybil,” Efira quietly commands the screen. Golubeva is also a standout as Félicia, a young woman with the maturity that comes from actively overcoming trauma. Additionally, Sofia Lesaffre does so much with her small, pivotal role as Nour, a young woman who still works at the bistro after the shooting. 

“Revoir Paris” is a story about people thrown together, forever changed by their time together. In addition to its emotional resonance, the film highlights Paris’ cultural and economic diversity as we watch Mia interact with people she may have never met. Despite the tragedy, “Revoir Paris” is a hopeful film about the healing power of human connection and mutual comfort. It’s the kind of movie that lingers in the mind long after the credits roll.

In theaters now.

“God Is a Bullet” is like a mallet to the back of the head. It’s never subtle, demanding that you know its presence while knocking the taste out of your mouth (none of this, unfortunately, can be counted as a compliment). The film attempts to marry the movements common to grisly road movies and grimy action thrillers while aiming to shake the religious fiber of its morally upright protagonist, Bob Hightower (Nikolaj Coster-Waldau), a local sheriff’s deputy searching for his kidnapped daughter, Gabi (Chloe Guy). There are, to be sure, moments of shock. But they offer very little awe. 

The opening is a broken canvas of dispersed events: In one instance, a girl with a pink balloon, awaiting her mother outside a supermarket, is snatched by a group of Satanists in a black van. She will grow into Case (Maika Monroe), a blond, tattooed, heroin-addled acolyte of cult leader Cyrus (Karl Glusman). We then jump to some unknowable time after, during Christmas, where, in a ghastly scene akin to “A Clockwork Orange,” this same cadre of goons rape and murder Hightower’s ex-wife, kill her husband, and flee with his daughter. Every shot from a double-barrel shotgun that sends Hightower’s ex-wife’s limp body thudding into a pool is more garish than the last and is equally as incomprehensible in its tenor as the tawdry plot of the movie. 

The first few minutes, a hopeless, slap-dash attempt to transport viewers to the heart of this gruesome movie, signal a strained desire by writer/director Nick Cassavetes to pull tension from the collision of crushing realism and a knowing formalism. 

The film’s discordant tones begin when the naive Bob recruits the worldly Case—she recently left the group and is presently in rehab—to track Cyrus’ gang. They hit the road in a pickup truck with a cache of guns, arriving at a desert house belonging to the Ferryman (Jamie Foxx), a tattoo artist with an amputated hand and the kind of white splotches on his face common to those with vitiligo. The makeup used for Foxx simply looks crummy. The same goes for the tattoos on all the characters, which are so blackened and well-defined you’re left wondering if these marauders get touched up every couple of months. Those are some smaller swings for authenticity that ultimately feel like glaring affections.

To a point, Cassavetes wants you to know you’re watching a movie. He inserts explicit photography featuring bloody Satanic sacrifices, which remind viewers that the film is adapted from Boston Teran’s same-title book but not based on true events. He and editor Bella Erikson also slow fight scenes, tinged by Mozart, to break the spell of this naturalistic road movie. Over-the-top but committed performances by Glusman, for instance, and a host of gang members, also push the boundaries of belief. 

You can nearly sense how “God Is a Bullet” could be an intriguing study of religious faith amid an unspeakably terrible world. But Cassavetes’ distended script interrupts the rhythm and pace of his storytelling. There’s an entire subplot involving January Jones as the trophy wife of the town’s sheriff (Paul Johansson) that could be entirely excised, and you wouldn’t miss a thing. The backgrounding of Cyrus also begs to be trimmed.

In trying to intertwine the visual feel of “The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo” and the first season of “True Detective,” the film loses focus. Its violence against women, while certainly an intended critique of this barren, apathetic desert landscape, succumbs to gratuitousness. Cassavetes’ artsy sheen doesn’t help matters either. Instead, the operatic, final confrontation between Bob, Case, and Cyrus is brutalist miserablism disguised as elevated style.     

The only standout figure among the bunch is Monroe, playing Case. The actress previously stunned in Chloe Okuno’s surveillance thriller “Watcher,” and it’s a wonder to see her attempt a vastly different character here, moving from the secluded housewife in a strange land to this free-spirited alpha woman. Monroe’s every head tilt, her grounded deliveries, and broad physicality achieve the exact balance between sophistication, brokenness, and deadliness Cassavetes desperately wants.

Monroe is ultimately entrusted with landing the film’s final false note, a bid for normalcy that appears to counter her character’s deepest desires. It’s a groan-inducing end whose neatness leaves one wanting more than the superficiality Cassavetes provides. If God is a bullet, it can’t come fast enough. 

Now playing in theaters. 

The last few years have been a kind of golden age for movies and TV about middle school. High school has always gotten more attention from filmmakers, possibly because most would prefer to forget the awkward transition from childhood to adolescence. However, those awkward if not painful moments that define middle school can make for great drama and rich comedy (“Eighth Grade” and the Hulu series “Pen15” come to mind as great examples that do both). 

“World’s Best” is more of a family film than the aforementioned film and series but it is no less insightful about the ‘tween years. Set in contemporary New Jersey, it tells the story of Prem Patel (played by a charming Manny Magnus), a driven math whiz who is gearing up for the mathlympics competition. His single mom Priya (Punam Patel) is doting and supportive, but she also feels like a complete human being, not just the “mom”. 

This is expressed nicely when she takes Prem into her own memories of how she met his late father Suresh (played by Utkarsh Ambudkar who also co-wrote the screenplay), who Prem is shocked to learn was a local legend in the underground hip hop scene. This is where “World’s Best” reveals itself to be a hip-hop musical. Suresh begins visiting his son and begins passing on his evangelical passion for hip-hop. 

Much to Priya’s dismay, Prem enters himself in the talent show and his interest in performing threatens to usurp his passion for math. At this point, “World’s Best” also seems to borrow ever so slightly from the superhero film, particularly the origin story. Prem’s daddy issues are reminiscent of most of the MCU’s characters, particularly his struggle to reconcile what his parents want for him versus what he wants for himself. Along the way there are the usual bits of middle school drama, specifically the betrayal of friends who drift away from each other and into opposing cliques. 

“World’s Best” succeeds thanks to the brisk pacing at 100 minutes and Roshan Sethi’s deft handling of the ups and downs of ‘tweenhood. The emotions are earned, and the playful tone accommodates the more serious reveals and complications nicely. Ambudkar and Magnus’ chemistry go a long way toward making the film work. You believe them as father and son and their joy at making music together is infectious. 

Now on Disney+.