Miracle Mile (1988, Steve De Jarnatt)

Miracle Mile is an actors’ movie without any great performances. There are affable performances, good performances, (bad performances), but no great performances. Lead Anthony Edwards occasionally tries hard—it’s the end of the world, after all, he’s got to emote—but he’ll frequently hit a wall and start moving his mouth like a Jimmy Stewart impression will be enough.

It’s never enough.

Then at some point, Edwards gives up and lets co-star Mare Winningham do the work. Except Edwards isn’t just the protagonist, he’s also the narrator. And Winningham is his manic pixie dream girl—she’s the first girl thirty-year-old Edwards has ever gone for, as she’s the first girl who shares his big band interest. Edwards is in L.A. playing gigs with his big band. Winningham is a waitress. During the opening titles, they have a solid meet cute at the La Brea Tar Pits Museum. Given how important that location ends up being, it’d have been nice if the movie had spent some time on it instead of summarizing.

Though… as Edwards’s attention-grabbing approach is to hijack a school trip and talk to the kids while their teacher isn’t present and Winningham thinks it’s hot… maybe not.

They have a whirlwind romance—they’re to their third date by the present action, so maybe they cut something—including Edwards meeting Winningham’s grandparents, played by John Agar and Lou Hancock. Agar and Hancock haven’t spoken for fifteen years but live in the same apartment complex. That detail is mainly important to complicate Edwards’s mission and gin up a reasonably nice scene in the late second act.

Edwards is supposed to pick Winningham up after her shift, only he threw away a single-puffed cigarette, and a bird picked it up, brought it up to its rooftop nest on some power lines, set its nest on fire (presumably the bird’s okay), which knocked out the power, which knocked out Edwards’s manual alarm clock, so he naps through meeting Winningham. It’s their third date, so she tells him to get some rest. She’ll have just worked a six-hour shift at an L.A. diner, which seems unfair, energy-wise.

We get some quick scenes of Winningham being sad Edwards didn’t show, and his motel’s phone is out of service—the power outage—so she goes home and takes some Valium and conks out. Edwards wakes up at a quarter to four (in the morning; he was picking her up at midnight) and heads to the diner, expecting her to be waiting for him there.

The film’s a fascinating relic of many eighties-specific flexes, mostly male entitlement, but there’s also a bunch of racism and transphobia. Writer and director De Jarnatt goes out of his way to proclaim he’s not a homophobe, however. But it’s for a sitcom-level “comedy” beat.

Anyway.

In the diner, Edwards meets a variety of early-morning folks who have very little reason to be hanging out at the same diner. Especially when the film establishes they’re regulars. There’s stockbroker Denise Crosby who has the personal numbers of multiple U.S. senators yet likes to spend the opening bell being sexually harassed by Claude Earl Jones. Jones is a street cleaner on a break; Alan Rosenberg is his sidekick. O-Lan Jones is the waitress (who knows Edwards, which also implies cut scenes), and Robert DoQui is the cook. At first, it seems like it’ll be a good part for DoQui. It’s not.

While trying to call Winningham in the phone booth outside the diner, Edwards picks up a wrong number—it’s the end of the world, says the caller. The U.S. is firing the nukes; they’ll hit Russia in fifty minutes. The Soviet response will arrive in seventy. So Edwards tells the diner, causing a stir, which becomes a panic once Crosby can’t get ahold of her politician friends because they’re already headed to Antarctica.

The film’s initially Edwards’s quest to get to Winningham, but then becomes their quest to get to the airport and onto a flight to “safety.” Along the way, Edwards meets a handful of interesting characters. First, it’s Mykelti Williamson, one of the film’s few Black characters with lines. He sells stolen goods, of course, but at least he loves his sister, Kelly Jo Minter, enough not to let her get nuked. Minter’s not in it enough. Williamson’s better than the part deserves. Then we don’t meet anyone for a while because Edwards’ quest to get Winningham from her apartment doesn’t have many obstacles once he’s going.

Later, he meets Kurt Fuller—as a whacked-out yuppie who doesn’t believe the nuke hype—and powerlifter Brian Thompson. Thompson probably comes into Mile in the last twenty minutes and has maybe two minutes of screen time, but stands out. Both because he’s good, and De Jarnatt saddles him with a bunch.

Along the way, Mile has its ups and downs. De Jarnatt’s script only commits to six-minute subplot arcs, which keeps the movie busy without ever being full. Characters recur, but similarly without any significant arcs. Even when there’s something seemingly salient, its import evaporates. Both in De Jarnatt’s script and the performances.

Technically, the film’s low middling. De Jarnatt’s composition sometimes deserves better than cinematographer Theo van de Sande’s lighting; sometimes not. The Tangerine Dream score initially seems like it might bring something to the picture. It does not.

Both Edwards and Winningham are sufficiently sympathetic considering the circumstances, so Mile does stay engaging. It’s just way too obviously got De Jarnatt’s hand spinning the wheel to keep it going.

Staying Alive (1983, Sylvester Stallone)

As Staying Alive celebrates its fortieth birthday, I’m sure there’s information on the web to answer some of my most burning questions. For instance, did they shoot John Travolta and Finola Hughes singing numbers for the in-movie Broadway show (Satan’s Alley), or was it always a rock ballet? And what about the Frank Stallone songs—did director, co-writer, co-producer, and very special guest star Sylvester Stallone always plan on using his brother’s bland early eighties soft rock, which saps the energy out of all their scenes, which are many—or at some point was better music on the table? The film’s got five Bee Gees songs (plus the title track; trivia note: Stayin’ Alive was abridged on the soundtrack album, not in the movie itself). Were the Brothers Gibb too busy, or did they just not want to continue the story of Saturday Night Fever lead John Travolta?

So many questions.

Staying Alive runs a somewhat long ninety-six minutes. Once the Broadway show rehearsals start, it’s too rushed, but until it gets there, it plods. It still plods during the rehearsals—Travolta has to listen to an entire song to understand he’s hurt love interest Cynthia Rhodes by eighties stalking Hughes—and then there’s an endless “romantic” dance sequence. But there’s theoretically potential during the rehearsals; they’re what Alive promised during the opening titles, a bargain basement All That Jazz. Except Stallone can’t direct the dancing scenes.

Or, more, he can direct them, but then he slows them down, which makes the dancing far less impressive. Unless the whole point is Travolta’s athletic exertion faces, which the film inadvertently showcases for most of the third act. The rehearsals ought to be a no-brainer—Travolta, Hughes, and Rhodes are preparing for a show while in a love triangle. There’s plenty of drama, but they also have to work together for the show to work. Maybe it’d work if show director Steve Inwood weren’t so wooden (despite wearing outfits too extreme for a “Thriller” knock-off video). The scenes where Inwood and Travolta “act” opposite one another are some of the film’s worst, which is saying something, because even though Inwood’s bad… he’s only got a half-dozen scenes where he talks. Hughes is just as bad but in the movie, so much more often.

She’s the rich girl rock ballet star who practices free love, something Travolta just can’t understand, though he definitely should be while he’s sleeping with lovestruck co-worker Rhodes; he’s also going home with various girls from his bar job. Travolta and Rhodes work at a dance studio by day, then he waiters at a club while she sings at another. He doesn’t like her working at the club because it’s skeezy, only once we see it… it’s fine? Like, if he knew about her lovestruck coworker at the club—Frank Stallone—he might have a reason to dislike it, but we see him see Frank for the first time. And he can’t be worried about it being dangerous. Despite it being 1983 and prime “dirty old New York,” the city’s incredibly safe. He’s going to let Rhodes walk at least forty blocks home at one point.

Alive also could be about two dancers—Travolta and Rhodes—and their troubled personal relationship but their success in their field of chosen professional pursuit. She’s a little older, which sort of makes her a stand-in for the Karen Lynn Gorney character from the first movie. Except it’s not because Stallone and co-writer Norman Wexler are astoundingly bad at the romance stuff. They’re slightly better with Travolta’s character development arc, which involves realizing he shouldn’t mistreat people (especially women), only for mom Julie Bovasso to tell him it’s okay, actually. It’s what makes him so awesome.

Bovasso is the only other actor to return from Fever. No one else gets mentioned except the dad character, who seems to have died between movies, and Travolta has left mom Bovasso alone in Brooklyn while pursuing his Broadway dreams.

Bovasso’s scenes all feel inserted later, raising even more production questions, especially about Travolta’s possible original character arc. Maybe he sings about it. The scenes’ tacked-on feeling goes so far as to forget the movie is taking place at Christmastime. Maybe. Definitely winter because Travolta never wears enough clothes (but neither does anyone else).

The eventual musical has to be seen to be believed, and if Stallone weren’t so bad at directing it, it would be a camp classic; it should be a camp classic.

Based on the opening titles, which feel like an All That Jazz rip-off (sorry, not calling it a homage, given it’s set to a Frank Stallone song), it seems like at least the editing’s going to be good throughout. Mark Warner, Don Zimmerman, and Peter E. Berger do okay with the editing, even after Stallone starts all the slow motion. The cinematography from Nick McLean is occasionally (and unintentionally) great. Stallone’s got some bad shots and a real lack of visual continuity, but McLean does a fine job with dirty old New York. He lights about a third of Travolta’s approximately 75,000 close-ups okay. The other two-thirds, he’s bored too.

Johnny Mandel does the “score,” which doesn’t even get mentioned in the opening titles, and produces at least one of the Frank Stallone songs. Is it one of the better ones? I don’t know; I was too busy dancing to Stayin’ Alive to pay attention during the end credits.

Acting-wise, Bovasso wins on the technicality she’s in three and a half scenes. Rhodes is likable, even if she weren’t so tragically sympathetic as she lets herself get played, over and over, by Travolta.

Travolta’s reasonably bad. He seems better during the Broadway rehearsal portion of the plot; shame it’s rushed.

Hughes is terrible. Also, Stallone’s really bad at shooting her dance, so when Travolta’s ostensibly impressed with her craft (in addition to her looks), it doesn’t seem legit. Though at least Hughes gets to dance. The movie forgets Rhodes wants something more than the chorus line too.

If it weren’t terrible, Staying Alive could be good. Given the setting’s inherent drama and potential visuals, it ought to be good. Shame Stallone turned it into a weird vanity project for his brother, and an even weirder “toxic masculinity is good, actually” commentary. Because the questions the film raises about Travolta being a Brooklyn disco king grown over are good ones, it’s just Stallone, Wexler, and Alive have bullshit answers to all of them.

Still, it’s ninety-six minutes of early eighties Hollywood ego train wreck; after all, sometimes you need to strut.

This post is part of the Fifth So Bad It’s Good Blogathon hosted by Rebecca of Taking Up Room.

Daughters of the Dust (1991, Julie Dash)

Daughters of the Dust is an epical story told lyrically. Set in 1902, the film tells the story about the time a specific Gullah family headed to the mainland and north into the twentieth century. It opens with Cheryl Lynn Bruce returning home to make the crossing, bringing along photographer Tommy Redmond Hicks to document the occasion. Bruce had left home, got some education, and became a Christian.

She’s very surprised to find her sister, played by Barbarao, also returning home. Bruce is the good sister who went off and assimilated into the popular culture. Barbarao is the scandalous sister, though it turns out she’s not the one who ought to feel scandalized. Barbarao’s bringing along female friend Trula Hoosier.

Despite the awkward situation (with the audience not having details, just the awkwardness), Bruce tries to make conversation. She remembers childhood details, which leads to Hicks mansplaining about the slave trade. The Gullah are descendants of African captives enslaved by plantation owners on the lower Atlantic. In 1902, it’s living memory, something Hicks doesn’t understand (yet). Barbarao and Hoosier laugh at Hicks’s naivete, and the rest of the water taxi ride is presumably much more quiet.

We don’t know because the action moves to the family’s day on Ibo Landing, named after the Ibo people, who figure into local mythology. Except, again, it turns out it’s living memory, which adds some devastating context to why people living in a tropical paradise (albeit with bad soil) would want to get the heck out. It also will lead to character development for Hicks and male “lead” Adisa Anderson. Quotations because, although Anderson gets quite a bit in the first act, he’s only the male lead because he’s the only male with a character arc.

The family—the Peazant family—is de facto matriarchal, led by Cora Lee Day, though granddaughter-in-law Kaycee Moore is making a power grab with the move north. Day’s not going, something none of her family seems to have really internally acknowledged. The film takes place over two days, with occasional flashbacks and a future-tense narration from Anderson’s (as yet) unborn daughter (Kai-Lynn Warren). Day also narrates a bit, starting before Warren, which provides some framework for how the narration will work in slipping through time.

Eventually, Warren will appear visually, the hope of the family—the first child to be born off the island—but also the child living inside this story she’s learned. It’s beautifully done. There’s nothing writer and director Dash attempts she doesn’t accomplish. The bigger the swing, the better the hit.

The film’s got several subplots, most supporting the main plot—the family leaving—through character development. Anderson’s miserable because someone raped his wife, Alva Rogers, and he’s worried she’s pregnant with another man’s child. It’s made him remote, angry, and violent, especially when Rogers won’t tell him who did it. Anderson goes to great-grandmother Day for advice but doesn’t listen when she gives it.

Rogers spends much of the film bonding with Barbarao and Hoosier, who are able to sympathize with her situation–finding just how much and why fuels Rogers’s character development arc, which becomes one of the film’s most consequential. But they’re all exceptional.

The best performance is Day. Despite being one of the two narrators (and the only one active onscreen)—and being very open in her narration—Daughters reveals more and more about Day as it progresses. Everyone orbits her, and Dash explores their different and similar trajectories. But Day has layered the performance so well, each new detail just informs a previous choice and sets up subsequent ones. It’s a singular performance, though the same can be said of a few more.

Barbarao, Moore, and Rogers are the other singular performances. Rogers is the last to go from simmer to boil, and when she does, it’s phenomenal and something it turns out the film’s been working towards the whole time.

Technically, the film’s sublime. Dash’s direction is deliberate and concise, honed both with the performances and composition. Color is crucial in Daughters, whether the blue ribbon on future child Warren or the indigo stains on the palms of the formerly enslaved family members, providing a visual reminder of generational differences and experiences.

Arthur Jafa’s succulent photography, toggling between tropical forests and white sand beaches, is simultaneously extraordinary and mundane. Similarly, John Barnes’s score inhabits the scenes, modern for the audience’s ears, while providing an emotional gateway into the characters’ lives, even as Dash waits to reveal various details.

Then there’s Joseph Burton and Amy Carey’s editing. Their cutting makes it all happen. Dash and her editors use slow motion to great effect, focusing and guiding the audience’s attention.

Great production and costume design—Kerry Marshall and Arline Burks Gant, respectively.

Daughters of the Dust is a marvel. Dash, her cast, her crew all do superlative work.

Richard III (1995, Richard Loncraine)

Richard III takes place in an alternate history where the British are five hundred years late with their royal wars, but still in the 1940s for technology and rising fascism. The film doesn’t update Shakespeare’s dialogue, so it’s the cast performing while dressed—increasingly—as Nazis. Except they’re British.

Well, not Annette Bening or Robert Downey Jr. Bening and Downey don’t do accents, implying there’s an accent-free United States out there. The people they’re playing in the play (who are people from history) were not American. There wasn’t a United States when the events took place. So I thought there might be some subtext to them being American. Nope. Richard III doesn’t do subtext, but it especially doesn’t do it with Bening and Downey.

Bening is not good, but she tries. Downey’s terrible. It’s unclear how hard he’s trying. He performatively fidgets in the backgrounds occasionally, presumably to keep himself in the movie, since it doesn’t do anything for his character development. Bening tries with the character development.

Doesn’t go anywhere, but again, she does try. And there are hints of better scenes. For example, in the second half of the film, when Ian McKellen is taking over, Bening gets together with the other women for an establishing shot and then a cutaway, but presumably, they’re very upset.

No one in the movie gets a good part except McKellen, but it’s not like Richard doesn’t fail him too. The first act’s dynamite, with McKellen plotting against brothers John Wood and Nigel Hawthorne and forcing the audience to conspire with him. They handle the plays asides with McKellen directly addressing the camera, tickled pink with his plotting. This device almost entirely disappears by the finish, apparently an appropriate adaptation of the source play.

But it’s not a good adaptation of it.

Similarly, no one really thought through the third act’s visual clashes—attempted usurper Dominic West (not good, not too bad) is dressed as a British commando from a WWII movie, complete with beret, off to fight… the British Nazis. Director Loncraine is initially bad at the war action but gets much worse for the finale. Richard III coasts through most of its run time on McKellen, trying to keep ahead of the film being entirely out of steam. It seems like it’ll make it; then comes the battle finish and Loncraine’s terrible work on it.

The film has big visual problems throughout, but Loncraine at least seemed to be trying to do something. Unfortunately, the finish is a smorgasbord of thoughtless bad.

Other than McKellen, who’s great when the film lets him be, the best performances are Kristin Scott Thomas (who should’ve had Bening’s part for sure) and Maggie Smith. Smith’s got about three scenes and seven lines. Scott Thomas has about double. Nowhere near enough for either.

Jim Broadbent plays McKellen’s chief sidekick and is relatively bland and obvious. It should be a better performance. There are excellent supporting players like Wood and Hawthorne, but also Jim Carter, Bill Paterson, Tim McInnerny, and Edward Hardwicke. All the actors are game (well, not Downey); it’s just Loncraine and company doesn’t put it together.

Peter Biziou’s photography is okay. Not the occasional composite shots. But Paul Green’s editing is jerky, and then Trevor Jones’s smooth jazz score is a (bad) choice.

Also, real quick—they reuse the same slamming door sound for about three minutes straight, regardless of door, and I’m wondering if it sounds so familiar because it’s from DOOM or something. DOORSLAM.WAV.

Anyway.

Richard III’s a slightly interesting but quickly pointless staging of the play. It’s never stagy, I suppose, but whatever they do instead doesn’t work either. McKellen’s first-act performance is singular, though. The rest is okay to good, but he has a unique first act.

Killer of Sheep (1978, Charles Burnett)

Killer of Sheep is a series of vignettes, usually connected with a sequence at the slaughterhouse (though not always slaughter, but sometimes, so be ready), always connected with a piece of music. Sometimes the music recalls a previous scene or musical selection, creating a narrative echo between the sequences. And even though Sheep is incredibly lyrical in its structure, somewhere in the second half—as enough time has progressed—more traditional plot lines have formed.

Mainly because lead Henry G. Sanders has started hanging out with Eugene Cherry and Cherry really wants to get a car running. Except Cherry’s terrible at bigger-picture car stuff. He can install an engine block but is hazy when it comes to gravity, leading to a couple harrowing sequences.

And then Kaycee Moore has a definite subplot; she plays Sanders’s wife, who’s feeling his depressive episodes in all sorts of ways. Sheep is about being Black working class in the early seventies, with L.A. in some kind of a transition (the neighborhood kids play in unfinished buildings, constructions or destructions), and writer, director, editor, and cinematographer Burnett knows there’s a lot there for a Black woman. But Sheep doesn’t explore it, just how Moore (and the other Black women) experience being around the men.

The setting and time period mean there’s no way Sanders can call what he’s experiencing depression, but he does know there’s nothing he can do about it. He and Moore have somewhat recently moved to the city with their two kids. Jack Drummond plays the tween son, Angela Burnett’s his little sister.

At the open, it seems like Drummond will be the more significant kid. Burnett juxtaposes Sanders’s story with scenes of the neighborhood kids at play. Mostly the boys, though the girls get a memorable scene, so it seems natural Drummond’s going to be the more important. He’s ingesting a lot of toxic masculinity, both out playing and (passively) from dad Sanders, and he’s started bullying sister Burnett.

But since he’s always out of the house and Burnett’s too young to go out on her own—we eventually see she does have friends, but they come over with their mothers—she’s much more present for Sanders and Moore’s unhappy moments together, but also their time apart. Moore and Burnett have a gentle mother-and-daughter arc; lots of lovely moments.

While Moore and Cherry have plot lines and identifiable arcs, Sanders sort of doesn’t. Yes, he’s the main character, yes, it’s about his work contributing to his depression, but if Sanders’s character knows how to verbalize any of those feelings, he doesn’t on screen. And what we do see on screen suggests he doesn’t. Again, he’s trapped in a depression, knowing there’s no way out. Even when he gets exceptionally asterisked job offers—one’s to be a cabana boy for the liquor store lady, the other’s to be wheelman on a hit—we don’t get his reaction. The liquor store scene ends emphasizing the awkwardness and awfulness of the situation (the owner only cashes checks for the Black men she’s got the hots for, i.e., Sanders), and Moore’s the one who shuts down the wheelman conversation.

With his male friends, Sanders can find a comfort he can’t with Moore, which even the kids recognize (though Drummond’s acting out from go). Moore’s trying everything she can with Sanders, but he just doesn’t talk to her. There are some devastating scenes for the two of them. While Sanders gives the film’s best performance, Moore gives the most essential. Sheep simply wouldn’t work without her anxious but muted energy. She’s primed in anticipation, but Sanders is utterly resigned. Burnett mixes the contrary tones beautifully.

Burnett’s most impressive work on the film—well, technically, it’s producer because he made the film—but creatively, it’s his direction and editing. His photography’s excellent, and the writing’s strong, especially for a mostly amateur cast. But the direction is where he’s superlative, whether with the actors (again, the editing and writing working in unison) or with his composition; Sheep’s always phenomenal. The way Burnett bakes looming danger into a film without any violence (against people, anyway) is something else.

And it relates back to the character relationships. There’s a lot of turmoil between Sanders and Drummond, Sanders and Moore, and Moore and Drummond. Their interactions are sometimes foreboding, especially given Drummond’s seeming lack of, well, sense. Things aren’t going right for the family in Sheep, but only Drummond is actively threatening to make them worse. It’s rending.

Thanks to the montage device, Burnett’s able to end Sheep whenever and goes out not so much on a surprise, but still abruptly. The third act’s got a nebulous start time until the film’s end when events become a little clearer. It’s bleak but not fatalistic. There’s always a lot of hope, even as Sanders is drowning in hopelessness.

Sheep’s an exceptional film.

Lady Bird (2017, Greta Gerwig)

Lady Bird is a loving tribute to Sacramento, California, specifically growing up there as a teenager, from the perspective of a main character who hates Sacramento. Writer and director Gerwig opens the film with a travelogue of Sacramento streets and locations, a device she repeats sparingly (only significantly in the fantastic finale); Lady Bird is set in the fall of 2002; Gerwig and cinematographer Sam Levy shoot it in a grainy, succulent style. It looks seventies; only it’s very, very 2002 (and 2003). It’s particularly particular when Gerwig does an absurdist—but grounded—comedy aside.

It’s a gorgeous film, start to finish, and Gerwig’s enthralled with her subjects, whether setting, scenery, or character.

Despite an exceptionally on-point opening quote and irregular narration from lead Saoirse Ronan (and despite her being the Lady Bird of the title), the film is not a character study. Especially not of Ronan. Laurie Metcalf gets scenes from a character study, which ends up just making Gerwig’s big swing of a finale even more successful. Ronan is the daughter, Metcalf is the mom. Lady Bird is all about the two of them missing each other, hating each other, loving each other. From the start.

Before the Sacramento montage, which turns into a Catholic high school ground situation montage, Gerwig and Metcalf are on their way back from a college visit. They’re bonding over the Grapes of Wrath on audio cassette (2002), and then one of them says just the wrong thing, and the other one gets pissed off, and they argue and ruin their moment. As the film progresses, Gerwig’s going to reveal the depth of their emotionally rending relationship, layering in the details from conversations between the two, but also just comments from the supporting cast. Because Gerwig and Metcalf’s relationship is at the core of the family dynamics; dad Tracy Letts plays peacekeeper, while brother Jordan Rodrigues and his live-in girlfriend Marielle Scott watch from the sidelines. Everyone’s got a slightly different perspective on it, whereas Ronan just thinks Metcalf can’t stand her.

Which isn’t wrong.

The family drama is backdrop. In the foreground, it’s Ronan’s senior year of high school. She goes to a ritzy Catholic school on a scholarship. Her best friend is another scholarship kid, Beanie Feldstein. Their friendship is one of the film’s tectonic plates, and they’re fantastic together. Lois Smith is the nun in charge. She encourages Ronan to try theater, which leads to her meeting Lucas Hedges, her first love. Except then they all go to a Thanksgiving concert, and Ronan gets a look at moody boy Timothée Chalamet, and things start getting complicated.

Chalamet runs with an entirely different crowd—the rich and popular one—while being a tragically hip, soulful, Goth anarchist who sits through everything performatively reading A People’s History of the United States. Chalamet simultaneously looks twelve and thirty-eight; when he’s going, everything stops and stares—Ronan, Gerwig, the viewer. He’s captivating. And such a perfect little jackass.

But it’s not like Hedges doesn’t come with problems, and Ronan’s never met anyone like Chalamet. She’s not in college yet, where she’ll discover he’s just a trope, albeit with some substantial motivation with his own home life. Besides Ronan, the most family we get is from Feldstein and Hedges, but it’s there for all of the kids. Metcalf’s very aware she’s living working class in expensive circles, something she tries to impart to Ronan without success.

Things get worse when Letts loses his job, especially since it adds to the things he keeps from or downplays with Ronan. The character relationships are delicate and precise, with Gerwig and editor Nick Houy making all the right cuts.

The film’s technically superlative. Gerwig’s direction, Levy’s photography, Hoey’s cutting, Jon Brion’s music (though the soundtrack is more important, and—in what can only be described as a baller move—Gerwig has the stones to turn liking a Dave Matthews song into a plot point), and then April Napier’s costumes. But the film’s all about Ronan’s performance.

Watching Lady Bird is watching Ronan to see what she’s going to do next. The same thing happens with Metcalf, which is such an outstanding echo—but Ronan’s in the spotlight. Gerwig throws a lot at her but then—especially in the second act—skips significant dramatic moments, so Ronan doesn’t have a steady character development arc. Instead, Gerwig uses skip-aheads to adjust the narrative distance, finding a different angle to inspect Ronan’s performance. Ronan’s full-stop great, but Gerwig hinges the entire thing on her being able to do the development arc in summary; Gerwig’s incredibly trusting and fully rewarded for it.

Ronan, Metcalf, and Chalamet are the best performances, but there aren’t any slouches. Letts, Feldstein, and Hedges are all great too. Smith’s awesome, as is Stephen McKinley Henderson as the theater teacher priest.

Lady Bird’s one of a kind from its first story beat (in the prologue) and then, over and over, one of a kind. It’s even magical at times. Gerwig, Ronan, and Metcalf do incomparable work.

It’s so damn good.

This post is part of the Fake Teenager Festivus hosted by Rebecca of Taking Up Room.

Elmer Gantry (1960, Richard Brooks)

Elmer Gantry is all about possibilities. Possibilities for the plot, for the performances, for the film. Director (and screenwriter) Brooks watches the film along with the audience, specifically the performances. Everyone’s just waiting to see what Burt Lancaster, Jean Simmons, and Shirley Jones are going to do next. Sometimes, Brooks emphasizes the performance with quick cuts—the first act has some spectacular sequences, with editor Marjorie Fowler, Brooks, and composer André Previn in divine sync—sometimes, he lets the camera sit. Perfectly lighted scene (courtesy John Alton) and Lancaster or Simmons monologuing.

Though it’s not all monologuing. Gantry’s got some wonderful banter sequences; the film’s practically designed for them.

Set in the 1920s, the film opens with Lancaster amusing a bunch of traveling salesmen. They meet up for Christmas every year because Lancaster knows where to find the best booze (Prohibition-time) and the best women (bored housewives). Lancaster’s holding court, telling dirty jokes, and having a great time; only then the Sisters of Mercy come in asking for a donation, and the heathens are shitty to them. So Lancaster does a sermon, surprising the bar (and helping him seduce a lady) with his seemingly devout religiosity. The scene establishes the character, that duality, and Lancaster’s exceptional way of essaying it.

The film will explore the contradictions in the appropriately lengthy second act, but first, it’s got to get Lancaster to church. Lancaster resists even as he sees posters for traveling tent revivalist Simmons alongside his own sales route. He ends up there one night out of boredom (and a busy housewife) and becomes immediately enraptured by Simmons. But Lancaster’s not her only admirer, though he’s the only one who’s planning to do anything about it. Both Arthur Kennedy and Dean Jagger revere Simmons. Jagger’s her business manager, a good Christian who thinks he’s enabling a prophet. Kennedy’s the atheist newspaperman tagging along with the tour.

Lancaster can’t give Simmons to give him the time of day—he’s too much of a smooth talker—until he seduces her band leader (Patti Page) and weasels his way along with them. But he still can’t convince Simmons he’s godly, except she doesn’t care, it turns out. She’s more than willing to put a smooth-talking bible thumper on stage if it gets butts in seats and pledge cards signed. There’s a business angle to it; after all, local churches pay Simmons and Jagger in advance to bring the revival to town.

We don’t find out about that side of things until around halfway through, when—thanks to Lancaster’s fire, brimstone, and sexy sermons—the local big city asks Simmons to bring her show to them. The film stays in the big city (Zenith, a recurring fictional city in novel author Sinclair Lewis’s work), which makes sense because it’s where Kennedy’s newspaper is based and Jones lives. Jones is an ex-lover of Lancaster’s with a very big, very sharp, very justified ax to grind. The film introduces her early, as Lancaster and Simmons start making news together, raising expectations for when she’ll figure into the main plot. Jones is exceptional.

So’s Simmons. Somehow, Simmons manages to give just as showy a performance as Lancaster (or Jones), but they’re absurdly extroverted, and she’s reserved. It’s Simmons’s revival, no matter what Lancaster or Jagger thinks. However, Lancaster and Jagger’s prickly relationship turns out to be one of the film’s sharpest, subtlest subplots. So good.

Kennedy’s good, too; he’s just not extraordinary. Lancaster, Simmons, and Jones all give these singular performances, while Jagger and Kennedy excel closer in character parts. Of course, Jagger and Kennedy’s characters are mostly reacting to the others, which also affects how they function and what they can do with the parts. The film’s practically overflowing with great performances; for instance, Page never gets enough.

All the technicals are excellent. Brooks’s direction is patient, enthusiastic, and reserved. He never rushes a scene or a delivery. He gives Lancaster and Simmons time for their preaching; the film’s about these characters’ relationship with religion, internal and external, and Brooks wants to showcase it. Done wrong, it’d be anti-climactic; Gantry doesn’t do it wrong, quite the opposite.

Alton’s photography, Fowler’s cuts, Previn’s music, all superb. Dorothy Jeakins’s costumes too. Lots of character development in the changing outfits, sometimes subtle, sometimes not.

Lancaster and Simmons are the whole show. Brooks and his crew are just trying to create the optimal narrative distance on Lancaster, specifically on his experiences with Simmons. Even when she’s not around, when it’s Lancaster and Jagger, Kennedy, or Jones, Simmons’s presence is always felt. She’s the show; they’re all spectators, except Lancaster wants to be on stage too. Kennedy and Lancaster have a great friendship throughout, two cynics on different paths.

As far as who’s better, Lancaster or Simmons, it depends on the scene. Though we get to know Lancaster better through the film, whereas Simmons gets to keep some secrets, which makes her performance inherently more complicated. They’re both so damn good. And then Jones. So damn good.

The whole picture. So damn good.

The Favourite (2018, Yorgos Lanthimos)

Essentially, The Favourite gives each of its three stars an act to shine. Rachel Weisz gets the first act, Emma Stone the second, Olivia Colman the third. They all appear throughout, but the script’s surprisingly segmented with its narrative perspective. Surprisingly because it means the first-act protagonists (Weisz and Stone) are accessories in the third act. However, since the film is about the Queen of England (Queen Anne, reigned 1702-1714), Queen Colman taking over for the finish works.

Though, not really.

Colman is the miserable queen, and Weisz is her best friend and (obviously secret) lover. The act breaks come when Stone, Weisz’s fallen cousin, comes to the palace for a job and discovers their romantic relationship. Weisz doesn’t like Stone because Weisz is a rather mean person. It initially seems like a classist thing, but it runs deeper, especially after Colman realizes she can make Weisz jealous by hanging out with Stone. Stone at least likes Colman’s rabbits; Colman has one for each baby she lost as the royal broodmare (seventeen).

Throughout the second act, as she feels threatened, Stone starts devising a plan to usurp her cousin and regain her good standing. Luckily, opposite politician leader Nicholas Hoult (shockingly good) wants Stone to spy on Weisz, and Stone likes Hoult’s bro, Joe Alwyn, so they can work something out.

Of course, once Weisz feels threatened, she’s got to react. Weisz’s interests are far more vested than Stone’s; Weisz’s husband (Mark Gatiss) is a general off fighting the French, and Hoult doesn’t want any more money to fight the French. But Stone’s fighting for survival, something even after her life’s endangered, Weisz doesn’t seem to realize. And the film’s not very sympathetic about. The second act’s all for Stone, and it’s entirely a villain arc.

Director Lanthimos shoots the first two acts with fish-eye lenses, forcing the audience to engage in the filmmaking artifice, making the period piece feel much more real. He also does long takes of his leads—mostly Stone and Colman, as both have realization arcs. In contrast, Weisz is never wrong about the personal relationship stuff, something the film also doesn’t acknowledge. There’s still fish-eye in the third act, but much less, and for visual effect rather than something to help the character development along. Favourite’s finely directed, but it’s clear in the second act, Lanthimos doesn’t have any more tricks up his sleeve. His style doesn’t build throughout.

Excellent natural light photography from Robbie Ryan. The whole film looks great, but the outdoor scenes and the candle-lighted ones are particularly spectacular. Also excellent editing from Yorgos Mavropsaridis, who occasionally breaks into intricate montage sequences during scenes. Not many, but a few. Lovely work.

The music’s booming classical (while Weisz described Favourite as an All About Eve-type picture, Lanthimos is very much doing Barry Lyndon avec femmes), and the sound design’s superb. The costumes and production design (Sandy Powell and Fiona Crombie, respectively) are fantastic. Favourite looks and sounds great.

Best performance is Colman, then Stone, then Weisz, which is a surprise since Weisz is so good in the first act. She just loses the movie to Stone, who’s increasingly fantastic until the script infantilizes her. Then only Colman’s left without serious constraints, and she has a marvelous showcase. Still not as good as it ought to be (the third act pretends The Favourite has been a character study of Colman from the start, which it very much has not been).

The script, by Deborah Davis and Tony McNamara, is clever with good dialogue, which is enough given the cast and crew, but lacking.

Still, The Favourite’s one heck of a good picture, with some phenomenal acting and filmmaking.

Little Woods (2018, Nia DaCosta)

It’s impossible to say how Little Woods would play if Lily James weren’t terrible. As is, the film’s a waiting game to see if James will ever have a good scene. Spoiler alert: she doesn’t. She’s so bad I was expecting the production company to be “Lily James Productions.” She lets down writer and director DaCosta and lead Tessa Thompson’s ambitious, searching work every moment, but she also never seems to be trying. It’s a bewilderingly bad performance in a non-vanity project.

Woods is one third character study of Thompson, one-third examination of her and James’s relationship, one-third rural America drug thriller. That second third, the one involving James, ought to be a character study too, but James is so flat it can’t happen. Sometimes it seems like she’s just terrible opposite Thompson, who tries to hold scenes up and sometimes succeeds. Sometimes not, of course.

But James is also bad opposite baby daddy James Badge Dale (who’s fantastic as a mediocre white guy) and baby Charlie Ray Reid. James and Dale have weird scenes together where it’s like James doesn’t know she’s supposed to know Dale even though they’ve got one kid, Reid, and another on the way. Then her scenes with Reid come off as bored babysitter, not a struggling, loving mama bear.

There are a bunch of unresolved plot threads, and they could either be just unresolved plot threads or more James scenes removed because they bring the movie down even more. She can’t handle anything. Not even pouring coffee (she’s a diner waitress).

Meanwhile, Thompson can handle all of it. Even when Woods’s plot details get a little absurd, which James’s acting make worse, Thompson can handle it. She’s fantastic.

The movie opens with Thompson finishing her probation for drug smuggling from Canada. She was bringing over cheap meds for those in need and oxy to sell to the local working addicts. Since probation started, her adopted mom (presumably James’s birth mom, but dead mom doesn’t mean anything in the movie) died, and the bank is foreclosing on the house. All the timeline stuff is unclear; all the ground situation stuff is unclear. DaCosta sometimes goes for moody, but not in the first act, so it’s uneven.

Lance Reddick plays Thompson’s probation officer. He’s very supportive and encouraging; if there’s a story to him and Thompson being the only Black people in the movie, it too got cut. He’s there primarily for tension and exposition dumps. It’s a fine stunt cast.

Just as Thompson’s about to get out of the life for good, rival dealer Luke Kirby asks her to team up—she’s just so much better at dealing than anyone else. But she’s out. Unless James does something silly like get pregnant again because James can’t handle anything by herself.

Things go from bad to worse for Thompson, and everyone has to make some drastic, life-changing decisions. Except Dale, because he disappears sometime during the second act like they cut him dying, but—again—it was probably just another atrocious scene with James.

Really strong direction from DaCosta, who can’t do anything with James’s performance but works great with everyone else. If James’s performance were good, who knows? If it were great—on par with Thompson—it’d be exceptional just to get those two performances together. Except not with James.

Solid, but sometimes too DV photography from Matt Mitchell. Nice editing from Catrin Hedström and music from Brian McOmber and Malcolm Parson.

Little Woods has a fantastic Thompson lead performance and some fine directing, but James lets all the air out of the tires.

American Made (2017, Doug Liman)

While Tom Cruise is most of the show in American Made, it’s not a star vehicle. Star vehicle suggests it’s got somewhere to take him. Made exists because of Cruise’s likable performance, not the other way around. Thanks to that likability, he even gets away with an eighties TV “Louisiana” accent. The film also avoids putting an age on Cruise’s character—real-life person Barry Seal was thirty-nine when the movie starts, while Cruise (here in his mid-fifties) can play thirty-nine, mentioning it might get audience members doing math and distract from the fun.

Made’s just fun. Based on the true story of an airline pilot who went to run drugs and guns for the CIA and Pablo Escobar, the film’s a hand-held period piece action crime comedy. Most of the action’s in the first and second acts before Cruise becomes an Arkansas land baron. His CIA handler (an okay but bland Domhnall Gleeson) wants a spot to train the Contras in the U.S.; near Cruise’s private airstrip makes perfect sense since he’s bringing them into the country anyway.

The film avoids all the logistics of Cruise’s operation. If Made’s accurate, anyone with a plane can fly in and out of the U.S., avoiding detection by flying low—the plane photography in Made’s excellent and only occasionally obviously CGI—no filed flight plans, no FAA, no nothing. So who’s lying to us, “Wings” or Made?

Also, getting into the minutiae would cut down on the fun. Director Liman and star Cruise are sure Made is going to be a lot of fun, as Cruise gets favors from a certain Arkansas governor, hangs out with Ollie North and Manuel Noriega, all while avoiding Cruise and Wright’s kids to the point their names and number aren’t necessary. They start with one or two and end up with at least three, but it could be four. Wright’s okay when the movie’s got something for her to do, which isn’t often. Not even after her deadbeat little brother (an okay but bland Caleb Landry Jones) shows up and starts bringing about Cruise’s downfall because he’s a dumb redneck.

There are a lot of Confederate flags in Made and Cruise’s definitely a Johnny Reb, along with all his team of pilots, and the soundtrack’s almost entirely “Country Rock before they started wearing the hoods on stage” classics. We wouldn’t know if anyone was actively racist or bigoty because there aren’t anything but white people in the movie. Cruise has a cute scene with a Black kid at one point, and it’s like someone realized they needed to clarify.

Speaking of the other pilots… while William Mark McCullough is the only one to get any real scenes outside montage or long-shot, I swear one of them is John Glover, but he’s not credited anywhere. IMDb’s missing the character (they’re called “Snowbirds,” which sounds like a Bond villain’s all-female killer ski bunny squad, and there’s no “Snowbird #3,” who’d be Glover).

Anyway.

American Made’s well-produced, with always okay direction from Liman. César Charlone’s photography is occasionally too “DV,” particularly in the cockpit shots, but never bad. Editor Andrew Mondshein does a fine job with the innumerable entertaining montage sequences. Made’s fine and fun, with a delightful Cruise lead performance, but it’s entirely fluff.