I know I said I didn’t want to go to camp this year. I said nobody ever talks to me. Nobody ever asks me to swim or hike, or play truth or dare, or arm wrestle. Nobody offers me an enchilada. I said I didn’t like it. I said it was boring, but what I really meant was that it was lonely. I didn’t want to have to spend the whole summer—again!—with no friends. I said nobody likes me here. I said I would miss you.
But you said, “Jason, they’re just as scared of you as you are of them! They can’t like you if they don’t know you, so just march right up to them and show them who you are. Show them what you’re made of. You might even see what they’re made of.”
You were right, Mom. As always! I love it here. I am having the best summer, just like you said I would. Thanks for always having my back. I still miss you, though!
Jason
*by Hope Madden. Video in partnership with Mills James Productions. Voiceover by Dave Man Bjorklund. Art by Michael Anthony Carroll.
The most interesting thing about Verity is what a stupefying mess it turns out to be. Anne Hathaway and Dakota Johnson aren’t just stars, but producers as well. And though Michael Showalter might seem a surprising choice to direct an erotic thriller, his resume includes some big wins (The Big Sick, Wet Hot American Summer).
Where did it all go wrong? Pretty much everywhere.
Based on Colleen Hoover’s best seller, the film follows struggling novelist Lowen Ashleigh (Johnson) as she is hired to finish a book series by world renowned writer Verity Crawford (Hathaway). Crawford is incapacitated after a car accident, so her husband Jeremy (Josh Hartnett) invites Lowen to stay in their Vermont mansion, pour over Verity’s notes and deliver three much-anticipated books.
But Lowen finds more than notes. She finds a flash drive holding a secret manuscript that appears to be an autobiography where Verity makes some earth-shattering confessions.
Cue the thunder claps and lightning strikes, and hold any trace of a winking nod to how ridiculous this all is. Hoover’s story (adapted by Nick Antosca) seems heavily borrowed from a couple more well-plotted novels, and Showalter’s humorless tone never leans into the pulpy aspects that might have made this a fun, guilty popcorn pleasure.
Sexy moments aren’t sexy. Jump scares aren’t scary. Witty banter isn’t witty, and the three very talented stars just seem confused. That’s a bad combo, one that allows for plenty of time for us to wonder about those breakdowns in internal logic.
But honestly, there isn’t much concern with any one thinking too much. An over-reliance on voiceover narration drains the shock value from big reveals, and ends up negating those seeds of doubt the film seems to think it is planting.
This type of Neo-noir blurring of truth and fiction has resulted in some twisty fun in the theaters over the last several years. But what might have been a self-aware ride on the order of A Simple Favor or The Woman in the Window barely rises to the level of Hathaway’s own curious dud Serenity.
Too much talent, not enough pulp. Sad to say, that’s Verity.
Julia Kowalski grounds each moment of Her Will Be Done in an utterly authentic day-to-day. Every chore, every mismatched but sturdy layer of clothing, every slap of a rubber glove or boot makes you ache with Naw (Maria Wróbel) for something more than the French farm life of a Polish migrant.
But that’s 20-year-old Naw’s life, with her kind but religious father (Wojciech Skibinski) and her two rowdy brothers (Przemyslaw Przestrzelski and Kuba Dyniewicz). Naw yearns to be a veterinarian, or to do anything that gets her out of this house, this life. Even if she believes, as her father does, that she carries her mother’s curse.
The realism of Kowalski’s approach keeps you guessing: are Naw’s episodes medical? Supernatural? Just plain rage? The filmmaker mixes messages, confounds clues, and transfixes you in the mystery, mainly through Wróbel’s convincing, wide-eyed observational performance.
Wróbel’s quite wonderful, rarely speaking, communicating the entire arc of the character with her enormous, searching eyes. Thanks to the performance it’s easy to question Naw’s reality and to worry about the way she interprets the reality around her.
Naw’s life of quietly raging frustration takes quite a turn when the neighbor’s daughter (Roxane Mesquida)—scandalous for some reason Naw’s father won’t tell her—moves back home.
From this moment, Kowalski spins a folk horror rooted in misogyny, patriarchy, religion, power, and superstition. All of this as observed by the sheltered, innocent Naw. It’s like a fairy tale where the beautiful fairy finds herself somehow in Naw’s miserable world rather than vice versa, and the filmmaker mines that concept to create a kind of backward folktale.
In its best moments, Her Will Be Done conjures Marcin Wrona’s 2015 treasure Demon. At other moments, the understated realism calls Emma Benestan’s feminist horror Animale to mind. Kowalski, who writes with Simon Beaufils, complicates characters, makes them tough to predict. And yet, the bones of both reality and fairy tale dictate what must be.
Joko Anwar makes a lot of movies. Not all of them are worth watching, but when he hits, you can expect grimy, bloody fun. Perhaps none more unexpectedly fun than his latest, Ghost in the Cell.
We open after midnight in a sweaty Indonesian newsroom, dedicated journalist Dimas (Endy Arfian) keying in the last sentences of his most perfect story. Capitalists are illegally mining a rainforest in Borneo where dozens of strange deaths occurred.
But the story never runs, and within a scene or two, Dimas is the new guy in an awfully unpleasant Indonesian prison.
Were it not for the gruesome opening (the reason that story didn’t run), you might not recognize Anwar’s latest as a horror film until after its midpoint. Instead, the filmmaker pits a rag tag group of not-so-badnicks (one telephone scammer, one small time robber, etc.) against more serious felons and a sadistic prison force. It’s somewhat traditional action with a bit of good-natured humor tossed around.
And then, meek little do-gooder Dimas arrives. Fresh meat. Or is he?
Though the most unhinged of the inmates, Tokek (Aming Sugandhi), has made his ill intentions clear, he meets a similarly grisly fate as that newspaper publisher. Is Dimas to blame? Or did he unwittingly bring something to the prison with him?
Ghost in the Cell showcases Anwar’s knack for truly ghastly body horror with a buoyant camaraderie, proletariat zeal, and well-placed bursts of comedy. His cast is up to the tonal challenge, each one carving out a memorable character, which can be tough to do in a sea of prison bars and orange jumpsuits.
There’s almost a sweetness and definitely a sense of optimism in the humor, characterizations, and storyline. The respect the inmates show the dance instructor, and Anwar’s earnest use of dancing in the film, can’t help but make you smile—even as massive chunks of inmate slide down the gore-slimed stone walls.
Pick-me-up seems like the wrong way to describe Ghost in the Cell, but for a movie boasting the sheer volume of carnage, the film has a good heart.
“Whoever climbs K2 in the winter will claim the last great prize in mountaineering.”
In 2021, that mission became a deadly competition. Businesses were reeling from COVID restrictions, social media likes became a new form of currency, and an unexpected crowd gathered to earn that last first: summiting the world’s second-highest peak amid the worst conditions imaginable.
K2 — aka “The Savage Mountain” — had proved too much for all previous winter attempts. But veteran climber John Snorri Sigurjónsson and local Pakistani hero Ali Sadparas thought they could be the first, only to be met with an unexpected crowd thinking the same thing.
There was filmmaker Elia Saikaly, Nepalese legend Nims Purja and his team, extreme athlete Colin O’Brady, Italian climber Tamara Lunger and a commercial group of climbers from Seven Summit Treks. The party atmosphere at base camp deteriorated into a brutal fight for survival, and director Amir Bar-Lev deconstructs the bad decisions with reverence and determination.
The visuals are often breath taking and the quest gets jaw-droppingly tense, which is not uncommon for this type of extreme documentary that we’ve seen over the last several years. What sets Bar-Lev’s approach apart is how he balances the multiple factors lurking behind the tragic deaths of five climbers.
When the over-commercialization of summitting meets an industry struggling to survive the pandemic, social media dopamine addiction and foolish hubris, common sense caution struggles for attention. The contrasts between tourist climbers and seasoned vets, layered into the already tense caste system of the region, creates an added atmosphere of suspicion and finger-pointing once the situation turns dire.
If the time of pioneers is truly gone, The Last First: Winter K2 bids them a stark, unforgettable farewell. At times thrilling, tragic, and exasperating, it is ultimately a sad reminder of how high human folly can climb.
This week, Hope & George review Heart of the Beast, Primetime, Forgotten Island, The Stunt Driver, The Incomer, You Had to Be There, Never After Dark, Unabomber, and Bloody Tennis.
In 2021, Lance Oppenheim directed the wild documentary Some Kind of Heaven about Florida’s exclusive retirement community, The Villages. Beneath the blinding aqua pools, savage tans and vacant smiles, a seediness rotted away.
The director dials that tone up a notch for Primetime, the based-on-real-events feature that chronicles the rise and fall of a TV phenomenon.
Robert Pattinson is Chris Hansen, host of NBC’s To Catch a Predator. Often, when an actor portrays a reprehensible character, the strength of the performance comes from finding the humanity at the center of the monster. And yet, Pattinson—among the most fascinating actors of a generation—chooses to do the opposite. His turn is just this side of farcical, beautifully so. Pattinson offers Hansen exactly the empathy Hansen himself possessed, and the character is so compellingly repugnant you cannot look away.
Hansen’s frantic ambition leads an already unseemly production to new lows in search of ratings. His emotional regulator and quiet puppeteer, producer Andie Bender, is played with magnificent nuance by Merritt Wever. Like the character, Wever quietly controls the film.
And for the human heartbeat, Skyler Gisondo, in a rare dramatic role, offers a tenderness that amplifies the ugliness, the garishness, of not only the true story itself but Oppenheim’s film.
To Catch a Predator was insanely popular, viewers tuning in to watch a would-be sexual predator lured into committing to a terrible decision. It brought out the ugliness in viewers, and Oppenheim’s film delivers its take on the predatory nature of the show and of the entertainment industry with the same salacious verve.
Daniel Garber’s editing mimics and mocks true crime sensationalism, almost hypnotizing you with seediness and a strange comic sensibility. That hint of humor—in Pattinson’s performance, in the way he’s lit and made up, in the editing—is what makes the film such a grotesque success.
Who knew that an animated/anime mashup of John Hughes and The Hangover would amount to such a blast of a kids’ movie?
Forgotten Island is nothing if not weird.
The latest from DreamWorks follows two lifelong besties. Wild child Jo (H.E.R.) and introverted genius Raissa (Liza Soberano) have always brought out the best in each other, and they’ve strung together countless memories. They’ll have one last night for memory making, because tomorrow Raissa leaves their small Philippine town for college at CalTech. Jo will continue her work as the chicken mascot at a local fast-food place.
Until…a portal opens to the fantastical world of Nakali, and the friends wake up 12 hours later with no memory of the night before and no idea where they left the amulet that can get them home.
Like writers/directors Joel Crawford and Januel P. Mercado’s last feature, Puss in Boots: The Last Wish, Forgotten Island is a constantly surprising, beautifully structured, startlingly powerful film. It’s also irreverent enough to offend some, and randomly set in the late 1980s. (Both fine by me!)
The wild hijinks on Nakali work because of the investment in these two characters back home. This isn’t a one-note odd couple, but two finely crafted characters with a lived-in friendship. And once the film hits the island, the filmmakers’ gift for unexpected, often downright weird, adventure shines.
Jenny Slate lends her perfect-for-animation voice, as does Dave Franco, both delighting in a cast of characters drawn from Filipino folklore. The characters, their misadventures, and the vibrant animation style offer an almost dizzying joy. Nothing’s predictable, nothing’s phoned in.
But, like Last Wish, there’s depth to the pathos on the screen and that’s what gives Forgotten Island lasting power. The filmmakers take a coming-of-age staple and find its humanity. Even with all the awful 80s music, Forgotten Island hits not one false note.
Don’t pretend you don’t want to hear a homemade recording of a 15 year-old Martin Short singing Frank Sinatra tunes in his bedroom.
You Had to Be There gives you that gem early on, and then rolls out a succession of beautifully human moments that live inside the story of one ridiculously talented 1972 Toronto production of Godspell. More than one thousand people auditioned, and an ever-growing tree of success began to take root.
Not just Short, but Gilda Radner, Eugene Levy, Andrea Martin, Victor Garber, Dave Thomas, Paul Shaffer and more. Household names, plus other veteran performers who have carved out long careers and influenced generations of popular culture. They were all here together for a magical time that “felt like Paris in the ’20s,” and director Nick Davis (with executive producer Judd Apatow) tells their tale with absolute joy and reverence.
There are no videos of the actual shows, but thanks to the always resourceful Short, there is audio from a small cassette recorder stashed on the stage. And some from that same recorder pulled out at cast parties. It’s great stuff, and Davis presents it with some fitting, SNL-style animation that makes sure you can identify each player. So fun, even without the archival footage.
Current interviews with living cast members are presented in front of colorful blank screens, illuminating each personality in a different glow before cutting away to animation or due praise from admirers such as Lin-Manuel Miranda, Janeane Garofalo, Mike Myers and more.
And as the film moves into the closing stages, it becomes undeniably touching. We feel the love these people have for other, and for the wonderful experience they shared. We also see the highs and lows of their respective lives, including Radner’s tragic passing and one cast member admitting — for the first time — about sexual assault she endured on the set of a network TV show.
Then we, and this cast, see something else. And it results in such a warm surprise I’m not going to spoil it. But it’s special. So is the film.
You Had to Be There not only supports the claim that this Godspell production was the ’27 Yankees of comedy, it reminds us to cherish the good friends, good times, and yes, good art that we are blessed enough to experience in our lives.
If you’ve seen the underrated 2011 hockey comedy Goon, you’ll understand why I was stoked for The Stunt Driver. It reunites writer/director Michael Dowse with star Jay Baruchel for another based -on-true-events look at a rough and tumble lug fighting to stand out in the crowd.
Back in the 1970s Ken Carter was known as “The Mad Canadian,” a cross-eyed, bushy-haired high school dropout who made his name through high-flying car stunts. So, when Evel Knievel’s Snake River Canyon jump fizzled out in ’74, Carter hatched a plan to show him up.
He would jump over the St. Lawrence river in a “rocket car,” taking off in Canada and landing a mile away in Ogden Island, New York. In Carter’s view, Evel was “a nerd and a coward,” and the St. Lawrence jump would put the stunt driver glory – don’t call him a “daredevil!” – where it belonged.
As Carter, Baruchel delivers a career-best performance. Stunt driving is all Carter knows and the passion to “leave his mark” is felt throughout the years-long journey toward the jump. When doubt and even fear creeps in, Baruchel makes sure both are just shades of a completely human character we want to succeed.
Much like Goon, the commitment to character drives the film. Dowse surrounds his Mad Canadian with interesting people on all sides. From Carter’s long-suffering wife (Laurence Leboeuf) to his engine designer (Ed Helms), his protege (Marc Beaupré) and his promoter (Dan Bakkedahl), we get a series of fleshed-out personalities to bring a perfectly 70s aesthetic to life.
And when producers on ABC’s Wide Wide of Sports insist on bringing Evel himself (Ben Foster) on as a tech consultant, the relationship between Knievel and Carter instantly becomes a deadpan delight.
Dowse takes inspiration from the 1981 doc The Devil at Your Heels. He juggles different film stocks and aspect ratios throughout the film’s 99 minutes, which makes the use of real jump footage feel seamless, and bolsters the hardscrabble appeal of Carter’s entire persona.
Even when the tonal path starts to wobble in the second act, The Stunt Driver again shows Dowse and Baruchel can find heart, soul and authenticity in the life of a true sports underdog. Maybe Ken never got as famous as Knievel, but it’s a good bit of absurd fun getting to know him.
