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Remember Sesame Street’s Julia? The first autistic Muppet? I love what that wonderful sign of children’s media has done to bring further developmental disorder recognition to the mainstream, something I never had growing up! Coming from somebody on the autism spectrum, I’m overjoyed to see a positive representation become the focus of The Peanut Butter Falcon, where a guy with Down Syndrome, Zak, escapes his retirement home onto the moonlit street wearing only underwear; on his quest toward Florida, he meets a new friend. Now, “What‘s the key to friendship?” The answer is in this motion picture. First off, the film’s weak spots include a missed opportunity to plant political correctness issues, primarily in Zak’s lack of apparent connection with most of the other characters. It focuses more on a pretty typical relationship story instead, one where a total jerk must tolerate an intolerable partner on the road, until the disdain transforms into friendship. Although here, the familiar plot is handled more subtly, and meets its resolution earlier into the runtime. That way, more of the film can be spent on things that aren’t too familiar, such as a secret handshake! It starts with the total jerk’s decision to stay besides Zak after a kid bullies the poor victim, then he helps his new follower cross a river via a raft made from pants, until a shrimp boat riding past creates the most stressful movie scene of 2019, thanks to the careful cinematography. Some pretty scenery throughout the feature differs from places normally called beautiful, it’s mostly junky beaches where hungover hooligans party around a campfire, even throwing in stormy rains on occasion to stir up the conflict further. The way these unflattering locations are framed to look calming to the eye enlightens the invisible beauty like that of an easily overlooked individual. Should Zak be out here instead of his retirement home though? It’s made sure that both sides of the issue are addressed; ultimately boiling down to the emphasis on why small spaces around old people works out bad for Zak’s livelihood. Just be sure to pay careful attention to these arguments though, or the wrong ideas about good role models may be unconsciously picked up. Delving further into the good stuff, the acting paces itself like a heron, Shia LaBeouf gives among his career’s best as a fisherman who gets fired after stealing harvested crab, not to mention it’s so refreshing to see Dakota Johnson redeem her supposedly unredeemable role as Anastasia Steele! In fact, extra time should have been spent on the retirement home to give Dakota more acting range, so that she could be more on par with the rest of the cast. Among the ensemble, a blind man’s standout 10/10 performance spiritually guides a boat construction, he acts like a true God figure who supervises Zak, his pale eyes full of fiber as they glace like submerged alligator. He sets a powerful contrast against the coaches and nursing home staff who called Zak a “****” over the years, a contrast that leads to Zak’s baptism, which in turn connects to his fear of swimming. This water remains a prevalent metaphor, symbolizing the fear Zak must confront again and again. Zak showcases genuine acting power despite the Down Syndrome Zak’s real-life actor has, also named Zack. He understands the role to such a deep spiritual level and conveys the truth of how anyone remains dead until going out to survive dangerous places, which to him looks like walking on eggshells. Zak thinks his condition marks him villainous, but the fisherman is different, because he too fears being the bad guy. It has been said by many before that, “friends are family,” which doesn’t strike me easy because forming relationships is my biggest difficulty. I began high school not learning any of the conversational rules I was expected to have possessed second nature by then, so had to learn through trial and error when I was saying something inappropriate to another. I’m glad though that despite my autism, I was able to form friendships over time, even if it takes me longer than others to learn the mechanics of socialization. Anyone with Down Syndrome can do the same, it’s all simply a matter of practice, trial and error, emotional support, and hope. Even for those neurotypicals, The Peanut Butter Falcon is a movie that helps you stop letting your limitations halt you, with the simple power of family love! A family lifts you up to bear your pain, which only happens off trust built despite past hardships. That includes friends, as the more you know each other, the more you love each other. The more you love each other, the more a family sense is present. A song sung in the first Sesame Street episode introducing Julia tells kids how everyone carries different needs, yet if we treat others equal to anybody else, “we can all be friends!”

Well, well, well, The Angry Birds Movie 2 is surprisingly a tolerable follow-up from the insufferable Angry Birds, even if it still follows old plot formulas. Like the first movie, greater time goes into developing the pop culture references than the conflict, which includes lines about a duck-face selfie, Snapchat filters, “steps” getting in, a pig drinking from a Starbucks cup, and even a sound effect from Who Wants to Be a Millionaire to make it sound more dated—not to mention a bunch of guards at a government facility break dance like they were Happy Feet extras rejected at casting call. Just a reminder that these pop culture jokes are all done by islanders who otherwise wouldn’t be familiar with any of these things. Alongside forced fads are apparently mandatory scenes that copy what other kids’ movie do, particularly the “This whole thing is my fault” line. Listen: copying others never works out! It’s important to stand out from the crowd to leave an impression, and not jump on a bandwagon to be just more white noise. The lack of originality doesn’t exploit the new love interest for Red, that being Chuck’s sister, Silver. Yes, apparently all blockbusters require a love interest to be better. Silver does love mathematics, except this low amount of personality isn’t enough to make something of the romance, especially since most of their interactions have them lying on top of each other, to give the wrong idea for onlookers. It’s much like when Fiona tries to pull an arrow out from Shrek’s butt, until Donkey sees her on his back, then says slyly, “Look, if you wanted to be alone, all you had to do was ask, okay?” On the light side, Red is a better developed character now with a transparent fear of being left out; the feelings get stronger once he is seen respected as hero of Bird Island, only to be a nobody again once a truce between the pigs and birds is established. Now, Red falls into depression, left eating popcorn while on the floor, then his chance of purpose finally comes when he unites with the pig king Leonard to form a team set on stopping their lands from destruction by Eagle Island. This Eagle Island of course is inhabited by eagles, but their home suffers from sub-zero conditions that freezes their entire livelihood. A montage shows the mundane activities on Eagle Island that are impossible to happen due to ice, including showering, swimming, or eating fish, but it doesn’t work because the cartoon vs. photorealism animation style isn’t consistent enough, attempting to merge the exact shapes of little kid doodles with what can be felt by touch. The animation is so inconsistent in fact, that in one scene, Red wears a snow cap that gets blown away by the wind, then it’s back again minutes later. The poor use of computer technology is not the only complaint to address about Eagle Island, in fact, there are countless more about its backstory… how did their home reach sub-zero conditions? Morgan Freeman, please offer your narration to help provide answers! A voiceover would really be nice here, because the characters all talk too fast to understand their explanations of the plot. Instead of making sense, this sequel focuses on one new addition to the world that helps the most in improving the series: three baby hatchlings. These little fluff-balls seem to be inspired by Looney Toons in the adventures they go on to return some eggs that they lost at sea. The main plot switches back-and-forth between these little guys, leaving on appropriate cliff hangers, and picks up again from where left off before. These scenes take up a significant amount of screen time, representing both the biggest strength and greatest flaw of the feature. It’s great because these scenes are actually funny in their gags with relatively little dialogue, but poor because these fun antics prove little focus on the story; besides one tiny contribution the hatchling trio make in the climax, they could be written out super easily without hurting anything. While they can get a good chuckle, for each good comedic line, there’s three more that don’t work (that bothersome mime from the first movie is still here unfortunately). There’s something worse at stake with the prioritization of jokes over story, it proves that The Angry Birds Movie 2 encourages individualism through the selfish, foolish actions of Red’s team. Instead of encouraging friendship, it popularizes the term “frenemies,” and since this movie and the last can’t remain consistent in forming common sense in their worlds, it numbs a child’s brains more as they take in whatever messages the TV tells them. Really—they notice pig rumps more than story. Heck, a line in here shouts, “None of us wear pants!” Imagine kids repeating that around the house!

Think about darkness… if a noise creaks, your imagination takes over… termites perhaps? Or maybe a burglar? Nothing will be known for certain unless you leave the comfortable bed to turn a light on, maneuvering around things on the floor on the way. Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark sounds like it would take on an anthology film format like Creepshow and Twilight Zone. It sounds like the key experience to feel **** into exactly what makes the dark so scary. Wrong. It instead imitates the exact same genre familiarity without taking any creative risks, which is too bad, because if this was an anthology film, it would be more than another “young victims get killed off one by one until the virgin is left” kind of plot. The sloppy production team behind this horrific horror picture show does nothing but mock genuinely good films of the genre. The first noticeable disregard to common sense is the white-fresh paper of the very old possessed book, then gets even lamer when the teenage leads access highly confidential city records without problem. Even when it tries to get scary, atrocious CGI doesn’t make a series of severed limbs reattaching themselves easy to overlook in the cheap finale. Director André Øvredal’s lack of control results in all logic being accidentally ridiculous, not over-the-top satirical like the unrealistic violence in Kill Bill. Any of its attempted creative ideas fall flat on passing as healthy art for the common viewer, as it relies on the evil book for the convenience of breezing past details with lazy dialogue. At least the “creepy” scenes deliver okay, the best of them featuring a deformed woman who slowly creeps toward you down a hospital hallway; each edit cut she moves closer and closer like the overly-familiar fear of being followed, enough to help you overlook the thoughtless conversations in every other scene. It’s not worth it to sit through the unmanageable scenes though for this one moment, since nobody who oversaw auditions in the pre-production process said anything about how those who made the cast have no talent. Zoe Margaret Colletti is one of the worst cast members, as her eyes never have a sign of terror when they are supposed to; she instead just sounds passive, reliant on a warm porch light to set the happy mood instead of bringing out life from her own presence. The other kids in the movie go through personal problems, including dysfunctional families and *gasp* zits! That’s it really, any other real problems are left out. It does attempt to chuck in political overtones with a radio that exclaims, “say no to war,” and many shots of Richard Nixon on TV. But none of these visuals affect the narrative in any way whatsoever, especially not the thought process of Zoe’s character, Stella. It does attempt to look impressive by incorporating jump-scares, some of them just fake-outs, and one of them an attempt to quietly build up to the “mother of all jump-scares,” but all these attempts flop. There are problems in all other horror scenes too, one of them has a toe inside a soup, which succeeds at being gross, but is otherwise empty of any lasting impression besides the visual of clawed floorboards under someone’s bed leading to a wall. The production crew should have taken notes from their costume designer Ruth Myers (L.A. Confidential) for inspiration. One boy wears a wonderfully pathetic Spider-man costume for Halloween (courtesy of mom), and it captures the tone the film should have had: self-aware in how much it stretches from being what is expected with a large aura of goofiness. Instead, it goes for dead serious but is goofy by mistake. One laughable attack on a blonde girl matches said level of ridiculous misinterpretation, with spiders intending gross reactions out of everyone but winds up getting the expected reaction only out of those with arachnophobia. But here’s the dumbest part: the feature is bookended with monologues on why stories craft us, which is not insightful, but ironic, because the message is attached to something with mere entertainment in mind, not philosophy. Trust me, I know about the philosophy of film, and books. Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark has no idea about those realities of literature, it’s just a piece of Play-Doh that molded itself into the shape of a puzzle piece to try and fit in. Since it can’t do what it should have done all along, it can’t make your skin crawl once the lights boom out.

Years ago, a video rental store worker decided from hours of watching VHS tapes that he wanted to build upon those old movies using his own original movies. Eventually, he wrote and directed a freshman hit, Reservoir Dogs… then two years later, his tribute to older cinema trends, Pulp Fiction, struck Oscar gold. Now, Quentin Tarantino’s tenth feature film celebrates the new using old fashioned cowboys and gunfire; it’s… Once Upon a Time… in Hollywood. First off, Leonardo DiCaprio nails it as a famous TV star who may soon hit dusk point, his tears that stutter between a rough, tough speech could help him achieve a second Oscar win come February! Women in the audience will particularly love Margot Robbie’s portrayal of Sharon Tate, especially when she gets jiggy while listening to her movie’s soundtrack before the mezzanine lights go out. Robbie is just one of the expert actors here who knows how to tell a story through the eyes! Beautiful, loud fashions also explode in a whole party right beside Playboy Mansion’s waterfall pool as the slutty hippies outside are seen hitchhiking on the street! Wow! What a recreation of 1969! Although here, Tarantino’s biggest filmography problem blares louder than ever before: the movie is too long for its own good. It doesn’t help that the otherwise masterful screenplay must juggle three different subplots. One revolves around the protagonist’s Western TV show, one revolves around his stunt double, and one revolves around Sharon Tate watching herself onscreen. Too many minutes pass between these stories to care, and too much of it goes to the least interesting one of all: that of the stunt double. Continuing the immoral behavior that drags this movie down, there is included for no real reason a presumedly mandatory shot of Brad Pitt shirtless, which disrupts the tone established a couple scenes before by the wonderful usage of the song, “Mrs. Robinson.” Yet this movie gets some critical concepts about actors correct, including the fact that actors should stop accepting roles to merely sustain their public images. It happens all the time today: Brie Larson undid her talent by playing Captain Marvel, and Michael Keaton did likewise with his fake Dumbo accent. This screenplay’s interweaving stories about stories remind the filmmaking industry that fame is unimportant, but rather- what message to communicate to followers is what’s important. Right now, such humans are being turned into ads with the power of Photoshop, autotuning, and million-dollar makeup jobs to draw followers onto their pedestal. That reality of the acting business is made transparent by the presence of a young girl who behaves with the professionalism of an adult, while an eighteen-year-old hippie kicks a couple of bare dirty feet all around like a child does. It’s not Kim Kardashian who deserves respect for letting her face get plastered onto every ad, billboard, and magazine cover in sight, but these background actresses who play the hippies in this movie, as they clearly worked well together! Actors such as these really know how to bring out their vulnerability to total strangers! In creative efforts to help these actors do so well, Quentin Tarantino possesses an incredible superpower behind his typewriter… each word written has many layers of depth to express his colorful characters. Each one is realistic yet an exaggerated stereotype, while their conversations sound natural yet require multiple viewings to appreciate. As for the way he crafts violence, it’s approached a little different here, the borderline NC-17 content remains held back until the climax. Then the satisfying bloodbaths hit in overtly insane ways with the promised shock value, landing on the perfect ending note to complete the film’s perfect starting note. That’s the cunning power of Quentin Tarantino’s works: At first viewing, you may think, “Ugh, enough talking, I just want to watch these foul-mouthed losers get their heads blown off!” Then from the long runtime, all you remember is one or two graphic moments, which compels a desire for watch-round number two. But then, you somehow end up watching not for a Texan who carves a swastika onto a **** forehead, you instead watch for the detail present in the lengthy conversations… you would never guess that Jews and Germans have different ways to hold up three fingers! Case in point, the more frequently I watched Pulp Fiction, the more I could let go of any shock value from its foul content, and the more I caught on to its deeper themes about dangerous pop culture pride, and even took it a step further by writing a blog entry about how it aligns to Christianity. That same type of energy enlightens Once Upon a Time… in Hollywood.

None of them are any good, but the other Spider-Man films at least manage to each stand out in a meaningful way. Spider-Man: Far from Home only stands out because it takes place somewhere outside New York; compare that to the other versions with Maguire and Garfield, especially the brave stylistic Into the Spider-Verse, which beautifully summarizes the comic hero’s spirit. This latest addition to the reboot madness is just hopping across major cities at a pace that moves too quickly yet too slowly. Considering this came out straight off the coattails of Endgame, one may think, “How could Disney ever top that?” Here’s the answer: They can’t. But they should have done better than this, literally everything seen here happened way better before, even from Marvel Studios. You’ve got your red-caped superhuman generating matter-bending green glows. You’ve got your Nick Fury. You’ve got your extremely awkward humor. You’ve got your mass destruction in the middle of a city without authorities to escort people to safety. You’ve got your new 100% CGI shiny super suit. You’ve got your other new black super suit made almost alien-esque against fireworks. You’ve got your CGI-heavy climax. It’s no secret right now that director Jon Watts got his priorities wrong. Although his wonderfully trippy hallucination starring Tony as a zombie balances against the visual highlight of a Czech night party, it also breaks the needed tone of bittersweet grief. The multiple major cities shown across Europe throughout the feature get breezed past as Peter Parker and his class vacations in each one. Think back to how Crazy Rich Asians tempted the urge to visit Singapore with its irresistible montages of crustaceous street food. The only touristy thing Far from Home does to breathe life into Europe fittingly looks put together by a high school student project: a montage of the class taking pictures of themselves (and the teacher before dropping his very expensive camera into the harbor). While on this trip, Peter must go against a giant fire monster at night and has no fears or problems doing so. Yeah, he fought Thanos and all, but had grownups around then, he’s pretty much going solo here. Although there’s Nick Fury, he’s just there to be mocked as his intense talks with Peter keep getting interrupted for laughs. There’s also the new guy, Mysterio, who acts like a potential mentor to Peter by treating him to a lemonade… out of a bendy straw. Mysterio is a badly written character only motivated for anything by a craving to fill Iron Man’s legacy, and resorts to achieving that via overpowered technology that might as well star in Barry Sonnenfeld’s Wild Wild West. Mysterio’s not nearly as bad as Mary Jane though; her supposedly sweet scenes with Peter become too discomforting to watch seriously. Between every version of the wallcrawling web-slinger, Peter’s love interests never found a foothold, and this is no exception. Like seriously, why are these two losers attracted to the other? More time delves into Peter’s new suit customization than into why he likes Mary Jane! Then there’s Ned, while Jacob Batalon still gives a pretty good performance, his character just stands around solely for laughs, due to having less material to work off of than in Homecoming. He does get a girlfriend after knowing her for only a few hours, but that’s the only memorable thing done by him. Although, the melodic aura of societal grief over Tony Stark remains present; acknowledging the candlelit street memorials, these twenty-three movies of the MCU now feel like one complete unit. Plus, an “in memoriam” section attempts to mourn the latest deaths, informing of something after the Blip (as they call it) happened: It had been five years since Infinity War’s events, which means those who came back were still the same age as five years ago. For example, if there were two high school freshmen, one got blipped and the other did not, five years later, the resurrected one would still be a high school freshman and the survivor would be a college sophomore. Pretty clever! Then again, less time is spent on grieving and more time is spent on the not-so-successful humor of students wearing glowsticks and groaning over a sudden plan to attend a nearly empty opera house. Marvel really needs to stop hating fine art for once and stay focused on the story! Okay, let’s face it: Everything Marvel does is at the end of the day pointless. So of course, that means Spider-Man: Far from Home lands among the year’s most pointless features. Peter Parker deserves much better than being demeaned over and over by Tony; thank goodness he will demean no one else again. Thank goodness too no one will any longer watch Steve’s mere stupidity. Now… oh dear… Thor is still around… Thanos, please save us!

Young Zaida gets markings on her face, then performs a coming-of-age dance inside a circle of spectators with her robe to the wind. This dance is called the “Yonna,” and is done to imitate the courtship ritual that some birds may take when it’s time to mate. She looks just like an elaborate sparrow that’s kicking the dust with her wings, while the man she’s about to face a lifetime of turmoil with is like the consequence of choosing the wrong mate. Despite how untrue it is to the historical account, Birds of Passage draws you into the feeling of the illegal drug trade that happened in Colombia throughout the time of the Vietnam War. You feel like the world **** up your moral stability until you’re dry to the bone as the cicadas continually buzz from scene to scene. What keeps it all flowing so smoothly is that each scene starts with a visual idea of hope that connects with the tragic scene before, and it works vice-versa too. Whenever joy happens, tragedy follows, and whenever dismay happens, hope comes up for a moment before the heartbreaking finale. The theme of a plague approaching, both literally and metaphorically, keeps creeping closer to you as you experience the events deconstruct, a sense of dread you instantly comprehend when the main protagonist, Rapayet, watches a cricket on the ground. There’s never a sigh of relief, the conflict continually closes you in like a dust cloud. Among the elements that cloud your vision of this feature, one is an actual cloud of dirt that obtrudes the foreground right before a horse race. That striking use of a dull brown color is the perfect offset for the use of green in the cinematography; here it symbolizes the color of greed, and since so much of what grows in Colombia is green, that means these people are seen as exploiting their own home for their garden of inanimate pesos. That’s why it’s so effective to have the locusts present: they feed on grass, so naturally, they are God’s way of judging these drug traders for their intense greed. They gain some, they lose all. The actors put in the best they can offer to suggest intentional imbalance in their performances to give the strong feeling of losing all they have foolishly gained. That particularly goes to José Vicente, although he always wears sunglasses, you don’t need to see his eyes to turn uneasy like you’re supposed to as you watch him monologue. He, like the tone of the movie, is very slow moving, enough to help you notice the other objects of lust these people have submitted their greed to, including the necklaces that the women put tremendous spiritual value into. But there are still the shortcomings too, particularly in this film’s treatment toward Americans, who are represented here by the Hippie movement. While it does say that they got their sights set on fighting communism, they don’t do much else for the Colombians besides party on the beach and purchase their weed. There really should have been more done to give these Hippies something valuable to say in this otherwise profound film that everyone in Colombia sould see. Even then, the immediate social relevance of this motion picture may not strike hard and true to everyone living in Colombia with its incredibly slow pace. Not enough is done to stir as much of a reaction from the viewer, including a bizarre moment when a man eats a banana peel. One of the bigger instances of sparking distance, particularly between the families of the story, is splitting the narrative into “songs,” which ultimately wasn’t necessary. Then there’s the biggest issue of all, its complete disregard to what really happened. It’s not actually a true story like it says, and several reseachers have already proved so. You probably didn’t need me to tell you that though, because there are issues in simple logic that are kind of hard to overlook, the most glaring of all being the simple fact that Zaida never ages after the fifteen-plus years this film portrays. I guess that means you could say Colombia picked the wrong submission for the Foreign Language Film Oscar, not that it was the worst choice, but they could have done better. Instead, the movie’s focus is on the visual impact. There’s rain that mists the landscape to make you think the road ahead has only despair ready. A plane burial reminds you of what man can create and uncreate just as easily. A storm of locusts frightens you when the despair finally hits with what man can neither create nor uncreate. That’s what I guarantee you’ll get from experiencing Birds of Passage, you’ll want to cover your face as you mourn how low these men are willing to go for greed, even to the level of a dog. The great cry this memorial service of a cinematic meditation wants you to partake in will allow you to soar over those who want to fly but haven’t given time to grow into their wings.

A beautiful continuation of a dearly personal saga perhaps was predicted by some, except others foresaw Disney’s evil scheme to bank on nostalgia, knowing their recent horrible case of sequel-itis. The latter ones correctly guessed the fate of Toy Story 4; nothing unique comes from this bland half-attempted corporate product. But first, here’s a little backstory about how Toy Story came to be. The entire franchise began with Pixar’s first Academy Award win: Tin Toy, in 1988. The studio then got the idea of expanding this short into a feature film using their successful innovative technology, focused on the main character, Tinny, and his ventriloquist dummy friend. Eventually, Tinny became Buzz Lightyear, and the ventriloquist dummy became Woody. Now, the friendship between this cowboy and space ranger stands as a testament of how even drastic differences, whether in people or filmmaking techniques, can coexist in sincere harmony and cooperation. Except now, all that is forgotten, leaving most Pixar fans to potentially hate this contradiction against what was set up in the past on a toy’s purpose to be loved by a kid. Woody understood that, Buzz understood that, now, neither one cares. The messages left behind instead are nothing consistent with the good ol’ cowboy. Bo Peep returns, but for the supposed purpose of fan service to SJWs’ (Social Justice Warriors’) desire for an “independent, no man necessary” archetype designed to erase the motherly shepherdess from existence. Before, she kept Woody’s moral hat on straight as the sole mature toy in Andy’s room, and now, strips away the skirt to declare how nobody means squat to her anymore. How exactly is Bo a good role model in that regard? For being able to throw a kick? Woody shows a similar negative role model for boys minus the drastic change in exterior. The only change in appearance he undergoes is the “Andy” on his boot, which has “Bonnie” written on it instead now, except it leaves no impact on Woody’s choices later. Remember when the “Andy” on Woody’s boot sadly got painted over in Toy Story 2? That sense of ownership and commitment to a kid means little to Woody here, leaving room for his selfish desires to be fulfilled out of not being chosen for playtime. Even the designs of these returning toys are way off compared to past movies. There is a flashback of Andy, and he looks like a totally different boy, while Bo Peep’s face has grooves around the face rather than the original painted-on face. The animators clearly didn’t try to make them match the original designs, nor did the screenwriters try to make them match the original characteristics. Buzz Lightyear is disrespectfully demeaned to a painfully unfunny running gag, and it doesn’t help either that he survives a fatal fall in a busy carnival that should have broken him beyond repair. Although to its credit, the Historic Downtown Grand Basin dummies are fantastically created humanoid nightmares… the eyes… the mouth… the run… brr!!! So, if only looking at the new characters, the designs would be brilliant. But the characterizations of these new faces would still be insufferable, even if these new cast members try sincerely to compensate the horrible script. The villain is a doll named Gabby Gabby who wants Woody’s voice box, because it apparently works inside her. (Yeah…) The way her arc closes is entirely pointless, rendering Gabby Gabby a weak antagonist. The little screen time of the Canadian biker, Duke Caboom, benefits the plot only by providing a jumping platform, that’s it. The insufferable duo of Bunny and Ducky crack tough brawler improvisations nonstop, including an ongoing joke which halts plot progression. Now, to explain why “You’ve Got a Friend in Me” doesn’t apply here. Woody’s old friendships just wander around wild without enough information on what the living situation in Bonnie’s room is like. It’s conveyed that Jessie frequently wears Woody’s “sheriff” badge, but that’s it. There needed to be more focus on Forky, Bonnie’s new toy made from trash. That unique concept to the series gets thrown aside, so its huge narrative potential never exploits itself. Instead, an entirely different tone takes over at the antique shop, where its showcase of photorealistic lighting takes priority over character conflict. Although, Forky’s humor is cute when he takes center-stage, especially when running after a trash bin over and over, to Woody’s humorous desperation to stop him. If the rest of the movie kept like the first act, it’d be on par with the other movies. Instead, once closer analyzing the filmmaking mechanics of each scene, including the now completely recycled Randy Newman score, the rainbow adventure of Toy Story 4 loses credibility, as it should. Dang, why didn’t we listen to Chucky’s promotional posters of him massacring the toy gang? He was trying to warn us!

To quote emperor Palpatine, “A surprise to be sure, but a welcome one.” Upon seeing a red rating screen before the trailer for Booksmart, it seems to be yet another crass comedy that can’t draw the fine line between rules and fun. Turns out director Olivia Wilde’s motion picture actually has some profound philosophies to say when it’s time to party these coming summer months. The screenwriter wisely took time to build up the homosexuality of the co-lead, Amy, so that by the end, her story makes the LGBTQ community feel respected. Yes, even I, a straight man, felt heartbroken when Amy did; mostly because the actress playing her, Kaitlyn Dever, knows how to play the part seriously when admitting how she profanes a plush panda’s snout, then snaps a vicious attitude toward those who take advantage of her habit of saying yes to everything. Her perfectionist best friend, Molly, though, is the type of lead character who gives the entire project more layers of depth than similar comedies. While not correcting grammar on bathroom walls, Molly‘s assertive (emphasis on the first three letters of that adjective) female dog personality barks everyone else down. Beanie Feldstein plays the part of Molly like the only sane woman within a murder mystery party, but not even she, nor the rest of the cast, acts truly heterosexual! Casting directors out there, keep a keen eye out on Beanie Feldstein and Kaitlyn Dever! These two build expert chemistry off each other, almost like the two improvised half the content… maybe Beanie and Kaitlyn could score Best Actress Golden Globe nominations? Fingers crossed! Although the unorthodox immorality of the screenplay encourages youths to dishonor the police and ignore their parents. Don’t be surprised if someone shortly after watching this movie is photographed to the front and to the side, a number below in hand. Right from seeing how Molly vandalized her own parking spot at school, the complete freedom of breaking rules means even the rules of logic are broken. There’s an instant when the two lead girls speak fluent Chinese so the principal cannot understand them, and nothing before or after the scene explains why they would know such a language. Better scenes probably wound up on the cutting room floor to close up some plot holes, but instead, the bigger issues are peppered down by the unpredictably spicy visuals. The cinematography doesn’t quite match what the hot imagery calls for, as it ranges from Steadicam to going all vertigo on Molly’s distraught face. With the things done wrong, several jokes go on too long, including Amy’s parents listing the cute names for her graduation food, a creepy doll nightmare, or a fantasized dance with Molly’s crush. That dance is just another one of those invigorous daydreams implemented. While hit or miss, when a visual does hit, it is oh, so fresh! Right down to the makeup design of the characters, it appropriately gives crucial information about who they are without calling any attention to itself. Because everything looks genuine enough, the supporting cast are believable as videos on an Instagram story, shouting louder than a saturated karaoke projector backlight. At school, the students seem well-behaved, then after the scholarly caps set loose, shirts rip apart to reveal their true selves! Every character leaves an impact, from a full-of-themselves drama duo to a trashy teenager in a teacher’s body. Over eight hours, the entire collection of whomever impacted Molly and Amy throughout their four years of high school jumps in line of their misadventures. Molly ain’t entirely happy though, as a big problem keeps coming in: Too many of these party-hardy kids got into her level of schools: Yale, Harvard, etc. That’s why Molly needs to party on their last night of teenagerhood, to prove she’s more than just their class president. Not just that, she’ll ensure Amy will enjoy it too, even if it means introducing her to porn for “educational” purposes. This inner concern Molly has for her own ego presents something much deeper than what most coming-of-age teen comedies dwell on, it displays something applicable to anyone of any age: why “YOLO” vitalizes humanity now more than ever before. It means we should go love those privileged breaks life offers. It means we need to have some fun. It means we need to follow the rules. It means we have to know when the line between fun and rules must be drawn or erased. Booksmart has the fun part down cold, so take good note on the journey of Molly and Amy.

Visualize: You are the Apollo 11. Your feet spit fire loud enough to launch you way, way high. You look down. You cannot distinguish the buildings. Suddenly, you see only clouds. Then, you see only stars. Too many to count. Days pass. Weeks pass. You must land on the moon. You must time the landing pads beneath you just right. The similar type of rough trip expressed by Rocketman drops you into what Elton John survived to semi-successful results. If looking at this very okay movie based on its mixture of daydream and reality, it succeeds. But if looking at it based on how somewhat hopeful it achieves, it fails for the most part because of the terrible kid actors who never take off as tolerable to watch. The emotionally distant family setup around Elton John as he grows up reaches the point when the mom doesn’t even age at all over the many years depicted. There could have been a neat opportunity to utilize these traumatic flashbacks as context for his horrific concert costumes, but it was never taken. Not to mention some brief moments suggest subliminal political incorrectness as if this movie was made back in the 1970s; the Blacks are portrayed as a group of people who exist only to lift White people higher, while an image of gemstones falling to the floor suggests inferiority of therapists compared to fame. But hey, at least the moment soars when he’s kissed by a guy to introduce his sexuality, while the lifestyle is objectional to some, at least that community is respectfully portrayed. The cast does an alright job at acting like the influencers of him wanting to kill himself in order to change, but that’s no thanks to the producer’s influence. The product they give doesn’t know whether to be inspiring or depressing, but ultimately condescends to the viewer between the newspaper-fade editing and the slo-mo before his first live concert. Both of these overused filmmaking techniques end up increasing the emotional distance between the filmmakers and the audience. Although this is still way worth the investment more than the tonally inconsistent Endgame, Rocketman knows not to win over the audience through stupid humor like Marvel immaturely resorts to. This is unfortunately one of those works of art downsized by the Disney franchises that rule the current box office, and deserves more attention than it got compared to what’s actually successful right now. Plenty of crowd-pleasing instances here succeed better than Marvel; the authenticity of its retelling about Elton John happens when he rocks out and everyone levitates, elevator boots brought up into the air. The fantasy imagery works particularly after his admittance of being an alcoholic, drug addict, and has a short fuse, which in another project would come off as gimmicky and cheesy. After seeing how much Elton is shunned by his hateful parents who tell him he will never be loved, it excites even more to see the camera rotate around him on a piano for millions of adorers. By Mr. John’s side, Jamie Bell gives a performance that humanizes the dull hues to the childhood home, all blue and white without red. Then those El Salvador colors transfer onto Mr. John’s epic glittering baseball uniform in a stadium that suggests a mastery over past pain. It echoes a childhood fantasy when a piano lights up Elton’s room for an orchestra, inspiring the purchasing of these Hermes boots when he’s older to fly past any competition. But none of these surreal images are quite as impactful as an underwater hallucination carrying the audio of outer space. Director Dexter Fletcher paces these events almost as if slowly inspiring the title song, right at the cold desaturated childhood neighborhood dance number while he flames red. For an affective attention to color, Fletcher could hold an Oscar sometime soon! Still though, the blue steam on stage is no different than the basic imagery of other musician biopics. It attempts appeal to the homosexual community, but may not succeed to entertain either them or heterosexuals across multiple viewings because no one in the cast looks comfortable while singing. It also attempts to find common ground in appealing to older nostalgic audiences as well as younger folk, starting with the gripping intro of his backlit devil costume, a misfit. But odds are neither side will be attentive for long, as even one song that’s performed in a carnival gets pretty boring. Now, visualize again: you fly back home from Luna. You finally land. You wonder, would putting a person on Mars really enhance humanity? Would extra-terrestrials come visit earth? Maybe they would, maybe they wouldn’t, it depends on whether they think Rocketman sets their line of priorities right. But there is one thing they will conclude for sure: while Elton John had a tremendous album of singles, the communication method taken here is not the answer to life’s questions.

If the average person of today got a magic lamp, odds are the fulfillments for each of their three wishes would be seen in the fantasy, Aladdin. Wish #1: Rule by a king… …beneath the Magic Kingdom. That’s right, a mouse king ruler who cares more about entertainment than moral direction of those beneath himself. What’s the problem with having such a king? He makes the public believe an attractive person without artistic talent has such a thing. Naomi Scott as Princess Jasmine succumbs to that very curse as she gives some incredibly painful acting. Her forgetful new song, “Speechless,” adds nothing of narrative importance, proving a big fat fail in this cinematic product’s attempt at further expanding Cinderella’s castle into homes worldwide. The magic winds up absent all throughout, it’s not found in the single-shot-take that opens the feature by sweeping through a street, palace, and cave, and it’s especially not found in the “A Whole New World” number where Aladdin and Jasmine just sit and sing and go nowhere. There’s no magic because there’s no heat in any human conflict to suggest anyone there is even awake and alert. Ironically most of the energy comes from cases of Will Smith’s rapping that is weirdly out of place even by Genie standards. This whole movie in fact feels like a package of 90’s nostalgia with all the original songs having the rock band remix treatment as if listening to Disney Mania 5. That package includes watching the actors standing awkwardly in moments that ironically are when Will Smith is his funniest… because everyone else is comparatively worse. The Lion King remake will most likely resort to similar artistic exterior to overshadow the interior. It’s honestly insulting to know that this film’s focus on looking pretty goes against the theme of Beauty and the Beast: beauty is found within. If somebody in the production crew lived by that, then this music video for nostalgic millennials would have remembered the satirical tongue-in-cheek humor the original animated feature wasn’t afraid to exploit. Wish #2: No racism. Even good desires, particularly money, can turn evil when it’s wanted for the wrong reasons. In this case, trying to fight hatred between two ethnicities could lead to forced political correctness that results in accidental racism. In this location of purely Arab people, one Caucasian is cast to play a Scottish man speaking with a horrible, HORRIBLE accent—the opposite of progressive. The whole cast in fact seems aware about their amplified stereotypes, Will Smith in particular clearly seems aware of the contradictory dialogue. One minute, he tells Aladdin to be genuine, then the very next, he encourages the opposite by making him dance against his will. The treatment of gender is fatally flawed too, even a female-directed motion picture starring an almost completely male cast, The Hurt Locker, empowers women better than this does. Jasmine is way less brave than her animated counterpart; she won’t even jump across rooftops without a street rat’s help. It’s invigorating how these cultural stereotypes do more harm than good at Hollywood diversity, and director Guy Ritchie deserves a lot of the blame. He decides to exploit impressive screen spectacle with the Cave of Wonders and the “Friend Like Me” musical number, but because no tonal consistency is established, the cast never does anything besides let their hands dangle. Wish #3: Inaccessibility to weapons. You may think, “What family entertainment goes against its own violence prevention initiative?” Simple. Mena Massoud as Aladdin hurts your eyes to watch his survival of each laborious production day; he hurts your ears to hear him talk-sing while reading off a cue-card. Your tongue will hurt from tasting the bad dance choreography; your brain will hurt from the stupid adaptation mistakes (the “Prince Ali” number lyrics mention “White” Persian monkeys, yet the monkeys seen are NOT white). Afterward, you come home aching over the whole face, pain that will transfer into your soul. The torture then continues when a dull end credits dance number finalizes that nobody there had fun at any point of production. Guy Ritchie’s vomit-colored peaceful efforts drops a bomb with a big “US” written on the side for Saudi Arabia. Then, when the bomb explodes on land, it makes their cities look just as ugly as Aladdin makes it all look. While that country is not a terrorist nation like the news think, it’s also not a mouse-guarded honeypot lamp free for kids to go rub.

There’s a question nobody’s asking, but is important to ponder over: If two people existed without laws over them, could they walk together unless agreeing to do so? The answer is right in John Wick: Chapter 3 – Parabellum. First step to answering the question above, it’s good to analyze the extremely weak relationships that continue to build up John Wick’s misadventures. Instead of allowing a sense of soul, priority goes to the heavy action, even sacrificing heart for the sake of tension or comedy. As effective as it may be, there’s virtually no attention to story arcs, blood is even allowed to splatter on the lens as a glamorization of dying very graphically. Though this movie has many cases of that beautified murder left and right, especially throughout a chase on a closed bridge that ensures the chasers have it all to themselves to do whatever they want. Second, none of the conversations these so-called “characters” hold with one another establish any real conflict. In one crucial scene when John gets an upside-down crucifix burnt onto his back, it feels more like a mere video game cutscene than a character study. Anjelica Huston in particular drags things down to borderline absurdity with her bad accent that almost worsens the dialogue. Although in complete fairness, this screenplay still contains the same amount of verbal exposition as a classic stylistic action piece of the late 90’s, The Matrix’s… that being, too much. Third, a positive quality this time, the audio artistry of this film has a full, complete trinity of design work. Point one: John actually rides a horse down the streets of New York to flee motorcycles, in any other production this would be absolutely ridiculous, but the soundtrack makes this somehow a cool moment! Point two: the theater seat pulses as everything from the speakers go BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! Point three: The noise of glass **** draws focus onto anticipations framed behind the subjects to make the viewer think, “Ooh! This will be a wicked fight!” Fourth, the production design of old green marble serves as the perfect stage of memorable hand-to-hand combat. After an opening race against the clock to stir up fury, every set piece looks orderly while deceptively spiteful, the most impactful one being some glass stairs that symbolize transparent vulnerability. All the classy violence that happens inside and outside these walls stays consistently fresh even when guns clash amidst dungeon-like horse stables immediately before the provocative image of a backlit ballerina. Then, it’s all drowned out by the end when the mega techno colors melt into a sharp green climax. It’s the perfect balance between serene and gruesome imagery to generate strong depictions of pain; colors are heard, beats are seen, a visual-audio combo producing something wicked. Congratulations to everyone on the production crew! Fifth, a negative this time, as much as this movie tries to depict what a potential war breakout could look like, it fails. Now, here’s a joke: Knock, knock. Who’s there? Iran. Iran who? I ran far away, because America may go to war against Iran soon, possibly starting a disturbance called, “WWIII.” War is no laughing manner, and this pretty picture about a man named John isn’t nearly as prophetic as a number of scenes featuring people from the Middle East make you believe. It can’t be relevant for today, considering it can’t even settle on a time period to take place in. Which is it? The 1980’s? The 2000s? The 1970’s? The 1940’s? The series’ attempt at style by incorporating technological elements from different decades doesn’t serve any real purpose for whatever theme it wants to generate… the fact that a horse shed exists in the middle of freaking New York City doesn’t help! Sixth, and this is the entire series’ biggest drawback, despite its miraculous theatrical wonder, John Wick’s journey still winds up being pure unadulterated nonsense. This is a reality where time doesn’t exist, an assassin can get away with murder, and passersby at a train station never notice two guys within a crowd trying to kill one another. There’s never a grounding of logic or reality, even by the standards of its own fantasized world—almost nobody ever runs out of ammo unless by plot demands! Instead, it’s all style and no coherence, its stylized closed captions leaving more sensitive viewers eye-hurt from the overly excessive adrenaline. Again: If two people existed without laws over them, could they walk together unless agreeing to do so? Well, think of it this way: one cannot stretch beyond limitations, others must agree upon those limits decided by authority. Thus, based on the way John Wick: Chapter 3 – Parabellum encourages a chaotic existence where everyone wants to hurt each other, the answer is undeniably no.

Knowing that we’re also getting a Sonic the Hedgehog movie later this year, Pokémon Detective Pikachu, feels like the start of the “Super Smash Bros. Cinematic Universe.” It’s lately been a trend other Marvel-imitators are trying to take on, even Warner Bros. is trying to start its own “Dark Universe” with its latest reboots of Godzilla, the Mummy, and King Kong. This first ever live-action Pokémon movie perhaps exists with that unhealthy mentality. Whether or not if that’s the case, this feature film will quickly turn Hollywood wobblier than it was before. The passive protagonist of this adaptation off the legendary franchise, Tim, is a lonely young man who apparently feels regret from his father’s death, and by the very end of his journey we see him take, he is still the same person. Any giant, fat, sleepy behemoth would have a higher IQ than him, at least such a beast can go through enough change to wake up for food; Tim never even acts out of free will. To make it even more dull, he gets a completely unnecessary love interest, Lucy, and as they accidentally clash heads as they both lean to pick something up—as a way to push their romance further. But spoiler alert: their love subplot is completely forgotten two-thirds of the way through. A chance to grieve over death never lands, for any information about the demise of Tim’s father only conveys itself via advanced holographic technology run by a shadowed bad guy stroking a feline without reason. It’s the same atmosphere and formula from every bland piece of Saturday morning cartoon entertainment. Tim and Lucy live in a magical place called “Ryme City,” that was founded with the intent of bringing peace between people and Pokémon without any more battles (like Zootopia or some crap). Some of the cute little critters work there as firefighters and others as sushi chefs, but none of them work as guards around a top-secret facility. How come? Simple: because the kids got to break into it for the climax to happen. If it wasn’t for their trusty plot armor, the two leads’ passionless performance wouldn’t be bogged down enough for you to fantasize yourself in their place amidst such a colorful cast. By colorful though, I meant their exteriors, not their personalities. Now, Lucy, the sole female character of the entire film, is by far the blandest of the cast, with so little disposition that she does not even care if her city is foremost masculine. In Ryme City, there are some Pokémon with ears used as DJ sound speakers, another muscular one with four arms guides traffic, but there are no feminine professions like beauty salon or flower booth owners to be seen. How is it that throughout production, no women in the cast or crew spoke up about the lack of diversity? To be fair though, the concept of being distinct from the others is well captured through the digital creations of the Pokémon; well enough so that they look faithful to their classic anime counterparts. You could reach out and stroke the fur of the angry, growling pink bulldog Pokémon, then the special effects of a transforming fuchsia blob balances out the charm with its downright creepiness. In total, every one of these Pokémon gives much joy, and once the credits roll, you will want to keep at least one as a pet. Although others you will not want as a pet, as a gang of ninja frogs with tongues wrapped around their necks match the aura of legit horror. Still though, as much as the IMAX sight adds some drops of black gesso against the glorious bright neon colors, the visuals only serve as a distraction from the awful writing. Maybe the final narrative twist could be pretty amazing without a thinking cap worn on your head. When taking the visual experience into deeper consideration, it’s still not terribly memorable, aside from one sequence featuring a garden of various turtle-like Pokémon. But not even that has any real plot significance aside from looking really cool. I’d even have to say the awful Jurassic Park sequels have more memorable impact with their even mix of digital and practical effects. Speaking of that garden scene, it tries to be a part of a failed environmental message about a bunch of genetically manipulated dinosaur creatures that pose a danger to the people. Sound familiar? That kind of environmental message is one big pile of Goldblum if you ask me. But the worst thing of all, the entire script is held together by a tired out neglectful father trope, with sentences about the evil of humanity present for good measure. It’s a bad case of all these ideas tossed together randomly without a goal in mind. With all this weak creativity reliant on old properties… of course it means exploitative businesses like this one would resort to making bank off a horrific case of brand exploitation. I mean it: Pokémon Detective Pikachu is literally a brand of a brand of a brand!

Here is a challenge: take a shot every time you see the word “submit” below: America has had an… interesting history, one that’s reached the point of its people gladly watching a bunch of fictional superhumans rule space. The cinematic world responsible for that also tempts viewer submission into vulgar comedies like Long Shot, which celebrates all the negative characteristics the nation spends its time pondering over, including the wrong conclusions drawn out about what will solve our problems. This hard-R romantic comedy has issues that start with its inability to relate the target audience well with the two leads. As much as the pothead journalist, Fred, spends time with the youngest Secretary of State, the awkward sexualization of her buffers down the depth of a flashback he has. In that flashback, Fred was thirteen, she was his sixteen-year-old babysitter, they kissed, his crotch popped, and there’s nothing else to analyze about these characters beyond that. Eventually this overly familiar rom-com style suddenly becomes an action genre, then quickly back again without fluidity, proving an inability to stay focused on a cinematic style. No, it doesn’t matter if there is a hilariously realistic sex scene between these two very different members of the political arena, the appeal to a mass audience needs to go beyond familiar tropes. In fact, the crass nature promotes bad uneasy images to merely conclude without reason that a woman as the president will solve our problems. In truth, no leader, man or woman, can stop everything that goes on beneath our awareness, including a submissive cult depicted in this movie that forces its all-White-male members to get a Swastika tattoo. Fred finds himself wound up in that very predicament on a journalism project, and that scene honestly should have been cut out completely for its lack of any relevance to the plot. There’s even grosser depictions of inferiority that holds back proper screen time on details that matter, it’s said at one point that Fred is Democratic, and his apparently inferior Black friend Lance is Christian-Republican; nothing important to the plot there, just thrown in as an attack on anyone who isn’t White and Atheist. The same goes to the nine different countries this romantic couple travels to; none of them are positively represented. To worsen matters, the nonsensical script unintentionally borders around Saturday Night Live territory. Between the places these two go visit, the governmental structure ignores reality as no sense of security submits necessary borders around them. The Secretary’s proposal **** Rehabilitation Initiative to springboard a 2020 campaign comes off more like a terrible Fox News skit than something discussed in-depth on Good Morning, America. Now, it’s not all bad, because the humor mostly works; Fred drinking tequila out of a baggie is immediately identifiable. Also, right before entering the Secretary of State’s office, considerable time lingers on the emptying of his pockets to security. If nothing else about him, Fred’s loud windbreaker should imprint the memory even when he churns out speeches inspired by his new girlfriend’s youth. So, topped off by the hilarious way he manipulates his incomplete Swastika tattoo, the circumstances of tequila squeezed from agaves generate a great laugh. As a plus, the cast while not amazing at least passes as average, particularly O'Shea Jackson Jr. who submits his acting talent as Fred’s best friend and keeps things from drowning. Meanwhile, Seth Rogen’s clumsy walking style contrasts Charlize Theron’s silly hand wave that proves how disorderly she really is. Together, these two misfits submit a fair attempt at political parody based on what relatively little was available by the direction and script. Speaking of scripts, here is a real fast definition of America: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of happiness.” (Declaration of Independence, 1776) As much as Long Shot tries to honor tradition, many international films out there are still better at expanding the audience’s cultural horizons. Know that America’s name comes from Amerigo Vespucci, an Italian, which means since the very beginning, the United States remains White and male. Right now, looking at our cultural climate over the past three terms, orange became the new black, and boy became the new man. It would be wonderful to someday see a perfectly qualified Black lady rule from inside the oval office, but until that happens, please refrain from electing a drug-induced Charlize Theron who takes selecting her speechwriter so lightly. Now, how are you? Feeling tipsy yet?

[SPOILER ALERT: This review contains spoilers.]

Here’s what the thought process of mine was like back in middle school: back then, I thought Pixar set the golden standard of filmmaking, until Cars 2 came out the summer after my high school graduation. It gave me a much-needed reality check before entering college, which worked for the better, as once Cars 3 came out, I accepted the truth that Pixar is no different than other studios. But middle school was also the time when having a social circle was a nearly nonexistent priority until high school. The Mustang captures that sense of aloneness and desperation miraculously to the point where it makes you look back and see the now more realistically. Being a weak conversationalist, I usually feel separated from others, similar to the fear that first time feature director Laure de Clermont-Tonnerre triggers through static sounds. She works with production designer Carlos Conti (The Motorcycle Diaries) to make barriers around a horse pen look like prison bars, or a lavender anger management room infuriate the nerves. Meanwhile, the “good guy” supervisors wear blue, so even they appear deranged. Although the prison setting could benefit from a more diverse cast to voice what political correctness of today means in that part of society, the theme of control is still more powerful than you could imagine. The somber set designs match how I, being autistic, feel when around many people, right down to the visual stimulation. Some on the autism spectrum hate certain colors, such as yellow and brown, so likewise, the protagonist, Roman, has the same case with signs he could have a mental disability. One cut transitions him chucking a bag of chips to shoveling out dung, between these two connected activities, Roman remains of very few words while embracing crap. He speaks more with his eyes as they bond not with people, but with a locked-up animal: The lack of trust turns apparent from outside the two long-faced eye-gazers. He is the horse, the horse is him, a concept established right away immediately upon Roman’s introductory frame, hence why this crowd-pleaser should be celebrated. Though be warned, it’s not a traditional crowd-pleaser, as one of its modes of focus is on Roman’s daughter, who tragically let herself become pregnant. The time she spends with dad is a little too manipulative in sadness but is so core to the theme of this production that it would be criminal to leave her out. The crowd-pleasing rather tells hard truths about inner fragility via Roman’s explosive f-bombs that beat your chest. Then your ears buzz as a traumatic dust storm breathes beneath heavy orange lights, a special effects sequence that proves how the production crew really put the best of their hands to deliver the tremendous guilt-driven moments of anger. The technical elements paint the dangerous waters the typical man must swim across, kicked off by an annoying whistle sound heard over a helicopter chase against glorious mountains—sheer irony of chaos surrounded by glory. Then as it gets smaller in the confinement of a cell, the scope remains remarkable after Roman studies an informative magazine secretly given to him. The camera’s motion is almost always handheld in order to express the same level of FOMO discouragement you’d feel after spending too much time on a Facebook wall. It’s done in that lavender room as the camera pans past each unnamed anger management patient individually until it stops at Roman. These men, along with his underused cell mate, prove a couple of missed opportunities in generating deeper insight of Roman’s outside influence, but that pressure is still beyond clear due to the harsh sunlight that beats down on him to challenge what he can handle. Life benefits from having others around, which explains my depressed feelings from struggling to form solid bonds. Pixar’s filmography has ironically coincided exactly with what I’m going through at the time, right down to teaching me at age six that people over time will eventually leave. Of course, the summer before senior year, by the time the Toy Story trilogy was concluded, it felt like my childhood was over, as I knew I soon had to start over again with finding love from other places. The Mustang is guaranteed to help you grasp that same somber, reflective sorrow needed to find a permanent place of belonging past iron and concrete.

From 1900 to the first photographed black hole, from White men ruling the nation to women finally being allowed to serve as police officers, political correctness seems to get the better of our crazy nature, to the extent where a perfectly healthy desire to achieve equal rights becomes our greatest poison. Missing Link tries to fill those gaps between 100 years ago and now with its best intentions at heart, but ultimately doesn’t get most of anything right. No proper insight exposes what anybody thinks about anything, not even a view of the Statue of Liberty under construction, which is there for no reason besides to look pretty. This story remains completely typical as it replicates beat-by-beat the unemotional American love story—where the girl at first hates the boy but then she changes after accepting his immaturity. This “boy” is actually a well-dressed grown gentleman named Lionel, one who isn’t ashamed to join in on a fiddle-and-string saloon bar fight during his glossed-over travels to the United States. Lionel’s story really isn’t worth exploring anyway, since in his first scene, he seems unfazed when a prehistoric lake monster drags his colleague underwater, automatically making him a jerk not worthy of sympathy. These childish characters go through absolutely no change by the end, particularly Lionel’s passive co-lead, the legendary sasquatch. Despite being the last of his kind in a disappearing home, the big-footed beast never gives the viewer a reason to care about their journey to the Himalayas. It’s not charming when they ride on a negatively depicted Indian transportation vehicle (saddle and elephant), it’s not hot with high stakes when a one-dimensional villain tries to stop them for money, it merely settles for getting the job done. Although production designer Lou Romano (The Incredibles) still reflects reluctant old, old tribal art styles in the colorful set pieces. Right from the opening shot of a bare snow footprint that transitions into a shoe-bearing human footprint, Romano keeps feet a consistent metaphor. There’s a huge castle that is framed to compensate for the tonal coldness as it triggers acrophobia icier than a grassy civilization, and there’s Lionel running on the walls of a boat as it scales ninety degrees up a wave. Director Chris Butler (ParaNorman) knows how to combine the ancient craft of making figurine dolls with modern technology to tell stories in a way inspired off centuries-old traditions. Now, it’s time to highlight the film’s biggest laugh beyond a photorealistic bird’s-eye desert sea view: It’s Ching Valdes-Aran, the best voice actor in the cast, who voices a confused, quiet old lady named Gamu. Especially when she shrieks, the reason is strong enough of a joke, but her delivery of that shriek makes the final punch complete. Valdes-Aran is not the only one whose voice connects perfectly to the puppet eyes, everyone in the cast does all that they can to attempt a full experience in spite of the dreadful script. It results in some really funny moments, including why one character is named “Susan,” and why that name connects to the literal thought process of the big orange behemoth. It’s nothing special or memorable, but most certainly gets the chuckle going. The laughs aren’t enough though; it would be much funnier with a logical explanation as to why Mr. Sasquatch speaks and reads perfect English, aside from just being around humans all the time. Not to mention the disguise Lionel dresses him up in has the buttons bursting at the seams, yet nobody notices. The comedy would also ring truer if there were more prevalent questions addressed beyond just the third scene about the authenticity of evolution. The distance from reality results in another core of humanity this film wrongfully ignores: religion. One just can’t talk about the missing links between man and ape without bringing Christianity, Science, or Christian Science into it as well. Instead of something that deserves a watch and rewatch, this widely atheistic story about White folk centers around typical tropes, those that would no longer become clichés if there were just more philosophical concepts brought up for the audience to ponder over. That goes as well to its lack of international representation, which seems to have low priority to the designs of bug-eyed seagulls with unrealistically oversized heads. For a different cinematic experience that attempts to spark our fear of vulnerability, but actually succeeds, then watch Us, which is so far the best movie of 2019 for confronting our national fear. It’s even better to go off away from all civilization to hang out with the penguins in Antarctica, kind of like what Disney’s latest documentary filmmakers just did. Now there’s another worthwhile cinematic experience which deserves more attention than a stop-motion letdown like Missing Link!

The adorable circus animal who used his freakishly giant ears to fly may have been pure lovability, until Tim Burton’s “reimagining” proves even the cuddliest things can mark that assumption wrong. The new Dumbo embraces saturated marketing only to take advantage of the public, much like how a “sweet” family-friendly story features a hot wife for no reason besides to satisfy the male gaze. The typical person thinks that s/he wants to relive childhood memories temporarily, which of course leads the Disney studio to exploit classic Burton. The wicked imagination behind Beetlejuice, Batman, and other hits of abnormality brings only one scene of his trademark style as he directs totally demented pink elephant bubbles. Although it’s an incredibly pointless scene, made even worse when the editor cuts away too quickly for the audience to get a good look at the rosy bubbles. Henceforth, the intention of it being a creepy scene fails. Burton also attempts relevance by including the original cartoon Dumbo merchandise that is sold to patrons, which is still an old-fashioned, dumbed-down way of conveying the complex ideas of abusing ****. The cast displays less talent than the CGI face on the delightful Casey Jr. train, with less time put into redeeming the corrupted flesh of the actors’ absent facial work, without so much as a smile nor gag in sight. I mean… does the widower father feel even a smidgen of survivor’s guilt? He never shows it. Any genuine feeling, particularly that of foulness, only comes out through the emotionally hollow way Jumbo Jr. gets his humiliating name. Then there’s Michael Keaton, whose funny overacting matches Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. Yeah, no comment. Now, for some lessons on Mouse House screenwriting 101: Pander early on by throwing in a lazy shot of field-working slaves for no reason. Neglect the details, don’t make it clear right away that it’s the ears that make the pipsqueak a freak. Don’t show anyone affected by the danger of a baby animal. Make sure when there’s a sad scene between animals, don’t show them crying, a lady playing on a ukulele will suffice. Reference an old Hollywood masterpiece, Raging Bull, by making Dumbo’s big top intro mimic a boxing match, with focus on the mike… to please genuine movie fans! Talk down to the PG-rated crowd. ​With all these blaring issues, it goes to no surprise that nobody in the screenplay changes by the end, particularly the daughter, who hopes to pursue science outside the three rings. A key necklace is supposed to be a core component to her arc, yet it’s addressed exactly twice—nowhere near enough times! She almost positively hates being in the project, much like Colin Farrell, as he makes clear through his performance. There are those appropriately dark moments, ones with indistinguishable animal silhouettes in black fog, but they are so short and so sparse, it doesn’t redeem how little the adults behind this feature expect out of young developing minds. It thinks children are inept at comprehending tragedy, just a lemur singing, “I like to move it, move it!” Yet in truth, as much as you try to sustain a crap circus for gullible minds to watch, the financial complications take over. These losers cannot bring the near-bankrupt circus back on top—they cannot manage money responsibly! Yet Disney still builds up the hype, as after their past hits across animation and Broadway won over the public, they now continually tarnish their reputation with awful photorealistic remakes. People have said good things about them so far, but it seems over time that lower faith will be found toward such a nostalgic studio as it becomes a victim of its own identity. Of everyone responsible for this train wreck, only Oscar legend Colleen Atwood meets her high standard as she allows the visual power of costumes to flourish. Surely you know yourself well enough to know that a movie where Morgan “God” Freeman gives Steve Carell ark-construction supplies is really only an excuse to make poop jokes. Surely you trust yourself enough to stop gullibly giving your money to an evil corporation despite all the signs from trailers and marketing saying to you, “we don’t care!” Do civilization a favor; ignore the pachyderm conga line at the Disney Corp. & Burton & Keaton Circus.

Sorry guys, the DCEU keeps the same crappy identity it had before, and Shazam! proves how much Warner Bros. wastes time with what it wants to be. Off their record of consistently bad films, DC Entertainment thinks sincerity means following impulsive actions, a mindset they convey with their newest addition to the extended universe, Billy (AKA, “Shazam”). This kid enjoys food, not within a family dinner table, but alone at a burger joint to get high on fructose. Any sense of connection between himself and others is so empty, he barely even conveys any apparent thoughts on the fact that his disabled foster brother wants to be him: a big, tough, handsome man with superpowers and no physical ailments. Billy is so distanced from the viewer, that even an inanimate plush tiger has better character development. Also embracing those McDonald’s carbs, yet somehow perfectly healthy, is Billy’s absent mom, whose barely present subplot conributes nothing to the point where it only distracts from the other conflicts. As much as it tries to uplift the heart of the feature, it does so in all the wrong places. Other elements within the script that would actually benefit from extra screentime don‘t get it, particularly a wizard with an aged hairstyle that marks him as the only controller of mass hysteria. It’s better to quench thirst with something actually important, more so than anything that happens to the kid actors of this movie. These youngsters are neither good at acting nor playing decent role models; Billy’s first move is him locking up cops to rob their car, and without any real punishment for it after! Meanwhile, a young girl of Billy’s foster home always looks personally unphased by anything, even sights as miraculous as crocodiles with poker chips. This inactive lassie drags the rhythm of each scene down to the point where a recurring, funny Santa earns more attention than the leads. Then there’s the unintentionally funny prologue to the film, which expects authenticity when one of the passive twerps of that scene grows up into a monologuing bad guy worth being mocked by some kid. He’s not someone to be taken seriously and should have been much grittier to shine a brighter light against the wisecracking protagonist. If this bad guy was jokingly called, “Thundercrack,” or “Captain Sparklefingers,” he would for sure react too softly to be realistic. But hey, at least those two nicknames serve as great modes of successful laughs during Billy’s hilarious discovery of his powers. Billy doesn’t accept either of those nicknames as a superhero name, nor does he want to live under anyone besides a biological parent. That ambition is not one that anyone of mature mind would want to connect with, particularly seeing how horrible the mother is as seen through flashbacks, even more so than the stupid-looking CGI demons who throw people out of windows. Not even a teenager on a crutch with three months terminal cancer is successful at generating sympathy. As much as director David F. Sandberg utilizes his horror resume, he still flops at directing emotion while trying to modernize old tropes. There’s one point when an FAO Schwartz piano is incorporated into a mall fight, which is funny alright, but doesn’t flow into the intent of giving comic book movies a new edge. The problem lies in the screenplay’s logic, which is still the exact same as comic books have been since their inception. Heck, this even takes it a step further by saying that Billy was chosen by the wizard because he’s apparently, “pure in heart.” Yeah, right! Why would an overacting jerk who relies on impulses, Frito’s in hand, be “pure in heart?” The same goes to his irksome ol’ sidekick with the crutch, he’s so annoying that it’s honestly satisfying when he gets beaten up by bullies. Surprising that these two hooligans manage to stay thin with all their freedom, it just boils down to the reality that the goal of these filmmakers is not about protecting Philadelphia, it’s about encouraging kids to misbehave while bodybuilding in a bold, classic costume. If we put ourselves in Billy’s place, and were forced to pick between stopping a bank robbery and a chocolate cake, of course the studio would send mind tricks compelling you to lean toward the bad decision. The DCEU can try, but it will never top Nolan’s Dark Knight trilogy or Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse; the two standards fans hold to what a comic book movie can be. It’s not about the cool suit, it’s about allowing the viewer to think for him/herself about what tactics will truly redeem the city. Although Nolan’s and Sony’s respective versions of the classic vigilantes are certainly flawed, they hold a grail of genuine perfection compared to this electric lightning-bearing assassin.

The United States has always been susceptible to inescapable disasters. We are still recovering from when the World Trade Center was attacked. We are also still recovering from “Hands Across America.” Yeah, that “happy, lively” event advertised through cheesy commercials in truth left a nasty effect on Us. Don’t believe that accusation? Jordan Peele proves so with his newest instant-classic. Before analyzing its brilliance, here comes a little “tough love” on the film’s poor screenplay, which is packed with coincidences. Several laughs come from the father in a Marvel fashion—that being, inappropriate comic relief thrown into serious moments. There are a couple other slightly offensive jokes that a few audience members could deem pretty dumb. It’s not just the inconsistent humor though that hinders the script’s addressed questions to our existential crisis, but too many crucial details don’t go into enough depth to make sense out of the situations; that particularly goes to the antagonists: doppelgangers of people named “shadows” who call themselves “Americans.” Where did they originally come from? It doesn’t quite explain. In the world of regular people, little modes of affect upon the mother’s terror don’t reach their intended impact, mostly the frequent use of a man brandishing Jeremiah 11:11 on a handheld sign. It’s not clear how someone trying to play the role of a prophet isn’t warning of an upcoming tragedy that will tear the nation further apart against itself. The role of the media could particularly have been used from that free motif’s advantage to do something besides oppress our progression, but the media instead creates a poor picture of itself to raise our self-esteem, as if it’s reflecting back on those Watergate days of corrupt news outlets. Okay, enough negativity, everything else about Jordan Peele’s new work of art projects the same disruptive power of Heaven’s Gate. The opening text informs of how North America sits above derelict underground tunnels, some without any known use, leading into a very slow dolly in at a cheerful “Hands Across America” ad on an old TV. Then comes a fearful flashback to justify the mom/protagonist’s trauma, who wanders onto the lightning-lit beach, until stuck in a maze of mirrors after the exit sign. Now, she fears Santa Cruz as her memory is overlapped by buzzing carnival music. Then the opening credits dolly out of a red, furry eye to reveal rabbits caged up to an ominous children’s choir. With the haunting intro to a true experience done with, it sparks back your permanent effects from the nation’s roller coaster history, as if any optimism the 1980s gave to counteract the 1950s-1970s has now dissipated. The new millennium has already been no stranger to calamity, hence why we must ask ourselves, “What do we have to anticipate in the 2020’s?” Easy: A new decade, a new culture, a whole new set of expectations based on the failures of the 2010’s. The kids in this feature portray that answer, as the son, Jason, mask and magic trick in hand, finds trouble concentrating, but not as much as his sister, Zora, who stays on her phone at all times. This look of submission that the Gen Alpha characters fall victim to turns them susceptible to danger. The mystery remains subtle enough to make Martin Scorsese proud. At first, a traumatized little girl lines up sandbox toys, then once inside a long, bleak square hallway, why she lines those toys up makes perfect sense. It displays the media spelling out our doom based on the sound mixers’ perfect song usage. It takes little cheap trends, particularly one stick figure family focused on before the real family, to impress upon our flatness. Frustration through Dad’s humor represents humanity’s whole insecurity comparable to whenever religious groups call hurricane tragedies, “God’s wrath.” Using creepy daylight imagery of a large-scale cult, a wonderful thing turns into something scary, much like how a hurricane turns a bright, tropical vacation into death flooding around at every block. Yet that metaphorical hurricane was actually a record-breaking fundraiser originally intended to raise up to 100 million for poverty in Africa, but only made 15 million in bank. That’s why it’s high-time Jordan Peele tells the hard truth: despite Hands Across America, “Nobody cares about the end of the world.” That’s why we need to remember that the people’s mindset tops priority over money raised; together, palm in palm, observing our commonalities, so not to relive our shortcomings. It’s incredible how Peele’s hot streak thus far can be either simply enjoyed by the typical moviegoer or thoroughly analyzed by the cinema artists, carrying a deceptive amount of heart in the process of the hilarity and screams. Give this horror film a chance, then you for certain will want to do your part in removing the traps that separate us.

We each have our time-wasting habits that cause us to forget just how short life really is. You could anticipate habitually checking on social media to last only a minute, then suddenly a half hour later are googling why you should use bourbon for a chocolate chip cookie recipe. Those procrastination moments halt our livelihood to borderline existing in solitude, sleepless with apple pie a la mode heated without the strawberry ice cream (or non-canned whipped cream) on top. Five Feet Apart attempts to dramatize that concept of how valuable time with others is, but ultimately dissatisfies anyone who is not of its intended age group, as much as it gets some core ideas right. The focus centers around two patients suffering from cystic fibrosis, Stella and Will, whose idiocy harms each other to the extent where they’re hard to cheer on. Even while Will later displays a heart, it ultimately satisfies your moral high ground once they reap what they sow. Everyone else around them, patients and staff, acts aloof due to the weakly written tragedy, in empty attempts to replicate another classic romance, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Putting the two between ice and stars does not make Will less of a jerk, nor does copying that iconic shot make Stella as empathetic as Clementine Kruczynski. Although Stella and Will could die any day, alone, hospitalized, of which the movie mostly stays inside of; the emotional separation enables easy befriending of sadness like any emotional separation you’ve felt before. You will remember those broken bonds as the camera emphasizes Stella and Will’s six-foot distance; much different than the intent of most romantic dramas that want to get intimate, this pulls back to set the waterworks off. Plenty of details expose Stella’s living condition in a nutshell: a stuffed panda gift from her dead sister connects to bamboo that decorates a meditation room she sits in, which in turn is the subject of a poster on her door. Together, these subtle clues generate comprehension out of her desperate search for peace amidst the chaos. Then, it all takes a maximum strike when a surreal dream sequence pops her sister’s art to life; it’s a visualization of survivor’s guilt closer than ever before. The director, Justin Baldoni, has a humble way of emphasizing the natural look as if it where a documentary—through techniques picked up from documentaries he directed in the past. Yet Baldoni does get carried away with the use of shaky-cam to the point where it obnoxiously disrupts calm scenes. There are also obtrusive elements that “pep” up the image, like graphics projecting text messages, that appear incredibly out of place. At least those graphics don’t arise during the couple’s gentler exchanges of what they fear about what happens after death. However, even the emotional highs abuse the playing of unnecessary pop songs which fail to project Stella’s college-age girl mind, when an original score would have worked better. Still though, the love-birds’ existential crisis remains genuine, with the gross symptoms of Stella’s body causing fear of whether she will die right there. There’s little reason to stay happy, so Stella cheers herself, along with the audience, up through a regularly updated vlog that explains everything, particularly why cystic fibrosis is such a thief. It helps Stella and Will bond after their instant connection in person, a source of joy that gets stronger as Will draws the apple of his eye by the window. It’s a Jack-Rose bond that fuels the romance and sets a strong contrast against the adults in control of their routines; focus wisely stays on the younger generation without its abuse on authority breaking a chain link from happiness. Except one ultimate strike makes the experience less joyful: the characters get too much freedom to the extent of being unrealistic; they seriously can go to the gym or rooftop whenever without supervision. There needs to be an explanation to how this incompetent hospital operates, instead of some manipulative video footage starting and ending this film. Also, how on earth did Will get cologne despite literally having no money!? Too little focus on simple explanations make the writing resemble a sappy teen romance novel. While life may be too short for rules, it’s also too short for on-the-nose statements the couple says like, “God, you’re beautiful.” As time goes by, you should find far stronger applications to livelihood than wasting time on Netflix, that being the love of another. Five Feet Apart attempts to restore your confidence, and won’t succeed in doing that for everyone, but its visualized importance of community can be just enough to lift today’s youth back up by the bootstraps.

Our feelings have the capacity to spark decisions that when strongly justified, leave a legacy. Notice Captain Hook: after losing a hand to some flying brat and a crocodile. His pain and fear fueled an ambition dedicated to ridding Peter Pan in order to rest peacefully. As a result, James Matthew Barrie’s creation remains to this day one of the most iconic villains across literature, theater, and cinema. There’s no similar emotional drive from anyone in Captain Marvel, a movie that shows how badly Earth needs someone out of our own world to fight off the great evil Marvel Studios created. The problems start with the aliens. Remember how Star Trek famously used its aliens as cultural symbolism for more abstract concepts based on the time each episode and movie were made? I remember during my college years twice watching the old Star Trek episode, Let That Be Your Last Battlefield, where the crew meets two beings white on one side of the face and black on the other, to represent the Civil Rights Movement. Marvel’s cheap way of utilizing that is through its alien race of the Skrulls, shape-shifters who could be anyone at any moment: Nick Fury, Stan Lee, Thanos, etcetera. You know, exactly what Invasion of the Body Snatchers did. Yet boys watching this movie will five minutes later forget the overbeaten communism/terrorism allegory as it’s used improperly. The other world outside our planet, Carol’s home of Hala, feels less like something that will captivate viewers of all ages, and more a like bland inspiration off anyplace that isn’t the United States, leading into unintentional offensive territory much like how Doctor Strange insults the culture of Buddhist monks. Talk about lost opportunities! At least the actual human characters are represented better than the fictional ethnicities of blue-face and green-face; still doesn’t make them good role models, however. Brie Larson fails to empower women into being perfect leaders as she expresses no prodigy in her performance of distracting plasma-fists—at least Scarlet Johansson puts SOME effort into Black Widow. Captain Marvel marks a massive step-down from Captain America, a man who, unlike his female version, still manages to convey a smidgen of believability through clear strengths and weaknesses. While Marvel Studios' Black Panther coincided (perhaps intentionally) with the Black Lives Matter movement, this movie seems to be well-timed (also could be intentional) with the rising feminist movement. The problem with that is they don’t know how to make a good movie out of a suggested political agenda. Heck, Brie is just doing the opposite of what she intends, degrading both men and women with her pathetic moments. The origin of her costume colors tries for inspiration, and a scene of claustrophobic corridors midway through has the thrills, and the explanation to how Nick Fury got his eyepatch is appropriately funny, but all the highest points coupled alongside Annette Bening’s painful exchanges with Brie (seriously, they barely let the other finish their sentences) render the cool moments worthless. The heavy reliance on flashbacks establishes another reason why Captain Marvel goes against what it wants to achieve. While events depict the genesis of S.H.I.E.L.D., it turns annoyingly obtrusive to see Carol’s memories of getting back up after falling down when a conversation would have sufficed. Not to mention the cameraman makes everything too dark and foggy in space and didn’t even bother thinking through how to shoot the scenes in California. The intense lack of care from everyone behind this project tempts one of the Skrulls to shout, “I’m the captain now!” Or better, “There’s no crying in baseball!” Yeah, there are plenty of nineties references in this movie set in that very decade, but not for plot purposes, just aimless nostalgia. These include the kind-of-funny: taking a long time to play a CD, but mostly the cheap: “I’m Just a Girl” playing over the final fight, and a Terminator 2: Judgment Day rip-off of, “I need your clothes, your boots, and your motorcycle.” It’s straight-up insulting how much this story copies familiarity, including all the lazy plot conveniences that subject this entire screenplay as a massive step down for Marvel Studios. For instance, Carol flies an escape pod perfectly without ever having seen it before, then crash lands by coincidence in her home of six years earlier (of all places)! Marvel’s ship must have let its anchor down way back in 2014 yet somehow keep rowing. Thus, they sunk.

Self-care marks the first step to saving other people, and there are many ways to better yourself. For instance, you can avoid ultra-processed foods, along with that 10% increased cancer risk. Or, maybe you can only watch movies that actually have a reason to exist, those that convey the situation of self-care to generate outer-concern, something that the latest horror-suspense, Greta, fails to achieve. Nobody gullible enough to buy a ticket to this feature should do so, otherwise, they would have to fight drifting asleep before the predictable climax. The Z’s are bound to happen as the events leading up to the climax rely on one cheap way to **** thrills out after another, including an out-of-place scene when an elevator keeps going down, down, down, and closes in on the passenger. That trippy scene matches a comparable level of goofiness to when the main actress, Chloë Grace Moretz, throws her phone as she shouts, “goddammit,” as if a supporting actor from history’s worst movies. When clumped together, these pathetic moments force the suspense away. It’s sad that our world now has to associate itself with these characters’ idiocy, because the protagonist, Frankie, does the opposite of what one carrying common sense would do. She does not deserve to be cheered on, or anyone else in the passive ensemble for that matter! That goes as well to Frankie’s stalker, Greta, who is stupidly overpowered without reason as to why, while her actress, Isabelle Huppert, doesn’t shy away from knowing her doomful career ahead. Though the projection of our happiness generated by a piano is somewhat successful. That instrument sits in Greta’s lonely house as her only true company, not to mention the only sign of sanity as it sets a contrast apart from the millennials she seems to take obsessive delight in. The sound design around this music of eighty-eight keys works off your greatest fear as it’s set against the unhuman tick sounds of a tense metronome. In the few scenes that little tool tick-tick-ticks, the circumstances allow you to now forever associate that noise to a tell-tale heart. These elements do at least address what our true fears are, even when zero confrontational advice comes out of it. Upon their first meeting, Greta leaves Frankie many calls, perhaps around eighty in a single day, all containing terms of endearment that when said the umpteenth time escalate your nerves: Chérie, Sweetheart, and Darling. Yet Greta’s actions turn quickly more ominous, including an outburst among restaurant patrons after spitting gum into Frankie’s hair. The film gradually gets more and more discomforting as it goes along, which works well enough considering that the first act sprinkles around joyful doses of familiar imagery. Inside a cathedral, soft candle glows suggest the wisdom that Greta seeks from youth, considering that she barely even knows how to use an old Nokia phone—or so believed. Away from the stalking chaos, Frankie circles on a bike around her roommate, who does yoga in the center of their apartment. This circular imagery enables you to relax before they’re both put in harm’s way. Unfortunately, all these intense emotional moments do nothing to progress your well-being beyond the mundaneness of life. Even the characters in this movie don’t seem motivated to ever change. Heck, it’s addressed quite frequently that Frankie lost her mom a year prior… so what? Why care? It doesn’t say! It’s hard to care about the antagonist as well, seeing how the writer/director Neil Jordan ignored giving Greta a chance for redemption, suggesting she falls short of displaying any good, making her much less realistic than a vampire. There’s the argument that bad people must be seen as bad and punished for doing so in a story; but before you draw a black/white conclusion about whether or not someone deserves forgiveness, just think: in someone else’s mind, you are the villain of his/her story. Does it press an “evil” label on you too? Does it mean you deserve no redemption? In that same way, the best movie antagonists are human, with both good and bad traits about them. Would Hannibal Lecter still be regarded as one of the greatest on-screen baddies of all time if he wasn’t unusually polite? Don’t expect any characters controlled by this horrendous script to do anything besides push the plot forward. That goes to the roommate, and that goes to Isabelle Huppert’s awful accent that offends her own race. In fact, this big crapload simply should never have been made, as it lacks any motivation, not for art, not for money, not for anything. Detestable trials will always come your way with the intent of helping you change for the better, but Greta instead prefers to hold back on challenging you.

Moving to a new place can feel like your own house got set on fire. Meeting someone who speaks another language can feel like you are talking to a wall. Deciding to shower in the morning instead of the evening can shift your entire sleep routine. Embracing change puts a toll on anyone, myself included. DreamWorks’ attentive conclusion to their popular trilogy presents these challenges and more in an approach that guarantees any child at heart watching How to Train Your Dragon: The Hidden World will confront transformation greater as a result. The screenplay to this otherwise watchable feature remains too safe by keeping the side characters to one-note comic devices, as was the problem with previous installments to the franchise. While Toothless learning how to court a white female dragon of his own species becomes a sweet scene without dialogue, the naïve bonding still may distance most others who would see this as too little-kiddish. Adults may enjoy the relatively huge clouds that progress into a powerful storm, yet the sudden splendor ultimately remains pretty hollow in its true meaning. Some older viewers may see it all as nothing but a weak tool for empty spectacle to prioritize its claims to help sincere problems. Not all kids would be totally into the experience either, as some could possibly find some of the dragons too scary, especially a couple of sabretooth venom-spitters who go on a rage in their own flames. Stuff like that could make children skip over the message. Speaking of the message, a bland flashback copies The Lion King with an overused theme, “humans shouldn’t exercise authority over the environment,” with little added on to it that other family films have done better in the past. Its catalyst for delivering that theme centers around an unnecessary lazy old villain trope who kills Night Furies when the focus should have stayed on a true, healthy friendship. There’s the strong friendship between Hiccup and his dragon alright, but what about Fishlegs, Snotlout, Ruffnutt, Tuffnutt, and even Astrid? Nothing exploits the clear changes in each of the friends since their first appearances to display their growth… not even Fishlegs’ new braided moustache. It’s the same problem movies numbers one and two have: the gang is not fully invested to help Hiccup decide what’s best for Berk. Now with the negative aspects out of the way, DreamWorks’ franchise still remains a wonderful investment. Considering our culture wants to build up borders, what a breath of fresh air that the big screen unites nationalities through something unanimously tangible. The Hidden World does so in a way that must be seen only in IMAX as more dragons fly than ever within neon glows, even to the extent of caressing a silent storytelling language! At a smaller scale, the white Night Fury’s slumber within radiant backlights looks pure inside her misty forest. Then she moves catlike before turning invisible: prim, independent, and well mannered. Everyone can understand animals (that includes dragons), a truth exploited to its full potential when some green auroras grace a sky dance to contrast against other larger, uglier, beast designs. The immense range of scale guides Berk’s soft sunrise stretched from one of Earth’s corners to another that looks much stronger after the foggy rescue mission prologue gives a cold aura. To tie it all together into a cohesive unit, the franchise’s usual director adds dramatic flames beneath the magic hour moments to symbolize Hiccup’s fear of being a nobody without his pet. To make things better, the vocal cast puts their best feet forward without any more of those fake-sounding accents! Jay Baruchel improved quite a lot after struggling a little throughout the first two installments; he carries our familiar hero to take on those new responsibilities of being chief to great success. The wonderful continuation off past movies helps our sympathetic capacity, both in the story arcs and the quality of the animation; Toothless’ sand drawing turns out better now because the sand texture moves so realistically thanks to technological wizardry! These filmmakers clearly matured as they present a series finale that sweetens the senses, as if you too grew over the last decade. We all must take on those risky challenges, as do I, being always caught in personal thoughts. So, I recently joined my church’s Spain mission trip as a way to enforce needed growth. In that same way, Hiccup’s sky-riding has done wonders to inspire fans the past nine years—you can do the same, whether raising a son or daughter, a dog, a cat, employees, or a workspace. Then, proper etiquette can be taught and learned to eventually help others expose the hidden.

It may sound hard to believe, but the power of social media successfully ensured that AMPAS sees their vigorous hashtag trend: #PresentAll24, which means as of February 15th 2019, the Academy chose not to air four categories during commercial breaks but live with the other twenty. I felt quite inspired by this passion of united Twitter users to guarantee everyone who worked hard in the film industry gets their glorious well-earned moment. As a bonus, it’s proven why Alita: Battle Angel carries no rhythmic impact on filmmakers like that of the 91st Annual Academy Award winners. We all face decisions similar to what the Academy had to make, some for better, some for worse. Take the blue pill, and you force four categories into commercial break to shorten the show. Take the red pill, and you see equal, nondiscretionary treatment. Which sounds best? Seeing how Alita makes zero character development throughout her adventure, I guess that means she chose the blue pill, preferring what is convenient to gain a wider audience instead of what is best for everybody. Did her plan work though? Let’s take a look… Alita lives in an Iron City that apparently lacks wealth, which isn’t easy to conclude since this high-tech India-esque area practically resembles a paradise for any sci-fi lover. Right next to Iron City rests a massive junkyard where the scraps of that sky city wind up at the end of the day. That is where Iron City obtains its supplies, and ultimately where a Doctor Frankenstein rip-off found his anime-eyed creation’s scattered parts. This means there’s no real ground to work off of, particularly when struggling to sound heartbroken through pathetic sad scenes with the atrocious actor playing her cheap boyfriend. That actor’s slothful eyes generate just one negative factor as co-writers James Cameron and Robert Rodriguez resort to stupid expository details in their worldbuilding, such as cyborg blood being turquoise for some reason other than to look cool. As for the bigger actors, Christoph Waltz (Django Unchained, Inglourious Basterds) probably isn’t aware he’s co-leading a futile promotion of Marxism reliant on a self-righteous “chosen one” plot trope. Hence, he must’ve figured, “Why bother trying? The sound editors will improve my voice anyway!” Yes, Waltz’s pathetic accent manages to be weaker than the normalized human-robot love that throws in insincere dialogue such as, “You are the most human person that I have ever met.” (facepalm) The same issue of acting goes to Oscar winner Jennifer Connelly (A Beautiful Mind, Requiem for a Dream). Here, she does nothing but insult the dedicated actors, actresses, supporting actors, and supporting actresses of Hollywood with her lazy demonic eyes and overly dramatic, shallow laughter from a voice deprived of security. Now, take a minute to observe the entire Star Wars series before Disney bought them: It was nowhere near perfect (in fact, the original trilogy is just okay), but still attempted decency with its audience… until the prequels attacked. Yes, it’s at least acceptable in the visuals big and small, as the Battle Angel’s almost square jet-black hair matches the Plutocratic sky city; just don’t count on there being any memorability from Alita, even if the cinematic quality leans closer toward the Star Wars originals than the prequels. Although the setup deserves some praise for sure, as does some awesome fight choreography to appropriately set the numerous emotional roller coaster peaks in a way that allows them all to complement each other. After Alita first comes back to life, without any surviving memories, she disdainfully eats an orange, peel and all, as if it were an apple, but ends up liking the fruit once peeled, and later loves chocolate even more; these moments of revelation prove to be effective in raising your spirits. To contrast that orange color reflected onto the heat-tinted city, she wears a gentle shirt of delicious damson that makes her look alienated on the streets full of roller bladers. It leaves to little surprise why Alita connects easily with a dog, a bond that later breaks your heart. Too bad though that Alita: Battle Angel remains at the end of the day another mere piece of white noise forgotten amongst the genuinely terrific motion pictures, those that social media users believe are worth speaking up to the Academy about, those that prove unity through a common passion. There’s nothing of significance this movie will do to the personal legacies on Robert Rodriguez or James Cameron beyond what they did in the past, it’s just filler to make time and money for greater projects… such as those numerous Avatar sequels. While we can allow the cinema arts to grow year after year, sadly not every movie can be saved from mediocrity.

It’s a real revolution the way the LEGO series grew similarly with its viewers. Compared to my experience back in 2014, I only wrote one movie review every few months for my parents’ blog. Now, it’s a weekly side hobby as I stretch to someday do it professionally. Much like my own gradual growth, these two parts to the LEGO cinematic universe keenly adapt to the values of the time. While The LEGO Movie 2: The Second Part remains inconsistently nonsensical like the first movie, it still does more to develop greater complexity of what it analyzes about our culture. Director Mike Mitchell picks up exactly from the instant of the last feature’s finale for a new, mature direction you’d never guess the franchise could go, yet it goes there, to results that are both different and the same as before. Not that it means the returning familiar characters, such as the Dark Knight, change in a way that enhances the entire product. There’s still a thoughtless plot twist that randomly throws itself about alongside cameos of Harley Quinn, “Larry” Poppins, Velma from Scooby Doo, and an unnecessary parody to “Let’s all go to the lobby.” Yes, it’s that kind of writing; the kind that weakens the main romance from before because the returning screenwriters, Phil Lord and Chris Miller, dig too shallow into a young boy’s psychology beyond the fist-shaped spaceship, “Rexcelsior.” They also dig too shallow into a young girl’s psychology, as the ruler of the feminized galaxy, the “Sistar System,” doesn’t feel like much of a threat. These contrasting galaxies try to establish a metaphor saying siblings should play together, except Batman’s floss dance to maracas played by dinosaurs isn’t necessary for that message to get across. Other types of jokes milk the entertainment factor too far, particularly cartoon gags in a dainty little house, the return of that dreaded double decker couch (with an upgrade), and more jokes on the Batman franchise. Few important aspects from this abuse of self-aware humor prove significance beyond what audiences may be sick of by now. Then Bricksburg becomes Apocalypseburg centered around a desolate lady liberty. But less on that, onto the girly toyland of the Sistar system, and its ruler, Queen Watevra Wa'Nabi. This queen is detailed with fingerprinted bricks that take on fun animations throughout two musical numbers, exclaiming she’s “totally not evil,” much like the adorably destructive vivid invaders with huge puppy dog eyes on cute little weapons shaped like hearts and stars. She could probably cause Ar-mama-gedds-in, a feared event that is actually a clever depiction of simple kid playtime problems, such as the older sibling forbidding the younger sibling from touching his or her toys. It all builds a better portrait of girl toys combined with very Muppet-esque humor to go against the style of the first movie, ultimately becoming a distinct twist on older alien invasion flicks. Yet there’s plenty enough like the first movie to keep the familiar lovability intact; it keeps up with some fun little Easter eggs, as a LEGO Oscar appears for the satisfaction of those who still feel angered by the first movie’s infamous snub four years ago (myself included). Everybody from the snobby cinema scholars to the casual popcorn-happy moviegoers, will find guaranteed emotional satisfaction from the eventual fate of the Sistar system’s massive glory. Yet to everyone who’s about to see this, a little fair warning: there’s a new song called, “Catchy Song,” that indeed gets stuck inside your head like the lyrics say they will. That song comes up specifically to be a mind-control device in an ominously happy scene that’s ultimately childish without a hint of sense. Regardless, I for one still find myself tapping away to “Catchy Song” whenever it plays! That’s my experience with LEGO on film: it’s still plenty of fun despite the clear flaws. There’s a real proven power of LEGO’s motion pictures: The LEGO Movie criticized the Obama administration exploiting corporate America so it could obtain an impractically perfect vision. Batman’s spinoff redefined our famous crusader as we reconsidered our sense of morality shortly after Trump’s inauguration. Ninjago is pure garbage, so it doesn’t count. Now, The LEGO Movie 2: The Second Part brings pop culture of boys and girls together to help tomorrow’s generation build a better society together. My, what a cultural shift we’ve made, and through something that looks like a toy commercial! Just compare that to thirty years ago, when anything with the word, “movie” in the title never carried depth besides commercialism. Keep it up, Warner Animation Group! Continue inspiring future artists to do better!

Let’s reflect on comic book history, and also compare it to why M. Night Shyamalan’s cap to the Unbreakable trilogy continues his negative artistic streak. In 1897, The Yellow Kid in McFadden’s Flats became the first comic, something perfectly straightforward in its simplicity, unlike Glass, which relies on superfluous flashbacks instead of conflict between the three patients who lead the story. The film also diminishes anyone with Brown skin to the background in ever-so-subtle hints of unintentional racism, which feels too much like 1937, when comics evolved into monthly “funnies.” What Shyamalan comments on about the history of superheroes forgets to put Superman’s influence on the subtext, or any true knowledge about the platinum age of comic books. Not just that, he doesn’t even bother to speak up on the reality of superheroes leading psychiatric patients into a dictatorship. ​ The disloyalty goes on to the comics’ golden age as well, that time when Batman, Wonder Woman, Captain Marvel, Flash, Green Lantern, and others came around. Each of these heroes are still instantly recognizable now because they’re all more sympathetic than the returning Samuel L. Jackson role, Elijah. Here is shown a flashback of his mom watching him get hurt on a carnival ride as a child, yet any internal pain of his remains intangible. Even if he along with the two other freaks are believed to be superheroes, actual comic books have better-analyzed heroic theories. At this rate, I’d rather see Samuel L. Jackson hop off the wheelchair to start preaching Ezekiel 25:17 again, and not have to keep wearing that obvious wig for a now-dated story arc. Onto the silver age, comic books began to be seen as corruptive to the youth, thus the Comics Code Authority began, which caused an eventual bright, campy tone to take over; think Adam West’s Batman as a strong example. Shyamalan actually handles that well without feeling out of place alongside the established golden age grit. Remember how Batman & Robin was almost all Dutch angles? A similar style is used here to suggest how Elijah reads his interactions, or how a hysterical perspective of “the Beast’s” victims is seen upside down when he crawls on the ceiling. To switch back on cheesiness without the unintentional (or failed) humor, dangerously deep focus on closeup shots block out distractions, working off a pink hallway designed by Chris Trujillo (Stranger Things) to mimic a supervillain’s lair. It’s like every frame here is a legit comic book panel! It compensates for the way Sarah Paulson (12 Years a Slave, Carol) keeps an insincere face throughout her entire performance, even more so for Anya Taylor-Joy’s (Thoroughbreds, The Witch) absent sense of rhythm in her expressionless eyes that look like Natalie Portman sobbing, “Anakin, you’re breaking my heart.” Yet the almost completely untalented cast ironically works to the advantage of James McAvoy when his killer portrayal **** barriers immediately upon introduction. An odd sense of fulfillment breaks through as the three leads fit nowhere, much like how the bronze age lead to comics taking on a realistic tone. Plenty of disturbing images shed mortality to familiar comic book images, particularly a line of high school cheerleaders chained up, all of which are enhanced by the musical score’s stressed strings—a ticking bomb that signals time to break for impact. Then finally comes the dark age of comics, when antiheroes, particularly Watchmen and Deadpool, got their origins. Shyamalan’s three antiheroes could make a valid case for criminal actions… if consistency exists anywhere. Probably the most noticeable logical inconsistency is how bright lights change James’ character personalities, but it really gets out of hand throughout the ridiculous third act. It attempts to comment on the climaxes of other comic book movies, except this happens after the entire feature proves unable to decide which scenes are fiction or fact. Thus, the audience appeal winds up weak, mainly to the fault of M. Night Shyamalan’s screenplay preaching the old comic book idea that love heals (ugh). He cannot authenticate the full potential of such a gross idea in any way, and even takes the wrong turns to explore it; one of those approaches includes a legitimate case of Stockholm syndrome! So today, with all our comics becoming strong cinematic/television properties, it tells our minds to honor having super abilities greater than our own God-given abilities. It tells us that anyone considered a freak is a psycho with a mind set to rule the world. Shyamalan’s commentary is dead-wrong.

Rhapsody (noun) rhap·​so·​dy | ˈrap-sə-dē: An epic poem Who’s your neighbor exactly? Is it your own bliss? Bzzzttt, WRONG. It’s not the box office hit that the Oscars chose to love. The Academy of Motion Pictures made some crucial nominations, which concluded that the honored recognition above all else must land on… Bohemian Rhapsody. Not that it automatically presses the attempted “love your neighbor” message you may read in some green book of poems. The academy wants to celebrate love, yet they don’t know what love even means. Bohemian Rhapsody preaches just the opposite: it wants you to walk out of the sky-painted wall after saying to all who was there for you: “Good afternoon, good evening, and good night.” As much as it celebrates the works of Freddie Mercury, it really just educates you on three things: his materialism, his lack of sympathy, and the lack of sympathy he got from others! You get a glimpse of him singing: “Happy birthday to me.“ Meanwhile, his parents are ‘round the dining room table to reminisce through little Freddie’s old childhood photos. The next thing that happens is really quite grim, Mr. Bulsara changes his last name legally, then he leaves his mom and dad and joins a band of three misfits! Now, these band members try their best to always stay together, but as coins clatter on a drum and the colors they wear clash, nobody of any age will watch this with a moral eye. This two-plus hour special from eighties-MTV has far too much love for its big, dramatic montages. It shows the bad reviews projected when the band’s tune premiered, an artistic decision doesn’t aid the film’s tension. As Freddie’s fame takes off and his colleagues are dumbed down, his passive girlfriend, Mary, gets the worst of it—She’s BLANK. She’s BLAND. She’s got no IDENTITY. This film tries to crank Freddie’s stress all the way up to eleven, yet it can’t even decide what it really wants to say. Say what? All about the me-di-a! Why, when Freddie’s being interviewed by cameras and clipboards, some bulbous closeups stress his face but can’t tell you his motive. Are the ones behind the cameras crucial to a man’s success? Detrimental? Both? Does it even matter? The film’s mere existence is 100 percent superfluous, which you’ll feel once a pompus live performance overstays its welcome. At least director Bryan Singer (The Usual Suspects, X-Men) humanizes Queen’s fans as much as he can. The finale crowd of Live Aid waves their beige arms in the air like a sea of muddy water from the bowls of Freddie’s cats. To go a little deeper, Mercury’s mere introduction is solid ‘nuff to prep the way for Rami Malek’s (The Master, Mr. Robot) pride. With the focus on his moustache trimmer, that before/after comparison intrigues you to see Freddie Mercury’s predicament; especially when he first meets Brian May, Roger Taylor, and John Deacon. At first, they each despise him because his teeth stick out of his face. Although it doesn’t matter, ‘cuz his teeth actually look great! Some more crowd-pleasing moments include this one simple shot: a sound/editing transition when a rooster crows… GALILEO!!!!! It happens right before a scene of recording that one line… over… and over… and over… and over… It’s a very funny scene that will give a good laugh, and for the viewers who grew up with Queen, they’ll love to see this: The origin of Freddie’s trademark microphone stance after failing to unhook his mike at an early concert. Plus, a “Somebody to love” montage about some concert prep makes a sink drain turn into an actual satellite. Yet these elements designed to win over you are just not worth the hassle because the details are breezed over. Screenwriter Anthony McCarten (The Theory of Everything) tells us no motivation behind any song lyrics, unless by the dictionary. The lack of helpful info goes to the band as well, as they seldom act like true brothers, nor do other countries. Just look at the stingy Americans in this picture: they believe the song will bomb and won’t give it a chance. NOBODY, and NOTHING, in this film is as important to these filmmakers as letting Freddie Mercury brag about being able to play the piano upside down. As a result, the fame he won was lost when he died. To obtain a freedom comparable to this disgraceful man, know that a neighbor is actually whomever you allow in your life, not your own pompous celebration, party of one. If Fred Rogers was alive today and saw what won Best Motion Picture (Drama) in 2019, he would cry.

In light of new year’s resolutions, we together should go back to when the impossible became possible, way back when Jesus walked earth (ahem, water) to prove himself as God’s son by breaking the laws of physics and the Pentateuch. As an attempt of recreating that, for temporary entertainment, Disney revisits P.L. Travers’ Jesus figure she brought to humanity. The big Mouse House still hasn’t quite mastered how to produce live action feature films, meaning Mary Poppins Returns deserves no spot inside anyone’s wine cellar due to its absence of a story in order to showcase bad lip syncing, as well as other horrors of cinematic musicals. The elements of this reality center around Michael, now a grown up widower with three children, who must pay off a loan or else lose his father’s home. It’s not at all worth caring for, since this potential homeless life leaves the three children unphased; I doubt they’d even run in fear from the Return to Oz wheelers—they’re that dull. That reality tries to combine with the whimsy too grounded in smelly parts of below to be funny, particularly when it comes to the bits with Admiral Boom. Then after two hours of hearing Lin-Manuel Miranda’s fake accent that sounds worse than ****, the end takes on a thriller vibe driven by Colin Firth, an evil villain with a Cruella Deville cackle. That’s why Mary Poppins returns, to help the family through something they easily could solve on their own. Rather, her only purpose is to teach kids dangerous games in a bathtub that for sure would cause death by drowning from toddlers who watch that scene and want to imitate it. The three offspring of Michael are in fact the ones who save the day for the grown-ups, something that would make parents watching roll their eyes; for any youngster that smart may as well crank their heads a full three-sixty then vomit pea soup. Except you won’t hear yourself shout, “the power of Christ compels you,” since the stereo blasts much louder than your own thoughts! While my mom and I were watching this, she had to cover her ears, and I wanted to, not just to block out the painful stereo, but because Michael sings worse than the witches of Hocus Pocus, making every one of his scenes that much more painful! Although the good tunes try their best to remedy the pain, right from the exciting overture heard behind a series of rough London paintings. Marc Shaiman (The American President) heals the senses as his melody generates the spectacular tune of everyone fitting on a single bike, or even when the home of Mary’s cousin Topsy turns upside down. While many songs are bland, “Trip a Little Light Fantastic” manages to reach improbable levels of fun, relative to the rest of the film that is, although not like the legendary tunes of the original. Although not as strong, Emily Blunt does her best to capture the pacing of Julie Andrews’ iconic role by continually denying the adventures she has with the kids. Those details leave relatively miniscule scars—all else penetrates pretty deep. Mary succumbs dancers less organized than the hysterical housemaid of the original movie, and with a sense of chaos that feels like life flashing before the eyes. A vertigo camera effect used at one brief point in the horrific climax means Cherry Tree Lane looking better than before matters none; the attempts to spark nostalgia fail from certain abuse of modern filming techniques. Another huge reason for that disloyalty to the source material comes from the casting: Meryl Streep’s obnoxious accent literally seems unsure about which side of fantasy to express, she resorts to the anti-fantasy of a surfaced trout‘s blub-blub-blub. But the biggest reason for the disloyalty lands on the screenplay; nothing that ever happens, not even a china bowl adventure where a wolf steals one of the boys‘ stuffed giraffe, inflicts change on anybody or anything. After all the chaos happens, a deus ex machina renders everything throughout the entire film pointless… and just to make room for a High School Musical type of ending that teaches young innocent minds to stay self-indulgent on their dreams. Really, what’s the point of these excessive musical numbers if they’re just going to be as obnoxious as a Cheetah Girl concert? There’s even a cabaret number to divert the familiar old Mary Poppins essence, hence why the people responsible behind this sequel forgot why the original became a classic. Highly doubtful they even care about the earliest memories of so many who grew up with Mary Poppins. I as one came to love the original Mary Poppins over time due to its profound themes of a family’s interpersonal distance. Ignore the way Mary Poppins Returns has made P.L. Travers roll over in her grave. Look instead toward a man who walked on the sea, died, came back, and flew to heaven; that gives rewards beyond diving into a soapy tub.

Much like how the quiet man seeks satisfaction from his own perishable fate, Vice gives a temporary sense of thrill about one who committed his entire life to claiming fame. The feature declares in the prologue that those involved did their ‘effing best to stay true to the real story… sure. Research proves otherwise. Look up some articles about the real Dick Cheney in your spare time: a little research should prove those producers wrong. The director, Adam McKay, returns to the same narrative approach he used in his Academy Award winner three years back, The Big Short, except now, the excessive racket drowns out any point addressed. In fact, any point made seems intentionally blocked so you overlook its lies. McKay jumps around the timeline randomly, which buffers complex relationships to selfish action movie clichés, but at least Independence Day understood that civilization must stop aliens together, unlike this movie which holds back necessary prominence of communication between countries. The public doesn’t need more movies that throw excessive noise around simultaneously, but a somber tale amongst the shrill media, especially when it’s about powerful men as corrupt as Dick Cheney. That very man is played by Christian Bale (who just won a Golden Globe for this role) beneath distractingly bad makeup, which doesn’t matter a whole lot as the actor beneath those obvious prosthetics understands the script’s jokily serious satirical style. Bale appropriately looks ready to murder despite working a “nothing” job, his authority screams when he watches a house fly around Lynne Cheney’s rants, then again around Bush. As events creep closer to the end credits, his performance turns more cuckoo than the clock draining out a heartrate beep that signals when it is time for **** to get a heart implant. Yet the annoying static of that heart monitor won’t shut up as it tracks how hot your pulse gets watching this. Most fathers of today’s kids will want to throw on earmuffs to stop their blood from boiling, because these fake people use a congressional board game illustration/fascism propaganda to silence democrats. Most mothers will dislike this product because of Amy Adams… just… yikes! Her portrayal of Mrs. Lynne Cheney is way too soft! In fact, some viewers will feel injustice done for the way they’re depicted on screen. A nauseating camera “crops” the cinematic versions of the Cheney couple put on by Adams and Bale, possibly not to match the mockumentary filmmaking style, but more to block out the bad CGI effects that came from production problems. Thus, you don’t get the maximum impact of this man who changed history without anyone aware of his ghostly existence. Cheney keeps the same lips of a swine and eyes of a poltergeist—a controlled harsh pig with lipstick immobilizing his speech, a Christmas ham after revenge against the butchers taking credit for the delectable flavor. The problem is that none of that strong addictive bacon flavor is detectable to the taste buds, just the fatty parts left behind. Maybe if **** talked a little more about his own health over the film’s long timeline, his actual hopes and dreams could give us clear reason to care? Then that way, McKay could’ve focused less on trying to land a gut-punch, and more on ensuring that Mr. and Mrs. Cheney reciting poetry before bed isn’t boring to watch. Frankly, Adam McKay was the wrong choice to write the screenplay due to his lack of extreme sincerity in grasping human change. He resorts to instead creating a testosterone biopic focused on Cheney’s smoking gun that bloomed up a mushroom cloud seen from Tokyo. Consequently, the women actors’ efforts to stand out look like mice to be trampled upon by the men. Yet for every mousey performance, it’s all made up for in the way Sam Rockwell breathes a truthful depiction of George W. Bush. Rockwell contrasts the quick beat of an ironic commercial interrupted by 9/11 footage, and does so with a slow, humane face. It almost makes his arguments about climate change reasonable! He mutters words humbly, like the real Bush, making a priestly presence the perfect counterbalance to the way Cheney sees an opportunity amongst everyone’s fear to the 9/11 attacks. Meanwhile, musical composer Nicholas Britell (The Big Short, Moonlight) gives each scene a genre based on the energy present, forcing a more intent listening ear for President Bush’s speech beyond the poltergeist’s interference… …interference of your capacity to get something useful out of this film, that is. Instead of wanting to be just like Dick Cheney, listen to those higher! Listen to those lesser! Don’t rely on the evil pressed from Vice’s great big lies, a mock-up that only worships itself.

Okay, here is my first review of 2019, which I will discuss while sharing with you what 2018 meant for me. Much like Barry Jenkins’ latest work, it turned out very similar to my own year of personal issues. In fact, movies took up the year and went on to influence other personal relationships of mine. It was an awry balance between happiness beside the mandatory events that brought my spirits down and seeing the two merge. This balance gets captured in If Beale Street Could Talk as it shows a young woman’s judgment tested. Not that its depiction of the judgment hits all the marks though, as this still lacks the strength of the parents’ involvement in the core plot. They each develop too weak a redemptive arc while their nineteen-year-old daughter carries a new baby, and her twenty-two-year-old boyfriend goes behind bars. Mom and Dad’s impact would have turned stronger without the voiceover narration, which right now sounds straight from a novel. The characters themselves don’t make the dialogue that much better though, as some say discomforting phrases like, “The White man has got to be the devil,” which could shut off a few viewers. It’s a consequence of Jenkins’ anti-marriage script that does not focus enough time between the main protagonist, Tish, and her relatives, something important for the story to take on its full intended purpose. Yet it ironically helps strengthen the bond between Tish and her other half, Alonzo, or as she only refers to him as, “Fonny,” a name that dates to their childhood. The weak details, including some distractingly bad Italian accents, strangely enough help preserve the strong little details. For this movie, it is a record player Fonny turns on as relaxing sex music. These slow moments of high tension keep up thanks to the killer performances of the whole cast that help turn on painful feels that want to set off the happy thoughts. Thus, the incredibly average screenplay can be ignored. In fact, the theme keeps up in such subtle queues from the very first frame to the last; Tish and Fonny start off wearing coordinated morning glory flower outfits, then the motif of colors keeps up until the impactful finale when those colors take on a gloomier aura. Of some bad emotions felt, Fonny projects vocally how his dark skin makes him hate living in America. Therefore, Barry Jenkins properly decides to implement monochrome photographs of the past national pain. With the expert editing, we can forget the fun high-speed 1990s thrillers, for the somber tone conveys how these people always remain deeply hurt behind a smile; Fonny’s face, behind glass, dissolves into a building of architecture resembling prison bars. In the conversations Tish and Fonny share on either side of this glass barrier, their faces almost resemble mugshots of close friends. These are just some of the bad memories provoked that seem to lift the good memories higher. By then, a mere record player takes on greater meaning, right? Every actor should be praised above all else for their ability to put a lump in your throat with their roller coaster emotional changes through laughing, then crying. That particularly goes to the mom, played flawlessly by Regina King (American Crime, Seven Seconds), whose transparent fear from new tasks mirrors back doubt when trying on a wig before she leaves America. It’s equally wonderful to see the bright, smiley cast work together in Tish’s perfume shop job, as troublesome as she describes it being. 2018 gave me great sources of positivity, even when my cinema watching strangely decreased by December due to other commitments. Optimism always continued during not-fun things; for me, it was putting marmalade in my post-workout drink to sustain high spirits despite other roommate problems. Yes, stuff always went on throughout the year even when it didn’t feel that way; I drove my first rental car from Phoenix to Tucson then back again, appeared on TV three different times, cooked a lot, went to my first live magic show, got two different job promotions, all evidence for myself how film shouldn’t serve a sole source of joy in life. That’s 2018: a year that came out good mostly for me, even when the negatives were still critical to understand. With that, this magical end of the year always triumphs in bringing out our most reflective selves, much like the impact If Beale Street Could Talk will do to you.

Plenty of justifications have been addressed why Americans think they live in the world’s greatest country, perhaps one of the most common being because they landed on old Luna before Russia. But unlike that giant leap mankind took, Damien Chazelle’s attempt to recreate it in First Man takes three massive steps down after his last two projects set him on a hot streak. History’s youngest Best Director Oscar winner managed to accomplish the impossible: turning an important figure into a passive plot device with Bella Swan level personality. The technical elements instead steal the focus, diminishing Neil Armstrong with unnecessary focused shots on a fly and a control panel’s Chinese takeout food that add no story significance. This emotional distance may be for the best though, as the story built around Neil features plenty unrealistic additions, most groanworthy being what he does with his dead daughter’s bracelet. Even Interstellar might mock its ridiculousness! Riding off that other 2001: A Space Odyssey wannabee, important details are disregarded, including international contribution to NASA, allowing key milestones to merely happen to each character, particularly Neil’s wife, Janet, who’s worse written than any pre-Force Awakens Star Wars female. At least those ugly Star Wars prequels had actual image contrast, unlike the bad color grading of this movie, which gives an ugly texture put together by someone who let success override his head. However, taking the pre-production design process into account, a nice attention on using cool vs. warm colors juxtaposes Janet’s baby blue dress against the Apollo 11’s bright jet flames. Mary Zophres’ costumes (La La Land, True Grit) are surprisingly detailed as they take on an impression of wanting to be like moonbeams: a pure, straight path, but not quite able to get there... they look more often like the chaos of a nuclear explosion. Yes, every crisp design choice matches an era of new beginnings, unlike Neil’s turmoil of losing his daughter to brain cancer. Especially after the dark, scary opening scene when Neil first hits Earth’s thermosphere, enough justification guarantees chills with every view beyond the clouds. Many say this feature must only be seen in IMAX, and honestly, it’s true. From the Gemini 5’s radio that rattles your ears to the documentary-esque camera cropped closer than usual, Neil’s nauseous claustrophobia becomes instantly comprehensible. Then after the sounds of the ship boom out of control, complete space silence takes Stanley Kubrick’s 1968 classic to heart. It forces prolonged depth into infinity’s empty black void beyond Earth’s blue aura; then this Kubrickian style turns simultaneously epic on the ground with a heavy landing on the Mojave Desert, an intro that would make Steven Spielberg proud. Also, when they reach the moon’s surface, despite the controversy, a US flag does show up! It’s just not seen being planted in! Thus, you can stop getting mad about it. You can get mad instead at the way Ryan Gosling (Half Nelson, La La Land) plays Neil Armstrong without any believability. Ryan acts the same as he did in Blade Runner 2049, just staring with eyes half-open as if confused about how to play the role properly, worse than Amy Adams’ grossly mediocre Arrival performance. One might very well call Neil a replicant in this case as he barely even reacts to a training simulator. His nonexistent effort turns extra noticeable though on the earth’s soil, as him listening to “Lunar Rhapsody” with Janet feels unromantic. Both Ryan and Claire Foy probably felt very confused about how to portray their respective roles because of the perplexing scene arrangements which beg you to question, “why does any of this matter?” For instance, most of their impersonal conversations are filmed from behind as if this was a low-budget romantic period piece/failed Oscar bait. It’s unbelievable how Josh Singer, who won an Oscar for the tremendous Spotlight, now turns out one of 2018’s worst screenplays, blocking all the genuine difficulties felt that tell us new, personal facts about Neil Armstrong and his family. Everybody becomes a plot device pushing events forward, technology often left to work instead to hand out exposition. One is an old informational video that replaces conflict to give out crucial information, which honestly just looks lazy. Besides, we already know they will succeed, so why would any of this matter? Although the core problem with First Man is a lot deeper than just a lousy script, it’s worse even than historical accuracy—the most common issue with biopics (this one is relatively true to what really happened). The core problem is that this film uses a man’s life as an excuse to create cinematic spectacle. How would you like it if somebody took a milestone of your life, removed all fears leading up to that milestone, and replaced it with empty, pretty pictures?

THUG-LIFE (The Hate U Give- Little Infants F*** Everybody). The newest cinematic #BlackLivesMatter piece brings out that clear message for today’s ungenerous Americans who bottle up pride. Even now in 2018, if a young Black boy is bullied for being gay, the media cares less about his predicament than about how cute Emma Stone looks with Ryan Gosling; not anymore though, at least within the perspective of society’s true xenophobia by director George Tillman Jr. After The Hate U Give’s protagonist, Starr, sees her childhood friend get killed by a cop, it’s revealed how not just White people, but others like Starr’s father and cop uncle, are xenophobic. Hate does not describe my viewing experience of The Hate U Give, for far too many things are done right. It starts with the sincere direction that triggers inner division whenever Starr speaks with her White boyfriend, Chris. Tillman Jr. also initiates fear as he stages the pivotal cop scene without showing the officer’s face, especially with the content of the opening scene fresh in your head. These moments carry far more credibility than other buddy cop comedies that merely resort to a lazy visual difference between two leads to call it a racial allegory (I’m looking at you, Bright). Unbelievably, you forget that White people back in the early half of the 20th century refused physical contact with objects that Black people had touched, which still influences people now, even Starr’s White girlfriend who denies her discriminatory behavior. It’s just like how high schoolers in real life are still in the process of figuring out who their real friends are, a change forced onto Starr by a powerful motivational dad speech on the grass to remind her of what spite really means. Although a smaller cast in The Hate U Give would have allowed greater focus on Starr’s thought process, as unnecessary narrational exposition about these characters is abused to the point where they become nothing beyond words on a page. Give The Hate U Give a good watch however, then the neighborhood’s violent, originally peaceful, “Just Us for Justice” protest will assault the senses despite the mediocre characterizations. It turns especially effective because every individual actor marks clear motivations, especially the transparent Russell Hornsby (Fences) who holds the whole production together. The confused emotions pop up within the White characters too, as Chris’s peers accuse him of behaving Black, yet he misunderstands what Blackness really means. It’s the same level of detailing cultural relationships achieved in Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner? Little do I realize that The Hate U Give was speaking to me about my own prejudice I admit being guilty of. Here’s how: Before high school, I seldom saw differences between Black, Yellow, Red, Brown, White, or anything between. High school was when other non-Whites became the butt of jokes around my peers, until growing up made me realize how unacceptable it was. Now, I’ve been very, very conscious about my treatment of other Black people—even mentally tracking the times I physically touched one, thinking, “well, clearly, I’m not racist!” Except that thought process is racist, since it’s a special treatment that gives one specific attention because of their difference. Think of it in the way one with autism, such as myself, wants to be accepted like anyone else. Infants could call The Hate U Give flawless for this rare awareness that is difficult for a strong film to achieve, but like mentioned in paragraph 3, deeper analysis proves some flaws; an unnecessary flashback takes away the present-day conflict, accompanied by basic, overly sentimental music mixed in with complementary rap music. The jarring transitions by the editing inhibit focus on the implied Christian faith of Starr’s family, which needed to take center stage in an otherwise powerful depiction of the truth. Fork left in the road that is this film reel’s sidewalk, you must decide for yourself how to think after hearing some uncomfortable interpretations from The Hate U Give, such as Starr’s dad accusing Harry Potter of being a gang metaphor (kids separated by color to practice self-defense). In that same way, Starr’s life leans between the blue Catholic school (White world) and the orange neighborhood (Black world), two worlds colliding in an awkward moment when Dad meets Chris for the first time. It’s all a study of what really happens from the twinkling gaze of a teenager who watches a climax she can’t stop watching. Everybody makes mistakes that leave chaotic consequences; a prejudiced police officer shoots a man who may have shared blame by disrespecting the officer, which set off a chain of reactions on both sides that prove how hate has driven the United States down its own counterproductive hell hole.

Since first getting a Facebook account on August 2008, immediately before sophomore year of high school, my social media history has been an interesting one as it helped me tremendously with friendships. With ten years’ worth experience in the communal web, I can easily say Ralph Breaks the Internet can barely understand friendship, nor decide whether it prefers to sustain friendships in person or over technology. While there’s a place for it, the internet is also an easy place to start heated pointless arguments over whether Angelina Jolie or Alicia Vikander portrayed Lara Croft better. The problem is that this mega surface-level feature celebrates the fake glory of the impersonal digital saturation, giving greater development to the flat Disney princesses amplified by the trailers. The lack of real characterizations is covered up by blaring Demi Lovato’s “Let it Go“ rendition for the kids and throwing around pop culture gags for the parents. It isn’t always successful however, as some jokes, such as one 1960s Batman transition into princess pajamas, may bore parents with the inconsistent personality, while other pieces of dated media will confuse kids ten years from now. Other efforts to satisfy everyone with an otherwise fun musical number is less imaginative than any Disney classic readily available on Amazon Prime. While both Vanellope and Ralph do wind up tarnishing each other’s wobbly story arcs, everyone behind the microphones still express a new immersive side to social media, packed with one climactic animation achievement after another. While constant, the modern trends are still utilized to the best of the directors’ ability to push the plot forward, most effectively being the realistic graphics of modern online games that promise money. It sounds exactly how a civilized internet city would sound, including a “Which Disney Princess Are You” personality test interpreted as a game show, alongside some lickity-split live auctions at eBay. In between, the terrific Taraji P. Hensen, voice of the dysfunctional head running BuzzTube’s algorithms, graces the ears. It makes me anxious to see what LinkedIn would look like! These clever setups are all used to say that blocky video games ought to fear the internet, like how any common experience on Facebook starts wonderous, then defies expectations after going deeper. It’s demonstrated by Ralph and Vanellope’s first cheery impressions past the WiFi, the scariest the public web gets being a couple of Stormtrooper guards inside Oh My Disney dot com. Needed humanity furiously breathes in the always happy static web, particularly an “Ask Groot Anything” panel that even then isn’t nearly as hilarious as a post-credit scene that serves as a punchline to various humans controlling these tacky cube-headed avatars. With that level of passion in creativity, it’s forgivable that Disney fails to point out more of their own princess clichés without briefly embracing some racist stereotypes. Now, just one last tidbit of praise before getting to the meat of this movie’s issue: Sarah Silverman’s adorable liveliness as Vanellope allows the sweet moments between her and Ralph to shine, especially when she starts nervously glitching. It contrasts Bill Hader’s quickly paced newspaper boy voice of a spam bot, which is just one of many details that springs the vast world to glowing life. Okay now, back to my Facebook account, I would still be lost today without its convenience of helping me acquire better interpersonal sympathy. Hence, my understanding of people far surpasses how these screenwriters understood the logic of their script, which I would argue even matches the logic of that weird 1993 live action Super Mario Bros. adaptation. For the sake of plot convenience, Vanellope successfully drives a new car for the very first time, a level of carelessness that removes depth from the newer characters. Not to mention Disney’s familiar emotional beats are here without any genuine screenwriting risks taken. Laws seem pretty loosey-goosey around the world of Ralph and Vanellope’s arcade, with the sole security between them and the WiFi being a few police lines. Heck, the whole reason the two must go into the web in the first place is because the Sugar Rush track drove itself, causing the wheel to break, a fracture that has never happened before in the history of arcade games. There’s also a virus creator with a tumor-twin who becomes a butt for predictable tumor puns, and can simply conjure up viruses on a whim; shouldn’t dangerous virtual threats then happen more frequently? While we’re at discussion about our own world, which seems to be the subject of this movie, how is it Wreck-It Ralph doesn’t exist… yet all other Disney properties do? Somebody please explain the confusion!

“I like it when she puts her tongue inside me.” Yes, I crap you not: that’s a legitimate line heard in one of the Oscar frontrunners, one that I can even argue has a legitimate chance at winning the top prize of the night. It’s both your typical awards fare and everything against the Oscar tropes: it’s an early 18th century setting about a crabby old queen (okay, fine… she’s not that old, she’s like, 42) who suffers from gout, and features an actress in the lead who won a little golden naked man for playing a struggling actress. But you know what else this motion picture contains? A duck race, badger-style makeup, mud baths, fish-eye lenses, walls buried under tapestries, smoke rings, oranges thrown at a naked man in a pink wig, Emma Stone’s boobs, and lots of pet rabbits. Believe it or not, it’s bound to be The Favourite of the Academy. It’s miraculous to see how director Yorgos Lanthimos drags us down his rabbit hole to intoxicate us with his mad tea party where the hopping madness of the queen’s new servant (Stone) initiates an inconceivable battle of wits between herself and her cousin (Weisz). Every single frame looks like one of the numerous works of anti-art hung up in the queen’s castle, with doses of natural light used to illuminate the large interiors that tighten in on you through their arches. When there’s no sun available, candle lights are relied upon to darken the tone, making the women’s angst feel greater. Then when the perspective of the storytelling shifts into this new servant girl’s point of view, the proper look of the screen suddenly turns bulbous as if looking through the eyes ****. You really do feel like you’ve gone mad in Lanthimos’ not-so-wonderous land of hearts. What’s so grand about these three women fighting for power is that it all takes place in a single location, the only real change being the leisure outdoor bird-shooting. The bounding to the castle that almost feels like a character itself is a creative choice not implemented enough with other period pieces that instead decide to let the lavish sets and costumes take the narrative wheel. While these are still the best sets and costumes 2018 has had to offer, they never become the focus for a second. It’s all just a matter of escalating the three-way tension. Speaking of three-ways, I should forewarn you that there is plenty of lesbianism that these women share with one another. That is, the two servants fight for the affections of the queen, a fight that even turns near-fatal at one circumstance or another. Although, it’s worth noting by fact checkers that it was never 100% confirmed that Queen Anne was ever a lesbian, and implementing it as a core part of this story probably was not fair to do, especially while leaving out her real-life husband from the story who died before the events told here. Yet for what this film strove to do, it gladly did not fall into the trap of turning the lovemaking full-on steamy, just enough of it is shown to give the idea without detracting from what each character feels. Now, how should you feel as you watch The Favourite? Most likely, you’ll be rolling on the floor in laughter. I certainly was, maybe not literally, but next to Paddington 2, no other movie of 2018 made me laugh harder than this one. The eruptive line deliveries that the three women explode out of their vocal cords got the audience of my screening roaring with laughter as much as any other family comedy; what got me laughing the hardest was a wondrously bizarre dance that looked much like two courting geese. Oh, and the duck race at the beginning: that “quacked” me up quite a bit! Such a flavor for humor displays the film’s ironic mindset of mocking the mad British monarchy, for even now, just like hundreds of years ago, women wanting to strangle one another for power always gets out of hand. That doesn’t at all mean this movie is anti-men, anti-women, or anything even remote to that. It instead testifies to all women with given authority over men how they must honor their authority while also honoring one another. It’s not a manner of which one with the most prominent “V” should be at the top of the pyramid, it’s a manner of us all being together, aligned toward the same goal. Just to be plain, this movie is not for everyone. In fact, I say its totally bizarre narrative and tone makes it one of those movies only made to appeal to a select few who can appreciate its narrative approach. Odds are, a woman getting brutally scarred by a horse is not your idea of funny and watching two women feeling up one another is not the best way for you to see the dangers of women abusing their authority. That’s why extreme caution is advised, but that’s the way it should be. Yorgos Lanthimos’ newest masterwork is indeed a complicated movie about complicated topics and is not something anyone should think of taking lightly. Now, who wants some blue waffles?

Meet Frank “Tony Lip” Vallelonga, who back in 1962 was challenged to remain upright alongside greater authority against his will, except that isn’t clear from the shallow focus of Green Book. The real Tony had a marriage much like Clark Gable teaching Claudette Colbert how to hitchhike, but the crunched cinematic events with Tony’s wife, Dolores, move too quickly. Rather, focus falls more on getting to know Tony through travelling musician Don “Doc” Shirley, whom he drives across the country as his personal chauffer. While Tony takes on a stereotype reversal against his Italian blood, Dr. Shirley goes against Black stereotypes by his consistent calmness. Plus, the thinner Black companion writes better than the pudgy Italian, who is more familiar with Black musicians than the Black man is. By that retrospective, the Italian is internally Black, and the African is internally White. While Dr. Shirley loathes the prejudice of his new friend, he asks what defines “Blackness,” which turns out quite effective for us viewers to hear. So henceforth, dumb and smarter progress on a journey full of Kentucky Fried Chicken while everyone back at Tony’s home eats clams on spaghetti, all where you ache to see the resolution. Between each person, both from the ensemble and two leads, the details guarantee chuckles. One of those humorous touches that fuel the teal Cadillac toward its warm finale includes when Tony folds an entire pizza in half, then chomps down onto it, big. Even if counting the more dramatic moments, small moments put you on its side. These moments kick off instantly with a performance of, “That Old Black Magic” to open the feature, and the momentum of this small moment collection continues without halt. Yet here’s the problem with this well-meaning story structure: no big moment ties any reasonable story arcs together. From the main arc of Tony left in his own little universe, it just makes everybody else impossible to connect with, especially Dolores, who never succeeds to teach her husband anything valuable. While Don has the advantage of flaunting way more screen time, he’s no easier to relate to since he almost matches Jesus-levels of moral perfection, even though he’s clearly not. Case in point: this “king of the jungle” keeps ivory tusks as trophies, suggesting an engagement in illegal animal poaching. It’s particularly weird how this film aims for a PG-13 rating; there’s no reason for it to do so, for its lack of inappropriate content doesn’t mean teenagers will overlook the cheap production values. They’re still used to watching televised recreations of their own drama; most of them aren’t ready for a story like this. As for the parents, the moms won’t take such a boring character like Dolores seriously, since her makeup in bed after waking up still looks perfect! Many dads also won’t relate to Tony’s type of masculinity very well—one that always has a cigarette in his mouth of missorted life priorities. His pompous ego that shines through the symbolism of a stolen jade rock supposedly gets a change of heart once he listens to Don Shirley’s traveling band, except that impact is not felt from the audience’s perspective; the band in truth is about the same amount of fun to listen to as any old street musician. Many other missed opportunities prevent this picture’s intentional importance from resonating long term. Throughout his travels, Tony writes down that he is basking in the beauty of the US south… beauty that by the way seldom reveals itself to us viewers, as the image often lets a map visual take up space. It’s not just stylistic inconsistency that’s the problem, other glossed-over narrative points are missed to their advantage, particularly one hot dog eating contest. Among numerous incomplete philosophies that just fill up page space without a payoff later, one said by Tony includes, “whatever you do, do it 100%.” Pretty deep, ain’t it? At the end of the day, most of the characters in this feature just act racist without justification as they themselves become offensive caricatures, such as one White manager at a theater who refuses to clean a piano for Dr. Shirley’s performance. This overall attitude loses the impact upon Tony’s sin as racial connections overbear the focus in a way that feels manipulative rather than personal. Such shame-filled preaching lacks subtlety, particularly in a poorly executed scene when the Cadillac car breaks down beside the glares of Black field workers, a scene that served no real plot purpose. At this point, a boy taking out his anger through an imaginary tree monster would be better to watch than the skimmed long-stretching beauty of Green Book. I believe Mr. Vallelonga’s story might have been better if Participant Media focused more time on his home within the Bronx, that way we could see how Tony’s unemployment affected others around him.

As a middle-schooler, I was a real fan of the Sam Raimi Spider-Man trilogy, because unlike Batman, Superman, or my favorite crimefighters, the Teen Titans, Peter Parker articulated a truly identifiable humanity with his trials of mastering a new set of powers without help. Today, Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse accurately depicts more than just that: what it means to put on the red mask. It’s no secret, however, that superheroes give bad relationship advice, as Mary Jane Watson has always been so awful to Peter. Here, while there’s also a usual mentor relationship for Brooklyn teen Miles, things really get kicked off by his affection for Gwen Stacy, who mostly stands as a believable yet cheap love interest. She does get to become more of a character later, but the way she’s introduced isn’t enough to hook female viewers. Spider-Man is essentially worshipped as a god for everyone to submit their identities to, but this movie also tries to make us feel sad for the “humanized” villain, Kingpin, by giving him a forgettable tragic backstory. Any sadness attempted falls flat because it’s brought up using a noisy, hyper, seizure-inducing color spectrum; the worst possible method of entertaining kids. We perhaps are getting a taste of the dark cinematic superhero era of 1995, back when its insincere cheesiness peaked by a certain director whose name rhymes with Moel Bumacher. Although in this case, it works to its advantage, as some anime influence pops up by the visual of a spider on ultraviolet hallucinogens. Other old comic book imagery makes its way in, like yellow box text projecting Miles’ thoughts. There are plenty other creative spins to make this its own distinct identity, one that sprays graffiti paint over your own eyesight of Ben Parker’s “great power, great responsibility” quote. Miles’ extra-dimensional mentor, Mister Peter B. Parker, now hates Uncle Ben’s quote, so a new uncle figure (and aunt figure) arrive for a new 2018 audience. Such new changes to the formula help deliver an important new message to learn: You can’t save everybody. Regrettably, the screenwriters, which include Phil Lord of The LEGO Movie, couldn’t save their script. I know superhero worlds often embrace absurdity, except the logic of this superhero world matches a child’s mind, its coincidences removing justification of the ridiculous dialogue, particularly Miles’ incapacity to tell his dad he loves him. Also, Spider-Man comics exist within Miles’ world… for some unexplained reason. The poor writing goes to the unconvincing dialogue ruined all the further by overly dramatic music queueing in a surprise villain twist. These detriments to Miles’ character arc spark the numerous bad qualities of old comic books. That doesn’t mean the good visual qualities of old comic books are useless, quite the opposite in fact. As a response to his police officer father forcing him to attend “Visions Academy,” Miles appears to imagine the entire world as a comic book. Little “peck-peck-pecks” pop out of several pigeons in a sense of comic book cheesiness done correctly. While a retro battle against a giant Green Goblin takes on an old classic feel, a snow-ridden grave under flowers suggest influence from modern graphic novels. These moments all come together with a constant implementation of little vinyl dots across the screen to match an old comic strip on newsprint. Those little details balance the harshness of the past and harshness of the present, like cartoons birthing a “millenialized” baby boomer society to redefine heroism. Its satire of the Raimi trilogy comes full circle to be not just funny, but insightful, in what needs to change. To complete revisionist touches of the superhero icon’s maturation for our modern lens, the women get their chance to suit up, particularly Gwen Stacy and her accidentally awesome haircut; not to mention Doc Ock is now female! That means we ALL get a chance to be Spider-Man! Now, how am I Spider-Man? For one, the many difficulties come at times when helpful people aren’t always around. Example: Several months ago, I lost my wallet at the grocery story, so then began the recovery process by ordering a replacement driver’s license… which arrived a mere days before I found my wallet in the pantry. It’s a stupid moment of unnecessary freaking out, but sums up what 2018 was all about for me: becoming 100% financially dependent on myself in the same process of self-discovery and self-help that Peter Parker went through when he needed to become Spider-Man. And finally, I ought to point out how this movie tributes Stan Lee. Amid his recent death, Stan’s latest cameo gives the man great respect that would guarantee tears of joy.

It’s a delicate perspective that teaches the value of letting the mind drive the body, much like Roberto Benigni’s Life is Beautiful. Except now, it’s told through the eyes of a woman with minimal outward emotion expressed. Although it’s first important to know that this otherwise tremendous film in fact has a pretty bad screenplay; Roma is simply not personal enough with what it’s like for a single mother, considering nothing really happens to her, the grandmother, or the kids. They’re all emotionally distanced enigmas who pretty much just stand there as plot devices, not human beings. Rather, the focus remains on the house maid, Cleo, whose mental state is shown to be crucial to success. Watching this production through her memory of serving this family has very intelligent establishments, even focusing in on a faucet dripping that connects back to Cleo’s shallow yet stern boyfriend using a shower rod for martial arts while he’s naked. Throughout these memories of a woman who only remembers the harsh, colorless moments as a maid, the creation of 1970’s Mexican culture is valuable for everyone to see. Inside the family’s walls, the television sets and cinema are both critical influences within this narrative. Outside the family’s walls, hail falls after a critical scene to pelt Cleo’s head until it melts into beads of sweat as she glistens during a stressful scene of labor. It will be easy to remember these seemingly unimportant moments because director Alfonso Cuarón (Children of Men, Gravity) knows personally how crucial the brain is, so immediately during the opening credits, he commands total control within the screen by lingering on floor tile that becomes flooded with soapy water, which reflects an airplane in the sky. It’s a unique, provocative image specifically designed to be remembered, especially since that floor tile in the narrow driveway becomes a character that gives Cleo enough reason to enjoy being dead… truly amazing how Cuarón can do that. In the narrow driveway, Cleo first sees the father of the family, as introduced by his car before any face is revealed. While it consequently means nobody in the film is easy to connect with like a new close friendship, the soul breaks through to spark the memory of how several young women would see their father during dark trials. Then Cuarón goes right from here to give information about the family through the young boys playing with guns, which seems like nothing at first, but carefully doses some foreshadowing toward an eventual street riot. Even when things get chaotic, Cuarón keeps quiet spectacle going louder than any James Bond movie, to the point when even the performances shine when the camera lingers on the details of the home. He doesn’t need all these closeups, but naturally keeps his actors on the same page as they make art out of the problematic script. The tone remains quiet as the camera very slowly pans through Cleo turning off all the lights downstairs before bed, which makes a powerful ocean moment near the very end permanently impressionable. Many scenes, especially that one, are all in one long take that allows the lush black and white imagery to test your eyes. In the end, the imagery goes beyond just being mere pixels on a screen—but the memories shared in the same way somebody in Cleo’s predicament would remember it, making you and her one in body and spirit. That doesn’t mean this movie is for everybody. In fact, if you’re looking for something relatable in the instantly approachable sense, then the screenplay written by Alfonso Cuarón will not help. Unlike what the final moments of the film suggest, the idea never gets across that Cleo was ever a real sincere part of the family she serves. While it’s verbally communicated satisfactorily, it has much more potential than the final product. There are no real personal moments between Cleo and each of the family members to give you a clear sense of what their individual relationships are like, nor are there real personal moments between the sons and daughter, like this film pretends are there. It ultimately results in an incorrect message that humanity just exists without an end goal, that people might as well be passive since nothing we do really matters. That henceforth categorizes Roma as a, “you either love it or you don’t” type of movie. That’s much what many of the old classics from the 1950s is like. For myself, after watching Roman Holiday, despite everyone calling it one of the greatest romantic comedies in history, I basically just went, “meh, now I can at least say I’ve seen it.” But there’s still an audience for it, as I know of an author in the UK who loves that movie! That’s how it will be for this film: If it doesn’t sound appealing, then you can look elsewhere for other experimental films that satisfy your taste buds.

We all must use our best traits of excellence, as passion plus skill equals impact beyond the grave, sustaining the salt of the earth and the light of the world. True to the expectation of our existence, Bradley Cooper’s directorial debut brings everything he excels at in updating the tragically romantic classic A Star is Born for the 21st century. Before seeing this movie, the horrible, mega cheesy trailer got me worried, I thought despite all the early Oscar attention, this might match The Greatest Showman’s quality, thankfully I was wrong. In fact, beyond just making a dang enjoyable film, the three-time Academy Award nominee exploits his clear skill in acting, singing, and directing. Bradley enhances his reputation beyond just the sincere tear drips he controls, but also shows a grand soul at a small-scale production size that proves bigger is not always better, unless that bigger thing is the heart. This character of his that represents all of Arizona shares marvelous chemistry alongside Lady Gaga enough to deeply move her performance in a way that will inspire any women watching. The famous pop singer first croons down a dark alley to communicate pain whilst the memorable title card comes up, then tops it off with a heavy-hitting finale she put her entire self into. It’s honestly such a joy to see the similar journey these two love-birds go through, even proving how a conversation about some random bag of frozen peas goes a long way. Almost the rest of the whole cast puts their best foot forward, including the briefly present comedian Dave Chappelle, whose realistic speech further justifies our care about the main couple. That doesn’t include everyone though, as Rafi Gavron proves unoriginality on the screen he ought to avoid from here on out. This “actor” plays a British guy who serves an antagonistic force with an accent that suggests slight racism. Along with its misrepresentation of those from the UK, there is also a missed opportunity for Mexican representation, considering its Southern US setting, to make this reflect more close-to-home our culture nowadays; look at No Country for Old Men to see Mexicans portrayed in a much timelier fashion. Although Americans are represented terrifically, as their culture is shown through all the small moments. Much like the mass obsession of appearance, Lady Gaga’s big nose is emphasized, which her character thinks roadblocks her road to fame. Then once her pain is justified, Gaga’s singing no longer sounds 100% pitch perfect, as her voice often cracks as she belts in front of the crowd. Normally, this would prove unprofessionalism, but in this case, our given perspective enables insight on her vulnerability as a growing celebrity. Then away from the spotlight, cute memories are lingered on between the two: peeling off artificial eyebrows, smearing pie on face, moments that naturally trigger laughter with sincerity surpassed beyond any West Side Story duet. Yet not every moment helps refine the final product, for editor Jay Cassidy (Into the Wild, Silver Linings Playbook) rushes things carelessly to lay out little time passage around some life milestones that come off as ineffective. One unimportant component lingered on includes the usage of old people for the comic relief of misunderstanding technology, which really should have been cut entirely to help the obtrusive scene-to-scene transitions not feel cut too short. Essentially, it just means this movie has a mind on featuring the world of fame with insurmountable depth. Instead of brash outfits, the costume designer Erin Benach (Drive, The Neon Demon) clearly understands how color complements human form. For instance, Lady Gaga at one point dyes her hair bright ginger, a rags-to-riches transition Benach accommodates to without being over-the-top lavish. Especially when inside the bathroom, the wardrobe remains quiet enough to even make Gaga’s stark work uniform resemble a limiting straitjacket before meeting her beau. The costumes never call attention to themselves, as the noise depicted by the massive shaky-cam is relied upon instead to bulge out the true emotions. In any other project, this technique would come off as amateurish, but here, it helps authenticate every performance, especially when the energetic stage lights illuminate the steam to represent self-expression, achieving whatever 1980s feature-length music videos (Dirty Dancing for instance) attempted. Yes, A Star is Born is seriously worth glowing on about, even though everything beforehand worked against me having a good time; my ticket was paid out of pocket since MoviePass went flat-out faulty on a night the theater was so packed I had to sit third row from the screen. Yet miraculously, this piece of entertainment, like the passion in superb gifts, left an ultimate impact that knows how to salt the earth and enlighten the world with others who hope to do great.

When I first saw the trailers to both The LEGO Movie and Zootopia, each to me looked childish with humor practically designed to annoy me, then once seeing them respectively after the overwhelming praise came in, wow: the incredible comedic depth of The LEGO Movie blew me away, while Zootopia easily became my favorite movie of 2016! I was so impressed by how both communicated deep political themes in a fashion that kids can understand, something more animated films need to pay more attention to. How does that relate to Smallfoot? Well, from the trailer alone, I expected surface-level substance made just for kids and nobody else, and the finished product is in fact a bit more than that. While not better than The LEGO Movie or Zootopia, the Warner Animation Group still provide surprisingly deep social commentary about border control, abuse of the working class, communication with differences, and even past religious influence on an economic climate. The pale blue yeti colony upon a Himalayan mountaintop are not like the rising and setting sun they worship, they follow a strict belief system written on stone tablets; if it’s not written in stone (literally), it’s false. Yes, even if it means the stones say a yak’s anus created their mountain which giant mammoths hold up on their backs, they believe it. These folks are under the rule of a Stonekeeper who wears these laws. Those rough ancient stones make the Stonekeeper appear clung to past ideas that weigh him down, along with every worker who labor for nothing but to cover up a big political lie that could explain why there’s more clouds in the sky. That doesn’t make this land any more believable unfortunately: within this ice-behemoth utopia, the mammoths are dogs and the snails are lamps, which proves nothing more than servitude for the convenience of gags over common sense, much like any computer animation studio that isn’t Disney or Pixar. Anyhow, the main character of the story, Migo, has a father who holds a crucial duty of headbutting a giant gong via slingshot morning after morning to wake the giant snail (sun) in the sky. His head is flattened from continual gong striking—a hazardous old tradition that Migo will someday assume. That’s why he feels a calling to something greater, something new, something that… starts with a slow-motion pratfall when he slips on snow. Yeah… there’s still a lot of cheap humor that makes the first two acts a little tedious. The blandness of the feature gets to be a bit more noticeable once Migo meets a human named Percy, or the mythical “smallfoot.” A language barrier prevents proper communication between these two as an attempt to drive the film’s heart, although not enough boosts their bond to the extent of WALL-E and EVE. At least the architecture of rock murals influenced by the yetis’ mythological beliefs give some extra meaning in the visuals, including a yellow butterfly (representing new thinking) frozen inside a blue icicle (representing old thinking) focused on during one musical number. Yes, there’s numerous dull songs scattered throughout as if an attempt to rip off Disney, none of which are a “Circle of Life” or “Hakuna Matata” kind of deal. The staging of these songs is unimaginative too, as Percy at one point leads a love song surrounded by YouTube videos against blackness, which just looks forced. Also, the Stonekeeper raps, which doesn’t make sense considering he would have no way of knowing what such a music genre is. As much as the artists try to convey a love for nature, it can’t lift a story dragged by a constantly quick pace. Though the well-done animation itself does masterfully blow Migo’s hair to a thick blizzard that blankets the view, much more attractive than anything similar from twenty years ago. Plus, the facial expressions are just right, unhidden and memorable to enhance some nice laughs scattered throughout. One of the more notable examples includes a toilet paper roll dubbed a “scroll of invisible wisdom,” plenty funny enough to sustain excitement. But those genuinely funny moments are far from consistent, as the poor directorial pacing ends numerous jokes way too soon for an effective punchline. The direction suffers a bit too from the painful slapstick that defies physics: Migo’s rubbery body survives falling 500 feet then getting sandwiched between two rock pillars. Yeah, it’s a cartoon, but such a lack of care in establishing real danger removes all tension. That’s really the whole kit-and-kaboodle of Smallfoot: despite how its main human character plans to fake yeti sightings for the sake of viewers, there’s still the other useless plot devices, such as a dead mother, that stop this butterfly from fully emerging from its chrysalis. Therefore, the harmless entertainment will keep the kids entertained, with just enough depth to make the parents not tear their hair out; and that’s the truth.

In just one month, it will be time to hand candy out to kids at your door wearing cheap costumes. It will be time to pull out the Halloween classics: Hocus Pocus, The Nightmare Before Christmas, just to name a few. Those seasonal favorites are admittedly low in artistic quality, and The House with a Clock in Its Walls is no exception as it takes a similar tone to the numerous quirks of Halloween-ish children’s entertainment. Yet despite this completely ridiculous plot reliant on gags over sensical situations, a decade or two from now a cult following could very well be picked up amongst a full generation! I was ready to hate this goofy family entertainment much like I did A Wrinkle in Time, but for some outlandish reason, I found a soft spot for this flawed motion picture despite the MANY unmotivated performances that lowered the quality. I somehow don’t mind the bad acting and dialogue, because the twistedly magical artistic scale so strongly amplifies the size of the orphan protagonist, Lewis’s new teeny tiny house. In his new home, he along with his uncle (Jack Black) and neighbor (Cate Blanchett) must embrace a common concept of being the family’s black swan, since they each share a weirdness outside their front porch adorned with jack-o-lanterns. With trusty goggles, Lewis takes on an indominable insect virtue, his little ant size made smaller by the mundane brown hues of his school. But that’s still quite tame compared to a climactic lunar eclipse that eventually casts a giant blood red tint across the screen to tear down all life. It’s certainly a wicked sense of cinematic appeal, but this glamorous fantasy also beautifies witchcraft, even giving a tutorial of blood payment that shows young minds how cultic practices works. At a more personal level, some of the more tasteless jokes include lingering on one slow boy on crutches in gym class, who gets lightly mocked, “good hustle” by the coach. Thus, viewer discretion is advised. But hey, at least it’s funny as expected, once Jack Black pulls out a saxophone solo, dogs start howling while his live griffin bush covers its ears. Then that griffin bush, as if it were the family cat, poops into the backyard pond against its master’s orders, which sounds gross, but personally got a decent laugh out of me. But this mock Addams Family also stays grounded into reality with the appropriate 1950s tunes, until the heartbeats behind the moonlit walls tick-tock to set off the inner adrenaline. It’s a nice balance between funny filler guaranteed to entertain kids, and fun unsettlement from the perspective of a poor little orphan. Yet despite the frightening imagery, it’s very unlikely that kids will relate to this style over substance experience. The boys have Lewis to connect with, who doesn’t have that much of a personality anyway, but the girls have no characters to relate to except one pointless girl from Lewis’ school who is around for approximately three scenes. She’s also one of the worst actors in the film, almost like they brought out a crew member’s daughter last minute. The adults are not out of the clear in being easily relatable either, as none of the veteran actors receive proper direction to be anything but doofuses. Case in point: there is a montage that forces Jack Black to levitate, which is admittedly a funny scene, but the wires he dangles on are obvious to notice, much like Winona Ryder “levitating” at the very end of Beetlejuice. The cast members simply can’t enlighten the awful screenplay, since when the writing doesn’t abuse plot driven exposition through film reels, it implants bothersome name-calling between Jack and Cate that concludes its arc with a tossed around sense of heart. Now Cate, I particularly detested in this feature, she is supposedly written to be a “new” mother figure to Lewis but can’t generate sincere drama with a voice of reason. However, Cate still doesn’t annoy as much as Owen Vaccaro as Lewis, who overacts to force everyone’s attention on him, screaming loud enough to crack cement. He doesn’t even give a hint of emotion to hearing that this new uncle he’s living with has complete freedom of house rules. These visions he has at night of his dead mother are particularly hard to watch, as the actress playing her just stares at what seems like a total stranger, not who is supposedly her own son. Yeah, unfortunately, aside from Jack Black (who even then is mediocre at best), I have virtually nothing nice to say about any of the actors or actresses in this entire feature. Despite the fun I had while watching this, understand that it’s still my job to discuss the negative qualities of every film I review. So odds are, you aren’t missing anything with The House with a Clock in Its Walls, but if you’re willing to take a chance, it could very well be the perfect jumpstart to your Halloween!

Sure, it’s got lots of pretty clothes that would be the hotspot sale on Black Friday. Sure, it’s got Anna Kendrick, whom many say is a role model because of her outer beauty. But you know what? Neither of those things matter, because they’re relied on to hold up a film high in fructose. The sugar of A Simple Favor may taste sweet, except the rush of its evil intentions churns regret once your health turns detrimental after swallowing its poorly put together eye candy. ​ At least the candy does look sweet in its display case; the makeup crew demonstrate tremendous effort to bring out Anna Kendrick’s beauty with or without mascara. The costume designer Renee Ehrlich Kalfus (The Cider House Rules, Hidden Figures) also complements the Pitch Perfect star well while keeping it supportive toward the narrative. Kalfus dresses Anna in a big yellow jacket to divert our attention from any covered-up intentions, just one of the many popping colors that complement the film’s desired retro style. The look remains consistent right from the opening credits that flash against zesty Spanish music, carrying on these sharp colors to contrast two sides of our ideal 2018 American woman. On one end, there are Anna Kendrick’s cutesy Pinterest mom DIY projects. On the other, there is Blake Lively’s aesthetics of a woman paid more than a man. Now as for the costar’s character, Blake first appears with high heels pounding on wet cement, a growing image of sophistication that still can’t match the size of her secretive closet. Between these two, they supposedly become close friends after knowing each other for just a couple of days, as represented by a friendship bracelet Anna makes for Blake. No, it doesn’t matter if Blake has a painting of her “pet beaver” in the living room, there’s just something about these two that meshes well. There’s where the problem with this film starts. The two leads’ “close” friendship of what looks like two days is never believable, mainly because of the awful writing void of any believable grief that gives neither actress any depth to work off. Blake Lively’s character is merely overpowered, but even if this had the best writer in the world, it wouldn’t help much. Blake just puts on her own show without any chemistry with anyone in the cast. Odds are, she decided to play a mother who chugs alcohol around little kids by merely acting as if drunk on a typical Saturday night. In fact, there was probably some alcohol hopping all over the sets during the production, as it appears these producers like to annihilate a child’s innocence by making one little boy drop an F-bomb hard. That’s fine if it serves story purpose, except it doesn’t, it just comes off forced and lazy, and nobody seemed to bother giving the child actor any context of what he was screaming. There literally is no other attention to story anywhere else, as one missed opportunity for clever symbolism sticks out: after one police officer mentions following metaphorical bread crumbs to solve a case, the very next scene features Caesar salad with bread crumbs in it. It tries to connect to a Hansel & Gretel scenario where Anna feels like the two children inside Blake the witch’s mega-expensive gingerbread house of a home, unfortunately that piece of symbolism has no payoff. In addition, many unnecessary flashbacks get explained again the same way immediately after thrown into the final edit. As if the storytelling isn’t lazy enough, Anna claims to be a “struggling” single mom—yet can purchase expensive technology for her mommy vlog… and the occasional spy equipment. Can’t make this stuff up, folks! In most every role Anna plays nowadays, she’s either a clueless love interest (like in The Accountant) or “Slutty McSlut-slut,” (like in Mike and Dave Need Wedding Dates) but here, Anna combines the cluelessness with the sex-object in a way that thinks it’s so classy. Part of the problem is that most of the project’s other creative minds have comedic backgrounds, resulting in a collaborated direction that moves too quick, and Anna, unfortunately, being the leading role, gets the last laugh. If these producers wanted to cast her purely for the marketing, they didn’t even do that right! Case in point: the little black dress Anna wears in the poster is never shown in the movie itself—just a longer version of it. Hey, got to show those legs to lure in those box office numbers! There truly is evil lurking everywhere in this wannabee thriller with an ultimate intent on not suspense, but advertising whatever the celebs are wearing. So, do yourself A Simple Favor by avoiding this Macy’s commercial.

Daily, parents are left traumatized when their teenage sons and daughters go missing, a reality that Searching covers all on a computer owned by a single father named David. It starts with a montage of his old home videos that he stores into his desktop files, including Margot’s daily 5pm piano with mom. These moments appear sweet until his wife acquires lymphoma, her return home date delayed until finally getting deleted. Then before this thriller kicks off the thrills, the sound design first calms down the mood with a YouTube video of peaceful music that David plays. This creative choice implemented within the soundtrack works well to soothe before the storm. Then a screensaver fills up the entire frame to express time passage—a phone call alert pops up, the dad is asleep, and boom: his daughter, Margot, is gone. After the production crew ensures realism to a relative’s death, the far more private, personal side of it is shown instead of the outside assumption of what cancer is like. The haunts of the aftermath reveal themselves when David copies memories including Margot’s first day of school and her first piano lesson, once cheerful memories now too painful to relive. Other instantly relatable moments include his constant passive-aggressive reminders for Margot to empty the trash. This appears on FaceTime by the way, which controls all the personal interactions in this feature, a much closer to home way of communicating than a mere ordinary scene would have accomplished. You may not know one of your close friends or relatives copy his home tapes to his other private folders, as David does, but there are many similar unknown facts about people you know, as this film addresses. In fact, people nowadays may as well not have a concrete identity anymore, since in this fictional case file, no characters are actually ever seen, just pixelated versions of themselves adapted to fit the social platform. You easily comprehend David‘s guilt, thanks to the gradually escalating score, one that establishes danger when he sees some guy with a hookah commenting on Margot’s Instagram posts, including one eggplant emoji comment. Without the audio work, this would be just another account found on social media, yet concerning Margot’s unawareness of this guy’s suspected intentions; it turns truthful to how most sexual exploitation starts. Other tiny details express complete knowledge of youth culture from the committed screenwriters; during one conversation Margot has with a stranger online, she’s asked her favorite Pokémon; her answer is Uxie, a memory-eraser, the other says her favorite Pokémon is Kecleon, which changes color to disappear. Amazing how those two Pokémon choices fit perfectly what these two online interactors want to do to themselves! Although it’s essential to bring up that this is the first feature film of director Aneesh Chaganty, and although he put in a good effort, he’s still got room for improvement. If there’s anything this movie is merely decent at rather than tremendous at, it’s the rather overlooked world building possibilities from inside the restrictive rooms the FaceTime callers sit in. Not much is done to utilize the background elements to give crucial information about the characters, and the random use of color for the sets doesn’t generate enough claustrophobia. When the screen is not focused on the FaceTime calls, an apparent lack of mastery in this type of space resorts to cropping in on certain elements of a webpage, which extinguishes the feel of being on your own laptop this film clearly intends. Though despite those rather minor criticisms, genuine stress still leaves an impact by the familiar circumstances, including when Margot doesn’t answer her dad’s many texts. In another scenario, it could mean a delayed response, but here, it could be she ran away. Just his typing speed alone sparks the clear injustice, especially when revisiting the account of David’s dead wife, which hasn’t been logged onto for 694 days. That is why the montage in the beginning supports the emotional impact so well, because after given a chance to cry, you thus genuinely hope to see David get back all he has left. But there’s no predictability in his mission to find his daughter: once the direction seems easy to figure out, it changes suddenly and constantly until the tension concludes. The tension is all thanks to how the final edit mixes in news footage to resemble an FBI case file compilation, structured appropriately by co-writer Sev Ohanian (second feature film) so that you naturally want Margot to be found. To stop future crises like this one from happening again, parents and children likewise need to know what goes on with each other. Lack of availability can mark the difference between two crucial seconds, which means minorities nowadays should stop being so shut away from parents. Please do the same.

I understand why this became among the summer’s hottest hits, its entertaining, funny story defies the overly White image of Hollywood, and appeals to the deepest desires of everyone who love seeing rich movie characters living an ideal lifestyle. Does that automatically label Crazy Rich Asians as decent? Well, it does keep to a standard no-risk level like that of any romantic comedy released during the summer, although it still got its various charms… The protagonist, Rachel, a first-generation Chinese American, has been named a “banana,” yellow on the outside, White on the inside, with an appearance to match her situation perfectly; her hairstyle resembles a classic US magazine fashion cover, though she being middle class still looks ordinary enough. Her façade works once she travels with her boyfriend, Nick, to Singapore, where everyone she meets has a more sophisticated standard of beauty. That goes as well to her old blonde friend she visits, played by the funniest actress, Awkwafina, who is a pure gold persimmon: yellow inside and out. You feel Rachel’s awkwardness when she meets the world of wealthy living, which helps later as it justifies when her heart gets broken. It comes in a situation for her when everyone is having a wonderful time celebrating the room’s most adorable couple, yet she’s too caught up in her own trouble to pretend she’s happy too. Here, a devastatingly strong #MeToo moment informs you why many, such as her mother, come to America from other countries. I can’t really call it effective in the long run however, because the filmmaking is as bland as every rom-com ever made. Any hint of visual creativity from the cinematography is in a zesty montage of stylish modern text graphics, a creative oversaturated style never done again later. In fact, the montage is unfit for the film’s intentional feel of sophisticated living contrasted against poor living. The experience consequently feels far more American than Asian, especially with how the events play out, when personal pleasure (an American value) is proven to be greater than family (an Asian value- the movie’s words, not mine). No amount of joyless establishing shots relishing in Singapore’s great landmarks can make this film any less American than it clearly is. In fact, the finished product didn’t really need a PG-13 rating, nor should have it aimed for one, because the subject matter would most likely bore teenagers into scrolling through Instagram while still in the theater. An R-rating honestly would’ve resulted in a sincerer telling of the events without the pressure to win over a wide family market. With that pressure present, the script based on Kevin Kwan’s novel presses a hypocritical theme irrelevant to older generations, saying that being young, rich, and beautiful is more important than family. To shut older viewers off even more, anybody over the age of fifty acts either cold, goofy, or one of those two traits one act then another the next. But to be fair, when it comes to portraying the look of rich people in Singapore, the costumes’ grandness comes off very much authentic. Costume designer Mary E. Vogt honors Chinese culture with several clever details coming straight out of Chinese culture: Blue and white is for Chinese funerals, and Red represents fertility! You are guaranteed to keep track easily of everything the characters wear, which helps strengthen the comedy since everyone is so identifiable. I should also comment on the bride’s blooming dress, a true work of craftmanship that along with water glistening the isle she walks across, and artificial fireflies held by the crowd, took my breath away! It’s things like this that tempts me to travel to Singapore, as Jon M. Chu’s direction shows clear love to its tourist destinations, especially with the attention put into crustacean meals and closeup shots on dumpling making! But at the same time, I must remind myself that the food lingered on results from a dreadful editing job, one so bad that it even overlooks when hands change positions between shots! I can only imagine how many meaningful scenes of Rachel meeting Nick’s relatives landed on the cutting room floor for tourist servitude. Worst of all, just when you think the picture will end in a different, mature way from other fantasy-driven romantic comedies, nope! The entire last five minutes suddenly hammers a dumb Hollywood climax, one that could’ve and should’ve been cut to better results. Now listen, you can still celebrate the diversifying of Hollywood, yet there’s something non-race related about this movie I want to make very clear: Unlike what Crazy Rich Asians thinks, you don’t need a fancy dress to be happy, because true joy comes from your loved ones. A wedding involves not cake or decorations but binding together a couple who deeply loves each other. Anything physical lasts one day. A marriage lasts a lifetime.

Kidding? I’m not right now. Racial tensions are still as horrific as ever, it now seems every month there is a new film made to empower Black people while exploring those unjustified relations between them and White people. So appropriately enough, filmmaking legend Spike Lee gives us BlacKkKlansman to explore those very relations in a time when White cops kill innocent Blacks like dogs. Even when history books have records of the “Black Panther Party” threatening the United States back in the 1970s, the message is clear: We need to stop and learn from our historical darkness. Kicking the can more, this film has a humorous plot scenario pulled straight out of real life: a Black guy applies to be a cop, leading him to work undercover. Essentially, he pretends to be White on the phone as he speaks to the leaders of a secret Ku Klux Klan organization, leading to that undercover investigation where his White partner pretends to be him. Beyond the mere ironic comedy, this Klan’s planned massacre of Blacks becomes quite disturbing as they are seen praying to God, complete with an oil anointment before they do their cross burning. This new Boston Tea Party as they call it is all a part of their plan to make America achieve its greatness again… because apparently they made America and must keep it for themselves. That mindset is visualized by a stain glass window with the words “Thine O Lord is the Victory” behind those who think they understand God’s will, but truly have the knowledge of a snowflake. Key here may be Spike Lee’s history of exploring Blackness in America, but he’s trying way too hard to connect the early 1970s to today. That especially goes this movie’s historical inaccuracy, “Stallworth's real colleague wasn't called Flip Zimmerman - his true identity remains a mystery, in accounts known only as Chuck - and there's no indication that he was Jewish.” (ScreenRant) At least the expert acting is easy to like, as nobody ever tarries in their performances, always racing on their palms to let the true soul of Blackness come out. Yet I most want to commend how Paul Walter Hauser particularly confronts his role well as a Klansman damaged beyond repair, like he’s half-a-man dragged down onto the cement pavement. Klans such as this one will certainly give anyone watching strong opinions, just don’t expect that to mean the character arcs will be the thing to **** you in to this film’s humanity. While effective, the main romantic subplot was unnecessary in influencing the protagonist or reconnecting him much with Black culture. His partners in crime also don’t seem influenced much by being involved with the Klan during their undercover case. Those Klansmen they bamboozle likewise are not multidimensional enough with clear fears written down on paper. Kennedy would not have wanted to see this type of future after being assassinated in his Ford, but it happened, as the sincere nature of this film is kept through an inspirational speech at the Black Student Union of Colorado College. This whole scene helps you to listen, then the script hops right back onto its tongue-in-cheek humor, including how Blacks pronouncing “are” as “are-uh” puts a halt in our understanding. Then topping all the memorable lines off in the cleverly detailed dialogue is an awesome phone call that speaks fluent Jive, a very lively form of English! But the artistic language rich with racial segregation sadly is not helped by the handheld camera that could very well been supported by a gorilla. King Kong may have had a bit of word to say in the editing and cinematography, but that’s not what will affect you the most while watching… it will be the realism. You’ll feel disturbed to see this KKK’s gunfire practice use targets of running black silhouettes in the autumn forest, but not nearly as much so as when these events connect straight to The Birth of a Nation, which the Klan reacts to with thunderous applause. Overall, the right perspectives are told from Ron Stallworth’s autobiography that will live on once he’s nothing more than a casket and bones. Really though, while it means well, BlacKkKlansman paints an unintentionally immoral portrait of Spike Lee’s ideal America where any motivation by God is just a fuel for racism. Apparently, it’s all about humanism, but the Klan proves that we should not rely on ourselves, as its unnecessarily preachy final sequence proves: a series of modern day news footage showing the destruction caused by Black Lives Matter, not secretive about hatred towards our president. On top of that, this movie claims to be “based on some fo' real, fo' real ****" except it’s not, plenty of it is made up. So, with that put, this film’s message of relying on ourselves contradicts itself in a way. Likewise, you’d be better off living today for love, not rebellion, with the capacity to work of a donkey and the wise strength of an elephant.

Ever since Kindergarten, a guardian angel figure has been watching over me, and no, it was not the Winnie-the-Pooh VHS tapes I rented and replayed every day, like I thought at the time. Despite always yearning to play with toys on my own again, today, I must take on responsibility, as that’s what grownups do, naturally. What/who was that figure then? I will answer as I discuss Disney’s own modern live-action take on that bear of very little brain. ​ Just sitting through Christopher Robin proved to me that I need to grow past my old guardian angel assumptions, as it pains me to say this now joins A Wrinkle In Time as the most unbearable 2018 movie I’ve undergone thus far. After this torturous money-maker first glosses past Christopher’s childhood memories, Disney proceeds to tells kids whatever they enjoy hearing so that they beg for more toys from dad’s wallet. The low effort shows, mainly by how off Piglet’s voice sounds compared to his cartoon counterpart, and how Rabbit’s voice sounds way too Pooh-ish. If the CGI plushies weren’t strange enough, fake news also disgraces the real Christopher Robin Milne, starting with the names of his wife and daughter. In real life, his wife’s name was Lesley de Selincourt, not Evelyn, whom he married in 1948, not 1944 like this movie states. During brief flashbacks of Christopher in class, he doodles Pooh and friends in his notebook, something the true Mr. Milne would never have done, since he in truth hated the books his father wrote about him. “Entering boarding school at age 9, Christopher Robin had a full-fledged ‘love-hate relationship with my fictional namesake’ that continued into adulthood, he wrote in his 1974 memoir The Enchanted Places.” (Country Living) Overall, Disney shows greater loyalty to A.A. Milne’s books that he wrote to take advantage of his son, turning him into a victim of fame at a disturbingly young age. Having learned more about the real Christopher Robin, I now feel ashamed for ever loving the Disneyfied Winnie-the-Pooh, as if I was a part of face-slapping Christopher Milne’s memory hard. On top of this motion picture’s skewing of reality, Ewan McGregor plays his inconsistent role inconsistently off a nonsensible script that relies on coincidences. Sure, there might be great costumes with fun details, including Madeline’s classic Mary Janes that look like Christopher Robin’s, yet the film’s editor allows nary a good chance for you to spot them. Besides the countless unfinished staging of elements, several of them feel out of place, particularly an underwater dream sequence of a heffalump (which is really just a plain old regular elephant head). Most of the blame goes to the messy directing; director Marc Forster crops way too close to human faces with a handheld motion sickness camera. Even worse, the entire image always looks gloomy throughout cheery scenes with an odd magenta hue. Not even the directed humor works, for certain jokes, particularly one about lipreading from behind noise-proof glass, reaches no punchline. It’s just a setup, anticipation built up, then... nothing. The joke is forgotten. Forget anything unique about anything having to do with this film either, as it essentially steals Hook’s plot scenario, complete with the line from that movie, “I lost my marbles.” If you crave a nice personal experience, run away, for the Robin family’s communication here feature absolutely cringeworthy dialogue. Essentially, the overworked man spends too little quality family time, although hardly any information comes across about details of his bond with his wife or daughter before he took his job. It basically makes the wife comes across too much as a servant to her husband, just to make more room for Pooh’s bothersome antics to command your focus. Consequently, it turns its World War II backdrop into a cheap plot device, because apparently those millions of lives lost are less important than a red balloon. I don’t think that’s what Disney intended to say, but their carelessness certainly made it come off that we must never anticipate tragedy, but instead a problem-free life. Unlike this mindset, love blooms from small shared moments. As a child, it’s a red balloon. As an adult, it’s buying your friend’s lunch. Depend on whoever can bring out your best self, not the smooth-talking of the Mouse House that exploits the susceptible child inside each of us. I hence take these new lessons on old ideas to improve larger times; no guardian angel is stuff and fluff, but flesh and blood beings. Therefore, my guardian angel comes from those loved ones who can nurture me using our mutual need: sweet shared memories. Christopher Robin does the complete opposite.

Dear readers, surely you know that today’s youth carry a huge responsibility ahead of themselves that often goes against their personal commitment to please people, a struggle that stems from their pressures to fit in. It’s a difficult task to explore the crisis kids today face, yet first-time director Bo Burnham miraculously succeeded! Although you first may wonder, “is this R-rated work teen-appropriate?” Well, for fair warning, most teenagers might be too young to maturely discuss the more adult content (language, blow jobs), although I still encourage anyone older than eighteen to watch Eighth Grade because it is filled with wisdom about what it’s really like to grow up in the millennial age. Clever filmmaking tricks seldom strive to wow us, its most ambitious technique being its simple focus on the glowing screen of the protagonist, eighth-grader Kayla. After dad jump-scares her while she scrolls through Instagram, Kayla’s phone cracks quite heavily, and your view of her social media presence turns disturbed for the remainder of the run time. When not filtered through the internet, Kayla instead comes off as nothing short of awkward. No Hollywood plastering here: the intense facial focus amplifies Kayla’s countable zits on her face. Her increased pressures compel Kayla to post a series of YouTube advice videos, one of which opens the feature much like the first scene of Annie Hall. She gives some great advice, including how the “school you” differentiates the “pool you” and the “movie you,” so you must reach out to let everyone know the full “real you,” a point she proves by going out to sing karaoke despite her nervousness. Then each video ends with her signature phrase, “Gucci!” Except does anybody watch her vlog? It doesn’t matter a whole lot anyway, because Kayla doesn’t make her videos because others need advice, but because she must hear herself think as she goes through these troubles herself. Away from social media, Kayla follows a makeup tutorial in front of her motivational sticky note-bordered mirror, so that she can then post it on Instagram as a lame post-makeup-application “just woke up like this” post. Sadly though, it can’t compensate for her class voting her, “most quiet.” As her last week of middle school drags on, you look past her embodiment through significant mundaneness, particularly with how her earbud music overpowers her dad’s voice. True to that style, raucous sound plays before she enters dangerous territory of a birthday party seeing her swimsuit body. To more brilliant results, the dialogue complements maturation through awkward conversations, such as Kayla’s hilarious discomfort of a blow job tutorial. Whether it’s the dabbing old principal, or how various social media platforms define middle schoolers from high schoolers, or the single most realistic first date on film ever, humor stays consistent. But then all humor stops suddenly altogether in a clear #MeToo moment that forces you to hold your breath out of fear. So, jokes aside, this complete ninety-three-minute outline of puberty development captures the entire transitional stage thanks to the perfect editing. You never lose track of time, even if the image lingers on Kayla’s disconnect from her father. Although to be fair of what this movie does wrong, little is learned about one boy who has a crush on Kayla. Another guy Kayla adores also comes off too one-dimensional, along with the stereotypical class beauty queen Kayla idolizes. Though somehow, those three characters have stronger presence than God, who here is nothing but a big missed opportunity to express Kayla’s existential crisis, as evidenced by a meaningful but skimmed over scene when she prays out of tremendous conflicting fear. Yet this generalization of certain teenage tropes works to its advantage as it makes you naturally want to avoid whatever traits you see. A fine example happens during a conversation Kayla has with the beauty queen’s mom; she focuses on the daughter instead of the mother, revealing Kayla’s ideal wants away from the generational gap. These tight facial closeups are the secret to showing the way kids at that age always believe eighth grade is the end of everything. Trust me, Kayla’s maturation process by the end strikes your feels hard, especially once you hear her father’s sincere monologue in front of a soft campfire glow. I find it hilarious how earlier this year, Hollywood legend Steven Spielberg phoned in a celebration of reality through a motion picture meant to glamorize pop culture, yet here, a complete nobody creates a far superior work which truly does celebrate reality over technology. Therefore friends, I guarantee Kayla will help you remember eighth grade fondly from now on forward. Hang tight everyone, Gucci!

It’s no secret that human beings want what they do not have; someone else possesses a far younger/more attractive spouse, you must obtain the same thing; someone makes you feel greatly heartfelt unlike how anyone else has, you develop an unhealthy obsession. This common mindset has historically lead mankind’s desires to turn into psychological exploitation of one another, creating deep, penetrated scars that Unsane captures through graceless closeups full of uneasy heartsickness. One early shot views our protagonist, Sawyer, through leaves to put you in the stalker’s shoes, who followed her from Boston, causing her over the course of the film to essentially lose her mind as she turns into her critical fear. The minute the perspective moves past the bush and in front of Sawyer, wide spaces bear down with dynamic wide angles to emphasize her ultimate desires, which are all motivated by fear. Sawyer exists alone within strange old Pennsylvania, her empty white wall apartment visualizing vulnerability, setting her in an uncomfortable predicament that similar ladies can comprehend easy. Sawyer‘s new office job only further triggers her being vulnerable to power beneath an inattentive corporate boss. While unfairly depicted, the high authorities‘ apparent unsympathetic practices still helps you naturally cheer on Sawyer’s actions. Once hospitalized due to her mention of past suicidal thoughts, images overlap when Sawyer’s medications cause hallucination. Even worse: Our eyes spot one patient offering Sawyer a welcome home present on her first night… a fresh tampon. As these uncomfortable shots escalate, her insanity surpasses her stalker’s… he could very well have a better comprehension of love than she. Under an appropriate atmosphere, the script’s cultural relevance should educate the public about stalking effects, particularly in what social media has done to our ease of letting strangers know ourselves. The entire crew deliver to satisfaction how people deliberately disown another’s needs, starting at the down-to-earth perspective of Nate, a hospital mate whom Sawyer befriends, as he hears when Sawyer‘s stalker began his pursuance, as told through flashbacks that never overstay their welcome. Actor Jay Pharoah absolutely triumphs as Nate, for his charitable voice alone proves perfect sanity. Then with the cast and crew coordinated with fluidity, shifts between fast and slow beats turn you mentally sick, the camera composition set to convey disconnect between two speakers. The thrills succeed off the little details to suggest a fear that everyone’s gone mental. Regarding Oscar winner Steven Soderbergh’s (Erin Brockovich, Traffic) direction, each character’s sincere hopes right away becomes clear. However, the ensemble’s complementary arcs could’ve better completed Sawyer’s story arc, except little is learned about any of them, including Sawyer’s mother, who appears quite a bit throughout. Consequently, any attempts to deliver an emotional core through parental support turn out unsuccessful. This love it or hate it type of movie exists chiefly for the sensory experience; although its evocative melody of unfamiliar instruments sounds appropriately written on impulse, Thomas Newman’s (American Beauty, WALL-E) musical score inadequately complements the slower moments to compensate for Sawyer and Nate’s lack of closure together. Therefore, Steven Soderbergh’s latest work isn’t a “masterpiece,” because of the missed chances: the weather conditions could have added some miraculous tension concerning the set up behind blaring walls, but the creativity did not stretch far enough. Likewise, no psychiatric patients appear multidimensional by something like religious backgrounds. Concerning spiritual undertones, Sawyer’s mother seems Christian based on the cross necklace she handles during desperate times, but it wasn’t central enough to make her memorable beyond just a plot device. Hence most will overlook Unsane, ultimately left to be remembered for the iPhone 7 Plus cinematography. Yes, it all got filmed on said mobile device, the harsh grainy picture creating a harsh, unfamiliar spectacle without any fantasy colors—nothing looks touched up or filtered at all. Everything’s real. Imitating the mentality of younger folks nowadays stuck on mobile devices, every frame looks straight off anyone’s Facebook feed, including a few images that flaunt a deep blue Instagram-ish filter, until you realize that it’s all just a glance of the night from how Sawyer’s stalker perceives it. Thus, a concrete definition of lost sanity can be concluded: Aiming toward whatever you lack until you no longer recognize your own reflection. Though apprehensive to watch, Unsane successfully delivers the emotions of the exploited minority, warning you of the dangerous road you’re headed down.

Nothing seems to help people understand humanity’s one problem of the need to give up possessions. Even I admit to being more of a material person than a people person, as I almost always get too concentrated on my own thoughts, often about movies, Pokémon, or my ideal future marriage. Consequently, it means I can get irritable whenever common people say to me day to day the same monotonous, “hi, how are you?” That is why I find the different perspectives offered by Sorry to Bother You so valuable—it’s one of those movies I guarantee will hit your inimitable perspective due to its uncomfortably acute social relevance. Its counter-cultural artistry kicks off by showing violent protests by underpaid workers, the future of labor specified including as we follow the protagonist, Cassius “Cash” Green, through that very riot against the company he works for… Regalview. In his tread through the sea of angry civilians, a thrown cola can strikes his forehead, starting a public trend of people in afro wigs with a cola can taped on. This almost reminds me of the nude Trump statue which exploded over social media, an ugly subject matter that burns your retinas, but frankly, that defines art—controversy. If your art is inoffensive, you’re doing it wrong! Part of this film’s offensive nature lies in Cash’s girlfriend, Detroit, who keeps changing her earrings to complement her feminist shirts that clarify her messages to whomever stares at her chest. Hard to believe that this is Boots Riley’s directorial/screenwriting debut, for he succeeds at delivering a strong moral that starts at Cash’s fear of the universe’s eventual end. He combats this fear beside Detroit as they try enjoying sex in their garage home… that is, until the door pops open to the whole neighborhood. I’ll help you better understand. Let’s say you find a street artist whose work features splatter paint of various colors. He tells you he aimlessly threw colors on with the intention of you saying what the image looks like to you, like a therapist holding out splotch patterns for you to name. Thus, the art piece reflects you more so than the artist, a similar approach that this film utilizes in a nontraditional sense. In one sequence, a gaggle of Caucasians force Cash to rap, which he **** at until he spurts out the same profane words repeatedly, to the crowd’s approval. Does that mean he has become too European-American for his own good? Has he met failure to master his own kind based on how other people defined them as? You must decide, this movie isn’t going to say it for you. There’s true art right there. It’s no simple direct interpretation, rather than you read art, art reads you; then discussion arises alongside a disagreeing opinion. Unfortunately, the artistry is not perfect, as little of it comes from cinematographer Doug Emmett‘s troublesome camera movements. While the camera continually goes out of focus, bland lighting setups lack the same level of spray-painted contrast as the chaotic colors of the night scenes. Photography allows you a glance through an individual’s eyes, yet the cinematic atmosphere here appears too ordinary without a proper amount of context to be open to interpretation. Though it’s not anywhere near bad enough to hurt the whole production, as set designer Jason Kisvarday establishes the blue office space of Regalview to give it a feel of a monotonous prison. Several stories above the low-level work area, the high office looks machine-constructed, only accessible by a fancy decorated elevator big to signify relative insignificance. Funny enough, more so than the artistic visuals, you‘ll most remember the words spoken, which always stay consistent even when the film masterfully shifts genres. Such memorable phrases include “Stick to the Script,” the unapologetic slogan of Regalview that motivates workers to do things such as turn a client’s cancer story into a selling point. Do you think that this is acceptable? Everyone calls art subjective, however, I think I need to clarify that statement a bit. While whatever a film personally says to you based on your unique past experiences is subjective, the quality of practical elements, including writing, acting, and cinematography require objectionable analysis. If a film has a personal touch, then the product that comes from the heart can speak to someone spiritually and initiate individual growth. Now here comes what Sorry to Bother You meant to me: It provides a solution that says giving up things causes intimacy. A popular quote states, “People were created to be loved. Things were created to be used. The reason why the world is in chaos, is because things are being loved and people are being used.” The priority of industries should help people; thus, we must kindly give our two cents to those running the puppet strings of their employees who right now are just beating dead horses.

We can learn a lot from ants’ intelligence at work from the way they coordinate with such precision by second nature, although can we learn similarly from Ant-Man and the Wasp? Well, think of it this way: we’re focused right now on one of those films that utilizes the actors’ blocking to signify sexual tension in a dumb way that leaves nothing to the imagination. Likewise, no true written or directed coordination puts anything at stake here, its excessive jokes left to treat ants more humane than any actual humans on screen. Maybe if the humans’ motivations were realistic, then these absurd circumstances could turn somewhat believable? Here are some examples. The foul script particularly turns Hope’s (the Wasp) father, Hank, into a dislikable boss who throws everything beneath his feet without compassionate support, serving a small part of bland stereotypes. Another part of those stereotypes includes the FBI worker who suddenly searches Scott’s (Ant-Man) home, resembling an evasive insect as opposed to a legitimate character. The same describes the leads: while Hope does get to kick butt, she later becomes nothing beyond a slightly sex’d down love interest to the male lead. Thus, you’ll get the feel of mental pests plaguing your brain nerves, ants sent through your eyeballs to break apart your cerebrum for nest eggs. So what does Ant-Man and the Wasp succeed at? Well, one early scene shows Scott entertaining his daughter Cassie in a cardboard recreation of his previous adventure, alongside his magic tricks that keep up its own consistent story arc. Yes, the father-daughter instances satisfy enough to make you want to see these two together, especially once spur-of-the-moment FBI searches interrupt their time together. To further sentimentalize the personal touches, he nicknames her, “Peanut,” much like how Hope’s parents call her “Jellybean,” and Cassie calls her dad, “World’s Greatest Grandma.” Besides the main families, the key villain, Ava (or “Ghost“), whose cells suffer molecular disequilibrium, connects to heartbreaking results with her adopted dad. Of course, being a Marvel property, you should expect laughs aplenty; memorable gags turn small things giant and vice versa, chuckles a guarantee when Scott gets stuck to half his size in an elementary school. Michael Peña (American Hustle, Crash) delivers some nice rapid-fire comedy too during his funny narration on truth serum. Plus, Peyton Reed’s (Ant-Man) direction meets expectations based on how he utilizes the Wasp’s powers to memorable results against bad guys. Then inside the quantum realm, colossal **** lunge toward you, creating a surreal environment Michelle Pfeiffer’s (Dangerous Liaisons, The Fabulous Baker Boys) acceptable portrayal complements satisfactorily. Yet let me say: she looks ridiculously young! Not a wrinkle anywhere! Do they have an anti-aging salon in the quantum realm because she looks just like one of those formerly famous Hollywood actresses who’s trying to hard to stay relevant! Oh wait… I know you hate it when I trash on Marvel, but it still fails to be art because of how much a lazy corporate product it is. Marvel may be tremendous at the whole marketing strategy, yet its familiar shiny flaw-free world comes off inauthentic under its excessive, random pop culture references. Not to mention it will not make this film age well, considering the products of the cinematic universe will last far longer than the company’s profits. These producers trying to make stuff cool takes priority over practicality, forcing chuckles from scientifically educated viewers by the carelessness of how the science talk is treated. Heck, a shrunken car matches the speed of regular sized ones for crying out loud! So even though slight emotional doses ground the viewer’s optimism, the willful suspension of disbelief runs way off track. Yeah, I understand, I must avoid overthinking a summer popcorn movie, except the nauseous editing by Dan Lebental (Ant-Man, Iron Man) and Craig Wood (Guardians of the Galaxy, Pirates of the Caribbean) ramble on lame humor rather than slowing down to linger on the pain. It’s not enjoyable when desires inappropriately go to quick plot point progression, the only hint of deceleration present when slow-motion knives are thrown. It appears even the performers themselves didn’t want to get to know their roles well. Instead of acting jittery, Paul Rudd causes serious discomfort as Michael Douglas’ (Fatal Attraction, Wall Street) weak motivation spurts out unintentionally funny angry outbursts towards his colleagues. Worst above all, not one single believable relationship holds up the entire feature, that includes the necessary fear of a family crisis built between Ant-Man and Ava. But good news! You have need to set sail through Marvel’s shipwrecked celebration of American pride. It’s summer for crying out loud, ride a bike! Enjoy the sun!

Clearly, Mexican crime coming into the United States is a huge (or should I say, “YUGE”) problem… so much so our own president wants a wall to shut them away. Now, the three-time Oscar nominee’s sequel continues influencing a strong outlook about the controversial subject in the form of an escapist action flick that pits Americans against the Mexican Border. Sicario: Day of the Soldado ultimately thinks thievery aids people better than the Trump Administration, yet because nobody ever resembles realistic human beings, any intentional influence fails. For example: Alejandro (Benicio Del Toro) takes off his mask on a public street right before riddling a victim two-bullets-per-second under broad daylight, then later, he reveals his convenient knowledge of sign language when he by chance meets a deaf guy. Such on-the-spot improvised personality traits do not feel natural or earned, just to serve whatever’s plot convenient. Plus, screenwriter Taylor Sheridan (Hell or High Water, Sicario) introduces and revisits subplots at random without enough drama built up. With such messiness in a generic script, how can I see it as persuasive in any form? Forget seeing any woman empowerment either in this massive step down from the first movie, for its gun worship replaces Emily Blunt’s presence, moving our attention instead on empty, forgetful gunfire sequences. For the weak women that are seen in this sequel, Maybe some extra work towards the on-the-nose dialogue could’ve made them somewhat tolerable to watch, not either victimized or an irksome moral hindrance. The significant female role, teenager Isabel, just spectates bland action as a companion to the true male protagonist without a consistent arc; she first appears fist-fighting a fellow private school student, a trait lost past her introduction. If Isabel was alternatively more goody-two-shoes, her arc would had been improved since she utilizes the cliché emotional high point of cutting her hair, like Mulan. Nonetheless, she cuts her hair not to fight alongside the bad boys but continue to be unimportant. The great emotional distance concerns the men too, the lead hitmen are to freedom of Second Amendment Rights what steroid-jacked dudes are to fitness gym ads. They even become legitimate kidnappers we’re expected to cheer on—if a real assassin took a kidnap victim, despite his good intentions, it’d be unacceptable. Remind me again whom the real criminal here is? No politicians seen act redeemable either, the Secretary of State becomes one major supporting player who contributes nothing story wise besides giving the hitmen greater convenience of their mission. Though ultimately, his stupidity makes the filmmakers’ perspective of the Pentagon appear incompetent compared to a badass Puerto Rican who spurts out cool murderous catchphrases. At least Benicio Del Toro plays this “badass Puerto Rican” well, especially during the bright shining scene previously mentioned where he earns the deaf peasant’s respect. His vengeful semi-dead walk also deserves attention. Beyond Del Toro, the picture’s mood swings create cinematic power to gritty, realistic manifestation. Director Stefano Sollima creates tangible rustic imagery as his visual range includes an aerial symmetrical cold desert road shot thru gunman’s territory until the hot sun blows away leftover chill. His smaller creative techniques make you glance out a car through dense dust clouds, unnerving those inside, yourself included. Then at night, your eyes jolt as helicopter spotlights are staged to stop smugglers. Subtle pieces of Italian mob imagery are implemented to paint the activity down south, particularly when focused on one Mexican boy who is negatively influenced by his cousin, a representation of how today’s youth can get caught up with mob gangs. Then the spoken elements come together as the last image pays tribute to The Godfather. The strong screen direction goes deeper than mere big scale—the dramatization of a Kansas City department store bombing particularly shocks you. For character exposition, the camera first introduces Matt Graver’s (Josh Brolin) crocs before it pans up to the extra facial hair on his face, which suggests age progression of the ruthless mercenary walking in a comfortable anti-fashion. Except I’d hardly say the listed good qualities deserve opportune investment, because its glamorized bloodshed says we can stop violent immigrants… using violence. Yes, these hypothetical heroes’ callous murders throw dusk onto an Unforgiven quote: “It’s a hell of a thing, killing a man. Take away all he’s got and all he’s ever gonna have.” Unlike Sicario: Day of the Soldado’s pictorial sermon, understand that proper victory never goes to a sociopath. Only love, kindness, and humility can save your anger.