Reviews by JxSxPx

Too muddled to be taken seriously, too campy to be scary, Gothika exists in some cinematic neverwhere that finds its various actors seemingly performing in completely different movies that coexist from in a filmic multiverse. Stylish to a fault, it’s always a red flag when a film has too much going on and at maximum volume, yet it’s not quite capable of pulling off the hat trick of zooming around terrible towards being ironically entertaining. Is Gothika a ghost story, one of possession, of a character suddenly capable of supernatural communion? The answer to all these questions is yes, as the script wanders wherever it needs to at any given moment to propel the plot forward without any thought to its interior logistics.

A criminal psychologist gets into a car accident on a rainy night only to awaken as a patient in the former hospital she once worked at. Of course, there’s a deeper mystery that dovetails with her murdered husband, missing young girls, the ghost of a straggly blonde, and too nice to not be suspicious cop. Oh, and there’s also a patient claiming to be raped by the devil and a former colleague that’s in love and rooting for our frail heroine to come out on top, in more ways than one.

If any of that sounds borrowed from other, better horror movies, that’s because it is. Gothika merely regurgitates tropes and images from various canonized classics in the genre without a coherent thought as to why and how these things are being deployed. Halle Berry gives sweaty intensity, Robert Downey, Jr. is laconic, John Carroll Lynch is genial until he’s required not to be, and Penélope Cruz goes completely looney in a scenery-chewing performance that must deliver the lion’s share of groan-worthy whoopers. Gothika is mindless garbage, but Cruz manages to give it a campy elan that almost makes the journey worthwhile.

The friction between commerce (read: capitalism) and scientific progress is the through line for The Man in the White Suit, a gentle ‘comedy’ from Ealing that’s more mildly charming than funny. If there’s another staple of the Ealing formula that emerged in watching these films back-to-back-to-back, it’s that these films are gentle, sophisticated, and too demure for my American sensibilities to wrap my arms around completely. I respect them from a polite distance.

Here, Ealing turns their satirical eye on a small British town that’s livelihood is codependent on the presence of the ever-billowing smokestacks of the factories. Our antihero is a chemist (Guinness) that creates a fabric that would seriously hobble the textile industry. While he sees his creation as a boon for mankind, the community sees it as a hinderance to their ability to make a living and keep their town going. Both sides have merits for their arguments, so their eventual combativeness is an understandable outgrowth.

In the film’s climax, the oppressive ruling class of factory owners join hands with the ruled class of workers to form a kangaroo court against Guinness. The great unifier is a threat to the economic bottom-line apparently, and yeah, that tracks with western society. The final moments reveal that perhaps this character hasn’t learned his lesson or been humbled by his journey as his towering ambition (and unbridled ego) remain untethered as the end credits rolled. That may be a fate worse than death in a way.

Alec Guinness’ first Oscar nomination came thanks to this Ealing Studios caper-gone-wrong comedy. Like The Killing played as grand farce, The Lavender Hill Mob is an enjoyable little glimpse of two workaday schlubs trying for something extraordinary, if criminal. Hey, we all need our hobbies.

Guinness plays Henry Holland, a clerk who devises a nearly foolproof plan for robbing his bank of gold bullion. Naturally, it all goes sideways as the plan involves twists and turns that lend themselves to chaos. Disguising the purloined gold as Eiffel tower souvenirs is asking for trouble, and that’s exactly what these guys get.

These Ealing comedies have a few repeating tics, like contrasting the flirtatious nihilism or polite anarchy of their plots with the staid, stiff upper lip of British society, specifically the class system. The formula makes for enjoyable pieces of fluff, but a certain basicness begins to settle in with them that prevents me from openly embracing them the way I have other similarly minded films, like those of the Marx Brothers which also contrast polite society with destructive forces.

Where I can heap praise upon the film is in how smoothly it works, how thoroughly it presents and exploits its caper narrative, and gives Guinness ample room to deploy his deceptively simple acting technique. Wait, you ask, didn’t you just describe his work in Kind Hearts and Coronets as Brechtian? Yes, I did, as he was clearly working overtime and letting you see his effort in crafting eight distinct personalities whereas here, he makes his character as unnoticeable and generic as beige wallpaper before developing his layers and barely stifled rage.

On the surface, The Lavender Hill Mob doesn’t immediately read as one of Guinness’ greatest, showiest works, but it is one of his best for the minutia he brings to the part. And the film did deservedly win an Oscar for its screenplay, which is clever, witty, and going about the work of drafting the heist genre. And yes, that is Audrey Hepburn in one of her earliest screen appearances looking as lovely and gamine as ever even as this embryonic stage.  

The Brits are already known for their stiff-lipped humor, and Kind Hearts and Coronets adds to that by giving the entire proceedings a moribund flavor. It isn’t just that the film is politely sarcastic, even by the already rigid standards of the Brits, but it is decidedly dark and twisted in its worldview and demolishment of the British class structure. The basic structure is that of a long-lost relative (Dennis Price) slowly murdering the various members of the D’Ascoyne family, eight of them to be exact, in order to get his hands on the family fortune and title.

The nature of privilege and what an outsider will do to obtain it is ripe material for comedic exploration, but Ealing Studios’ blackest of black comedies exists in a realm of almost anti-humor. I don’t know if much of the film really made me laugh, but I did find it enjoyable and think TIME’s description of it as “fun noir” is more apt. If Kind Hearts won’t produce much guffaws, it will produce a pleasing sense of entertainment from its dry wit, tightrope tonal changes, and series of incandescent performances, including Price’s frustrated outrage, Joan Greenwood’s purring seductress, and Alec Guinness in a tour de force of eight distinct personalities.

It is when Robert Hamer’s camera provides Guinness the chance to do character work that Kind Hearts works best. Using only a little makeup and a lot of Brechtian technique, Guinness demonstrates the breadth of his range by playing various ages, genders, and personality types. How was he not nominated for an Oscar for this? This might be the finest work of his estimable career. When these two zero in on the gallows humor and idiosyncrasies of the D’Ascoyne family, they manage to remind you of the power of Oscar Wilde’s prose. Sometimes a witty, subversive satire is just what the soul needs.  

The undisputed masters of soft rock feel like a natural for so white bread a genre as holiday music, but there’s still something curiously devoid of pizzazz here. Nary a hint of darkness or an unexpected guitar solo like their greatest singles, Christmas Portrait is nearly oppressive in its demands of yuletide cheer and festive celebration. Milquestoast to a near fault, this is ammunition for the Carpenters reputation as a couple of squares.

Whereas other Christmas album sought to completely reinvigorate or change up the formula for these well-worn songs, the Carpenters play them as straight and predictable as a Hallmark movie. There are some magic moments, how could there not be with Karen’s enigmatic voice, but it all starts to feel a little too church-y after a bit. Not only do we get “Silent Night,” “Ave Maria,” “O Holy Night,” but a medley containing “The First Noel” and “Little Jesus.” Look, I love me some Christmas music, but the religious stuff is often so joyless and sterile that it zaps energy out of the proceedings.

Frankly, the general weirdness of them doing a selection of suites from The Nutcracker is the kind of nuttiness that the album needed more of. We needed less Norman Rockwell Americana and more of the bittersweet pop that made their legacy on songs like “Goodbye to Love” or “Superstar.” Christmas Portrait is saccharine and seemingly made to be pumped at full volume in a mall’s department store.

DOWNLOAD: “Merry Christmas, Darling,” “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” “Medley: Winter Wonderland/Silver Bells/White Christmas”

As any compilation threatens to do, Rhino’s yuletide entry for Just Can’t Get Enough is all peaks and valleys. For all of the genuinely fun, oddball glories like XTC’s “Thanks for Christmas” and Mono Puff’s “Careless Santa,” there’s the dreariness of Root Boy Slim’s “Xmas at K-Mart” and whatever the hell Wall of Voodoo’s “Shouldn’t Have Gotten Him a Gun for Christmas.” For a collection that’s primarily around New Wave and its shiny innovations, New Wave Christmas is curiously devoid of genuine hallmarks from the genre.

Sure, you get the Pretenders’ aching “2000 Miles,” the Pogues’ rebellious and romantic “Fairytale of New York,” and the eternally weird meet-up of Bing Crosby and David Bowie, but where’s the likes of Joan Jett and the Blackhearts “Little Drummer Boy” or the Waitress’ “Christmas Wrapping”? I’d happily trade you They Might Be Giants and Timbuk 3 for either one of those songs. Or even the curiously staid version of “Little Drummer Boy” offered up here by Miracle Legion.

But New Wave Christmas does find room for lesser known little gems to appear at random. Los Lobos’ Tejano-infused “Rudolph the Manic Reindeer” does the Ventures’ similar guitar-fueled take proud and adds a bit of flavor. The Buzz of Delight’s “Christmas” really lives up to the band’s name by giving the collection some much needed power pop pep. SUN 60’s “Mary X-Mess” is just a delightful weirdo that is buried far too deeply in this collection.  

Perhaps this one never quite congeals into a coherent listening experience, but there’s plenty of rarities and fascinating (not always good) curios here to keep things moving. If you can’t abide another version of a well-worn classic, like “White Christmas” or “Winter Wonderland,” then here’s a nice set of alternatives. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go hum “Fairytale of New York” for the rest of the day.

DOWNLOAD: The Pogues ft. Kirsty MacColl – “Fairytale of New York,” Bing Crosby and David Bowie – “Little Drummer Boy/Peace on Earth,” The Buzz of Delight – “Christmas”

There’s a multitude of problems in adapting any of Stephen King’s sprawling novels into a film, or in this case series of films. The sheer scope of the material means that any adaptation that is not a multi-episode miniseries is a mere scratch of the surface in comparison, his inability to satisfactorily conclude his narratives, and that the first half of IT is always more interesting than the second. IT: Chapter One zeroed in on the Losers Club as preteens facing down the horrors of shape-shifting alien trying to eat them, and it functions as a large metaphor for the pains of growing up.

Chapter Two gives the adults the floor, and the more coke-fueled weirdness of King’s dense tome springs to the front during the adult section. Whether or not these tonal inconsistencies and sheer oddities of narrative mar or enhance the experience is up to the individual viewer. For me, Chapter Two was just a lot to take in, and I’m still not sure I’ve processed all of it or completely understand all its idiosyncratic choices.

We pick up the story 27 years later as the malevolent spirit, Pennywise the Dancing Clown (Bill Skarsgård, still playing the creature as alien impersonating humanity), reawakens and begins his reign of terror once more. This time, Pennywise emerges during a hate crime against a gay couple, the unlucky half being played by Xavier Dolan, but it isn’t long until kids start disappearing.

Our heroes join forces to return to their hometown, a place they’ve long since forgotten in a subplot that’s frustratingly underexplored about how Pennywise’s powers extend to memory manipulation outside of Derry and take down the murderous clown. Of course, we get flashbacks to the Losers Club as preteens as their memories return, and we’re treated to sight of de-aging technology used on teenagers to give them waxen, mask-like visages that are the most unsettling thing about the movie.

If I sound a bit snarkier about this entry than the first one, then it’s simply because this one is both better and worse than its predecessor. We have awkward moments like an adult Eddie (James Ransone) getting vomited on by the leper scored to “Angel of the Morning” or the adult Beverly (Jessica Chastain) getting attacked by a CGI monstrosity that’s giggle-worthy for how bad it looks. There’s also the kinda hilarious/kinda terrifying reveal of the adult Henry Bowers (Teach Grant) being chauffeured by the rotting corpse of his teenage friend, Patrick.

These moments are counterbalanced by scenes like adult Bill (James McAvoy) desperately trying (and failing) to save a young boy in a funhouse from becoming another casualty like Georgie. But this disparate tone problem underscores that IT: Chapter Two’s ambition and scope is nearly too large and encompassing to be successful. Individual moments are thrilling, terrifying, absorbing as often as others are eye-roll inducing or just plain awkward.

Still, the contours of the material are often smoothed over by a terrific ensemble of actors. Not only are McAvoy, Chastain, and Skarsgård reliably strong in their roles, but Bill Hader emerges as the film’s true MVP. Hader manages to dig deeper into Richie’s troubled psyche and conflicted feelings about his homosexuality in ways that the script and final product are perhaps too shy about exploring. While the other actors are playing types and doing so exceedingly well, Hader is crafting a recognizably real and honest person.

Not even these actors can entirely save the ending of IT, though. Yes, the spider-like reveal of Pennywise’s form is alluded to here, but without the celestial turtle. Instead, the Losers Club essentially bring about their own horcruxes and vanquish Pennywise with the power of friendship and love. Yeah, I had to do my best to stifle my guffaws that were just begging to escape. A film largely about going home again to reconcile with the past ends by stealing from the Harry Potter franchise.    

Tarsem Singh’s directorial debut is a solid case study for his larger film career: a series of alluring, hypnotic surrealistic images that are awash in painterly light and composition in search of a coherent narrative to contain them. His films characters fluctuate depending on how strong an actor he sticks in them. The better the actor the stronger the final product.

The Cell is misplaced as Vincent D’Onofrio, Dylan Baker, Marianne-Jean Baptiste are stronger than Jennifer Lopez and Vince Vaughn. We end up feeling something close to empathy for the murderer thanks to D’Onofrio excavating his psychic wounds and scars when we’re supposed to fear for Lopez or Vaughn. They’re blank slates, Lopez functioning as a clotheshorse and Vaughn just all wrong as the white knight, that move about the frame that’s overpowering them with its multitude of incident and detail.

The plot, as much as there is, concerns Lopez as a child psychologist who uses an experimental treatment with her patients. A specialized suit, essentially an avant-garde take on human muscle structure, allows her to enter her patient’s mind, so she uses it to explore the mind of a serial killer. Along the way, we’re treated to a series of experimental shorts that function as backstory to the serial killer and excuses for violence and grossly misogynistic imagery.

The Cell is just not smart enough to deal with the issues it stumbles upon at various points. Child abuse, sexual violence, and grand guignol horror imagery get a workout here, and while some scenes are enthralling others are grossly off-putting. Singh’s films are individualistic and contain a certain style that has the hallmarks of auteur cinema, but without the brains to back it up. There’s nothing quite like his cinema, but he often mistakes an overabundance of style for a type of substance. These are not the same thing.   

The Wicker Man unspools so slowly and subliminally that you know something is “off” and sinister is about to happen, but you don’t see the trap engulfing you until its too late. Everything is so strange that it becomes like a hallucination that feels so tangible you don’t notice it’s a lie until you try to grasp it like a reflection in a stream. The pastoral symphony of the earliest scenes belies a dark, twisted heart that winds up being something of a cosmic joke.

Edward Woodward’s Sergeant Howie is our surrogate into this pagan world. The old ways have returned to this Scottish island, and its insular world is ephemeral in a way that becomes alluring. Howie, a staunch Christian and true believer, recoils in horror to the site of naked girls jumping over a fire and chanting. It isn’t just their nudity that horrifies (and titillates) him, but that they’re performing these actions in service to paganist beliefs and gods.

Howie’s incomprehension to what is going on around him becomes something of a reoccurring joke, one that feels built upon a similar foundation as Monty Python. He is continually told to go back where he came from if he’s unwilling to partake in their lifestyle, and his routine interactions with the denizens of this Scottish idyll breakdown into the conservative becoming the butt of the hedonist’s joke. So, it moves until the climatic moments when the humor and general weirdness drops, and the dread starts to pileup.

Swimming through all of this is Christopher Lee as the leader of the town. Lee’s stentorian voice wraps around the occasionally ridiculous dialog like it were the best of Shakespeare. His stillness and quiet danger hold the frame in a way that leaves you feeling uncertain and concerned whenever he pauses or quietly looks back. Much like Vincent Price before him, Lee was hardly called upon for restraint but to wrap his distinctive voice around theatrical, hyper-articulate pulpy terrifying figures, so it’s nice to see him dial it back to the bare minimum. He’s never been more threatening or menacingly sexual than he is here.

The bait-and-switch finale is laid out in breadcrumbs throughout. The locals warned and provided ample room for escape, so The Wicker Man’s eventual pyre and effigy don’t spring from nowhere. The track was carefully laid and all you had to do was trust that you were being led somewhere. It’s well worth the journey, even if you do get burned.

One of the strangest, most hypnotic films I’ve ever seen, Tales of Beatrix Potter is a charming little highbrow detour in children’s entertainment. Told entirely through pantomime, dance, and classical music, even in wraparound segments of Potter as a youth sketching her eventual creations, Beatrix Potter is somehow more engaging than that description would seem. Yes, I am aware of a pure ballet spectacle of adults in costumes of Potter’s beloved drawings is a strange thing to recommend, but I’m doing it.

At times I was a little lost as to what character is this one or that one was as Potter’s literary world passed me by as a kid, but the beats of the stories are simple enough to follow. It’s also a joy to watch the dancers express their characters through body language. The frogs leap about, the avian creatures appear bottom heavy, the pigs skip about, and the squirrels seem to move quicker than the rest. It’s smart acting choices that really sell the individual personalities of the animal characters.

The whole thing looks like a storybook come to life as the ponds and forest settings appear appropriately enlarged for the size of the characters. For instance, there’s a scene where mice destroy a doll house, and everything is wonderfully artificial. For all the strangeness of the aesthetic choices, it’s the whimsy of Tales of Beatrix Potter that registers the most. It creates an entire world and commits to it, eccentricities and all. The world could use some more curios for family entertainment like this one.