Review by Daniel Lima In the West, the parameters of acceptable discourse on the subject of Israel and Palestine have been limited to simply acknowledging that there is a cycle of tumult and violence. The perception among the general public has been that interrogating why that is far too complicated, that assigning blame is a fruitless effort, and as a consequence, any solutions are far out of reach. After the past seven months of wanton destruction and killing by the Israeli government against the people of Palestine, that narrative is on the wane, and a situation that had been portrayed as prohibitively complex for decades has undergone a massive reevaluation. It is the perfect time for a film like Lyd, a work that draws a clear line between the sins of the past and our present reality and vociferously argues why contextualizing the present within that broader history is crucial in determining the future. Co-directed by American Sarah Ema Friedland and Palestinian Rami Youniss, the film makes no qualms about its perspective: the colonization of the Levant in the aftermath of World War I by Western powers and the Israeli annexation of the city of Lyd represents an original sin that created deep wounds that have never and cannot ever heal so long as the subjugation of the Arab population remains the status quo. To that end, the film explores the city’s history via talking heads, narration, archival footage, and even animation, painting a portrait of a people under occupation and a world that could be different. The firsthand accounts of the Nakba, the 1948 ethnic cleansing of Palestinian families from land seized by Israel that saw thousands dead and hundreds of thousands expelled from their homes, are breathtaking. One man still living in the city recalls being forced as a child by the occupying forces to bury the bodies of those they killed, some so disfigured they had melted; a young man who has spent his entire life in a refugee camp mentions that his grandmother’s house is still standing and occupied by settlers, yet he is not even allowed to enter the city. Most chilling is a collection of testimonies from Israeli veterans, compiled by the IDF itself, where they remember what it was like shooting into building filled with men, women and children. One man, in particular, visibly disturbed, speaks of looking into the eyes of defenseless Palestinians and seeing himself as a murderer through them and how he was to them what generations of oppressors were to his people. Off-screen, someone derisively asks, “What, are you a pacifist now?” as if that is a bad thing. The man clams up. Taken with the contemporary Palestinian accounts, these interviews establish that the origins of this conflict are not ancient, not incomprehensible. They are the direct result of people and are still within living memory, so this conflict is not the hopeless quagmire we are so often told it is. There are some attempts to show what life is like for Arab Israelis, the fallout of the Nakba that continues to rain down. While these slice-of-life scenes serve that purpose, displaying in stark relief what life under oppression is like, there is a certain artifice that is hard to shake. Some moments, like the camera gliding behind a man as he walks through the streets of his ad hoc community, feel perfectly lived in. Then there’s a shot-reverse shot scene of him ordering food at a restaurant, and suddenly, the film has adopted narrative cinematic language in a way that makes it feel inorganic. Nowhere is this more pronounced than in the classroom scene, where a group of children are asked about their identity. Their teacher is brought to tears by the ignorance they display about what it means to be Palestinian, and it is indeed shocking to hear their responses, but that shock can only go so far when the scene is so composed.
That being said, the documentary does have several more fanciful elements that work to varying degrees. The narration is given from the perspective of the city itself, a flourish that lends the film a certain texture but little else. More notable are the animated sequences, glimpses into an alternate world in which the Levant was never colonized by Europe. Admittedly, the rosy vision of a pluralistic society that knows only peace can be seen as a bit fanciful, particularly considering the film does reference religious tensions before the First World war. As is made clear by the finale, however, it is by imagining what could have been and what could be that calcified ideas of how the world is can be shattered. That is the power of Lyd: it shatters assumptions that many may have, until very recently, held unchallenged about the lives of Palestinians under Israeli occupation. The image it presents is filled with pain and suffering, of people forced to see what was taken from them as a daily form of torture, yet it does not simply revel in that suffering. Instead, it diagnoses the root cause, puts a face to the perpetrators, and, in doing so, allows the possibility for justice and a better tomorrow. Lyd arrives in theaters April 26. Rating: 4/5
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Review by Daniel Lima Those unfortunate souls suffering through the aggravating throes of insomnia need suffer no more; Dancing Village: The Curse Begins is here to cure you. An Indonesian horror prequel helmed by Kimo Stamboel (half of the Mo Brothers directing duo with Timo Tjahjanto), this follows in the ignoble tradition of both the director’s previous work and the original film by being ugly, slow, dull, and generally bereft of all the qualities one would want in a story. KKN, Curse of the Dancing Village was based on a Twitter thread that went viral in Indonesia — a story about a group of college kids doing community service in a remote village inhabited by a variety of strange spirits, most notably, a woman draped in ornate clothes who compels people to sin and to enter her nefarious court to entertain her forever. While that film was a huge commercial success within its home country, it failed to generate any tension, horror, atmosphere, or empathy for its characters. Not much is different here. Though set decades before the events of the first, it follows the same general template: a group of young people enters the village, a series of strange encounters occur, and two hours later, the movie ends. The group only includes four people rather than the six in the original, but they receive even less characterization. They are not entirely unaware of the threats that dwell within this distant outpost, yet they still foolishly blunder about from terror to terror without ever naturally reacting to the lunacy happening around them. The hamlet is almost identical to how it looks forty years later, squandering the opportunity to cast it in a new light. It’s almost surprising how little this film adds to the world. One would hope a notable director would at least deliver on genre thrills. That would mean one has not seen any of Kimo Stamboel’s work; if DreadOut and his The Queen of Black Magic remake are any indication, he lacks the imagination and command of the craft to deliver a genuinely frightening or disturbing horror film (he also is the director of Sewu Dino, the second film in the series, but there are only so many hours in the day). With the exception of one moment of grisly practical effects work, every sequence meant to evoke terror instead inspires boredom: lots of screaming in reaction to a figure suddenly appearing — in full view, with no attempt at building suspense — and shot-reverse shots attempting to string out what was already a lame attempt at a scare. Add to this a bland visual language only occasionally spiced up with some color, and you end up with a horror film that lurches forward at an agonizing pace.
If there’s any defense to offer the film, it’s that there might be aspects that simply do not translate. In the first film, the antagonist is referred to as a djinn by a devout Muslim; no one calls her that here. Perhaps something is being explored in the relationship between Islam and Indonesian folk beliefs. Of course, they are still photographed in a way that robs them of any weight, and all the fantastic elements of this film were imported from the previous works. It is possible, however, that some of this material will go over the heads of international audiences. Absent that possible context, however, Dancing Village: The Curse Begins is almost wholly without merit. If one is not lulled to sleep from the sheer level of inactivity, this is bound to be an interminable chore of a watch. For those interested in contemporary Indonesian horror, I would respectfully recommend the Tjahjanto’s May the Devil Take You films, as it seems that half is where the talent of the Mo Brothers lies. Dancing Village: The Curse Begins hits theaters April 26. Rating: 1.5/5 Review by Daniel Lima The first part of the latest adaptation of Alexandre Dumas's classic book The Three Musketeers was a surprising amount of fun, a lavish production filled with intrigue, romance, and action. That remains true in The Three Musketeers - Part 2: Milady, yet it feels like the spark has gone from the back end of this diptych. Where the previous film flies by, like the rousing adventure novel that inspired it, this ambles along without a clear sense of direction. As impressive as the production value is, it cannot cover for a lack of narrative momentum. Picking up right where the last one ended, the fresh-faced musketeer D'Artagnan wakes up imprisoned by an unknown adversary, having just witnessed his paramour being abducted by yet another unknown foe. From there springs yet another tale of convenient alliances, double-crosses, love, and brotherhood. Hopefully, you remember a good deal of what happened in part one; personally, the "previously on" segment at the start was insufficient, and it took a good amount of time before I was on the same page as the characters. The two halves were shot at the same time, so many of the observations about the first can be ported over to the second. The performances are all fine, with Eva Green being a particular standout here, lending her character a vulnerability previously unseen. The film's scale is impressive, though occasionally undercut by the drab palette and perfunctory compositions. The action is again a series of faked long takes, robbing the fights of any rhythm and doing no favors for the leads, none of whom seem particularly skilled at fight choreography. That is not where this entry falters. Where there were multiple narrative threads in the previous film that depended on the direct actions of its protagonists pushing the story forward — romantic interests being pursued, conspiracies being untangled, bonds being forged — all the characters here are relegated to reacting to circumstances that arise arbitrarily. It's a change that leaves the protagonists idling about, confoundingly inert, and passive even when one would assume their goals are time-sensitive. Combined with a comparatively sprawling story, one that sees most of the ensemble uprooted from the Parisian splendor that was their home, the result is a lack of focus that makes it hard to remain engaged with what is happening.
While I am only vaguely acquainted with the source material, it does seem like the adaptation is unduly constrained by it. Changes to the narrative and characterization — particularly of Eva Green's character, who christens this installment — that are meant to modernize a two-hundred-year-old story ultimately must still conform to its beats, leading to a work at odds with itself. Moral ambiguity is certainly not a storytelling flaw, but the clouded portrait the script paints feels less like a conscious choice and more the result of contradictory motifs and themes. This culminates in a finale that feels mean-spirited, rushed, and incomplete, a far cry from the clean ending of the previous movie. It is a sour note for The Three Musketeers - Part 2: Milady to end on, but that isn't to say it's a wholly unpleasant experience. The attention paid to craft is true for the entire production, and though there is no clear sense of purpose to anything that occurs, it at least does so at a decent pace. As clumsy as this landing is, it still leaves me interested in actually picking up the book to see whether this speaks to a weakness in the foundation or in the building. The Three Musketeers - Part 2: Milady hits theaters on April 19. Rating: 3/5 Review by Daniel Lima Mourning in Lod opens with text informing the audience that the city of Lod — Lydda to the Arab residents — is one of the "mixed cities" of Israel, with a large population of both Jewish and Arab Israelis. Absent from this context is why this is the case: while the city had an Arab majority for over a millennium and was included in the original UN plan for the state of Palestine, the city was annexed by Israeli forces in 1948, killing hundreds and expelling tens of thousands of Arabs from their homes. Whatever the intentions of director Hilla Medalia, this sets the tone for the rest of the documentary, a human-interest story that ultimately reveals more in what it omits than what it shows. The film charts the story of three families brought together by civil unrest in May 2021 during a period of intense conflict between Israel and Palestine. Musa Hassuna was an Arab Muslim citizen who was killed while walking home by an Israeli settler; Yigal Yehoshua was a Jewish Israeli citizen who was killed while driving home by an Arab protestor. Yehoshua's organs were donated, and his kidneys went to Randa Oweis, an Arab Christian citizen. Through interviews with the families and following them in the wake of these tragedies, the film explores the emotionally charged atmosphere of Lod/Lydda and laments the pain it takes to bring people together. While the film positions itself as an exploration of the city through this unique microcosm, it is first and foremost about these three families that found themselves connected by chance or fate. Their testimonies are indeed moving, a mix of anger, sorrow, and appreciation for the people in their lives and their community, as volatile as it might be. These moments are when the film is at its best, capturing the void that the death of these two men has left, as well as the new lease on life afforded to another. To give credit where it's due, Medalia doesn't shy away from the disparate realities that the Arab and Jewish families experience in Israel. Most of the scenes with the Hassuna's family center on the protests led in the aftermath of Musa's murder, with his killer's plea of self-defense accepted by Israeli authorities. Meanwhile, the entire Arab community feels the pressure in the aftermath of Yigel's murder, and the accused are quickly rounded up and held awaiting trial for years. There is a clear empathy for the struggles of Israeli Arabs. When Musa's father furiously attests to how little the government cares for people like him, it feels every bit the unvarnished truth as the moments where he cries over a son taken from him far too young. It's a commendable thing to include in a documentary such as this. That being said, in rooting its own perspective on the conflict within the experience of these families, Mourning in Lod creates natural limitations in how much insight it actually has to offer. As marred by tumult and tragedy as this story is, it still ultimately is portrayed as something of a silver lining. There are scenes of the various members of the Hassuna, Yehoshua, and Oweis families interacting with each other, expressing their dismay at the state of their city, being genuinely appreciative of each other's company, and joining each other in their grief. Though the film is frank about the systemic discrimination faced by Arab Israelis, it stops short of giving voice to any solutions or even simply singling out an ultimate culprit for the discrimination. The plight of these people is acknowledged, but only as part of a larger cycle of violence, a heinous evil with no perpetrator. If the film was actually an impartial observation of these people and the lives they led — or at least adopted the veneer of impartiality — this could be excused as a consequence of adhering to the subjects' worldview, that they themselves see the conflict as something bigger than them and impossible to seek an end to or redress for. Putting aside that this does not seem to be the outlook of at least one of the families, this is a movie that uses the cinematic form to create a certain vision of reality. This is a slickly produced doc, clearly shot with an intention that goes beyond the capabilities of merely capturing candid moments. The images are skillfully composed, attention is paid to lighting and how people are positioned within the frame, and the score loudly announces to the audience what they should be feeling at any moment. Most egregious, however, are the scenes that are clearly staged. When the Oweis family shows up to Yigal's sloshim, they do not immediately leave their vehicle and must be coaxed out by his brother. It's a moment that might be heartwarming if one doesn't stop to think about how the camera crew had the foresight to set up both in the car and outside it for a proper shot/reverse shot. When Musa's widow visits his grave with their daughter and tearfully tells the child to speak to her father and promise to become a doctor, it's hard not to look at the tight, carefully composed shot of their faces together and wonder if they've been coached on what to say by the filmmakers for a scene that would be perfect for the movie. Similar scenes litter the entire runtime. Perhaps these moments were completely natural, with absolutely zero input from the production team. The point is that they don't feel natural; instead, they come across like the filmmakers utilizing the language of cinema to present a heightened version of reality. It's certainly no crime for the director to make something cinematic. Still, the manufactured quality of these moments calls attention to the role of a director in a project such as this. This begs the question: Why this heightened version of reality?
Why, in a city whose violent and forceful annexation by a colonial power is still within living memory, with a history of systemic discrimination and far worse against citizens within borders both disputed and undisputed, would one choose to tell a story with no ultimate sense of resolution or justice? Why is that oppression the backdrop to a personal story of unity, a borderline feel-good narrative that does not reflect the environment that it sprung from? With so many stories that speak to the struggle of the citizens of Lod/Lydda, why tell this one? Mourning in Lod is a film that genuinely seems to have its heart in the right place, full of empathy and a genuine love for these people who were able to transcend division and find some small measure of peace among each other. That said, it fails to provide a broader critique of the conditions that so dramatically affected the lives of its subjects, nor does it ever articulate a thesis for what this story has to say about those conditions. If we are to accept that there is a real power in documentary filmmaking to expose the truth and say something of substance about the world, then a film that so studiously avoids taking a stand can only be seen as a disappointment. Mourning in Lod premieres in theaters April 19, and arrives on Paramount+ May 17. Rating: 2.5/5 Review by Daniel Lima As people grow older and their relationship with the world around them changes, it is natural for their tastes in all things to change as well, particularly in art. What once seemed inert and opaque can resonate deeply as new experiences create avenues into seemingly impenetrable objects. By the same token, what once was incredibly moving and stirring can grow stale or even unpleasant. So it was that I found myself watching The Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare, the latest film from Guy Ritchie, feeling not only bored by its ambling narrative and lack of dramatic stakes but also annoyed at the jeering laughter of the people around me. To my surprise, I found myself repulsed by what I saw, the gleeful and childlike abandon in approaching serious material that I had never so much as blinked at before. The film is a retelling of Operation Postmaster, a mission undertaken by British agents in World War II that was an early example of the use of special operations units in modern warfare. What had been a mission that lasted a half hour and resulted in no loss of life becomes a men-on-a-mission movie filled with violence, intrigue, and all the trappings of the well-worn genre, filtered through the particular sensibilities of Guy Ritchie. Considering that the director has recently had a creative second wind, delivering some of his best work in years, the prospect of him tackling a genre that — on the face of it — so perfectly suits him is undoubtedly intriguing. Sadly, it quickly becomes apparent that he would not be playing to his strengths here. A child of the post-Tarantino '90s indie boom, Ritchie is a director most at home playing within the milieu of seedy, grimy, male-dominated spaces, with men on the fringes of society bouncing off each other with the brusque, faux-macho dialogue that manages the trick of being so blunt and juvenile that it circles back around to clever. He is at his best when his characters are within their insular communities, navigating them as only locals can and allowing the audience to experience the world through them. That doesn't happen here. While the team assembled is full of the requisite gruff men of action, almost all of their screen time is spent on a boat, idly traveling to the location of the climactic battle scene. Some obstacles are invented to give the film some vague semblance of tension, but each is dismissed as quickly as it arises. Most of their interactions are spent communicating with headquarters and agents embedded in the base they've set out to attack, meaning they spend almost no time talking to each other. With no time developing these characters, giving them distinct personalities, and allowing them to bicker and bond, every moment spent with them borders on tedium. The espionage doesn't fare any better. A pair of secret agents — a black marketeer and a lounge singer — set the groundwork for the British commandos' raid. Ritchie's penchant for obvious, heavy-handed dialogue works when spouted by the kinds of men for whom it might pass as wit. When transposed to situations that require tact and a delicate touch, they become jarring, unwieldy, incongruous, and downright embarrassing. That it's this part of the story where the bulk of the narrative is actively being driven forward makes it even tougher to sit through. The action would ordinarily be the saving grace of a film like this. For the most part, what's here is pedestrian but serviceable. The action design is fine, incorporating the environment and setting up beats within the set pieces where the heroes are forced to adapt their own tactics. There's more cutting than necessary, occasionally ruining the sense of geography, and as the finale takes place at night, much of the action is obscured by darkness. That said, there are far worse offenders in the cinema of today. From the very first shootout, however, I couldn't help but feel discomfort as the audience cheered on every kill. The Second World War, particularly in the European theater, is one of the rare examples of a conflict with one side universally accepted as "the bad guy," as both the instigator and the perpetrator of one of the most horrific crimes in human history. If there's any war where one should be able to cheer on bloodshed with impunity, surely it would be the one with Nazis. Yet as the team gunned down uniformed fun with ecstatic abandon, smiling and laughing as blades and bullets ripped through unsuspecting victims, I felt more disturbed than anything else. Where did this newfound queasiness about cinematic violence come from? Obviously, there is the inherent jingoism. This film spends much time valorizing the British government, specifically the parts of the machine that pursued war. In this historical context, fair, the British were on the side of the angels. It's not a stretch, however, to see that Ritchie has a deep respect for his nation and sees the service of those depicted in the film as exemplary, not simply as a consequence of their adversary but because of their commitment to their country. It projects an air of righteousness that, in a contemporary film, is disquieting, particularly considering the form that nationalism has taken in the UK and elsewhere. Perhaps more potent is the weight of the violence — or the lack thereof. To throw out some comparisons, classic examples of the genre, like Castellari's The Inglorious Bastards, vary in tone, but the violence actually feels dangerous; the Nazi enemies feel like flesh and blood human beings. Saving Private Ryan might have big battle sequences that function as blockbuster spectacle, but it takes care to highlight the horror of being a part of it, regardless of how despicable the other side is. Even when an artist like John Woo fully embraces the aestheticization of wartime violence, as he does in Bullet in the Head, that must necessarily lend the violence a gravity that makes it impossible to become desensitized to.
In the case of The Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare, there is no dramatic or moral importance to any of the killing. The heroes are never in any jeopardy, and so when they casually fire off submachine guns into men who are dining and sleeping, it feels more like an execution than combat. Elaborating on why Nazis are bad is, of course, unnecessary, but the film spends more time emphasizing the moral righteousness of fighting for the British Empire than against the Third Reich. This lack of rooting the violence in anything beyond government interests, with the lack of characters root for or dynamic set pieces that would lend the action any danger, ultimately gives the battle scenes a bloodthirsty aura, where the act of killing is joyful and fun in its own right. That said, I say this as someone who has had war on the mind. Only a few days ago, I had seen Alex Garland's Civil War, an asinine film that adopted the veneer of a somber look at political conflict but proved to be even less serious than this one. The movie has stuck in my craw, and the more I've reflected on it, the more aggravated I've become with its simplistic, borderline irresponsibly bone-headed take on war. Days later, Iran launched missiles into Israel in retaliation for the destruction of their embassy in Syria, and I found myself contemplating the possibility that my own government might involve itself in a major war on behalf of a nation propagating apartheid and genocide. All of which is to say, maybe I went into this in exactly the wrong state of mind. As dull as the narrative is, as misapplied as Ritchie's style is to this material, perhaps I would not have had such a visceral reaction to the film if it weren't for how I felt. Perhaps this represents a line of demarcation in my appreciation for these kinds of stories, and going forward, I will bristle at films that glamorize and glorify soldiers and war in any way. Or perhaps I'll return to this in the future and find I was just in a bad mood. Right now, as I reflect on The Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare, one particular image sticks out in my mind. In the middle of the big climactic gunfight, after the heroes have killed scores of German soldiers and sailors with firearms, knives, axes, arrows, and explosives, the squad leader rounds a corner and levels his rifle at a hiding Nazi. Upon seeing how young the soldier is, he lowers the rifle and allows the boy to run off. Perhaps Ritchie saw this as an act that cemented the British veteran's nobility. Personally, I thought of all the men that he had stabbed in the back, blown up, gunned down from afar, and wondered how many would have been spared if only he'd gotten a good look at their faces. The Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare arrives in theaters April 19. Rating: 2/5 Review by Daniel Lima Who is your favorite Bruce Lee? For most, that is a beguiling question with only one possible answer: Bruce Lee, aka Lee Jun-fan. Though he starred in only a handful of films before his untimely death, he had an incalculable effect on film and popular culture, turning Hong Kong action cinema and Asian martial arts in general into a worldwide phenomenon and cementing himself as one of the most legendary screen presences of all time. Enter the Clones of Bruce, however, catalogs the other possible answers: Bruce Li, Bruce Le, Bruce Leung, and all the other men and women who stepped up to fill the void left by his passing. It's a comprehensive look at Bruceploitation, one of the most exploitative exploitation subgenres ever, and it has its charms even for those already familiar with the material. The film is a talking head documentary featuring interviews with numerous figures at the center of the ignoble cinematic movement. The various Bruces all get to weigh in on the nature of their stardom alongside a slew of other actors, directors, producers, writers, distributors, and cinephiles. Also featured are clips of the fascinating films being discussed, archival footage of Bruce and his cinematic impersonators, and posters and memorabilia from a time long past. Beyond simply commenting on the films themselves, the doc takes time to situate them in the particular cultural context they existed in and reflect on what they said about the man and the industry that gave rise to them. As ridiculous as these movies are, they are truly being given serious thought here. All cards on the table — I am already a fan of these movies. For years, I've been telling anyone who would listen that Bruce Li made better movies than Bruce Lee, that The Dragon Lives Again was the craziest movie mashup I've seen, that Ng See-yuen was an underrated director and Game of Death II was more important to action cinema history than people gave it credit for. As such, there wasn't a lot of new information to be gleamed for me beyond the personal stories about injuries and conversations had between distributors and the like.
That said, there is something magical about seeing these men and women speak about their experiences. Interesting contrasts are drawn between the various stars and how they approached their roles: Bruce Li never enjoyed being an impersonator, Dragon Lee was somewhat uncomfortable, and Bruce Le was shamelessly enthusiastic. ("You can call me whatever you want, as long as you pay me!") Yet each clearly felt some responsibility in carrying on his legacy; each embodied different aspects of the man; and through their reminisces here, each reveals how their distinct personalities influenced their work. And, of course, any fan of Hong Kong action cinema will cheer when they see the likes of Angela Mao, Godfrey Ho, and Sammo Hung on-screen. Most of the notable and famous — or infamous — films get covered. The biopics, the alternate histories, the investigations into his death, the fanciful, even the recursive ones commenting on the trend they were a part of, every facet of the phenomenon speaks in some way to the man's legacy. Yet, in embodying only a portion of that legacy, they left room for innovation and the incorporation of new ideas, and it is that clash between the imagery they constantly draw from and the incredible new images they birthed that makes these movies so powerful. Enter the Clones of Bruce may be a formally conventional example of documentary filmmaking, but in highlighting the merits of Bruceploitation, however compromised they are, it provides a great service to the art form. Enter the Clones of Bruce hits theaters on April 12 and VOD on April 30. It will also included on the Severin Films box set "The Game of Clones: Bruceploitation Collection Volume 1," which is available beginning May 21. Rating: 3.5/5 Review by Daniel Lima If the powers that be refuse to allow intellectual property to die, if the media franchises of days past must be cyclically brought back and obviate any breathing room for anything new, at the very least, they should be allowed to provide a platform for fresh voices to be heard. Fortunately, that is the case with The First Omen, the debut feature of Arkasha Stevenson. While it cannot escape the gravitational pull of the studio-enforced expectation to mimic the familiar, there is an energy, audacity, and artistry that shows a filmmaker fighting to leave a personal stamp and make something exciting. Set some years before the events of the 1978 original, the film follows a young novitiate, played by Nell Tiger Free, who has recently arrived in Rome. Having spent her entire life in the Church, even growing up in a Catholic orphanage, the bright-eyed young woman prepares to take her vows and serve in an orphanage herself. She quickly finds, however, that things are amiss and that a conspiracy may seek to bring unfathomable evil into the world. The original film series is, quite infamously, about the birth and life of the Antichrist. This film is a prequel, as the many visual and textual allusions make clear. Yet the script is structured as a mystery, with Free's innocent nun growing more frayed and manic as she circles closer to the truth. Considering none of the other movies — even the first — make any real attempt to subvert or misdirect the viewer, it is strange that what any reasonable person would assume was the basic premise of a prequel is positioned as a twist. Whatever The First Omen does right, it does without any sense of intrigue. And there is plenty that it does get right. The opening scene perfectly evokes the sense of dread and constant threat of infernal violence that runs through the first movie, even embracing the visual language of Donner's work: methodical long takes, slow zooms from far-off distances, heightening the sense of powerlessness of the characters in the current of biblical forces. The rest of the film follows suit, employing visual and dynamic lighting to nail the feel of a film out of time, to the point that I am convinced that parts of this were actually shot on celluloid. If not, it's an exquisite facsimile, almost certainly a testament to Stevenson's past as a photojournalist.
It's a rote story, particularly in the expository scenes, yet it never feels like a chore. This is due in large part to the ensemble — an impressive array of established character actors give life to roles that don't have much to them as written. From Sônia Braga's effortless aura of authority to Ralph Ineson's nervous paranoia (an intoxicating presence coupled with his booming voice), each character feels wholly self-possessed, with an entire history behind them. In particular, Nell Tiger Free turns in one of the best performances of the year so far, utterly committed physically and emotionally to the turmoil and anguish of a young woman struggling against infernal machinations. Most laudable is Stevenson's command of the craft within the horror set pieces. It is clear that she has a fondness for the genre, particularly with grisly body horror. There are a number of shameless visual references to landmark films — most notably Possession — that would come across as lazy were they not so seamlessly incorporated into the narrative and so expertly realized. There is such care in how sound reverberates through each space, the rhythm of each space, how much the audience sees and how much they do not, that these go beyond simple homage. This is an announcement of a new talent capable of delivering genuinely disturbing and disgusting imagery, the likes of which are sure to delight anyone with a genuine appreciation of the art. As invigorating as those scenes are and as accomplished as the film is as a whole, it is unfortunate that The First Omen ends on a reminder of the limitations of a project like this. At the end of the day, this is an attempt to keep corporate property alive within the popular consciousness, and so there is a natural ceiling to how far filmmakers are allowed to push things. Stevenson does her best to work within those confines, pushing things to the very brink of what would be allowed under such conservative boundaries, but ultimately cannot go any further. It's a sour note to bow out to, but hopefully, this is merely the first entry in a prolific career. The First Omen arrives in theaters April 4. Rating: 3.5/5 Review by Daniel Lima It's a rare thing for a modern film set in an urban environment to evoke the gritty, lived-in feel of decades past. This is as much an indication of how the world has changed, with city centers rapidly gentrifying and pricing out working-class residents, as it is a testament to how this brand of filmmaking has gone out of fashion. Asphalt City strikes that note like nails on a chalkboard, abrasive and unpleasant, and impossible to ignore. It is a galvanizing, engrossing work... up to the point that it isn't. Tye Sheridan plays a young EMT in Brooklyn, working the overnight shift as he prepares for a medical school entrance exam. Human misery and pain become his everyday reality, and as he struggles to perform his duties, he finds himself beginning to lose his grip on right and wrong. The film presents a cynical, misanthropic vision of the world, where suffering is a constant, and the momentary reprieves only come from laughing through that suffering. A constant barrage of horrific scenes of domestic abuse, violent confrontations, physical illness, and death make up the majority of the runtime, each as taxing on the audience as it is on Sheridan's increasingly frayed newbie. Nights are filled with the screams of people and sirens, the stench of blood, sweat, and filth, and any effort to make a difference is met with indifference, contempt, and a gnawing sense of futility. This can make for an alienating watch, as the film offers little insight in staring into this abyss beyond merely making clear the depths it can reach. However, The lengths it takes to present this jaundiced worldview are truly impressive. The sound design cultivates a constantly busy and frenetic atmosphere where too much is happening at all times. Beautifully textured, high-contrast cinematography captures the city in all its ignoble glory, painting a portrait of urban life as desperate and harried as anything from the '70s and '80s. The editing reflects Sheridan's mental state, which is tense and always holding the promise of an explosive outburst. Whatever its narrative failings, Asphalt City never fails to be gripping. And it certainly has narrative failings. While the craft does an impressive job of bringing the audience into Sheridan's head, there isn't enough to the character to make his deteriorating sense of self feel particularly tragic. Similarly, while every single performance is incredibly natural and does much to give the film a sense of realism, the characters themselves never go beyond an archetype. This is especially notable for the women; while Mike Tyson gets to be the hard-nosed chief, and Sean Penn gets to play the grizzled veteran, the women are relegated to being defined solely by the men in their lives. Then, of course, is the interesting fact that just about every Black or brown character in the film is portrayed in a thoroughly negative light: violent, verbally abusive, ungrateful, dirty, disheveled, and nasty in every way one could imagine.
It could be argued that this is a consequence of seeing the world from the perspective of a young man who increasingly cannot help but see the world in the worst possible light. Beyond that, it could merely be the result of seeing these people in their worst moments, as they find themselves completely helpless and at the mercy of strangers. Even if this was actually director Jean-Stéphane Sauvaire's perspective, is there something to be said about getting this unadulterated, unsanitized vision of ugliness? Those arguments may hold sway if it were not for the note on which Asphalt City ends. After such an unflinching and uncompromising trek through urban grime, the film ultimately leaves out the possibility of hope, serenity, and change. The manner in which this is done feels disingenuous and artificial, giving everything that came before it a similarly fabricated air that undermines everything it did right. It's hard not to wonder if this ending was mandated in the face of producers nervous about the film's reception. If so, the wrong call was made. It's better to wallow in that muck than pretend it's a swimming pool. Asphalt City arrives in theaters March 29. Rating: 3.5/5 Review by Daniel Lima The reverence with which we hold the past, or the lack thereof, reflects who we are as individuals and as a society. As ineffable as La Chimera is, this is ultimately its central thesis, encompassing everything from the cultural history upon which our world is built to the personal joys and tragedies that carve grand reliefs onto our souls. As vexing as this exploration is, it’s hard not to give in to its rhythmic charms. The film follows an Englishman, haunted by a relationship that left him heartbroken, returning to the small rural Italian village his former beau once called home. Curmudgeonly and standoffish, he slowly falls in with his old band of rogues, employing his knack for finding Etruscan tombs to help them steal artifacts for the black market. As simple as his life may seem, there is a growing sense that meddling with the shrines of the dead may carry consequences, material or not. La Chimera lacks a clear narrative structure and takes its time to build out its small ecosystem. The grave robbers have a cavalier attitude about their activities, thinking of themselves almost as modern folk heroes. The intricate system by which they smuggle their wares sees them dealing with powerful figures to the point they never actually meet. The Englishman spends much time with his ex’s elderly grandmother, a singing instructor in a worn-down home who takes on a tone-dead student as a live-in maid. She engages in a flirtation with him, which he seemingly is incapable of properly reciprocating. These complicated relationships form the bulk of the film, and they are all beautifully captured on film, as warm and worn as the memories that plague the lonely people that populate the village. With no great urgency or even sense of importance, director Alice Rohrwacher is content in allowing the audience to sit in these moments with the characters, from gaudy celebrations to profane pilfering, and simply absorb the ambiance. Even on this superficial level, the film is a pleasant watch, hypnotizing in its idyllic portrait of the Italian countryside.
It is inevitable, however, that our nominal hero is forced to confront the reality of what he is doing. When he does, the division between the real and the fantastic begins to blur, and the heart of the film takes shape. La Chimera operates as a plea to respect the lives that have come before — the experiences that shape us all — without dwelling within those moments in perpetuity. Whether wading through a watery grave or clinging to love long lost, attempts to commodify or root oneself in the past are portrayed as grotesque acts that impede our ability to connect with the present. It is in living within the present moment, enshrining the past, and moving beyond it to build towards a better future that we can find true meaning and belonging. All that said, La Chimera is a vexing film by design. It is possible to come away from it with more cynical interpretations; I myself have some difficulty squaring the note that it ends on with the rest of the film, as it seems almost unconscionably cruel. Yet it’s a film that I would not be surprised to see grow in my own estimation the longer I sit with it. For now, I am satisfied in calling it uniquely ephemeral, contemplative, and engrossing. La Chimera arrives in theaters March 29. Rating: 3.5/5 Review by Daniel Lima If you make an action movie, you highlight the action. If you make a comedy, you try to make the audience laugh. It is a shame, then, that so many filmmakers set out to make movies about animals and then sideline those creatures in favor of human drama. Such is the case with A Cat’s Life, the American dub of the French film Mon chat et moi, la grande aventure de Rroû. Though the scenes rooted in nonhuman perspectives are an absolute delight, anthropocentric instincts limit how much the film can actually achieve. An adaptation of the 1931 novel Rroû, the film divides its attention between a young Parisian girl and a kitten she finds in her apartment’s attic, whom she names Lou. As Lou grows into adulthood and chafes at his restrained domestic life, the girl finds herself acclimating to her own changing circumstances. Eventually, the film ends. The film ambles along at an easy pace, unconcerned with adhering to a traditional narrative structure that would necessitate narrative momentum. The family goes on a trip to their house in the country; they spend time with the reclusive old woman who lives next to it; the cat enjoys exploring the woods. Each new detail comes and goes without any jeopardy or tension. It’s all presented as just a part of growing up. This lack of any sense of importance undermines the emotional journey of the young girl, as it is hard to care about her as a person when the film seems to take her trials and tribulations no more seriously than the antics of a young kitten. To make matters worse is the ludicrously bad dubbing, completely obliterating any sense of drama or intentional comedy in every scene with the human characters. It’s unclear why the American distributors thought this blaring, cartoonish, completely artificial voice acting over what appears to be a grounded slice-of-life story was preferable to making kids read subtitles, but it was absolutely the wrong approach. It is certainly unintentionally funny when a woman bluntly explains to her confused daughter that divorce just means that two people don’t love each other anymore, but that doesn’t make the rest of the tortured line readings any less painful.
What makes the human-centric focus even more aggravating is all the scenes without them are absolutely delightful. Rather than rely on narration, voiceover performances, or CGI creatures, the filmmakers utilize real animals and good old-fashioned visual storytelling to show the world from Lou the cat’s perspective. Each of the various animals is given distinct personalities, from the star’s unending mischievousness and curiosity to Rambo the dog’s lazy, slovenly nature. The camera stays low to the ground, offering a feline perspective of the world. Scenes of Lou inquisitively exploring new spaces, forming new bonds, solving problems, and making grand escapes are all wonderfully conveyed through precise editing that lends him autonomy without simply anthropomorphizing him. It’s a marvel to watch unfold, particularly for anyone who has ever tried to make a cat do anything on command. It’s a shame that Lou cedes so much time to unwieldy and unconvincing human drama. One might expect that the girl’s coming-of-age narrative might neatly mirror the cat’s, yet such a parallel eludes A Cat’s Life. While it doesn’t seem that there’s an English translation of the original novel or even information on the book in English, it seems that it is entirely about the cat, with no human POV to speak of. One cannot help but wish the film was a more direct adaptation. A Cat's Life is now in theaters. Rating: 3/5 |
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