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Black Panther

Much has been written about this landmark superhero movie, and as the record-setting grosses continue to pile up, the coverage (and thoughtful analysis) will likely keep on coming. Beyond its cultural significance, Black Panther is tautly scripted, beautifully designed and photographed, and stunningly executed. If you have any interest in the genre, even if you’ve felt that recent entries have been disappointing, go…just go.

Also opening in March: It’s adventure and thriller season! Ava Duvernay’s eagerly-awaited A Wrinkle in Time (March 2); Alicia Vikander in a remake of Tomb Raider (March 16), a new stop-action animated headtrip from Wes Anderson, Isle of Dogs (March 23); and Ready Player One, Steven Spielberg’s tribute to classic arcade games (March 30).

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Two Oscar Contenders: One Verbal, One Visual

The Post and The Shape of Water show diverse styles of Spielberg, del Toro

These are not great days for those in the media game. The reporting business has been racked by major setbacks: the take-over by profit-driven conglomerates; the trivialization of news from the 24/7 cable beast; the more recent disgraces of high-profile journalist-harassers; and most of all, the demeaning howl of “fake news” popularized by the sitting President.

All that is distressing, even nauseating for those of us who value the importance of the media and view exceptional journalists as modern-day heroes. Well, director Steven Spielberg with his new film, The Post, has just the cure: a taut, cerebral thriller about how The Washington Post broke the Pentagon Papers story and held the federal government accountable for its disinformation campaign about the true state of the Vietnam War.

In 1971, The Post was not the revered national newspaper and journalistic exemplar that it is today. Rather, it was a family business in a smallish eastern city that just happened to be the national capital. D.C. socialite Katharine Graham had assumed the role of publisher upon the premature death of her husband, a position of authority and responsibility that was much more uncommon for a woman in those days.

Then, Daniel Ellsberg, a military analyst, leaked a classified study that revealed decades of government deception about Vietnam to several newspapers, and The New York Times became the first to publish portions of what became known as the Pentagon Papers. When the Times was enjoined by the Nixon Administration, publisher Graham and her crusty, ambitious editor, Ben Bradlee, were faced with a perilous opportunity: defy the Nixon Administration to break a landmark news story but face repercussions that could include jail.

Spielberg’s telling of this historic event, aided by Liz Hannah and Josh Singer’s rat-a-tat screenplay, contains all the ingredients one wants in a journalism thriller: compelling and eccentric characters, the ink-stained romance of a humming newsroom, a powerful political adversary, and the ever-present pressure of a deadline. And although the dramatic rhythms of this story feel familiar, they do so in a reassuring way, at least for those who see journalists as virtuous, albeit flawed heroes. One especially effective touch: Richard Nixon himself appears as a character, seen only from a distance through windows at the White House with voiceovers provided by his own surreptitious tape recordings.

Spielberg turns to two other Hollywood titans to embody this project. Tom Hanks plays Bradlee with the requisite combination of brusqueness and charm. Meryl Streep is both flighty and flinty as Graham as she comes into her own both as a publisher and a leader. The two of them, who have never worked together on a film before, make their scenes crackle with intensity and gravitas. They are surrounded by a raft of accomplished supporting actors, including Bob Odenkirk, Jesse Plemons, Carrie Coon and Sarah Paulson.

One can’t watch this film without being mindful of its cinematic forebear, All The President’s Men. After all, that story about Watergate also involves The Washington Post and editor Bradlee. Spielberg doesn’t shy away from the parallel. In fact, the denouement of this Pentagon Papers adventure wryly hints at the Watergate story coming just around the corner.

As both a timely history lesson about the dangers of insular, autocratic government and as a lesson in bravura filmmaking, The Post proves itself to be more than newsworthy.

The Shape of Water

If Spielberg is a verbal film stylist, then Guillermo del Toro is a comparable master of visual cinema, with an emphasis on the fantastic and bestial. His The Shape of Water delights the eyes and exhilarates the imagination.

Set in a secret government research lab in Cold War-era Baltimore, The Shape of Water tells of an unlikely yet completely entrancing romance between a lonely, mute janitor and the non-human lab specimen whom she befriends…The Creature from the Black Lagoon meets Marty.

I don’t want to reveal more of the story, so that viewers can be caught up in del Toro’s magical realism for themselves. But the film is beautifully shot and deftly directed, a dazzling palette of greens, blues, and teals that gradually introduces the occasional punch of red.

Sally Hawkins captivates as janitor Elisa, and del Toro regular Doug Jones is both otherworldly and truly empathetic as the creature. Michael Shannon is enjoyably odious as the cruel lab security chief. Octavia Spencer, Richard Jenkins and Michael Stuhlbarg play Elisa’s friends and collaborators as fully formed characters within the framework of the movie.

One needs a robust suspension of disbelief to buy into the premise of this offbeat love story, but for those willing to make the leap, The Shape of Water will be a provocative treat.

Also opening in February: The 15:17 to Paris, retelling of the train hero story, Feb. 9; eagerly-awaited Marvel film focused on a black superhero, Black Panther, Feb. 16; Alex Garland’s supernatural thriller, Annihilation, and a mystery comedy about board gamers, Game Night, both on Feb. 23.

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Train of Thought

Branagh’s star-studded version of Christie is beautiful, fun

I’ll confess to a latent fondness for mystery novels, and especially that of Dame Agatha Christie, whose books were perennial take-aways from the public libraries of my childhood. Nothing quite tickled my adolescent fancy as depictions of veddy, veddy British manor life contrapuntally laced with the frisson of cold-blooded murder. So I was intrigued by the plan to remake one of Miss Agatha’s classic stories, Murder on the Orient Express, with Kenneth Branagh as director and star (in the role of the Belgian mastermind detective Hercule Poirot).

Branagh, who is most renowned as an actor and director of Shakespeare both on stage and on screen (his cinematic Henry V surpassed Olivier’s, in my opinion), is, nevertheless, no stranger to the mystery thriller genre. One of his first directing efforts was Dead Again, a stylish film noir detective story, and he played sleuth Kurt Wallander for several years on PBS. So, the man knows his way around a whodunit.

This new adaptation hews fairly closely to the details of the original novel. A disparate group of travelers, ostensibly strangers to one another, are journeying together on the luxury train that once linked Istanbul and Paris. One of the passengers, Edward Ratchett (Johnny Depp), a dislikable and shady American businessman, is found stabbed to death in the middle of the trip. Fortunately, Monsieur Poirot is on hand to solve the crime.

The tropes of the genre are quite familiar: A series of interviews revealing possibly incriminating details; protestations of innocence; a few bursts of menace; more than a few coincidences. And eventually, an astonishing solution by the master detective.

Branagh is aware, of course, of the pitfalls of any such mystery plot, and especially this one, a cultural touchstone known by so many. So, Branagh the director dresses the movie in sumptuous sets and costumes, reveling in the exotic locales of Jerusalem, Istanbul, and the Eastern European countryside through which the train travels. He also delights film fans by filling the cast with good-looking stars such as Depp, Michelle Pfeiffer, Judi Dench, Josh Gad and Penelope Cruz.

And Branagh the actor creates a Poirot quite distinct from the prim, fussy characterization of David Suchet on TV and Albert Finney in the 1974 big screen version. Branagh’s Poirot is tired, brooding and equivocal, though he also does possess a most opulent mustache.

The film is beautiful to look at, and also entertaining. The direction is assured and accessible, though this viewer wished that the director was a little less in love with his own sorrowful visage on camera.

None of the performances, beyond Branagh’s, are particularly noteworthy because none of them are any more than archetypes, nor do any of them have much time on screen. Each star gets a little turn, and then the story must chug along.

Given the strictures of the genre, Murder on the Orient Express is a trip worth taking, but perhaps not one you will remember vividly a few months from now.

Also playing in December: It’s last chance for Oscar releases with I Tonya, a fictionalized version of the Tonya Harding story, Dec. 8; The Greatest Showman with Hugh Jackman as P.T. Barnum, Dec. 20; Jessica Chastain in Molly’s Game, Dec. 25; and Film Stars Don’t Die in Liverpool, starring Annette Bening, Dec. 29. Oh, and a little sci-fi sequel, Star Wars: The Last Jedi, opens Dec. 15.

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Laugh at Logan Lucky, Just Don’t Think Too Long

Ocean’s 7-11? Soderbergh shifts gears to NASCAR heist film.

Director Steven Soderbergh knows his way around a good caper movie, having created the very successful rebooted Ocean’s series that has starred George Clooney, Brad Pitt, and a cast of popular actors.

With his latest film, Logan Lucky, Soderbergh transfers the criminal hijinks from the glitzy, ersatz-sophisticated environs of Las Vegas to the hard-scrabble, redneck epicenter of NASCAR: the Charlotte Motor Speedway in North Carolina. Although the laughs and thrills are maintained (thanks in no small part to Soderbergh’s winning cast), the translation is not entirely successful.
Channing Tatum and Adam Driver play the chronically unlucky Logan brothers, Jimmy and Clyde.

Jimmy was a star athlete in his youth, but an injury ended his promising career. His marriage to Bobbie Jo (Katie Holmes) also ended in disappointment. After being laid off his construction job at the Charlotte race track, he decides to pursue a reversal of his fortunes by planning a heist of the speedway’s daily receipts. Jimmy and Clyde assemble a ragtag team of accomplices (including Riley Keogh and an atypically cast Daniel Craig) whose skill sets are questionable at best. After this set-up, the rest of the film, as expected, is the playing out of the heist and its aftermath.

Neither the director nor screenwriter Rebecca Blunt (rumored to be a pseudonym for an as-yet unknown writer) seem able to decide whether they want to love their characters or condescend to them. At times, the brothers and their gang are portrayed as complete doofuses, yet we viewers are supposed to believe they are capable of this convoluted scheme.

Another disconcerting element is that all these Southern-fried characters are played by non-Southern actors, including Craig, a Brit. Are they all having a lark or mocking the accents and attitudes of the American South? It’s unclear. Finally, the plotting is neither completely coherent nor convincing. The success of the caper is way too dependent on unlikely circumstances that nearly always work out for these laid-back thieves.

I’m also troubled by the seeming lack of justification for the crime. For heist movies to work, we the audience have to believe that the targets of the crime somehow deserve their fate. We can set aside our consciences and cheer for the breaking of the law only if the perpetrators are karmically justified. I didn’t fully buy into their motivation.

Nevertheless, Logan Lucky is a lot of fun. The humor is loopy and offbeat, which can be pleasantly disarming. Setting aside the cornpone accents, the actors are all likable and easy to root for. Tatum draws on his substantial charisma to win our sympathy for Jimmy. While Driver seems to be channeling Tim Blake Nelson in his performance, the character’s quirks are still entertaining. Craig especially is delightful as explosives expert Joe Bang. His portrayal of Bond has become increasingly sullen and opaque of late, so it’s refreshing to see the actor having fun in a role.

The direction and scripting are also mockingly self-aware. At one point, the hillbilly thieves are referred to in a media story as Ocean’s 7-11, a sly reference to Soderbergh’s other caper films. The credits also announce the debut of a new cinematic talent: “and Introducing Daniel Craig!”

In the end, the machinations of the crime and the self-referential humor carry the day if you let the film wash over you as mindless entertainment. Just avoid the temptation to give it deeper thought.

Also appearing at your nearby Cineplex in September: Unlocked, a spy thriller starring Noomi Rapace and Toni Collette, directed by Michael Apted (9/1); It, featuring Bill Skarsgard as Stephen King’s killer clown (9/8); and Home Again, a rom-com showcasing Reese Witherspoon (9/8).