Movie review: “Atomic Blonde”

If you are in the mood for a two-hour music video featuring candy-colored lighting, dramatic costuming, and Charlize Theron’s upper lip, you’re in luck: “Atomic Blonde” is happy to provide. If you’re looking for a master class in gloriously choreographed and photographed hand-to-hand combat, “Atomic Blonde” is your girl. If you want a functional spy thriller? Better look for a brunette. (I hear Jason Bourne is easy.)

“Atomic Blonde” passes the distraction test easily—within the first three minutes, in which a mutilated Charlize Theron rises naked from a tubful of ice cubes, I’d shed the looming specter of my car’s upcoming brake job—but runs into trouble once it tries to cobble together a plot. This is the kind of spy movie in which the announcement of a character always comes with a close-focus shot of a manila folder thwapping onto a table, complete with black-and-white surveillance photos paper-clipped to the inside cover and a helpful voiceover providing exposition. “Lorraine Broughton,” a clipped British voice tells us as we study footage of Charlize Theron, is an elite MI6 agent skilled in hand-to-hand combat, escape, all the spyish arts. “She’ll need every single one of them on this mission,” the voice continued, and I deflated a bit: nothing is less exciting than someone in a movie telling you how excited you should be.

Unfortunately, the trend continues: the movie introduces its MacGuffin (a list of “every agent we have” embedded in the guts of a flashy watch), then spends a truly unforgiveable amount of time trying to convince us that a list of spies we’ve never met and don’t care about is incredibly important. And that a flashy watch is not a stupid place to put a complete list of MI6’s staff. The movie’s creators are so concerned that we take the watch-list (get it?) seriously that they send John Goodman in to remind Lorraine of its importance, a few days into her mission. “If that list gets out, lots and lots of good, hard-working people are going to die,” he informs her soberly, but where are these people? So far, the movie has only introduced us to Lorraine, who can coordinate stilettos with gloves and who can also stab you to death with said stilettos, and to David Percival (James McAvoy), who can smuggle items underneath the Berlin Wall and who, as a man, can wear a fur coat, but who otherwise fails to inspire confidence. The movie also introduces us in rapid succession to a panoply of bearded East and West German operatives, then assumes we can remember all their names, faces, and allegiances as we flash forwards to Lorraine’s mission debriefing. Suddenly I needed a manila folder—I was in the second act, and I was lost. Was that guy Stasi? Was he the same one as before? Why is Lorraine suddenly speaking Swedish? Didn’t she kill that bearded guy already?

Without a flow chart, the movie is incomprehensible, but the plot’s opacity isn’t enough to keep us from noticing what’s silly here: a flashmob, with props, that Lorraine coordinates in three minutes prior to the advent of cell phones in the middle of an East German riot; Machiavelli’s “The Prince” all but spotlit on the bookshelf of a character we’re meant to mistrust; a tunnel you could drive a Yugo through, underneath the Berlin Wall. Nothing about “Atomic Blonde” is believable, much less tense, but all this silliness does free you to appreciate the opulent costumes on display. Charlize Theron, bless her, changes outfits about every fifty-three seconds, and the moviemakers, bless them, always give us a slow toe-to-head shot to absorb the billowing pant legs; structured jackets; pale yellow plastic sunglasses; corsets worn over shirts. Not since Rene Russo single-leggedly resurrected garters in “The Thomas Crown Affair” has there been a wardrobe so glorious, or so lusciously photographed: a softly lit fight sequence in which Theron, wearing a white plastic trenchcoat, wraps a yellow extension cord around herself like a vaquero managing his spare lasso, could easily double as a spread for “Vogue”, and probably did. Product placement is rampant here, not least from the cigarette  industry, who probably figured that with oranger things on everyone’s mind this year, no one would notice the resurgence of movie stars posing sexily while smoking and ordering Stolichnaya (the movie’s other apparent sponsor). Everything and everyone is beautiful in the 1989 of “Atomic Blonde”; as a logic-free place to escape to for two hours, you could do much worse. Try 2017.


Movie review: “Dunkirk”

I arrived late to the theater for “Dunkirk” and walked in about two minutes after the movie began. Two minutes later, I was gnawing on my own knuckles. An hour and forty-five minutes later, the stress had not noticeably dissipated, even after the credits rolled: leaving the theater parking garage, a car one level above me rolled over the garage’s expansion joints with a rattling clank, and, inside my Honda, I ducked. Such is the visceral nature of Christopher Nolan’s first war movie: there are no breaks, no breathing room, and no downbeats. You will never feel safe—every moment not spent engaging in immediate struggle is spent bracing for the next wave of fatal disaster. It is an exhausting movie.

“Dunkirk” takes one tiny strip of air, land, and sky, and puts it under a jeweler’s loupe: wisely, the movie eschews maps, and scale models, and cuts to general’s quarters far away from the action. You spend the time crowded with the characters into punishingly tight spaces: fighter plane cockpits, boat hulls, the support struts of a jetty. Slowly, every space is crushed: the planes crash, the torpedoed boats collapse like tin cans in outer space, the jetty is bombed steadily into smithereens. Then, the water catches fire. There’s an element of “now what” in “Dunkirk”—things get bad, and then things get much worse, and then things get so mindbendingly awful that you cannot understand how anyone survived. Which is a fairly respectful way to approach war: Nolan certainly doesn’t make it look glorious or fun or sexy in any sense. War, here, looks like something you would run a hundred miles barefoot in a snow of shit to avoid. But “Dunkirk”’s PG-13 rating has hampered realism considerably, and to the movie’s detriment: as horrifying as the situation is, we see little of what has been done to the human bodies trapped within it. Bombs drop on humans on the beach, but the camera feints away from the resultant explosion; machine guns seam a crowd, but death occurs with a minimum of screaming, and none of the bargaining, fear, and agony that would humanize the dying. The movie tries to get us as close as it can to the terror, but the artifice hangs a lantern. A camera can look away from a screaming man, holding his guts in—but a real human, placed in the same spot, could not, and the camera’s avoidance of what we’re fascinated by, distances us emotionally. That’s a shame: there should be no distance from war in the movies. We should not be able to escape looking at the faces, the bodies, of the dying young. This shouldn’t be a PG-13 experience.

Now: an argument can be made, and clearly was successfully made, that by keeping the movie under an R rating, the moviemakers increase the number of people likely to see it, and thus absorb some aversion to warfare. However, that argument is given the lie when we come to the end of “Dunkirk” and hear Winston Churchill being quoted: “We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender”. “Dunkirk” is not attempting to realistically show the horror of war; instead, it is—skillfully, artfully, beautifully—trafficking in the perennial nostalgia for the one war worth fighting. You can decide for yourself if we need a reminder of that.

Movie review: “Spiderman: Homecoming”

“Spiderman: Homecoming” contains a tiny homage to “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off” at its center, which is fitting, because Matthew Broderick seems to be the first actor to have been reincarnated while still alive. Tom Holland plays an alarmingly fresh-faced Peter Parker, so young that when he skives out of high school, you fight the urge (as you never did with Bueller) to convince him to stay. Inside high school, there are bearable torments; outside, Michael Keaton is waiting.


Coarsened by age and desperation, Keaton’s blue-collar Adrian Toomes is an unlikely villain for a superhero movie. He doesn’t strut or preen, his most dramatic bit of costuming is a tatty bomber jacket, and his motive is as prosaic as they come—squeezed out of his government contract for salvage, he keeps his mortgage paid with illegal weapons. The fact that some of them glow blue and can reduce a human to a crumbling cone of embers makes Toomes a bit less scary; director Jon Watts is savvy enough to understand this, and arms Toomes with an ordinary handgun for his most threatening scene, a simple conversation with Peter Parker that will make the muscles in your neck go tense. Keaton can now summon the voltage that Jack Nicholson once could: in his gaze, you can sense the menacing hum of a transformer ready to blow.


Opposite Keaton, Robert Downey, Jr. plays a distracted Tony Stark, one who checks in occasionally and lavishes Peter with tech—maybe a little too much tech—but isn’t really aware of his young protégée’s interior life. And since Holland reads as genuinely fifteen years old (he’s actually twenty), and capable of the kind of staggeringly bad decisions that only a fifteen-year-old can make, his fatherlessness feels risky. Marisa Tomei, as Aunt May, senses Peter drifting, but the movie insists she react by A) crying and B) giving Peter dating tips and makeovers. Beyond the retrograde gender role, this is a waste of Marisa Tomei, who had already set up the character (in “Captain America: Civil War”) as a delightful source of good sense and mischief in equal measures. You wanted to go drinking with Aunt May, and possibly get matching tattoos on your shoulderblade, though she’d stop you from getting one on your neck. Why is she reduced to behaving like a second-string friend in a Kate Hudson romcom? The rest of the girls are similarly squandered; Laura Harrier, as Liz, vacillates between serving as a crush object and a helpless victim for Spiderman to rescue. Zendaya fares only slightly better: playing an appealingly scruffy classmate of Peter’s, she’s given nothing of her own to do, and instead must provide a snarky Greek chorus on the doings of boys. Of all the 80’s movie tropes to call back to, sidelined women wasn’t a good pick; let’s hope by the next installment of “Spiderman”, the girls will have at least joined the 90’s.


As for Peter Parker, the movie brings him to a graceful landing back in the center of Tony Stark’s regard; the moment is understated and perfect, and both characters play it off as if nothing much has happened, even though everything has. This movie may not have the faintest clue what to do with women, but it absolutely gets boys, and that delicate, bittersweet moment when they finally become Spidermen.

Movie review: “Wonder Woman”


DC has arrived. Kicking and screaming, getting in its own way at every opportunity, the Little Movie Studio That Couldn’t has finally put an unqualified win on the board with “Wonder Woman”. Gal Gadot is note-perfect in Patty Jenkins’s cohesive vision, creating a Wonder Woman / Diana Price who’s worth waiting for. Like all the best superheroes, she is at once complex and predictable, because even though Gadot’s Diana is multi-dimensional, sometimes conflicted and occasionally outright wrong, the character’s inner moral compass needle continues to point due danger. Raised on an island of literal Amazons and trained from an early age to defend the earth from the return of Aries, the god of war, Diana is quick to identify Aries’s fingerprints on a minor scuffle outside her island’s borders: World War One. She strikes a deal with Steve Trevor (Chris Pine), shipwrecked pilot and spy—get her to the center of the action, and she will defeat Aries and end the conflict. Easy peasy, right? Diana’s naïveté would overwhelm a less capable actress, but Gadot’s charm easily carries the audience past exasperation—in her hands, Diana is a glutton for all kinds of carnal pleasures, from ice cream (“It’s delicious! You should be very proud!” she tells the stand-owner upon first taste) to sex, which she’s game for, but Steve the spy pilot is disappointingly uptight about. Diana’s first reaction to wartime London (“It’s hideous!”) is jarring and funny, but as the camera pulls back to reveal a smoke-choked hellscape, registers as accurate: Jenkins keeps finding new ways to show the world afresh through Diana’s eyes, while Gadot alchemizes innocence into idealism, giving us a Diana who reacts with total incredulity to trench warfare, because trench warfare surpasseth all understanding. By the time she goes over the top into no-man’s land, in a sequence that immediately joins the all-time great superhero moments in movie history, we’re ready to scale the backs of the movie seats to join her.

The movie isn’t perfect: fragments of modern dialogue are jarring in context (did anyone really say “you guys” or “cool” in 1918?), and MCU fans could be forgiven for noting the cinematic similarities between Steve Trevor (who rides a motorcycle through a forest and crashes his plane an awful lot) and his merry band of wartime accomplices, and Steve Rogers and the Howling Commandos. (Note: I do not give one spiraling crap which character—Steve Trevor or Steve Rogers—appeared first in print eighty-seven years ago. The point is that MCU showed us this on the big screen really recently, guys.) There is exactly one baddie too many, and the most interesting one (Elena Anaya, playing a dark mirror of Diana) goes underexplored. But a compelling backstory for a villain is a fair trade for enchanting battle sequences that seem both burnished and dynamic, like Caravaggio paintings brought to life. Smoke and fog are used to gorgeous aesthetic effect against skeletal, war-blasted pines; a sunrise mingles eerily with orange poison gas. The violence, too, is starkly beautiful. Jenkins uses stop motion to great effect, slowing Gadot’s fight choreography to a pace that can be admired but not quite parsed—the camera stays just ahead of your ability to register each block, kick, and turn, and the sum effect is like watching a talented magician do a trick very slowly. You’re dazzled, but none the wiser.
Which leads us to the movie’s conclusion, in which mankind’s salvageability is called rather severely into question. DC has not performed an about-face with “Wonder Woman”—this movie still has a darker, more somber tone than Marvel’s product. For the first time, though, that’s a good thing.



Movie review: “Guardians of the Galaxy: Vol. 2”

“Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2” starts with a considerable handicap: the audience already knows what they’re in for. The first movie surprised because it wasn’t supposed to be good, and was; now, GOTG2 is supposed to be excellent, and mostly, is. The team is back, with the addition of a charmingly naïve empath named Mantis (Pom Klemantieff), who is stuck on a planet with only one inhabitant. That the inhabitant is named Ego should give you pause; that he is played by Kurt Russell, and appears not a jot over 50, should give you night terrors. I’ve seen bricks age worse. But Russell’s eerie youth is being leveraged for a purpose; he is immortal, and has the notches in his bedpost to prove it. One of them is Peter Quill’s mom. Chris Pratt once again brings an appealing, early-Ford-like insouciance to Peter—unfortunately, the movie gives him a fraction of the screen time he got in the first installment, and squanders half of that fraction on a forced romance with Gamora (Zoe Saldana) that seems to exist to service a “Cheers” reference. Thankfully, other relationships are sketched with a lighter hand: Mantis and Drax (Dave Bautista) develop a horrifying version of friendship based on their mutual lack of guile (and filters); Nebula (Karen Gillan, much improved from the first installment) gives her side of the troubled sibling relationship with Gamora, and develops a bit of sympathy along the way; Rocket (Bradley Cooper) pushes away the love of his found family in a way that feels 100% human, 0% CGI raccoon. But all these lively and delicate stories pale by comparison to the main event, which is a war of the father figures—in the left corner, Yondu (Michael Rooker, clearly aware that he is playing the game of a lifetime). In the right, Ego. Peter must choose between the father who kidnapped, bullied, threatened and manipulated him, and the father who wasn’t around to do any of that. The choice appears easy, until it’s not; Platt carefully treads the line between hope and wariness, and Saldana shows a careful tenderness that could easily have melted into romance in the third movie, if the filmmakers had been willing to wait that long. (Alas, it’s easier to talk about a slow burn than to take the time to actually build one. Maybe they should have gone back and watched “Cheers” again.) But who can begrudge anyone a hurried romance when the galaxy is, once again, at risk? It seems churlish to criticize the movie for not being note-perfect when so many of the notes are delightful: Baby Groot (Vin Diesel), tap-dancing his way through an epic space battle. A planet of self-regarding aliens who all resemble Paris Hilton, if she were spraypainted gold. An extended argument about Scotch tape, mid-climax. Exquisitely timed joke payoffs, coming to fruition a full two acts after their setup. A credit roll that will mercilessly test the limits of your bladder with multiple post-credit sequences, all worth waiting for. You will leave the theater bubbling over with glee and catchy pop songs and also pee; but as this movie so aptly demonstrates, two out of three ain’t bad.

Movie review: “Logan”

When I was about nineteen, I saw X2 at midnight with a crowd of rapturous fans in varying degrees of costume, from “Marvel t-shirt” to “blue body paint”. The better costumes got nods and chuckles as we shuffled into the theater, but the only attendee to get a real rouse was the guy, otherwise unremarkably dressed, who’d styled his hair like Wolverine. He got a full round of applause.

That’s Hugh Jackman’s doing. No other actor in the “X-Man” franchise is so identified with their character—Patrick Stewart, while he makes a tremendous Xavier, will always be Jean-Luc Picard to the majority of the planet, and Ian McKellen, Gandalf. But Hugh Jackman is Wolverine. He’s been doing it longer than about 25% of the world’s population has been alive[1], and he looks it—now sinewy and greying at the temples, he’s more weathered limestone than carved marble. Which makes playing an immortal character difficult; hence, “Logan”. In Jackman’s final curtain call as the character, we meet a Wolverine whom time has finally chased down. Weathered and exhausted, he’s driving an El Paso limousine and commuting nightly across the border to an unspeakably depressing hideout, population four: himself, the dying professor Charles Xavier, the albino Caliban (Stephen Merchant), and their shared misery. Caliban tends to Xavier and doles out a grating ration of criticism; Xavier has nightmarish seizures that send his psychic power washing through others like radiation; Logan is stuck between a Prof and a nursemaid. No help is coming over the horizon, either. As the mutants slowly die off, private companies hunt the last stragglers for biological experimentation. And one of those stragglers needs help—a young girl, mute and furious, is rescued from a lab and thrown into Logan’s care like a stray kitten. His resistance to her need is the hard emotional kernel around which the plot is wound. If you’re picking up whiffs of Rooster Cogburn and Mattie Ross, that’s not coincidental. “Logan” is a Western, from the unforgiving light to the barren landscape to the increasingly Eastwoodian set of Hugh Jackman’s squint, but most especially in its harrowing formula: put a group of characters in a vise and squeeze. It wouldn’t be sporting to reveal who survives the squashing, but I will say that fewer will escape than you’d like—the movie’s pitch-perfect dialogue pulls you in like real family squabbling, with all the attendant intimacy and frustration. Dafne Keen (as the young Laura) especially holds up her corner of the tent, which, given that she is twelve and playing against 166 combined years in Stewart, Jackman, and Merchant, goes well beyond impressive and into the realm of suspiciously supernatural. Someone should get that kid tested for the mutant gene.


Movie review: “The LEGO Batman Movie”

Three years ago, “The LEGO Movie” surprised everyone by being genuinely funny and heartfelt, with a tear-jerking final twist balanced like a lemon peel on the edge of the movie’s sugared rim. For many, the best part of the movie was a cameo appearance by Batman as a sullen, brooding tool who “only works in black—and very, very dark shades of grey”. Now, he’s been given his own movie in which to work out his issues, beatbox, and punch criminals, sometimes at the same time. This Batman (voiced by Will Arnett) is as spoiled and puddle-shallow as any trust-fund baby, but his life is echoingly empty, a condition beautifully illustrated by the sequence in which he comes home, heats up a Lobster Thermidor in the microwave, and eats it while floating on an inflatable donut in the center of an enormous, empty swimming pool. Being rich has never looked like so little fun. Alfred (Ralph Fiennes) tries to push Batman towards human contact, but the vigilante doesn’t work or play well with others: he regards civilians only as audiences, and the rest of the Justice League are avoiding him. Even his old nemesis, the Joker (Zach Galifianakis), wants more from the relationship—try as he might, Batman can’t quite choke out the three little words every archenemy wants to hear (“I hate you.”)

The setup is solid, but the movie falters in the second act; newly minted city commissioner Barbara Jordan (voiced by Rosario Dawson), and beguiling orphan Dick Grayson (Michael Cera) stumble into Batman’s life, but they don’t strike up much chemistry or fun with him, and the movie’s “found family” dynamic feels stilted. The Batman/Barbara Jordan relationship in particular never gels; we’re supposed to see growing mutual respect, but Batman alternates between treating Jordan as an inconvenient meddler and a sex object, while Jordan is stuck endlessly intoning concern. When, at the end of the movie, Batman refers to Jordan as his “totally platonic” coworker and friend, then tries to steal a kiss (only to be dropped on his ass), the awkward muddle feels emblematic of the entire relationship. As is so often the case, it falls to the villain to redeem things—parachuting back into the scene with an entire raft of Warner Brothers baddies (including Voldemort, King Kong, and Sauron), the Joker brings all the oxygen back into the movie in time for the climax, which registers as a burst of explosive, Simpsons-colored yellow whirling with pink and black bricks. As in the first movie, the actual building and disintegrating happens at a pace too fast to examine, which left me feeling a bit cheated; anyone with a LEGO piece or two buried in their couch cushion would want to see how such dazzlement fits together. But it’s hard to be peeved during a perfectly deployed Michael Jackson song, just as it’s hard not to walk out of the movie with a bounce in your step and a growl in your voice. “Always be yourself,” the meme goes, “Unless you can be Batman. Then always be Batman.”

There are worse things to be.