Were one to inquire of the many, many people who went to see Todd Phillips’ Joker back when it premiered in 2019, one would most likely find a swath of largely binary responses, with a few notable variations. At the time it was either beloved or disliked, with little – if any – room for middle interpretation, and the public response bore that out. Between its billion dollar worldwide box office gross (it remains the only R-Rated film to pull that off) and its mixed critical reception, there was no movie released in 2019 as publicly divisive, nor one as unstoppable when it came to an awards season run. Garnering a whopping 10 Oscar nominations, 2 of which became wins, Todd Phillips’ origin tale of Arthur Fleck’s descent into madness stirred up so much buzz that theaters beefed up security in the event of possible shootings inspired by its titular character (thankfully, no such event occurred). As the years have come and gone, some opinions have shifted up or down, but most seem to have only become more entrenched. For myself, while I continue to flip back and forth on whether Joker is actually good or not, I find it to be an interesting experiment in the realm of comic book storytelling and a well-mounted – if not entirely novel – approach to adapting the Joker character for the screen. (The King of Comedy and Taxi Driver – its two main inspirations – are far better films.) All of this to say, with a billion dollar gross and a character that popular, a sequel was inevitable. But how were Phillips and company meant to pull off a comic book sequel to a film that was originally designed not to have any follow-ups at all? What possible angle was there left to use on a character whose cinematic history held no less than five different interpretations? Joker: Folie à Deux’s answer to this question should have been its saving grace. Instead, it may well be the film’s defining flaw.
 
Positioned as a jukebox musical – regardless of what the cast continues to deny about it on press tours – Joker: Folie à Deux picks up not long after Joker left off, with Arthur Fleck still in Arkham Asylum after two years, awaiting trial for the murder of the three New York subway accosters and television host Murray Franklin (Robert De Niro). While living amongst Gotham’s most notorious criminals and preparing his case with his lawyer, Arthur is invited to participate in a music class, where he meets Lee (Lady Gaga), and the two form a connection based on their shared madness, hence the film’s subtitle. Together, the pair engage in a whirlwind of various musical sequences across the film’s runtime as both prepare for the first-ever live broadcast of what is being dubbed “the trial of the century,” and civil support for Joker continues to grow ever stronger in the Gotham streets.
 
If you were to give me fourteen guesses as to where the Joker sequel would go back when it was first announced, “jukebox musical” would have never made the top forty-five guesses I had. Regardless, it was a bold move to turn what was more-or-less a Scorsese rip-off story into something no one has ever done at this scale before, and the addition of Lady Gaga as Harley Quinn to the mix is a genius bit of casting for this interpretation of those characters. That said, if the story synopsis above sounds too vague, it’s because, frankly, there’s not much of a story to Folie à Deux at all. In some manners of speaking, it is in fact the antithesis of its predecessor – boring, drawn out, repetitive, and thematically murky, to the point where the addition of the musical sequences become not a fresh new angle by which to push the story forward, but the main thing sapping it of any real energy or narrative momentum. Each time a character breaks out into song, which – unlike most musicals – just happens for the sake of happening, regardless of how little sense it makes narratively, the movie stops dead in its tracks, and this happens over and over and over again. The music is decently performed, and there are one or two numbers that are genuine hits in terms of how they’re mounted, designed, etc, but they do nothing to advance what little story there is. By the time these sequences roll around, the story is already where it was going to end up anyway, and the music more or less only reminds the viewer what we’re already watching happen, without deepening its meaning or offering any greater weight to the performances.
 
The introduction of Lady Gaga as Harley Quinn – as stated – is a genius bit of casting, and she does what she’s able to, excelling particularly in the film’s musical moments, but the script offers her little to chew on in terms of her relationship to Arthur, making her seem like more of a crazed fan than a devoted fellow psychopath. There are some greater specifics to that idea that I won’t spoil here, but suffice it to say, she doesn’t get a lot of interesting things to do, and the character is too underdeveloped for what the script asks of her. As for Joaquin Phoenix as Arthur Fleck, he’s given less grimy material to chew on, which leads his performance to run more or less the same lines as his pre-Joker personality in the last film. Luckily, he’s still quite talented – even a little more interesting as a character – in that bit of the last film, so even when the film’s not working, he is working within the confines he has.
 
The unfortunate side effect of a movie like Joker, when a sequel is greenlit, is that all the worst defenders of it as some masterwork of comic book storytelling are hoping for the least interesting approach to the follow-up. In that manner, I can absolutely understand what Todd Phillips and company set out to do when crafting a narrative that investigates not only whether the Joker character is in fact a sympathetic figure in this universe, but whether the decision to mount the character in that way previously was ever a good idea, an idea Folie à Deux confronts directly. Unfortunately, this angle just didn’t work. The storytelling is repetitive, the narrative is disengaging, and even the small surprises the film has in store are too little, too late to fix what’s broken here.
 
I’m giving “Joker: Folie à Deux” a 5.8/10
 
- The Friendly Film Fan

When I was approximately 8 years old, I watched Superman: The Movie for the very first time. To my memory, my father had rented it from the local video store at my own request after my having seen the cover art. It was the origin of my experience with superheroes and with superhero movies, as well as one of the first cinematic ventures on which I voluntarily journeyed. Though I was too young then to understand what any of it meant, I – like so many others when the film was first released – saw for the first time that a man could fly through the air without the assistance of wings or other devices for support; he could soar high above the ground, traveling from place to place at lightning speeds, accompanied by an epic musical score (courtesy of maestro John Williams) and a set of dynamic additional superpowers that allowed him to do all sorts of miraculous things. He instantaneously became, and remains to this day, my favorite superhero. I remember distinctly printing out a paper Superman logo, cutting it out with scissors, and taping it to my blue-shirted torso while I wore a bright red velcro cape we had lying downstairs in the toy chest. I would then go to jump on our neighbor’s trampoline and pretend that I, too, could fly. What I was unaware of at this time, and what I wouldn’t come to fully grasp until my late teens/early 20s, was just how much of the hero I so adored was informed by the man who wore that bright red cape with the symbol on his chest, nor how soon the world would lose the man who made us believe that he could fly.
 
When I was 9, Christopher Reeve passed away due to sepsis, following a long struggle with full-body paralysis after a tragic horse-riding accident fractured his upper spine, leaving him unable to breathe without a respirator or move without assistance. Though many more pieces of Superman media would be produced to varying degrees of success, including 3 more live-action movies, and though I wouldn’t understand the impact of this sentiment until much later in life, to most of the world, their Superman had died. And yet to a much smaller corner of the world, Christoper Reeve the actor, the father, the activist, the human being had passed on. For all the theatrics and celebrations about what it meant for him to be Superman, and for the legacy he left in having carried that mantle, there was still so much more to Reeve than what the silver screen allowed people to know. What Super/Man – which comes to us from directors Ian Bonhôte and Peter Ettedgui – sets out to do is both recognize the superheroic iconography of Reeve as an actor, and celebrate his more human-bound struggles as a man. Much as the Superman character acts as a comic-book stand in for the Christian figure of Jesus (i.e. both God and man), the filmmakers’ aim is to examine the duality of the Super and the Man, ultimately assembling a portrait of a hero in both senses.
 
To those who were aware of Christopher Reeve’s public life outside of his work as Superman, as well as his disability activism following his accident, most of what The Christopher Reeve Story has to offer won’t be especially surprising, nor is the film itself any kind of revolutionary act within the documentary space. There’s no upending of documentary structure, nor rug pulls of information about which the public was previously kept in the dark. It’s largely full of archival footage of Reeve at various stages of his life, interspersed between testimonials of his three children and other working professionals who knew him. In terms of the sheer importance of the documentary to the world stage, and the story it aims to tell, there’s nothing in the film that elevates it above most films like it. But for those to whom Superman means something more personal, and especially to those like myself who were unaware of much of Reeve’s life and work outside of the costume, the portrait painted is a relatively full one, which is buoyed by excellent pacing throughout its two halves.
 
Though both sections of the Christopher Reeve Story are told between flashes to key dates in the timeline of his struggle with paralysis, the first half – which moves at a slightly more rapid pace – is much more concerned with Reeve’s life as a man and an actor as it follows his origins in the theater and coming from a broken home to his screen testing for the Superman part, and on through his eventual falling out with both the role and his longtime partner Gae Exton, with whom he had his first two children. It also chronicles his friendship with former Julliard roommate and comic icon Robin Williams, about whom actor Glenn Close muses “if Chris [Reeve] were still around, maybe he [Robin] would still be alive.” Finally, the upper section essentially ends following Reeve’s partnership and eventual marriage to Dana Morosini, with whom he had his third child, and to whom he stayed married until his passing. (Dana is featured more prominently in the film than just as part of a first-half break – in fact she’s one of the movie’s sort of mainstays throughout – but in terms of structure, their marriage acts as a cut-off point.)
 
The second half of the film more closely follows Reeve’s activism in the disability community, from his controversial ad wherein his search for a cure to full spinal paralysis lead to his walking again, to his advocacy for stem cell research, to his friendships with other people in disabled spaces. This is the half where viewers are able to witness Reeve’s heroism outside of the costume, and though it moves at more of a clip than the first half, and so has a little bit less fun with the story it has to tell, it is the more compelling section of the film, and it’s in this second half where we also learn of Dana Reeve’s tragic passing due to stage four lung cancer so soon after Christopher Reeve’s death. If the film has an emotional low point, it’s when Alexandra Reeve Givens and Matthew Reeve, Christopher’s first son and his daughter, put it quite succinctly that Will Reeve lost his father, grandmother, and mother all within a 24-month timespan. Still, all three children held onto hope and to the legacy of their parents, following in their footsteps at the Christopher and Dana Reeve foundation, continuing to fight for the disability community as both Christopher and Dana did right up to the end. As a sort of counter to the emotional lows of loss that followed the Reeve family, the filmmakers also note that Christopher’s regaining of limited movement in some of his limbs before his passing would go on to inspire others with spinal cord injuries to hold onto hope, eventually resulting in regained mobility. To hear his assistant tell it “people are literally walking because of him.”
 
Whether Super/Man will compete for or is worthy of awards consideration is a subjective topic, but it’s also not the question being asked of viewers who venture out to the theater to see it. The entire goal of The Christopher Reeve Story is laid out plainly in the film’s marketing: “you will believe in a hero.” To some, that may mean being reminded of just how meaningful Reeve was as Superman; to others, it may mean learning about his work as a disabled activist and advocate for change. There are no allusions about Christopher Reeve’s being a perfect man or living an idealistic public life, but the life he did live became an inspiration for many, and whether or not one considers him super or just another man, this film makes no mistake about it: he was, and always will be, a hero.
 
I’m giving “Super/Man: The Christopher Reeve Story” an 8.9/10
 
- The Friendly Film Fan

Horror, as a genre, has somewhat defined 2024 as a movie year. It seems every month some new thriller has come along, and every other week some new trailer drops for an upcoming horror film due to be released in a month or so. For all the handwringing people love to do about the lack of original filmmaking being pushed by mainstream Hollywood studios (handwringing from which I’ve not historically been exempt), the horror genre has been pumping out both franchise I.P. and strikingly original work left and right for the better part of a decade now. In fact, this year marks the 10th anniversary of the original poster child for the “elevated horror” canon: Jennifer Kent’s iconic psychological trauma film, The Babadook. (Luckily, in 2024, the term “elevated horror” has gone all but extinct.) In 2024 alone, Abigail, Longlegs, Alien: Romulus, Strange Darling, Cuckoo, Trap, Blink Twice, Immaculate, and MaXXXine all received large-scale theatrical releases, and only two of those films come from pre-existing material. However, while most of these aforementioned works may at least adequately represent 2024’s killer craze, almost none have felt as though they could truly define it, until now.
 
When horror enthusiasts look back on 2024, two films will ultimately stand as the most definitive of the movie year. The first is Longlegs, directed by Osgood Perkins, which drips in atmosphere and soaks in dread until its final images have long seeped into viewers’ collective memories. (A full review is forthcoming.) The other will be director Coralie Fargeat’s searing body horror takedown of beauty standards and female performance expectations, The Substance. The film follows Demi Moore as Elisabeth Sparkle, a once-lauded fitness media sensation who becomes increasingly obsolete in the eyes of the company for one very pointed reason: she’s aging out of their preferred business model, and out of collective audience memory. When the sleazy, slimy studio executive in charge (Dennis Quaid) decides to let her go without a second thought in the pursuit of someone “younger and hotter,” Elisabeth takes matters into her own hands, electing to try The Substance, a liquid compound that unlocks the DNA of its user, resulting in a younger, “hotter” of Elisabeth named Sue (Margaret Qualley). The only real catch? Both Elisabeth and Sue can only exist outside of each other for exactly seven days at a time, and must always remember that they are still one entity. As each begins to resent the other, the balance starts to spiral out of control, and Elisabeth/Sue are forced to confront the consequences of resisting the ultimate truth: you can’t escape from yourself.
 
When a movie has as much to say about its themes as The Substance does, it’s typically praised for the ways in which it can do so subtly, without making a big show of what the filmmaker’s thesis is, or being too obvious in its commentary. Not so with this one. In fact, so aggressive is director Coralie Fargeat’s messaging in The Substance that no one would ever mistake its loudness as anything but the very point it’s trying to make. What begins as a mere examination of beauty standards and the burden society places on women to age perfectly rather than gracefully (much less realistically) soon transforms into an all-out rage fit against the very idea of those standards, holding responsible the overtly patriarchal system holding the keys to the kingdom where the decisions get made about what those standards are. It’s an all-out scream, meant to be guttural, inescapable, a bracing attack on the self-loathing that society beats into women from a young age so that it sticks around as they get older that’s as boisterous and gross as the men within the film are allowed to be without a second thought.
 
This very idea is manifest in Demi Moore’s career-best performance, which simmers with a boiling grudge against the very system that makes women stars and then tells them to change everything about themselves in order to stay one. There’s a clear injection of personal experience into the character of Elisabeth from her end, as the character examines herself in the mirror, looking at by any measure an objectively beautiful, normal body, and can only seem to resent its aging process due to what Dennis Quaid’s “Harvey” (in a delightfully skeezy turn by the once venerated actor) and the system around her has beaten into her head. By contrast, her younger self, which Margaret Qualley has a ton of fun playing up to 11, is only resentful of her other body, which she fears and actively attempts to avoid returning to, once more due to the system’s treatment of how women age. The film takes advantage of every opportunity to remind the viewer exactly what it’s trying to say, often in manners even the toughest of body horror fans may find shockingly audacious.
 
Body horror, as a subgenre, is one I admittedly don’t have a lot of experience covering, but work of this quality is simply undeniable even if one has never seen a body horror film in their lifetime. The makeup work alone, were the Academy not practically allergic to the horror genre at this point, would be leading the awards season conversation in any just world. There are sequences featured in this film that make the elevator scene from The Shining look tame by comparison, as grotesque manifestations of female self-hatred are borne out of men’s needs for women to look and stay as perfect as they possibly can because the performances that cater to men’s desires are those that get rewarded. The physical craft of the film, from the makeup to the effects, to the score, to the sound design, is as loud as the themes found within, and yet never misses a step, such is the skill of a writer/director like Fargeat at the helm.
 
Even as the year has gone on, so many horror films have come and gone that have felt as though they simply wouldn’t leave a lasting impact on the genre, despite how fun or well-crafted they’ve been. But when I think about The Substance, when I consider all it has to offer to the body horror subgenre, and the risks it takes in casting off subtlety or gracefulness in favor of something bolder, meaner, more commanding, I’m left with the impression that it genuinely could fundamentally change the subgenre in some ways. Love it or hate it, there’s no denying its sheer power, and that power is something horror fans will be talking about for a long time to come.
 
I’m giving “The Substance” a 9.3/10
 
- The Friendly Film Fan

The U.S. prison system, though as ubiquitous to the American landscape as banks and baseball fields, suburbs and city centers, remains a touchy subject in many conversational circles. Centuries after the ratification of the 13th amendment in December of 1865, which continues to allow slavery be used as punishment for a crime, it can be easily understood that much of that system has become corrupted (just look at all the Black men still incarcerated for non-violent marijuana possession charges in states where its sale has since become legal); now, even those prisons which are not generally seen as corrupt are built with a specific design, not to rehabilitate or punish, but to beat or sap out of inmates the very things that make them human beings. Hell, even those facilities for which this design is not an explicit goal is not an explicit goal, by the way they are designed and run, manage to do this anyway. One such of these facilities is Sing Sing, a maximum security prison located in Ossining, New York, along the eastern bank of the Hudson River. According to Britannica, it is “one of the oldest penal institutions in the United States…especially notable for its harsh conditions in the 19th and 20th centuries.”
 
It is within the walls of Sing Sing that we find Divine G (Colman Domingo), incarcerated for a crime he did not commit, who finds purpose by writing for, acting in, and helping to run a small theatre troupe called RTA (inspired by the real-life Rehabilitation Through the Arts program) inside the prison. As the group is gearing up for their next production, a wary outsider called Divine Eye (Clarence Maclin) elects to join, and the troupe decides to stage their first original comedy – a time-traveling musical featuring Hamlet, cowboys, and Freddy Kreuger. What follows is a beautifully-told and profoundly moving story about humanity, the resilience of the spirit, and the transformative power of art.
 
There are a lot of great prison-set films that focus on the humanity of those most of society has already cast out as inhuman, Sing Sing only being the latest of them, but what sets this film apart from those, and indeed from any other film released this year, is how delicate and unassuming it is in its approach to this idea. There’s never a line of dialogue or showy moment to demonstrate the film’s larger point – that art is as essential to retaining humanity as humanity is to understanding art – but there is always an emphasis on the film’s refusal to see these inmates of Sing Sing as anything less than human artists, which is juxtaposed against an understanding of the oppressive structures within which this point can become easily lost. Most of the film is set within the rooms of Sing Sing prison, its cast constantly surrounded by walls, but even when the characters are outside, the camera never shoots them in close-up. The image is always wide, so that we continually see the walls that surround them even then, both literally and figuratively. During a clemency hearing, Divine G’s invitations to speak are met with skepticism and apathy, even interrupted by those interviewing him, who have not spent time with him as we do over the film’s one hour and forty-seven minutes; to us, however, he is not just another inmate, he is a playwright, and actor, and friend – his is the first face we see, and it’s in the film’s refusal to treat him as less than those things, to insist upon his innate humanity as it does with all its other characters, where director Greg Kwedar (who co-wrote the film’s beautiful script alongside Clint Bentley), finds the sensitive heart.
 
That heart is also supported by a beautiful score from Bryce Dessner, which is constant but never overbearing, always there to lift up the action but never overstepping so far as to direct its flow. In fact, the single issue I had with the film on the whole (and it’s really not even that big of an issue, all things considered), is that the film’s final moments are closed with a song, rather than pure sound or score. It’s the only time in the film that I felt a moment had a hint of manufacture, and it’s a testament to Dressner’s score that not one second of the film apart from that feels as though the music is driving how the audience is meant to feel at any given moment.
 
That feeling is determined by the outstanding performances from Kwedar’s ensemble of actors (including Sound of Metal’s Paul Raci as the play’s director), many of whom were formerly incarcerated at Sing Sing themselves – some even participants in the RTA program – but the standouts of which are Sean San José, Clarence ‘Divine Eye’ Maclin, and Colman Domingo. (The first two played themselves.) While José does get one great scene, though, it’s Maclin and Domingo in particular that are electric here, the former an immediate star whose participation in the film is not simply a testament to his acting ability given this is his first time acting in any film, but also to the film’s commitment to seeing the humanity in its characters. It’s not an especially showy performance, but it is perhaps the most lived-in of the year to date. The showier role – far from a pejorative in this context – belongs to Colman Domingo in the lead as Divine G. If last year’s Oscar race was any indication, Domingo simply needed a better script to get his performance to the front of the line for a win in the Best Actor category, and while the rest of awards season is sure to and while the rest of awards season is sure to bring out some heavy hitters, Sing Sing might just be exactly the right script for him at exactly the right time. It is through his eyes that we experience the journey of the film, and there’s nary a false note in his entire repertoire of choices.
 
That’s really the best part about Sing Sing; it insists upon the choices made not because they make the most sense cinematically, or even artistically, but because every choice re-emphasizes how profound the human ability to make choices is. All art is is choices, and there can be no true art without an emphasis on true humanity. There have been a number of great films released this year, even films with which I feel a particular kinship, that examine the human experience in a uniquely meaningful way (hello, other A24 movie I Saw the TV Glow), but Sing Sing is the first and only film so far that I would genuinely argue is an important watch for anyone and everyone who has a chance to see it. If we are to continue incarcerating human beings at the rate the United States enjoys, the very least we can do is attempt to see their humanity, manifest through artistic struggle, and hopefully, the walls of the oppressive structures that attempt to rob inmates of both of those things will eventually, finally crumble.
 
I’m giving “Sing Sing” a 9.8/10
 
- The Friendly Film Fan

From the late 1970s through the 80s, three major non-Star Wars sci-fi franchises were all born into existence, all of which concerned some manner of spectacular creature born or willed into existence to eradicate the human race as we know it. The Terminator, the third such of these franchises, demonstrated to audiences the dangers of playing too comfortably in the world of artificial intelligence. The one before, Predator, took place within a new kind of jungle warfare against an extra-terrestrial foe following a wave of films about the ultimate jungle struggle in Vietnam. But the first of these franchises – and one of only two in which director James Cameron played a part – was Alien, which began in 1979 under director Ridley Scott, the first film of which quickly became known as the greatest sci-fi horror film ever made. It wasn’t long before James Cameron, following his success on the original Terminator, would execute the famous pitch for directing the film’s sequel, Aliens, eventually launching the property into the conversation of greatest sci-fi horror franchises ever made. Now, 45 years and eight films later – including two widely-maligned crossover events with the Predator films – we have arrived at Alien: Romulus, which sees Fede Álvarez stepping into the director’s chair to bring things all the way back to basics.
 
With its story set between the events of Alien (1979) and Aliens (1986), Alien: Romulus stars Cailee Spaeny as Rain, an orphan girl working on a mining colony in deep space for the Weyland-Yutani corporation, who hopes to earn enough working hours to secure a travel permit to the planet Yvaga III with her brother Andy (David Jonsson), a Weyland-Yutani synthetic android. Once it becomes clear that the corporation does not plan to offer travel permits of any kind, Rain decides to join a group of other young space colonists in seeking out a decommissioned spaceship floating above their planet, having been convinced that they can all travel to Yvaga III together using the cryo-sleep pods left on board. It becomes quickly apparent, however, that the ship was not decommissioned, but abandoned, and things turn awry quite quickly as the group comes face to face(hug) with most terrifying and perfect organism to ever haunt the stars. This film also stars Isabela Merced, Archie Renaux, Spike Fern, and Aileen Wu.
 
At their heart, the best of the of the Alien movies have typically had rather simple set-ups. There’s a group of space truckers, they end up on a spaceship somewhere with no ability to contact the outside world, and the titular creature wrecks shop, picking them off one-by-one. (The first movie is literally just called “Alien.”) Over time, and especially recently, the franchise has seemed more interested in exploring the sci-fi origins of its plot machinations in films like Prometheus and Alien: Covenant, having drifted further away from the horror that made the series a household name. Whichever approach one prefers, it’s been generally agreed upon that the franchise needed a solid reset (much in the same manner The Force Awakens gave a reset to the Star Wars). And while there are certainly elements of Alien: Romulus that feel too attached to the past, on the whole, it’s about as solid of a return to form for the series as one could have hoped under the new 20th Century (read: Disney) banner.
 
If there’s one thing the Alien films are known for besides perhaps the best creature design ever conceived, it’s the set-pieces, the most iconic of which is the chest-burster scene in the first movie. Luckily, Fede Álvarez knows how to do horror set-pieces better than just about any horror director working today, and Romulus contains around 3 or 4 major ones that immediately jump to mind, two of which are some of the best work the series has offered to date, both reinforcing the imagery of the face-huggers as a disturbing metaphor for sexual violence while also while also relishing in the grosser, more horrifying elements of birth as a xenomorph’s head begins to crown out of a literal birth canal. Both the music in these moments and the beautifully-crafted practical effects underscore just how terrifying the titular alien is in both concept and execution, a monster without equal whose emergence can be comfortably compared to death itself coming to life. But it’s not just the set-pieces involving the aliens that increase the the tension of the film; space itself is as terrifying as any extra-terrestrial monster, and as things continue to escalate, so too do the more basic elements our characters need to survive (i.e. depressurization, lack of oxygen, frozen cryo-fuel, etc.) These sequences  wouldn’t work nearly as well if the sound or production design lacked even an inch of quality, and with Álvarez committing to using as little CGI as possible to achieve the look of the film, only the sound could have afforded a little slack, which the film refused to give it. Of the Alien films I’ve seen to date, this is one of the best-sounding, most intentionally designed, and every bit of effort shows on a theater screen.
 
It's not just the design elements or the musical score in the film’s upper half that make Romulus worthwhile, however; the film also boasts two of the series’ best performances to date in Cailee Spaeny and particularly in David Jonsson. Spaeny’s star continues to rise as the Priscilla and Civil War star takes center stage here, never straying so far into Sigourney Weaver’s territory from the original films that her performance risks impressionism, but always staying just solid enough that the two characters could easily exist side by side without any viewer questioning whether they belonged next to each other. It’s doubtful that Rain becomes as iconic as Ripley, but at their core, the two parts are played similarly. The standout, though, is David Jonsson of Industry fame, whose performance as Andy anchors the film in its deepest humanity despite the fact that the character is not biologically human. Jonsson is able to play both the humanistic and the corporate practically seamlessly, cementing his place in franchise history as one of its finest new additions.
 
There are moments in which Romulus’ fan service feels too derivative of its inspirations, as though the divided responses from previous entries attempting to do something new had scared off the producers from continuing to try new things entirely, though in on case towards the unfortunately overlong ending, it did feel as though that derivativeness wore thin. I also won’t spoil a fairly major plot point here that has major ramifications on how the story of the film plays out, but suffice it to say, while the execution of it doesn’t read as anything especially egregious given its nature, the thought of whatever producers’ meeting gave the green light does make me feel a little queasier than anything involving the xenomorph ever could. There’s nothing wrong with going back to basics as a method for re-adjusting course, but as I’ve said many times, relying on those basics too much, beyond just a few cursory awkward line reads that harken back to what came before, ultimately detracts from the idea that filmmaking itself is a medium for growth and pushing the boundaries of storytelling.
 
Overall, there’s not much to say about Alien: Romulus that would offer any deeper insight into the movie itself or the franchise as a whole from my end of things. It’s just a really solid, well-crafted sci-fi horror film with a few great set-pieces, some great performances, and a good sense of what made those original films work in the first place. I doubt that it’ll end up in my Top 10 by year’s end, but if back to basics was what it took to get the acid blood on this ship pumping again, there’s not a whole lot more a viewer can expect than what was offered here. If anything, it’ll be interesting to see whether or not Fede Álvarez sticks around after this, and whether his apparent dream of a new Alien vs. Predator movie can actually come to fruition.
 
I’m giving “Alien: Romulus” an 8.6/10
 
- The Friendly Film Fan

Based on or inspired by the insane true story (it’s not immediately clear which), Strange Darling is the sophomore effort of writer and director JT Mollner, and stars Willa Fitzgerald as The Lady, a young woman for whom her own safety is top priority, who takes a chance on meeting a swell-seeming guy for a one night stand. At first, things appear amicable, but nothing is what it seems when this twisted get-together spirals out of control in a flash, and The Lady is forced to do whatever it takes to survive as she is ruthlessly pursued by The Demon (Kyle Gallner) across multiple states in one of the most deadly serial killer murder sprees in U.S. history. Shot entirely on 35mm film by producer and director of photography Giovanni Ribisi, and told in 6 distinct chapters in non-linear fashion, the film also stars Ed Begley Jr., Barbara Hershey, Steven Michael Quezada, Madisen Beaty, Bianca A. Santos, and Denise Grayson.
 
If I were to give readers one piece of advice when it comes to a film like this, apart from going in as blind as humanly possible, it would be to let go of the idea that one can figure this movie out before the next chapter begins. Given all the unexpected turns it has to offer, there’s little to discuss without spoiling, so if this review feels a tad vague, it is a deliberate choice. Whatever kind of serial killer movie one thinks this is at the start, or even further into it, well, it’s not that movie. That’s not to say that it doesn’t eventually find a more straightforward path as far as narrative is concerned, but the surprises in store for those whose grip on the “predictability” of movies like this is loosened are far and away some of the best any thriller this year has had to offer. As the cat-and-mouse chase between The Lady and The Demon plays out, it’s never clear where exactly the turns will come, or just where they’ll lead. As much as the film is lovingly informed by and pays tribute to the grindhouse horrors and slashers of old, it remains entirely undefinable by their usual tenets, comfortably sitting alongside them while forging a path all its own. In most films like it, the structural whiplash of flipping between chapters in non-linear fashion may seem like a crutch used to keep the narrative interesting without offering any real justification or depth, but for Strange Darling, that whiplash is not only a welcome tool used to piece the puzzle together, but the very mechanism by which the viewer learns that the film is, in fact, a puzzle.
 
But it’s not just the structured edit of the film that makes it such an impressively strong second effort for Wallner; in navigating the jigsaw pattern by which the film takes shape, the audience is also treated to two of the most exciting performances of the year to date between Fitzgerald’s Lady and Gallner’s Demon. The two characters could be perceived as one-note, arch ideas at first, the former for the risks women endure in public life, the latter for the literal manifestation of those risks, but Wallner is careful not to pigeonhole his actors, allowing Fitzgerald in particular to really strut her stuff through a range of different modes. To say anything further would be to spoil a film wherein even the lighter plot points I find myself dancing around so as not to ruin the experience, but suffice it so say, if awards bodies took horror performances more seriously, Fitzgerald’s work here, at the very least, merits a mention in the conversation.
 
Much of this film’s uniqueness may be attributed to the way the film is shot by actor Giovanni Ribisi, who also produced the film, and whose choice to shoot on 35mm feels purposeful rather than entirely stylistic, though style the film does employ to great effect. There’s something about the grainy textural look of the movie that offers a more robust sense of the danger all around our protagonist, much in the way that one can just tell something is off in older horror hits like The Texas Chainsaw Massacre or films of the more unexpectedly brutal variety like Deliverance. Strange Darling is a far cry from either of those films narratively or even thematically, but tonally, the three share a distinct vibe of things being just a bit too eerie and stomach-churning, courtesy of an aesthetic that I can only describe as “grimy.” Perhaps the film itself is not exactly the most grotesque of its kind, but it fits well within that camp nonetheless.
 
Movies like Strange Darling come around so rarely, catapulting new voices in the world of cinema like those of JT Mollner to dynamic new heights with startling energy and exciting vigor; catching one this early, before Mollner becomes a household name, feels akin to discovering a great band right after their debut album. I can honestly say I haven’t seen a film like it in a very long time, and I doubt there will be another so uniquely positioned in this calendar year. Needless to say, I would encourage all readers, especially those that are fans of grindhouse horror and thrillers, to take a chance on seeing the film as soon as they are possible able. It feels like the beginning of a truly special era for Wallner and Co., and is bound to be one of this year’s great hidden gems.
 
I’m giving “Strange Darling” a 7.8/10
 
- The Friendly Film Fan

If ever you’ve wondered why video game movie adaptations have begun migrating to television, or why their theatrical output has such a tarnished overall reputation, I’ll first ask how it’s possible that The Super Mario Bros. Movie has been your only VGM experience (even then, not a great one), but if somehow their notorious reputations have spared your eyes to this point…well…wonder no more. Based on the popular video game franchise of the same name, Borderlands stars Cate Blanchett as Lilith, a bounty hunter who is hired by Atlas (Edgar Ramirez) to find and rescue his daughter Tiny Tina (Ariana Greenblatt), who supposedly holds the key to unlocking a secret treasure vault on the chaotic planet of Pandora – Lilith’s home world – and who was released from captivity by former disillusioned soldier Roland (Kevin Hart). In the course of her mission, Lilith meets and forms an alliance with a ragtag team of misfits, including Krieg (Florian Munteanu), a muscle-clad “psycho” who protects Tina, Tannis (Jamie Lee Curtis), and Claptrap (Jack Black), a scrappy robot companion programmed to help Lilith accomplish her goals upon her return home, as well as Tina and Roland themselves. Together, this scrappy team of six must brave desolate landscapes, alien monsters, and bandit attacks, surviving long enough to figure out where the vault is, what’s inside, and whether the real treasure was each other all along.
 
I’m not what you might call a traditional gamer; I’ve never played the Borderlands games, I don’t really even know what they look like, and I have no special attachments from them that would indicate whether or not I thought this worked as an adaptation. What I would consider myself is a film connoisseur, albeit one still very much in the early stages of that connoisseur-ship, so regardless of the adaptability demonstrated by this version of Borderlands, I can confidently tell you that it doesn’t work as a movie, especially not a movie with little-to-no sense of self and even less teeth for the world it inhabits. If it sounds as though the plot description above is overly chaotic and messy, friend, it is only because whatever plot this film has to begin with is simultaneously over-complicated and drearily under-written.
 
The truth is, Borderlands is as desolate a film in terms of entertainment, inspiration, creativity, or even pure visual flow as its many desert locales and bare-bones sets are in relation to the most basic forms of color theory. In fact, the only set that has anything close to a real identity in terms of its color, or indeed its characters, is a bustling town our ragtag misfits come to about halfway through the film’s 102 energy-draining minutes, which is only used to introduce Jamie Lee Curtis, set up a bland and overly long action set-piece, and tease a plot “twist” anyone who’s seen a movie before could see coming 40 miles away. Visually speaking, it’s an eyesore, so lacking in anything remotely interesting to look at that the copious amounts of poorly-composited green screen backdrops become the only interesting thing to look at simply for being included often enough that one could make a dangerously effective drinking game out of just noticing them. In fact, the film is so devoid of anything tangible or even recognizable from a pure narrative storytelling perspective that any fan service or entertainment it offers doesn’t just go unappreciated but unnoticed by anyone who’s not joined to the games at the hip. Even Deadpool & Wolverine’s cacophony of cameos – which I still contend ultimately don’t mean much to the film itself, to the legacy of the 20th Century Fox canon, or the MCU itself – are at least recognizable enough that there’s a drip of entertainment in just seeing some of those guys show up again. Borderlands doesn’t even have the right level of relevance in the world of gaming anymore for people to have absorbed any recognition of its fan service through pure cultural osmosis (apart from the parts of the movie that are made from that).
 
What really kills any momentum the film builds, however (on the off chance it builds any momentum at all), is that the script itself seems entirely uninterested in the story being told and makes no effort to actually create or sustain any creative sparks that might be resting in the margins of its hollow shell, ditto for its cast, not that most of them seem even remotely aware what kind of movie they’re in, apart from Blanchett; her dead-eyed, practically expressionless pitch is the film’s most clear indicator of just how over this sort of thing everyone is by now. Even amongst that cast, Greenblatt seems to be the only one making a game effort at actually injecting any life into the film at all, and as fun as her performance could be to watch in a film that actually cared about character development at all, whatever efforts she makes here are immediately shot down like a bird out of the sky by Eli Roth’s rush to just get to whatever the next set-piece is without so much as the balls to make that set-piece as fun as Greenblatt’s performance clearly indicates it should be.
 
I won’t wax on and on as to how draining this film’s inclusion into the “cultural canon of cinema” is or whatever, or how it doesn’t actually have anything meaningful to contribute to that canon, because the truth is there are lots of movies way better than this that also don’t contribute a lot of meat to movie history and are just around for the fun of it, and also because as much as I like the ones the ones that do meaningfully contribute, I wouldn’t consider myself pretentious enough to pretend that every good movie has to. But what I will say for Borderlands in regard to whether or not it even could do that is that the movie wouldn’t have anything to offer even if whatever it had was meaningless. In other words, the film is…nothing. It didn’t piss me off, it didn’t make me cringe, it didn’t even bore me to tears so that I begged it to stop or offered my soul in exchange for something interesting to happen. The only thing it did make me feel, for one hour and forty minutes it ran, was the worst thing a movie like it could ever make anyone feel: complete and total apathy. Even then, I struggle to confirm with myself that it made me feel anything at all.
 
I’m giving “Borderlands” a 2.4/10
 
- The Friendly Film Fan

If you’re old enough or offline enough to have never heard the term “BookTok,” you’d be forgiven for not understanding in any capacity how author Colleen Hoover’s best-selling books – It Ends With Us and its sequel, It Starts With Us – became such sensations across the world for young readers, or how Hoover herself has taken a turn in BookTok spaces to become as prickly a subject amongst its myriad of creators as J.K. Rowling has become amongst Harry Potter enthusiasts who aren’t transphobes. Hoover’s first book, originally published in 2016, gained immense popularity on TikTok over the course of 2021, leading to its topping the New York Times bestseller list at the start of 2022. That book – It Ends With Us – has been the subject of numerous online debates regarding the fluctuating appeals of young adult literature (ranging from dark fantasies to romance dramas and the subgenres which intertwine the two), popularity vs. quality, spotlighting or perpetuating abuse in writing, etc. It is also from that book, and a script written by Christy Hall, that director Justin Baldoni draws his big-screen adaptation of the same name, which starts Blake Lively, Baldoni, Brandon Sklenar, Jenny Slate, and Hasan Minhaj.
 
Lively stars as Lily Bloom, a young woman with hopes of opening a flower shop in Boston, who’s moved back home following the death of her abusive father. Between the early days of opening the flower shop and taking on a new employee (Jenny Slate), she meets Ryle Kincaid (Baldoni), a young neurosurgeon who sweeps her off her feet with his persistence and blunt honesty, and a long-term romance develops between the two. But Ryle isn’t always the paragon of peace Lily needs in her life, and parts of Lily’s past still consume her mind as she soon re-encounters her first childhood love, Atlas (Sklenar), who also works and operates a restaurant in the city. With two paths in front of her, Lily must decide not only which fork in the road to follow, but whether it would be better to forge her own path, leaving behind the trauma that’s haunted her from childhood.  
 
The idea behind It Ends With Us is an admirable one, an earnest examination of the dichotomy between the difficulty of leaving an abusive relationship or staying in one. Even more tragically, it’s an idea that a lot of young women seem to have a specific connection to. But if you’re going to examine that dichotomy with all the nuance and care that navigating the subject requires, the form that examination takes has to be in the hands of an artist that knows exactly what they’re doing and who demonstrates a particular skill in telling stories like this, especially if the script is not going to be of any real service in that regard. Unfortunately, Baldoni is not that filmmaker; in fact, given the pitifully off-balance nature of the film’s story structure, his having cast himself as the main love interest of the protagonist – behind-the-scenes cast drama notwithstanding – makes the whole enterprise feel more like a way-too-underbaked ego project than a sincere undertaking, especially when considering that the film gives far more screen-time to a past version of Lily’s rival love interest that Baldoni doesn’t really have to compete with for the bulk of the audience’s attention (not that Sklenar’s modern one is anything to write home about).
 
And that, really, is the main problem with It Ends With Us; beyond whatever earnestness it can muster (and setting aside that there seems to be little-to-zero sense of craft in how Baldoni shoots, edits, or blocks a scene), there’s no sincereity in the telling, no effort to genuinely get at the heart of the issue. It’s as if the whole film is just the most basic outline of what a story like this looks like in its earliest possible stages before any fine-tuning work has even been considered, cannon fodder to give Baldoni an excuse to look sexy on camera but not have to actually put in any work to make his character someone that anyone who looks like Blake Lively would believably fall for long-term, no matter how pushy they got. Any chance we get to see exactly why Lily stays with Ryle for so long, or even how she falls for him further, is rushed through in montage, not given any room to breathe. Lively herself is a talented individual, and has demonstrated greatness in acting previously (see: The Shallows); she could sell falling for a handsome shit-bag if she really needed to, but despite her best efforts, the script affords her no room to take things where they clearly need to go. It would be clear to anyone with an eye for these things that Lively is in a different movie than almost everyone else, a better one trapped inside the CW-style dialogue this one forces her to espouse.
 
Nearly everything – every coincidence, every chance meeting, every story beat, every line of dialogue from the awkward to the genuinely awful – feels contrived to follow a pre-determined path, not in service to a natural progression of events, but in adherence to a story structure the film is forcing on its characters. Between the forty-five establishing shots of Boston layered throughout the glacially-paced running time and the music supervision that would rather an entire Taylor Swift song play all the way through than let the audience sit silently with the characters in their most intimate moments, there’s hardly a moment where the film allows itself to be still with its characters, apart from one scene in the latter half of the film where Lily and Atlas are having a discussion regarding a sensitive topic on Atlas’s couch. It’s only in that moment where the film finally displays a sense of empathy towards its characters, rather than just sympathy, and if that scene’s tone were the one that the film elected to use in order to explore its complex themes, a halfway decent movie might have emerged. Unfortunately, the film stands as a grim reminder of what happens when a book becomes popular through algorithmically-driven virality before anyone bothers taking a closer look at what’s actually on the page.
 
I’m giving “It Ends With Us” a 3.4/10
 
- The Friendly Film Fan

It may seem at first glance, given all the odds stacked against it, that the very existence of a film like Deadpool & Wolverine should be regarded as an out-and-out triumph, and in some manners of speaking, it could be considered one. The opening weekend box office was practically guaranteed to be overwhelmingly large (to the degree that any film’s box office in the year of our lord 2024 can be a guarantee), the CinemaScore for the film is an A, the Rotten Tomatoes numbers look solid even on the critics’ side, and the myriad of production roadblocks the film had to overcome just to get made – from Disney’s acquisition of Fox to an entire worldwide pandemic between films to SAG-AFTRA and WGA strikes taking place during filming – could make even the most anti-superhero critic offer up some sympathy votes toward the idea of the film actually coming to pass. But ideas are not final products, and in a cinematic manner of speaking, Deadpool & Wolverine’s final form is as shallow and unremarkable as any of its lesser MCU contemporaries are typically regarded – in truth, it’s far from a triumph at all.
 
This isn’t to say that the film doesn’t have anything in it to recommend; the fan service itself is rather inspired in a vacuum, and a couple of key performances – chiefly Hugh Jackman’s return as Wolverine and Emma Corrin’s introduction as Cassandra Nova – actually shine in a few spots despite the script giving them very little to work with. Jackman in particular brings real pathos and weight to a performance that could easily have just been a cruise control job. Plus, despite my issues with the music supervision on the film as a whole, the introductory titles sequence’s use of *NSYNC’s “Bye Bye Bye” remains a great deal of fun. Past that sequence, however, the “fun” of Deadpool & Wolverine becomes less about rewarding audiences for investing in the story or characters, and more about distracting the viewer from the fact that the movie has nothing of real weight to offer. In fact, there really isn’t much of a story at all. There’s a plot (or at least the outline of a plot), locations, characters, action beats, etc, but none of it ever congeals into something meaningful or cohesive. Rather than use its fan service as an additive or enhancement to the storytelling, D&W instead elects to use fan service as storytelling, bouncing from cameo to cameo without much rhyme or reason and squeezing every last drop out of any recognizable, newly-Disney-owned IP it can get its hands on. (There’s also a particularly egregious Furiosa joke that makes less and less sense the more one thinks on it.) This is made especially apparent by how the film chooses to deploy its soundtrack, which is chock full of recognizable songs, most of which come careening through the speakers at seemingly random moments with little – if any – connection to what’s on screen, and a not insignificant portion of which are played for a less than a second during a scene where Deadpool is smashing Wolverine’s head against a radio. Even most of the characters we’ve come to know and love from the other Deadpool films, like Vanessa, Negasonic Teenage Warhead, Dopinder, Colossus, etc – characters we’ve grown attached to – are shoved to the side in favor of getting Deadpool to the “Void” so we can get to all those fan service cameos quicker, a big one of which turns out to be fairly disappointing given the actor’s single-note performance in the film.
 
But perhaps D&W’s greatest sin, even more than the hollow fan service or the less-than-half joke hit rate, or even the fact that it’s also quite an ugly-looking movie (does Disney just not do location shoots anymore?), the cardinal nail in the coffin for both the film itself and its vision of the MCU going forward, is its treatment of the chief piece of X-Men film history that’s renowned for its artistic vision and genuine emotional depth: Logan. Without question the best X-Men film to date, Deadpool & Wolverine takes the legacy of closure and catharsis that both audiences and Logan’s titular character finally experienced after 17 years of Hugh Jackman’s stewardship, and turns it into a punchline before outright robbing it of any sense of finality. Whatever your patience for Ryan Reynolds’ shtick as Deadpool (and being a fan of the first two films, I know I have enough patience to still enjoy the bits where he’s just playing the character), the very idea of a studio such as Marvel refusing to let a genuine artistic endeavor that was meant to act as finale be a finale – just because they own the rights to it now and have the option to undo its finality – is probably the biggest indicator as to why their multiverse plans have gone so awry. Stories need endings, but if there’s one thing Disney doesn’t seem to believe in, according to D&W, it’s that.
 
As unfortunate as it is, all I got out of this movie is that the MCU is far more desperate to be liked again than I initially thought, to the point that they’ll throw any amount of money at fan service just to buy back audiences’ good will, regardless of how little sense most of it makes both in the larger context of both the MCU and in this film proper. There are bound to be a lot of people who will have tons of fun watching this movie for that very fan service, and that’s great, but for me, it’s the cinematic equivalent of dangling a mobile in front of a baby in order to distract them from the fact that the dangler has nothing of actual substance to offer. And if this, plus Disney shelling out over $80 million just to get RDJ back into the MCU and bringing back the Russo Brothers to direct more Avengers movies is a sign of just how desperate things have actually become, I’m afraid whatever good will I’ve had towards the post-Endgame phase of this undertaking is likely to be quickly squandered into relative detachment, or worse, active disinterest.
 
I’m giving “Deadpool & Wolverine” a 4.8/10
 
- The Friendly Film Fan

It is a well-known story amongst many people close to the movie world that when James Cameron pitched Aliens as the sequel to the original beloved 1979 film Alien, he merely walked up to the whiteboard in the meeting room, added an “S” to the original title and promptly converted that “S” into a dollar sign ($). Of course, Cameron had already enjoyed critical and commercial success with his second directorial effort in The Terminator, so it’s not as if the studio executives in the room had only the dollar sign to go on, but if the story is to be believed, that move is what cinched the film’s production “yes,” which would lead to Cameron becoming a household name following that film and the success of Terminator 2 just five years later. Unfortunately, no such story exists about Lee Isaac Chung’s jump from his intimate and indie-budgeted Minari in 2020 to the heights of helming a major summer tentpole for Universal Pictures in the form of a sequel/reboot of the 1996 disaster classic Twister, but it sure would have been a fun marketing joke.

As it is, Twisters is never explicitly clear whether it means to act as a sequel to the original film or to re-invigorate the franchise for a new run of disaster flicks, but in both cases, it more or less follows the same formula as its predecessor, with an all-new cast largely standing in for the same parts the old guard had back in 1996. Daisey Edgar-Jones stars as the headstrong professional scientist working out of a weather station following an earlier tragedy who’s asked to come back into the field, Anthony Ramos is the one asking her to get back in the field, Glen Powell joins the cast as Tyler Owens – dubbed the “Tornado Wrangler” – who runs a YouTube channel with his own, more rough-and-tumble crew, which includes Nope breakout Brandon Perea clearly filling in for Phillip Seymour Hoffman’s “Dusty” character. The only meaningful difference, plot-wise between the first film and this one is the protagonists’ ultimate goal: instead of simply sending sensors into the tornados, the goal is to collapse and disrupt one in motion.

Legacy sequels/reboots are hard enough to do in honoring the original film or franchise’s spirit while also attempting to bring something new to the mix, but in cases such as this wherein the originals are remembered and rewatched, but not exactly beloved, that something new is a critical piece of the puzzle. If a filmmaker can get both of those right, and especially if they can get the latter part elevated above the first film’s level, then a truly worthy successor has emerged. Is Twisters a worthy successor or just a barely-elevated copycat? Your answer may depend on how much value you place on the original film. Having just seen Twister for the first time directly before seeing this one, I can say that Twisters is more or less the same movie with a few inversions in its plot mechanics; it just looks a lot more expensive. 

This film has more of a handle on the emotional core of its story than the original does, that’s for sure, but not so much of a handle that it becomes a standout element. Beneath all the howling winds, yeehaws, and homages to the original, it still functions largely as a movie that doesn’t quite know what to do with all the elements it has put together, even when they work individually, apart from pulling the same moves that its predecessor did. Daisy Edgar-Jones and Anthony Ramos are doing what they can to elevate the material they’re a part of, but with a script that plays things this safe, there’s not a lot of ground to mine as far as character work, and Ramos gets the short end of the stick in that regard. The one bright spot as far as characters are concerned – well, two bright spots – are Glen Powell and Brandon Perea; every time they were on screen, I just wanted to follow them, despite the fact that both of them are unforgivably underutilized. Powell in particular has a thoroughly natural and occasionally overwhelming charisma that’s practically tailor-made for a movie like this one, and yet even when he is on screen, the film doesn’t seem to want to take advantage of that very powerful tool despite how openly he offers it. In Perea’s case, whether due to the size of the part in the context of the film or the performance itself, the movie gives quite generously. (Harry Hadden-Paton more or less functions as the comic relief of the film, and he’s appropriately placed, but there’s not a whole lot to his character beyond that.)

Where I will give the film half-credit is in the manner by which it introduces disaster exploitation companies that profit off of people’s suffering for real estate development opportunities; I say half credit because it introduces the idea but refuses to actually engage with it in more meaningful detail. Director Lee Isaac Chung has gone on record as saying that he doesn’t want his film to be bogged down in “a message,” but for Twisters, there’s not even really so much as a theme to lift it off the ground it’s drilled into. (Even Alex Garland’s Civil War earlier this year – which also avoids delving into its political blood pool right at the center of it all – at least makes a point about our obsession with images and how culpable we are when we’re more obsessed with them than with the ethical ramifications of what those images contain.) To be fair, this isn’t a Twisters-exclusive problem – the original film also wasn’t too keen on actually having something to say about climate change’s effect on whether phenomena – but it was an opportunity this film ultimate leaves unfulfilled; as far as the original is concerned, the tornado action felt so visceral and the film is so well-paced, it was hard to get distracted enough to even wonder if it had anything to say. Here, the tornado action is also well-rendered, but it almost feels momentum-less, apart from two distinct sequences which stand-out far above the rest, one of which takes place at a rodeo and – just like the first film’s drive-in set-piece – is the best tornado sequence in the movie.

All in all, Twisters gets the job done for those who want nothing more than to watch the first film again on a larger-budgeted scale, and it has its fair share of crowd-pleasing natural disaster goodness, but for those who remember that original film well or want to see another Glen Powell movie star moment, it’s unfortunately rather lackluster in terms of novelty or innovation. (Which, visually, is saying something, considering how it was shot.) And if studios are going to keep bringing talented directors from smaller, more intimately-rendered indie films like Minari onto larger tentpole projects the second they get noticed, the least they can do is not make the scripts for those tentpole projects feel as though they came off an assembly line. 

I’m giving “Twisters” a 6.3/10

- The Friendly Film Fan