For nearly twenty years, Wicked has been one of the theater world’s most popular and enduring productions. People come from all over just to catch a glimpse of the now iconic story on the stage, with all its bombast and belt-worthy musical numbers carrying the audience through its jam-packed three hour odyssey about the Wicked Witch of the West. Multiple Tonys (though not the big one), countless cameos from the original stars in nearly half of all musical-related media still produced, and a cultural staying power thanks to both the books (and Best Picture-nominated film) from which it pulls the bulk of its inspiration have given the musical mega-hit a sort of untouchable quality when it comes to cinematic adaptations. To pull this off would be an act of defying gravity in itself. And yet, in watching the film play out the first act, one might never have suspected the story’s finding its origins in any other medium.
 
The central conceit, for those unfamiliar, is an origin tale centered on the iconic Wizard of Oz villain, the Wicked Witch of the West, whose name is Elphaba (Cynthia Erivo). Following a traumatic home birth which saw her father scorn her for having green skin, she grows up ostracized from her community and is considered a shame to her family, to which her parents have added a paraplegic sibling named Nessarose (Marissa Bode). Partly raised by some of the family’s talking animal servants, partly by their parents, life for Elphaba is a constant struggle of inward repression and outward temperament. After her sister is eventually accepted to Shiz University, the magical wizarding school, Elphaba is tasked by her father with looking after her, and by an accidental show of magic, is also enrolled at the school at the request of Madame Morrible (Michelle Yeoh). It is here where she meets Glinda (Ariana Grande-Butera), a popular girl with all manner of privilege, and the two begin a love-hate relationship that would ultimately come to a crossroads after a fateful meeting with the Wizard (Jeff Goldblum) himself.
 
Suffice it to say, my expectations for Wicked were tempered to say the least. From its washed-out, practically colorless trailers, to the introduction of an unlikely popstar not known for theater as one of the story’s central figures, if not a tad uninspired. Would it look like every other MCU or Disney project coming out now, with their copious amounts of poorly-rendered green screen and overuse of soundstages, or would it rise to the occasion as a cinematic work in its own right? After all, both of director Jon M. Chu’s previous films took place in reality; they don’t exist in fantasy worlds. Would his direction translate well to the demands of that kind of film? Well, dear reader, after a twenty-year wait, I’m surprised and delighted to say that not only is Wicked a more-or-less faithful adaptation of the beloved stage musical’s first act, but a genuinely cinematic translation of the story, complete with everything it needs to feel as though this translation was not only necessary, but crucial to understanding just how grand the audience was always meant to feel watching it.
 
I was already familiar with the story of Wicked prior to this film’s release, as most of its core audience is likely to be, and yet I remained shocked at just how often the film found new ways to surprise me even amidst my familiarity. Impressively-crafted from its very first frames as the overture soars overhead, the grand scale of the film begins to overtake the screen rather quickly, the camera following a pack of flying monkeys over a waterfall and into a wonderful world full of color and stunning production design that feels as physical and lifelike as it could ever be. Even the color-grading from the trailers – which still has some issues in both directions depending on which scene one is watching – was far less obtrusive than I expected, and the direction from Jon M. Chu feels as grandiose as the world of Oz is, the cinematography rising to meet the occasion and capturing not only the scale of the production, but the monumentality of having successfully pulled this off. Even some of the more noticeable soundstage sequences are chock full of tangible set designs that feel as though one could step into them at any time, and the visual effects on the animal characters look just right without being over-reliant on realism. There are a few instances where the film falters in some of its visual fidelity (not every scene’s blue screen effects translate well to smaller-scale moments), but by and large, the film is a stunning display of incredible craftsmanship worthy of multiple Oscars should the Academy have any extra to give out.
 
And that same quality extends to nearly every performance the film contains. Jonathan Bailey, Marissa Bode, Michelle Yeoh, Peter Dinklage’s vocal turn as Dr. Dillamond – everyone came to play for their parts. Truthfully, the only performance that doesn’t quite impress is Jeff Goldblum’s turn as the Wizard; he’s more or less playing himself as a wizard, rather than transforming into the part, but given the Wizard’s characterization in this story, it’s something I’m willing to look past. (He’s still Jeff Goldblum after all.) In true Wicked fashion, though, no one outpaces the two superstars at the story’s center. Both Cynthia Erivo and Ariana Grande (credited here as Ariana Grande-Butera) not only turn in their best screen work to date, but unlock new levels of performance for themselves, each leaning on each other’s ability so that neither performance can feel or even remotely be considered inessential to the other. Erivo is particularly impressive here, able to pull of both notes of meekness and steely resolve within the same expression and carry her songs vocally with an unbelievable confidence in her pitch, even when the story calls for her character to be distinctly insecure. She manages all the right notes at such a rate that there’s no need for showing off range, and yet when it happens, I remain captivated by what she’s able to do with her face alone.
 
The biggest surprise though, it turns out, is Ariana Grande-Butera’s absolutely magnetic turn as Glinda the Good Witch. I couldn’t imagine not predicting her for an Oscar nomination for this part. Following the overture and the beginning of “No One Mourns the Wicked,” she arrives in Munchkinland with an already grieved look on her face; those familiar with the show will know the origins of this look within the story, but it’s nonetheless a uniquely impressive skill the pop star pulls out in the film’s opening moments. In every close-up, every medium, every wide shot, one can see a quiet sadness behind her eyes as she holds back some underplayed tears in assuring the people of Munchkinland that the Wicked Witch is, in fact, dead. It was somewhat already a given that Grande-Butera would shine in the musical/poppier sequences in the film – her pop star persona off-camera is no small help in that department – but it’s in these quieter moments away from all the pomp and circumstance where one can see that she truly has that screen-worthy X factor that every actor so deeply covets. Frankly, I wouldn’t be surprised to see her win her first Oscar for how good she is here.
 
There are other elements of Wicked I’m dying to discuss here before wrapping this all up, but they may have to wait for a spoiler review before they can be appropriately addressed. Suffice it to say, this is not simply one of the best movies of the year, but the best movie musical we’ve been treated to in quite some time. Fans of the Broadway show will love it, musical skeptics will at least like it (I think), and Wizard of Oz fans all over the world will be delighted to find themselves in that fantasy world once more. I can’t wait to return to Oz when Wicked: Part Two opens next year.
 
I’m giving “Wicked” a 9/10.
 
- The Friendly Film Fan

The act of adaptation can be a particularly tricky line to walk; stray too far from the source material one is adapting, and your product is either regarded as a failure by those familiar with such material, or a triumph by those who deemed it too bland to be interesting on its own. On the other hand, stay too faithful to the story being told, and the adaptation becomes traditionally boring, wherein the lack of alterations to a tale whose origins are mediocre at best then reinforce that mediocrity as it appears on screen. The most audacious adaptations – The Godfather, Arrival, No Country for Old Men, Killers of the Flower Moon, etc. – elevate their source material (regardless of how good it already was on its own) to new heights by switching up approaches, changing plot details so as to make them more accessible to a wider range of people, and filtering all of the character details found in book pages through exceptional performances by remarkably skillful actors and masterful direction. But not every adaptation can reach the same heights, and sometimes all one needs for an adaptation to be successful is a faithful approach to quality source material. This is where Conclave comfortably sits.
 
Based on the book of the same name by Thomas Harris, Conclave’s story finds its center in Ralph Fiennes’ Cardinal Lawrence, who – in the wake of the Pope’s unfortunate death – is charged with running a new Conclave in which all eligible Cardinals will vote to select the Holy Father’s successor. Once one Cardinal receives a two-thirds majority of the vote, that person will become the new Pope, and the face of universal church. Sometimes these elections can take mere hours; sometimes they take days, and with no less than three front-runners making plays for the throne, anything can happen. With the world and the church’s place in it on the brink of total collapse, it is imperative that the Conclave swiftly and decisively select the right representative, both for God, and for the millions of faithful around the globe. This film also stars Stanley Tucci, John Lithgow, and Isabella Rossellini.
 
How films like Conclave land for someone is all about the approach to watching it. If you go in blind, you’re likely to have a greater reaction to its myriad of plot turns and twists, but you’re also less likely to forgive how the film essentially skips getting to know its characters on a personal level, apart from their individual interactions with Cardinal Lawrence, whom the film is content to have the audience become familiar with through Ralph Fiennes’ layered, deeply understated performance. Having finished Harris’ book mere hours before seeing the film for the first time, I was able to pinpoint in Fiennes’ eyes where all of the character’s internal thoughts came through in the story as outlined in the original text, but for those who haven’t read it, I would imagine that this is a difficult element to understand without any sort of clue given by the film itself. Fiennes is such a skilled actor that in order to play this part right, it requires an almost anti-theatricality, and he nails every beat perfectly, if one knows where to look for them. The same could be applied to both John Lithgow and Stanley Tucci’s characters as well, although we do get to know them more thoroughly through conversations, whereas with Lawrence, the audience is left to simply accept whatever it is about him they can glean from his subtler demeanor. As for Rossellini, while she does feature in one terrific scene towards the third act of the film, the rest of her performance is largely hidden by the needs of the plot, relegating her to more of a background character than a genuine supporting player most of the time.
 
To assuage any doubts that may have arisen: Conclave is a good movie. It’s well-mounted, the no-frills approach to adapting the book works, and all of the performances are played at exactly the right pitch for the story being told. While some of its production elements can feel a tad formulaic at times, they serve their respective purposes in making the story feel coherent, dramatic, and occasionally quite funny, and there are moments of genuine greatness among them, particularly in the cinematography and the costume designs. But herein lies my question: is Conclave a good movie only because the book it’s based on is a good story? Berger’s approach to viewing the Conclave less like the most important thing that could ever occur in a religious sector of the world and more like an overly gossipy workplace meeting that we seem to be in on imbues the film with a sense of fun it may otherwise have lacked, but given its near one-to-one translation from the source material, how much of that credit can be truly given to Berger, and how much goes to Harris’ original text? For me, most of it goes to Harris. Berger is a skilled filmmaker, as evidence by Netflix’s adaptation of All Quiet on the Western Front in 2022, but if one is going to adapt books as famous as those Berger has helmed thus far, every production element needs to be firing on all cylinders in order to elevate the director above the material he chooses.
 
As it stands, Conclave is the sort of movie I wish we had twenty of every year. A gripping mystery, told by skilled filmmakers, with some of the best performers in the world chewing the scenery as though they’d not eaten since their last screen test. Even without the level of craftsmanship it would need to be truly competitive in most awards categories (and with one book scene missing that I feel would have elevated it beyond just being very good), it’s a delightfully fun time at the movies, and it’s nice to see that the mid-budget thriller driven by dialogue and character, rather than spectacle, is making a handsome comeback.
 
I’m giving “Conclave” a 7.8/10
 
- The Friendly Film Fan

Saturday Night Live is as ubiquitous to American television culture as sports channels like ESPN and syndicated network dramas like CSI or Grey’s Anatomy. In fact, so widely known is the variety sketch comedy series that the acronym “SNL” doesn’t really need explaining at all; most people just know what it is. So many of today’s great comic talents – from Tina Fey, Amy Poehler, and Maya Rudolph to Adam Sandler, Will Ferrell, and even Bill Murray – either got their start on or had their careers boosted by appearing on the show, and that’s just the tip of the iceberg. Almost anyone who’s previously appeared as an SNL cast member has gone on to have an illustrious career in either film or television (sometimes both), and eventually become known as “one of the greats.” From Andy Samberg to Kristen Wiig to Eddie Murphy to Julia Louis-Dreyfus to Joan Cusack to Chris Farley to Jimmy Fallon to Billy Crystal and even Robert Downey Jr., the sheer number of awards and accolades for which NBC’s late-night hit could take credit if it so chose is staggering. But it wasn’t always that way. For one thing, the show didn’t add “Live” to its title until the season 3 premiere – hosted by Steve Martin – due to ABC’s rival comedy show at the time being called “Saturday Night Live with Howard Cosell.” More importantly, however, the SNL we know and love today, the one responsible for so much of entertainment culture’s brightest and funniest minds, almost never happened.
 
Saturday Night, directed by Jason Reitman from a script by Reitman and co-writer Gil Kenan, chronicles the chaotic frenzy of the ninety minutes immediately before Saturday Night Live’s debut and follows producer Lorne Michaels (Gabriel LaBelle) as he strives at all costs to get the show on the air. Along the way, he has to drum up a live audience to attend the show, wrangle a litany of stars from Chevy Chase (Cory Michael Smith) to Dan Aykroyd (Dylan O’Brien) to Gilda Radner (Ella Hunt) to Andy Kaufman and Jim Henson (both played by Nicholas Braun) to name just a few, finalize the production credit of his partner Rosie Shuster (Rachel Sennott), quell the anxieties of producing partner Dick Ebersol (Cooper Hoffman), figure out how to lock a finished script for air time and finish the set build, and most challengingly, get a less-than-enthused John Belushi (Matt Wood) to sign his contract. And all of this has to be done before 11:30 p.m.; if not, the network pulls the plug. The film also stars Emily Fairn as Laraine Newman, Lamorne Morris as Garrett Morris, Jane Curtin as Kim Matula, Andrew Barth Feldman as Neil Levy, Jon Batiste as Billy Preston, Kaia Gerber as Jacqueline Carlin, and Finn Wolfhard.
 
Even for those more familiar with the deeper history of SNL, Saturday Night is a wild ride. The inherent chaos of live television production in any context would be enough to fill ninety minutes of screen time with a whole host of interesting set pieces, but for a variety sketch comedy series so singularly unique that for years it was the only one in its Emmys category, that chaos is compounded tenfold. Lights break, sound systems go down, cast members are nowhere to be found, props are introduced and then abandoned, sketch orders are swapped and then scrapped and then re-implemented, with some bits getting removed entirely. And yet in journeying with us through all of this, Reitman never wears out the audience or so convolutes his script that the plot is lost entirely. As director of photography Eric Steelberg’s fluid camera follows Lorne through all manner of backstage hallways, green rooms, dressing rooms, elevators, and sound booths, we never lose sight of what his ultimate goal is or what we are here to witness. For all the quick movement and constant shifting from location to location, the staging and immaculate choreography of it all keeps us centered so that we always know where we are and what we’re doing. And that controlled chaos is what gives the film its quick pacing as it tells its story more or less in real time. That and the reliably great performances of its stacked ensemble of young stars (the real new Hollywood A-list, if you will), all of whom turn in work which is lacking in impressionism but full of pathos and a clear understanding of who they’re playing.
 
Still, as fun as the film is to watch, there are moments where one does wish it reached for something deeper than what it’s offering. At one point in the film, Lorne posits that one of the main appeals of “Saturday Night” is that it’s the first live television show made by a generation of people who grew up watching television. But this is the closest the movie gets to developing and putting forward a thesis about its own existence, or indeed the existence of the show it’s valorizing. There’s a clear reverence throughout the movie for what SNL is, and a recognition of just how revolutionary it was to the television landscape, but there’s not much in the way of exploring what all of this actually means, or why this particular show was so important at the time of its inception. As Lorne struggles against the network executives and fights for the show to go ahead, we’re rooting for him to succeed, but there’s not really a clear purpose as to why this matters. Why does it matter that it’s SNL, and not another sketch comedy show years down the road? Is it just that it’s the first of its kind, or is there some deeper reason for Lorne Michaels – and by extension us, the film’s audience – to need this success? Saturday Night unfortunately doesn’t seem to know the answer.
 
Even if all Saturday Night is is a narrative examination of just how insane it can be to produce live television or get a new show off the ground, that alone would be enough to whet the appetites of just about anyone – including myself – with a modicum of interest in how the entertainment business works. To the film’s and Jason Reitman’s credit, it largely succeeds in that pursuit. It’s entertaining as hell, driven by great performances and fast-paced dialogue, and is chock full of terrific hair and makeup work. No, there’s not really anything deeper to glean from its myriad of chaotic sequences or its deceptively simple plot, but even at its weakest, a theatrical experience like it is worth the time.
 
I’m giving “Saturday Night” a 7.8/10
 
- The Friendly Film Fan

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 4.2/10
 
- 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 7.6/10
 
- 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 2.1/10
 
- The Friendly Film Fan