If there’s one thing Steven Soderbergh knows how to do, it’s put in the work. The visionary director has already cranked out one film this year with Presence, and is releasing his second this weekend with Black Bag, a British spy thriller which sees Michael Fassbender and Cate Blanchett’s marriage tested as Kathryn (Blanchett) is among a group of agents suspected of leaking classified MI6 intel to a foreign government. The test for George (Fassbender) is one of loyalty – will it be to country or to spouse? And if it does turn out that Kathryn is guilty of treason, will he be able to do what it takes to rectify the situation, or will he be too late to do anything about it?
 
To a certain extent, Soderbergh’s filmography to this point has been all about what the audience is expected to bring to it and what he is expected to unveil to them over the course of each story: a workmanlike director for a working public. The catch is that on occasion he can get in his own way, and in more formal settings such as the one in which Black Bag finds itself, it can be a bit wearisome for him to get out of the way. Mercifully, Soderbergh’s plot doesn’t overstay its welcome, as the film clocks in at only an hour and thirty-three minutes, but getting to its end does require jumping through a few hoops without quite being able to see the ground beneath. It’s not so much a matter of format or styling; Presence is the experimental release this time around, whereas this film is significantly more straightforward. It’s simply that the film plays into its own nature too much for the audience to buy in when it wants them to, unless they’ve already decided to before the Focus Features logo shows up. The script, which is penned by David Koepp, is naturally secretive with certain details, but could be considered so secretive as to be overly complicated in a way that thinks it’s serving the story, when it’s only made more confusing by refusing to reveal key information to the audience that they would need to know in order to follow the story properly.
 
Luckily, Soderbergh’s more straightforward films usually come gift wrapped with a game ensemble of character actors and some of the world’s finest performers from sea to shining sea, Black Bag being no different as every famous British supporting actor from Regé-Jean Page to Marisa Abela to Naomie Harris, Tom Burke, and even Pierce Brosnan show up to play their part in some of the most immaculate costuming a spy thriller has had outside of the Bond franchise (thank you, Ellen Mirojnick). To the degree that any of them can clarify what’s going on in the admittedly vague script, they do so with a stylish aplomb, none more so than Blanchett – who unfortunately is less central to driving the story than the marketing would have one believe – and Fassbender, the clear lead of the film by the time the ball gets rolling. It’s their relationship as a married couple that offers the film its sleekness, its sex appeal, and yet so much time is spent with other characters and other relationships away from the two of them that it seems the script is more interested in the idea of their monogamous loyalty than in the characters themselves. There’s fun to be had with that course of action, to be sure, particularly in the exploration of how infidelity infects relationships built on careers made entirely of secrets and lies, but it does leave some room for error with the film’s adherence to a plot that’s simultaneously too unfocused to the audience and narratively complex to its characters.
 
The saving grace of every Soderbergh film akin to this one is the third act reveal, the info-dump that reveals which characters have known what’s been going on the whole time and why they know it; to its credit, Black Bag does pay off in a largely satisfying way, but one can’t help but imagine what that reveal might have been like if the audience were shown certain pieces of the puzzle being solved beforehand instead of just being told about them all at the same moment. Truthfully, there’s only one or two scenes that reveal information critical to the plot’s changing over the course of the film, but neither gets the audience closer to the truth along with the characters; the third act reveal has to catch viewers up itself, and by that time one begins to wonder if anyone was supposed to know where this was all meant to be going or get clued in by any earlier information.
 
All that said, there is some satisfaction to be had in watching this ensemble throw their weight around on what amounts to a Sunday matinee type of project, and it’s far from outright boring despite the presence of a few scenes that could easily be sent to the cutting room floor; in that sense, it’s more of a showcase for each actor’s greater range of skill, allowing the audience to watch these famous people do what they do best: look great while delivering vague dialogue in a medium close-up shot. With that alone, there’s enough to recommend it as a positive moviegoing experience – including some rather sleek editing choices and Michael Fassbender in some truly well-fitting black turtlenecks which indicate someone clearly watched X-Men: First Class recently and finally answered the question "why isn't he wearing those all the time?” – but not quite enough to hail it as one of the best movies of the year to date. And if one is looking for an access point to understanding Soderbergh as a filmmaker, this isn’t likely to be the starting point I’d choose. Still, for this early in the year, one could do significantly worse.
 
I’m giving “Black Bag” a 6.8/10
 
- 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

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

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

The Bikeriders was written and directed by Jeff Nichols, and is based on the 1967 photobook of the same name. It takes place between 1965 and 1973, as Kathy (Jodie Comer) recounts the early days of the Outlaws MC (or the Vandals) – an old-school biker club from the streets of McCook, Illinois – to Danny Lyons (Mike Faist), who would go on to eventually author said photobook. From her first day, meeting Benny (Austin Butler) and Johnny (Tom Hardy), to her marriage to Benny, to club picnics and rides across the American Midwest, to meeting members of other clubs, to the introduction of new members of the crew and the departures of longstanding friends, to the eventual evolution of the club into a proper gang, Kathy helps Danny to assemble a portrait of an American society which has since faded into relative obscurity, and hopefully, give their legacy one last good ride. The film also stars Emory Cohen, Boyd Holdbrook, Damon Harriman, Michael Shannon, and Nordman Reedus.  
 
It’s been nine years since writer and director Jeff Nichols last released a feature film, and the movie world as a whole has felt his absence. Since Loving was released in 2016 to very little fanfare (which it ultimately deserved to have), few filmmakers have been able to replicate or even approximate what Nichols brought to the table as an artist. Here was one of the few filmmakers left making mid-budget films for adults that were centered around movie stars but didn’t seem to be especially interested in whatever awards contention they could possibly be slated for along the way – the kinds of movies summers and falls were chock-full of and used to be built around. (Midnight Special is the sci-fi exception.) There are still a select few who do this kind of work – hell, Richard Linklater, who released Hit Man this year – is one of them, but they’re becoming fewer and fewer as studios seem increasingly to only be interested in pushing large-budget projects for large box office returns. (Disney even ultimately let this movie go after removing it from the schedule following the SAG-AFTRA strike of last summer; originally produced under the 20th Century Studios banner, the film is now distributed under Focus Features, one of the few major studios left that seems genuinely interested in these kinds of projects beyond their awards prospects.) Now, Nichols has returned to the silver screen to deliver not only one of the best movie of the year, but exactly the kind of film that movie fans like me have been craving to return to theaters for a long time.
 
There will be inevitable comparisons to Goodfellas based on the earlier stylization of The Bikeriders, especially in the first act, and they wouldn’t be unfair comparisons, generally speaking. The overall edit and – to put it simply – “vibe” of the film feels very much like the Scorsese epic of 1990, complete with freeze-frame title cards, voice-over narration, and a soundtrack reminiscent of the time in which the film takes place. But Nichols is no Scorsese (who are we kidding, no one is), so as much as the film initially attempts to replicate or otherwise embody those stylistic choices, it can’t stop itself from moving too fast at points, which ends up leaving the first act as a whole somewhat of a mess; not one that can’t be cleaned up, and it’s only a spill really, but somewhat of a mess, nonetheless. That said, the film does eventually settle into its own groove, a thoroughly masculine endeavor of honor, legacy, loyalty, brotherhood, etc, without ever feeling as though it’s obsessed with the masculinity it offers. And who better to carry that cool masculinity than one of the biggest movie stars of the moment, Austin Butler.
 
The Bikeriders has other stars doing good performance work – Jodie Comer in particular is quite underrated here as she gets to be the emotional core of the film – and of course there’s a bit of bizarre vocal experimentation (we will never know what Tom Hardy truly sounds like and while Comer’s accent does eventually stop being as distracting, it takes a minute for it to get there), but none of them come close to replicating the true “movie star” power that Austin Butler has in holding the camera’s gaze. He has a presence on screen that’s difficult to quantity exactly, but can only remind the viewer of someone like a Brad Pitt or Robert Redford to Glen Powell’s Clooney or Paul Newman. Audiences may see the film for all sorts of reasons, whether they’re Jeff Nichols fans, Tom Hardy fans, Mike Faist fans, or otherwise, but they’ll leave talking about Austin Butler. It’s his effortless cool that lets the engine of the movie come roaring to life, and it’s his scenes in the movie that keep it from losing focus too often to recover.
 
All that said, this isn’t a perfect movie, and just as the first act feels a little bit too fast for all the stylization it offers, the third act is perhaps a little bit too slow and lacking in some much-needed stylistic adrenaline. That’s not to say the ending isn’t good – that’s in safe hands – but from the break into act three almost until the ending itself, the film sort of feels like it doesn’t know how to end the story it’s telling, as if it’s simply waiting for the credits to eventually fade in and let us know it’s over. Even as much as we enjoy hanging out with all the guys in the club (the original ones, anyway), we know that the journey has to end, but we’re made to wait too long for that ending to get started, which only serves to feed the slight-but-noticeable pacing problem the film occasionally falls back into. Still, even with a few minor complaints like light pacing issues and strange accents, there’s little that can damper the movie’s “good hang” time.
 
My biggest hope for this movie, even if it is a stretch, is that audiences will turn out for it enough so that studios get the message that these kinds of movies are wanted in theatrical spaces, and that we want to see movie stars looking cool with great screen presence in a movie about dudes just rocking so hard. Maybe that’s a pipe dream, but it’s a dream film fans need to keep alive, and it’s a dream quite clearly that filmmakers like Jeff Nichols believe in as much as we do. I’ve waited for a long time for a film like The Bikeriders to come back to the silver screen (even Hit Man didn’t get that opportunity properly) and I’m happy to say that, at least for me, it was well worth the wait.
 
I’m giving “The Bikeriders” an 8.2/10
 
- The Friendly Film Fan

The Friendly Film Fan reviews Zendaya’s new star vehicle​.

There’s a moment in Luca Guadagnino’s Challengers where the energy shifts; up to that moment – viewers may recognize it as the hotel room scene from the film’s trailer – the film is bouncing back and forth on its feet, having stayed in the game just enough to keep things exciting but, at least in appearance, not 100% certain of how it’s meant to navigate whatever comes next…or even what comes next. But once this scene takes place, and the film finds its footing amongst what, up to that point, has largely been an unconventional but inspired edit, the electricity of the film could singe the arm hair off of any audience member paying even a modicum of attention to what’s really going on. This is the moment where the viewer will know if they are going to enjoy themselves or not, and for those clued into its particular brand of sensual tricks by this time, the subsequent thrill ride is intoxicating.
 
Juxtaposed against a climactic tennis match between its two rival hunks in Patrick Zweig (Josh O’Connor) and Art Donaldson (Mike Faist), Challengers’ story revolves around the two men’s mutual obsession over tennis prodigy Tashi Duncan (Zendaya). After meeting the phenom at a party following a hot-blooded tennis match, the pair find themselves entangled in a will-they-won’t-they web of arousal, each magnetized by Tashi’s gravity and entirely unable to resist her pull (this would be the aforementioned hotel room scene). From here, the two men are pitted with and against one another over the course of decades in a mad scramble to determine who ultimately deserves Tashi’s attention, each perhaps too aware that Tashi is in turn playing her own game, and true victory – to her – is in the act itself.
 
There are a great many things that recommend this movie to an audience hungry for cinematic excitement, but what ultimately makes it work beyond the simplistic synopsis offered above is that it just moves. That’s not to say it doesn’t ever slow down or that there aren’t moments which are perhaps a little less invigorating on the whole, but it never stops outright in what it’s attempting to do. Luca Guadagnino is obsessed with the sensual pull of people towards and away from each other; he’s obsessed with the match, the back-and-forth, the meeting of two, all set to a club-worthy score from Trent Reznor & Atticus Ross which recalls some of their best work from and, I would argue, is their best work since The Social Network. There’s an energy to Challengers that’s not simply irresistible, but invigorating as the camera takes the POV of the ground beneath and sweat drips down as a tennis ball hits. There may be more eloquent ways of phrasing it, but put simply: it’s hot. It’s sexy. Guadagnino is a director entirely taken with the foreplay of it all, in the tease of what it all leads to, and it’s reflected in his direction of this film – how he at first endears us to Tashi and then tells us how we shouldn’t be, and yet we can’t help but be pulled in by her power, which rests comfortably and perfectly on the shoulders of cinema’s new “it” girl. (And, for those curious enough to care, the tennis matches themselves are absolutely exhilarating in just the right ways. Eat your heart out, King Richard.)
 
While everyone who’s witnessed her work on Euphoria is well aware that she could ace a more complicated part than her Spider-Man appearances (to say nothing of her brilliant work in Dune: Part Two), Zendaya’s turn in this is nothing short of magnificent, a movie star turn in the purest sense of the term. Not for one second does the viewer ever doubt that she’s in charge, nor for a moment does it feel as if the film gets away from her. In fact, one might go so far as to say the film can’t get away from her, so powerful is her pull. There’s a single shot in particular, wherein Tashi goes to sit down by a tree, which cinches the deal. Zendaya holds the camera’s gaze for no more than a minute at the most, and yet one can’t help but be enraptured by how she holds it, how it’s entirely her frame and hers alone. Tashi, to put it mildly, is not exactly a likeable individual and yet when Zendaya is on screen, she becomes the center of it no matter where or how she stands in the frame. This of course is not merely confirmed but supported by both Josh O’Connor and Mike Faist’s not-quite-equally excellent performances, and it’s their dynamic which ultimately drives the plot forward. Faist continues to improve with every second of screen-time he gets, but it’s Josh O’Connor whom American audiences – at least those who didn’t watch The Crown – will likely be the most taken with. There’s a certain shit-eating charisma to him one can’t help but be excited by, and O’Connor is more than up to the task of playing that up whenever the script requires it.
 
Challengers may not be entirely flawless – there’s not one moment in the whole of its runtime where I would believe Mike Faist could be 40, as the script at one time claims – but it is the movie of 2024 most comfortable with the flaws it has; they’re bugs, not features, sure, but they don’t actually matter because the movie itself knows that it has you regardless. When sweat looks this cinematic, when characters are this complicated, when filmmaking is this sexy, how it could it not? It may not end up being the year’s best movie – there’s still a lot to come – but when all is said and done, barring a truly bonkers contender for the title, this will undoubtedly be its hottest.
 
I’m giving “Challengers” a 9.1/10
 
- The Friendly Film Fan

​The Friendly Film Fan Reviews Alex Garland’s Directorial Swan Song.

What is the point of journalism? What is its essence? Is it objectivity, or truth? And who’s to say the two aren’t always the same? What responsibility do we bear in observation when atrocities occur before our very eyes? These questions lie at the heart of Alex Garland’s latest and perhaps last directorial effort, Civil War, a film set in the modern day which follows a group of rogue photojournalists as they traverse a divided America in the midst of an ongoing and increasingly deadly conflict – a literal civil war. But while the script offers a perspective on these questions, it doesn’t exactly answer them, preferring instead to present the audience with ideas that films such Jordan Peele’s Nope have also wrestled with regarding the human obsession with spectacle, the perfect shot, and what level of ethics we find ourselves sacrificing in order to attain it, whether in service of ourselves, or in this case, in the pursuit of objectivity. Even then, to focus on the act of journalism itself may be missing the point. As a largely apolitical film which doesn’t simply refuse to present the ideologies of either the in-power American government or the Western Forces (henceforth referred to as the W.F.), but actively avoids even hinting at them, Garland’s story lacks a point-of-view in the traditional sense, but to watch the film play out, one gets the idea that the mere observation of all the havoc wartime violence wreaks – not a stance on whether that violence is justified or not – is exactly what he’s aiming for here.
 
The story, as it goes, is largely centered on Kirsten Dunst’s Lee – a wartime photographer whose previous efforts in the field she viewed as sending a warning back home against the very idea of war – and her colleague Joel (played by Wagner Moura). Lee’s ultimate endeavor is to capture the shot and get the story every photojournalist is after: the President of the United States on the brink of invasion. However, in order to acquire those two things, she needs to get to Washington D.C. before the W.F. is rumored to be reaching the White House on July 4, which in turn brings reluctant but respectful rival newspaper writer Sammy (Stephen McKinley Henderson) along for the journey. Joined by a young up-and-comer named Jessie (Cailee Spaeny) with dreams of being a wartime photographer like Lee, the group needs to cross over 300 miles of dangerous terrain, passing through the front lines of the conflict on their way, where any threat could be the last one any of them ever meet.
 
By and large, the plot of Civil War is rather simple and often fairly repetitive as our protagonists run into conflict, manage to narrowly escape it, run into a different kind of conflict, escape that, and so on and so forth. What ultimately sets this film up for success is not the unpredictability of its plot or complexity of storytelling, but the ways in which – despite knowing that certain scenes haven’t happened yet, so there’s no way they die in this scene or that scene – one constantly feels as though these characters’ ultimate peril is imminent. There are but one or two moments where things feel safe or restful, thanks largely to the film’s exceptional craftwork. This is some of the best pound-for-pound filmmaking in Alex Garland’s entire career, particularly as a director, and especially vis-à-vis the on-the-ground action sequences along the road to D.C., which are filled with fantastic camerawork and terrifically-crafted sound that could very well be competitive at the Oscars next year. The third act in particular is one of the most harrowing and visceral of any film in recent memory, a non-stop military raid on D.C. that belongs with the likes of Zero Dark Thirty in terms of sheer intensity.
 
The film is also near-perfectly acted; readers may recall a thrilling sequence in the film’s trailer which features Jesse Plemons with bloodied finger grooves asking Wager Moura’s Joel “what kind of American are you?” before lifting his rifle to fire on him, presumably for offering an answer Plemons’ character wasn’t too fond of. The scene in question is every bit as rife with tension as the trailer presents it to be, and while it unfortunately largely bears little weight on the film as a whole, the performances contained within it are second-to-none. Stephen McKinley Henderson is as excellent as ever, though he doesn’t get any “moments” – even small ones like he did in Lady Bird – and Wagner Moura is consistently engaging, but the movie really belongs to Kirsten Dunst and Cailee Spaeny. What Dunst does with this performance is subtle, but all the more effective for it; she essentially has to be the rock of the group, but one can see in real-time that she’s slowly getting to the point where an at-home conflict where she can’t ever remove herself from the environment (such as with the others) is wearing her down to her last bit of resolve; I don’t think I would call it a career-best, but it’s certainly up there with the best of her work, even if the technical elements of the film are clearly what shines brightest overall. The slightly showier part – as “showy” as one can be with performances this wisely unassuming – belongs to Cailee Spaeny, who is now sure to have a firm grip on the attention of moviegoers everywhere after putting out this and Priscilla back-to-back. Spaeny’s ascendency from eager-to-please tagalong to somewhat tragic master of her craft is remarkable to watch; she carries so much in her eyes, and the performances she’s been able to pull off from one point to the furthest thing from that point in just over two hours without a second of it feeling unnatural (and she’s done it twice, no less) indicate a once-in-a-generation-level talent.
 
Overall, while Civil War struggles to offer any real point-of-view or substance in terms of its themes or vision of the world, the good contained within it far outweighs what it lacks, making a not insignificant hole in its center seem more like a missing feature than an outright defect. The excellent cinematography shines on large-format screens and the visceral sound design worthy twice the admission price by itself. Any answers to the questions it presents may be a bit muddy when all is said and done, but the film nonetheless remains an exceedingly well-crafted piece of work which puts Alex Garland firmly back near the top of his game.
 
I’m giving “Civil War” an 8.8/10
 
- The Friendly Film Fan

Martin Scorsese. Over the course of the director’s long and storied career, he’s made a habit of exploring subjects with intense thematic weight, his prolific filmography ever-so-steadily setting the stage for a late-career reflection upon those very subjects. The tone of these explorations varies wildly at points – satire, black comedy, somber melodrama. Yet he often returns to the same themes, over and over again, developing his trademarks as steadily as his craft. From his earliest dives into the psyches of broken men to his escalation in interrogating broken ways of life and then broken systems, Scorsese continues to prod us with the questions of “how,” “who,” “why,” and finally, “what happens now?” But these are not questions answered by the stories he tells; they’re questions for the audience, with no clear or easy answers on the other side. Or, if there are clear or easy answers, they are meant to make us uneasy, force us to reflect. In the case of Killers of the Flower Moon, these questions seem clear-cut at the beginning; by the end, they take on an entirely new form, and their answers bear a crushing, soul-shaking weight.
 
The Osage. Both subject and object of the story being told. Ernest Burkhart (Leonardo DiCaprio) returns from World War I to Fairfax in Osage County, Oklahoma in order to work for his uncle Bill Hale (Robert De Niro). The Osage who live in the area have become rich after having found oil on their land, though there are certain restrictions placed upon some Osages’ wealth by “sponsors” whose job it is to deem how fit they are to spend their money and how much of it. Upon finding work as a chauffeur – one of the only jobs he can perform due to a wartime injury – Ernest begins to drive around Mollie Kyle, a member of a wealthy Osage family, and Hale takes notice of their proximity to one another, suggesting to Ernest that if he were to pursue Mollie, her estate money would come to them. Ernest and Mollie strike up a bond, marrying soon after their relationship begins. Meanwhile, the Osage begin to die off, one by one, with little or no investigation from the authorities as to what or who may have been the cause of death. Over the next three hours and twenty-six minutes, Scorsese investigates not only what came to be known as the Osage Reign of Terror, but crucially its architects, its enablers, and offers the ultimate rebuke of how stories like it are treated.
 
From a storytelling and craft perspective, Killers of the Flower Moon is an astonishing piece, a great film at first blush which only improves the more time one spends with it. Like all of the director's great works, it almost requires a second viewing to fully appreciate everything it's doing, even if one does pick up on most of it the first time around. There are certainly times in which the film lulls, but it never truly drags, a testament both to editing legend Thelma Schoonmaker's immense and enduring talents, especially paired with Scorsese’s deft storytelling hand; not every minute feels crucial, per se, but every last one of them feels essential nonetheless. Schoonmaker’s work here in particular here could – and probably should – net her yet another Oscar win (this would make it her fourth) and it still wouldn't cover all she's contributed to cinema. That’s to say nothing of the immaculate cinematography by Rodrigo Prieto, whose camera is still when it needs to be, but sweeping in all the right places, as well as the late Robbie Robertson’s final and brilliant score. Robertson’s music is designed specifically to lull the viewer into believing that Killers may be yet another gangster crime movie from Scorsese, but soon gives way to something much more sinister: a case study of evil, racial violence, greed, and complicity. It is, without doubt, one of the best scores of the year.
 
Beyond the technical mastery present around every frame, the film also boasts some of the year’s best work by its towering ensemble cast. (In fact, between this film and Oppenheimer, 2023’s character actor heat sheet is so chock full of great stuff in every margin, it’s difficult to decide which film has the better ensemble overall.) There are any number of great turns, from Jason Isbell to William Belleau to Scott Sheperd to Cara Jade Myers to Louis Cancelmi to Tatanka Means to Tommy Schultz to John Lithgow to Brendan Fraser. But they all rest on the shoulders of the towering three: a top-of-his-game Leonardo DiCaprio, an insidiously sinister Robert De Niro, and a revelatory Lily Gladstone. Of these three lead performances, in fact, DiCaprio comes out in third to my mind, with De Niro’s cold, calculated agent of evil proving the man still knows how to act when he’s put in the right hands. It’s Gladstone who runs away with the film, though; the Native American actress is one of the few performers I’ve ever witnessed who’s able to share scenes with DiCaprio’s alluring star persona and sap all the attention away from him with a single look. Her expressive, weary eyes carry every scene she’s in, and it’s her resilience as Mollie Burkhart that gives the film its great heart and its great tragedy. One scene in particular at the end of the film may contain the single most heartbreaking moment of performance I’ve seen in a movie this year.
 
What truly sets Killers of the Flower Moon apart, though, beyond the technical craft and array of spectacular performances, is its startling ending, a remarkably powerful reflection upon everything we just witnessed and a confrontation of how we’ll move forward from having witnessed it. Without spoiling the specifics of how they are asked, the questions posed by the film’s finale focus on who's telling the story, critiquing how audiences often chew up and spit out true crime tales like it rather than sitting with and digesting what it can teach us, and even rebuking the story’s teller for being the one to do the telling, rather than those whose story this actually is. It’s almost as if Scorsese is asking us: “why am I the one telling this story? Why can’t we give Native filmmakers and storytellers the same chances I’ve had to tell their stories themselves?” Your milage may vary on how sincere those questions actually are coming from an 80-year-old white man who’s one of the most respected names in American filmmaking, but given how respectfully the film treats its subject matter, I’m more than willing to bet that he’s also considered those things, and that if there had been a way for an Osage filmmaker to tell this story with the same level of access, budget, and manpower Scorsese was allowed, the director would have rather they told the story.
 
In the film’s final moments, the audience is confronted with the idea that American institutions often co-opt true crime narratives to fold them into fascinating tales for entertainment’s sake, without actually considering the toll these violent acts have taken on the communities they take place in. Scorsese has been grappling with this concept more and more as he ages, as evidenced by his reflection on early romanticizations on gangster life in The Irishman and questions of faith’s true nature in Silence. In this particular case, he interrogates how Native histories have been twisted in order to prop up those same institutions which did nothing to prevent these atrocities from happening in the first place. The true evil here, beyond the violence itself, is how normal and uninteresting everything about these horrible crimes was to those in power, those who could have actually done something about it, and how we as audiences could possibly expect entertainment from stories like this.
 
In the end, Killers of the Flower Moon is ultimately a movie about complicity, both in times of racial violence, and in the recollection of that violence within a collective psyche. While there are no definitive answers or solutions to these confrontations, there are avenues for change, beginning with the idea that not all crime stories need be entertaining, nor should any Native stories of racial violence be turned a blind eye. And although I’m unsure how this film in particular will pair with the rest of Scorsese’s immense collection of stories, I know that there’s a reason he chose this story now, and I know that it will be sticking with me for a long, long time.
 
I’m giving “Killers of the Flower Moon” a 9.2/10
 
- The Friendly Film Fan

There is certainly no shortage of bad music biopics gracing the streaming or VOD worlds, and no lack of terrible ideas for them coming down the pike for future releases (like who decided the white guy who wrote Bohemian Rhapsody needed to do the badly-titled Whitney Houston biopic, I Wanna Dance With Somebody? Does he only know how to name movies about artists after their own songs?). Many feared that Baz Luhrmann’s take on the rise and fall of the king of rock, one Elvis Presley, would fare a similar fate, and though I cannot in good conscience deny that Elvis is far from a good film, I also cannot discount the notion that – unlike some previously mentioned work – its approach is far more interesting than it has any right to be.
 
Baz Luhrmann is an interesting figure in the world of film. Whether his features have been hits or not, he’s never truly had one movie stand the test of time as an unassailable classic. Between 1996’s Romeo + Juliet and his 2013 adaptation of The Great Gatsby – both of which have their fans – there’s not truly been one more unifying film of his than 2001’s Moulin Rouge!, which won two Oscars and was nominated for Best Picture, but even that film has its detractors, and no one I know would say that it’s an essential classic on par with some other iconic movie musicals like The Sound of Music or Singin’ in the Rain. (Australia is simply a non-starter as far as acclaim and hardly anyone remembers Strictly Ballroom). If anything, it’s Baz Luhrmann’s one-of-a-kind stylizations that have kept him going in the movie world all these years. Even if one doesn’t typically connect with his work, one is always interested in discovering how he’ll attempt to pull off whatever he’s got coming next.
 
Elvis is an exhaustingly audacious and unforgettable ride, but don’t let that fool you into thinking that it has more on its mind than making you feel as if you’ve just been lifted from its own version of the 50s wholesale, where a gyrating rockstar has somehow driven you into a frenzy for no reason, and by the time you realize it’s over, there’s naught left in you but the minute energy to walk out of the theater and go home. That’s not to say that there aren’t positives to be gleaned from the experience of watching it, but those positives aren’t likely to shine very brightly through what it essentially its own version of an Elvis Presley concert. Dripping in sweat, so frenzied it’s a wonder its own head is kept on straight, and entirely without remorse for the way it jostles the viewer around without reason or purpose, Elvis is exactly what one gets when Baz Luhrmann is the artist behind the lens. Much of the production makes no sense as the film actively avoids answering the question of why it was made now or made in this way, but it’s at least doing something with all the tools at its disposal, whereas most music biopics remain stuck in the age-old trick of “whole life story, no flash, end story.” Elvis is flashy. Elvis is dizzying. It’s simultaneously the fastest-moving movie you’ve ever seen and forty-seven hours long. And yet, though its stylization probably does more to help it seem good to those who don’t recognize (or don’t care about) all the familiar territory it treads, the ambitions of this film stretch so far that whatever else is stuck between its four walls can’t hope to reach anywhere near that length.
 
The concert sequences work about as well as any concert sequence in a biopic about Elvis would. They are the true measure of its audaciousness, its frenziedness, its endless ferocity. For most of the film, Luhrmann’s style works against it. In quieter scenes, in scenes without much going on, in sequences where we’re meant to be getting intimate with Elvis’ home life, the rapid-fire editing and odd camera angles make it so that we’re too distracted to connect with any of it, but during the concerts, it all comes together, not necessarily to bring iconic sequences to life, but to make one feel as if they’re at a crazy rock show. If anyone is the saving grace of Elvis, it’s Austin Butler as the titular star, and in these concerts, one can feel the energy he’s burning off just as much as the audience (the one in the film, that is) can. Butler is genuinely incredible here, unafraid to dip into the pool of impression when called for but never diving into its deep end. He’s every bit the human being and the character Elvis Presley was, all the good and the bad rolled into a single body that moves as the icon did and sings as the icon would. And yes, the concert sequences are where he stands out most, but it’s the quieter moments where he’s able to slow the audience down just enough to see that he's really put in the work here as a genuine performer.
 
If anyone threatens the draw of Elvis, however (and I can’t believe I’m actually writing this), it’s America’s Dad, Tom Hanks. Hanks plays Colonel Tom Parker, who essentially ran the show for most of the rock star’s career and though it bewilders me to say it, there is no clue as to what Tom Hanks is doing in this role or with his strange accent in this film. Hanks has played so many iconic parts, one couldn’t fit them onto a single Mt Rushmore, but Colonel Tom Parker will not likely be one of them. The accent is distracting from the start, never becoming less so, and the prosthetic makeup they use on him looks genuinely terrible. It’s not exactly a bad performance on its face, but it’s easily the most distracting thing in the film, and because the film is narrated by Parker, it’s usually front-and-center.
 
That’s not the end of Elvis’ flaws, however, most of which are its over-stylization and reliance on filmmaking techniques that make no sense except as just being different from most others, but one of which is that it doesn’t really seem to have anything to say other than “this is how exhaustive being part of the Elvis train was.” Much has been made in the years since Elvis’ death of his appropriation of Black culture, in particular its musical roots, and while the film doesn’t exactly shy away from the notion of Elvis having grown up around this particular kind of music, it also doesn’t do much to say whether or not it condemned his use of it without much in the way of having given credit to those he took his largest inspiration from, especially as he rose up in an era when civil rights were under even more vicious circumstances than they are now. It’s presentation without condemnation or endorsement, and while it works well enough for the story this movie is telling, those hoping for something deeper may be disappointed to find that Elvis doesn’t really have much to say at all, apart from that he was taken advantage of a lot by Parker and those around him.
 
Overall, the audaciousness of Elvis acts as both its savior and its ultimate downfall, much like it did for the titular musical icon, and the exhaustion one feels when the whole affair is over may only be comparable to the exhaustion fans felt after seeing Elvis Presley at his best in show. Baz Luhrmann has crafted something unwieldy, undefinable, and partly impossible to revisit in the same way one interacts with it for the first time. Austin Butler is phenomenal as Elvis, but Tom Hanks’ performance as Colonel Tom Parker is one of his most perplexing, and most of the performances from everyone else are fairly forgettable. If one has the patience for Baz Luhrmann’s wild stylizations, I’d recommend Elvis as a theater experience. But only once.
 
I’m giving “Elvis” a 4.8/10
 
- The Friendly Film Fan

In 2015, the Sundance Film Festival awarded its Best Director prize to one Robert Eggers, whose brilliant debut feature, The Witch, had just been shown to attendees, and was due for release in February after positive word spread from advanced screenings of the film. Eggers then quickly became somewhat of a curious name in the pantheon of auteur directors – at once a name to anticipate, yet entirely unpredictable as he began an era of singularity in filmmaking not seen since the early days of Ridley Scott (think Alien, Blade Runner). In fact, it was Eggers in large part who helped to usher in the horror heyday of indie studio A24, which distributed both The Witch and his subsequent masterwork, The Lighthouse. Committed completely to authenticity by way of period detail and an emphasis on realistic language, Eggers forged a path for himself with only two indie features under his belt, the latter of which received an Oscar nomination for cinematography. Enter Focus Features, with a larger playing field and a heftier budgetary capabilities than Eggers had yet experienced as a filmmaker, ready to take on the charge of bringing The Northman to the big screen. It may well be the smartest move the studio has ever made.
 
First viewed, The Northman can present something of a strange beast for the viewer: a tale of blood-soaked vengeance which fails to unleash the constancy of carnage its initial trailer insinuates (though it is nonetheless violent in bursts), but nevertheless remains as much an epic as director Robert Eggers ever could have promised, both in the scope of its narrative and the larger world it inhabits. Mythos and legend are not only alluded to but literalized as raven spirits and Allfathers appear on screen to assist Amleth (Alexander Skarsgård) on his quest of vengeance; yet for all the bloodshed, there are equal parts mysticism and meditation to accompany it. Truthfully, with the state of the current blockbuster landscape, dominated by superheroes and held aloft by the scepter of IP, it would not scratch hyperbole to declare it a miracle that The Northman exists at all. And to exist in the state it does, a tentpole release imbued by near-total commitment to the authenticity of even its most disparate elements, an anomaly further.
 
What little fails to connect from Robert Egger’s latest delve into old-world cultures and hyper-specific language is a chunk of steel dropped atop the irons of filmmaking, its weight so miniscule it cannot hope to dent the material in a meaningful fashion, but a weight nonetheless. One scene of Nordic sport and a temporary slow-down of momentum aways into the second act (plus a slightly underdeveloped love story) is offset by breathtaking imagery, the film’s reverent dissection of vengeance as Viking lifestyle – along with all that entails – and a stunningly rendered Slavic raid, the intricacy of which is seldom seen in films of this scale. Patience may be required to endure Eggers’ two-hour revenge epic, but the film trusts its audience to find the experience withing such patience. Assisting the audience in this task is the work of Robin Carolan and Sebastian Gainsborough, their drum-backed score echoing through the film’s soundscape as swords and shields are splintered and thrust, as spells are cast and vengeance sought.
 
Yet without its stars, especially those closest to the film’s burning center, The Northman would be nothing more than a glorified Game of Thrones spinoff episode. Skarsgård, who stars as the film’s titular protagonist, has gone on record many times about his journey to getting the film made, and his commitment to its existence is evident in every second of his beastly, often unhinged Amleth. He is animalistic, occasionally to an unnerving physical degree, but just as often contemplative, emotionally challenged in key moments where his vulnerability is given a chance to shine (though not quite as bright as his beastliness), often in close context to Anya Taylor-Joy’s Olga, a performance that works on its own but still feels slightly off-key here. Nicole Kidman and Claes Bang, as well as an unusually imposing Ethan Hawke, fill out the supporting cast in expert fashion, while Willem Dafoe and Icelandic popstar Björk make the most of their time with naught but three scenes between them.
 
It can be a fool’s errand to attempt pinning down what makes Robert Eggers’ efforts in filmmaking succeed to such a high level only three films deep; perhaps it’s the commitment to authenticity, perhaps it’s the intimacy with which he tells such grandiose stories, but always, the explanation eludes those who respond to the director’s work the most. The Northman may not be an outright masterpiece, or even Eggers’ best film on the whole, but it is one of the most original and engaging true epics to hit theaters in quite some time. Those who insist Hollywood is “out of ideas” or “only ever makes sequels/reboots” would be fools to let it pass unseen. The dollar speaks in the movie world; let it sing the songs of the Valkyries.
 
I’m giving “The Northman” an 8.8/10.
 
- The Friendly Film Fan