Daily

Bergen County Blues

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This is it, time is nigh: Geremy Jasper‘s Patti Cakes opens three days hence, or the evening of Thursday, 8.17. There’s no way this film is a letdown or shortfaller, and yet so far 40% of the Rotten Tomatoes and Metacritic responses have been thumbs down. Why? Because it’s a familiar underdog-tryin’-to-make-it tale, and injected with the same kind of formulaic uplift enzymes that went into Rocky, Hustle & Flow and 8 Mile. But it doesn’t matter because the spirit is there, and because the culture needs one of these films every so often so why bitch about it? And because Danielle McDonald (i.e. Jumbo) is the shit.

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The Kid Was A Killer

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Yorgos Lanthimos‘s The Killing of a Sacred Deer (A24, 11.17) “was lightly booed when it finished screening in Cannes this morning, and with ample justification. It’s a cold, odious and deeply repellent film. It’s the kind of thing that only Lanthimos fans could like, and even then it wouldn’t be easy. I wouldn’t wish this slog of a film upon my worst enemy.

“Deer begins with a certain robotic intrigue that slowly simmers and darkens. It’s basically about the lives of heart surgeon Steven Murphy (Colin Farrell) and wife Ana (Nicole Kidman) along with their two kids, Kim (Raffey Cassidy) and Bob (Sunny Suljic), being upended by Martin (Barry Keoghan), a teenager whose obsession with avenging his father’s death, which was caused by an operating-table error on Murphy’s part.

“The more Martin gets his hooks into Murphy the darker and weirder things get, but it’s something you have to force yourself to stay with in the final lap. I stuck it out, but I wouldn’t see The Killing of a Sacred Deer a second time with a knife at my back.

“To gauge the malevolence of this enterprise, look no further than the casting of the Irish-born Keoghan as Martin.

“Visually speaking Keoghan is an unpleasant guy to hang with. I’m sorry but it’s true. He exudes creepy by just walking into a room. He has evil wolf-like eyes and one of those ridiculous bee-stung noses, bulbous and swollen like something drawn by R. Crumb, the kind of Beagle Boy dog nose that used to scream “low rent” before common, coarse features became a kind of hip thing among 21st Century casting directors.

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Washington, Jefferson, Jackson, Lee, etc.

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In a diseased, perverse way I almost respect President Donald Trump for half-renouncing yesterday’s conciliatory remarks, because at least he was being honest. This is who this astonishing asshole really is. In a Trump Tower press conference Trump again maintained there was “blame on both sides” for last weekend’s Charlottesville violence and criticized the “very, very violent” behavior of “alt-left” groups.

Referring to nationalist and Nazi hate groups that assembled to protest the removal of a statue of Robert E. Lee from a park, Trump said that “not all of those people were neo-Nazis, believe me. Not all of those people were white supremacists by any stretch. [They] were there to protest the taking down of the statue of Robert E. Lee. And this week [it’s] Stonewall Jackson. Is it George Washington next week? And is it Thomas Jefferson the week after? You have to ask yourself, where does it stop?”

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Watch On The Rhine

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You can’t tell anything from a trailer, of course, but I’m feeling a wee bit concerned about Aaron Sorkin‘s Molly’s Game (STX, 11.22). Just a bit. The dialogue feels a little too hammerish and rat-a-tat-tat, and the narration feels a little too rushed and on-the-nose. Visuals and dialogue should tell the story, and the narration should provide…what, some kind of inner dialogue, ironic counterpoint, after-the-fact meditation? Jessica Chastain‘s eye makeup looks too heavy here and there. Michael Cera portrays “Player X” — i.e., Tobey Maguire. You can sense that Idris Elba might steal this thing, and that Kevin Costner (as Chastain’s dad) will steady things emotionally. Roughly a month from now Molly’s Game will face the music in Toronto.

From a guy who’s seen Molly’s Game: “Your feeling is wrong, unless you don’t like Sorkin.” My reply: “Sure, I like Sorkin. Usually. Glad to hear it.”

Toronto ’17 Add-Ons

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The Toronto Film Festival has added a tonload of fresh titles to the 2017 playlist. Topping the list are (a) Aaron Sorkin‘s Molly’s Game (Jessica Chastain, Kevin Costner, Idris Elba and Chris O’Dowd), (b)
John Curran‘s Chappaquiddick (I favorably reviewed a draft of the script on 8.18.16), (c) Jon Avnet‘s Three Christs with Richard Gere, (d) Brie Larson‘s Unicorn Store (BEWARE of any film, miniseries, play, book, short story or poem using the word “unicorn” in the title).

Competing hotties include (e) Louis C.K.‘s I Love You, Daddy (shot in Manhattan on 35mm b & w film, costarring C.K., Chloe Grace Moretz, Charlie Day, John Malkovich, Rose Byrne, Edie Falco, Helen Hunt), (f) Peter Landesman‘s The Man Who Brought Down the White House with Liam Neeson and Diane Lane, (g) Sean Baker‘s The Florida Project and (h) Tali Shalom-Ezer‘s My Days of Mercy (death-row drama) with Ellen Page and Kate Mara

Not to mention Mike White‘s already praised Brad’s Status w/ Ben Stiller, Dominic Cooke‘s On Chesil Beach w/ Saoirse Ronan, Lynn Shelton‘s Outside In, Matthew Newton‘s Who We Are Now, Mark Raso‘s Kodachrome w/ Elizabeth Olsen, Ed Harris and Jason Sudeikis (presumably a period thing?).

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Engaging Musical Lift

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Cheers to whomever assembled this new teaser for Noah Baumbach‘s The Meyerowitz Stories (Netflix, sometime this fall). It’s one of those rare instances in which a piece of inspired salesmanship prompts you to reassess and perhaps even upgrade your initial reaction to the film itself.

Posted from Cannes on 5.21.17: The best I can say about Noah Baumbach‘s The Meyerowitz Stories (New and Selected), a dramedy about a Jewish family with the usual anxieties and uncertainties, is that it’s mildly engaging. It gets you here and there. It mildly diverts.

Especially when things get testy or cryptic or flat-out enraged (i.e., 40ish brothers Ben Stiller and Adam Sandler trying to beat each other up, paterfamilias Dustin Hoffman ranting at a fellow diner in a restaurant who’s been putting his stuff on Hoffman’s table). Plus Stiller has a striking emotional breakdown scene, the likes of which he’s never before done.

But this mostly Manhattan-based ensemble film (with detours to Rhinebeck and Pittsfield) just isn’t all that riveting. It just doesn’t feel tightly wound or hungry to get over. It’s “good” but unexceptional. I didn’t dislike it, but it feels Netflix-y.

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Violet Motel, Orlando Hellscape

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As I told Sean Baker a couple of weeks ago at a party for the Santa Barbara Film Festival, “I sure would like to catch The Florida Project sometime this month, before Telluride and Toronto. It’s not like I didn’t try to catch it in Cannes, but the line was too long.” Yo, A24 — there must be others in my boat, looking to absorb what we’re all presuming is a fairly special film. Whaddaya think?