Working Man: SHELTER and MUTINY

I love that both 90-minute Jason Statham action thrillers released this year are one-word titles, and that they’re each a verb that could also be a noun. It speaks to the steady, sturdy reliability of Statham’s career as an action star. Of course he’ll be thrown into a predicament wherein he has to verb all the nouns until the villainous are dead and the innocent are safe. In Shelter, he’s an ex-military man who has to protect a little girl from a paramilitary conspiracy that wants him dead. In Mutiny, he’s an ex-military man who has to protect human trafficking victims from a corporate conspiracy that wants him dead. Let it not be said that Statham pictures lack range. They’re adept at finding infinite varieties of the same basic plot particulars. He’s been the star of these mid-budget action flicks for about 25 years now. Most of them are somewhere between good and pretty good. At this point it’s safe to say he’s had a longer run of quality control than most stars of his ilk.

I like Shelter’s emotional appeals, with Statham as a man living in exile on a remote British isle to hide from the special forces of which he used to be part, and now forced to care for a friend’s niece after a tragedy leaves her washed up on shore. It’s not exactly novel to see the tough guy melt a little under paternal figure pressures. But the tentativeness with which he plays it, and the deep, reasonable, suspicion the girl holds onto makes it all the more satisfying as they learn to trust each other. He hits some notes of warmth and sensitivity through his usual terse man-of-action gruff competence. And she, played with an unforced naturalism by Bodhi Rae Breathnach, the older girl in Hamnet, is neither too phony adorable nor too ready for violence. The movie’s a happy medium. Director Ric Roman Waugh (Angel Has Fallen) keeps the emotions handled with a light touch while pushing the momentum up. It jumps through some Bourne-adjacent set-pieces with determined hit men in the field and officials in suits stalking around control rooms. It races to exciting, melancholic conclusions, delivering exactly what you’d want from the premise in exactly the right proportions. You can trust Statham to do the right thing, even if it hurts. 

Mutiny is less outwardly emotional, but just as efficient and in a necessarily more contained plot. It’s largely set on a boat and uses every part of the vessel before it’s done. It uses our sense of Statham’s screen presence well. He first turns up at night, backlit in silhouette behind the wheel of a truck. Just from the shape of his head we know it’s him. How’s that for brand recognition? And even though he’s the driver of a vehicle that just purposely hit another, we just know he has a good reason. He’s out for justice. There’s never any doubt. The movie flashes back for some slightly convoluted setup to get his mild-mannered security guard on a cargo boat and in the know of the bad guys’ plot. But once he realizes that these guys murdered his nice CEO boss (suspend your disbelief!) and have shipping containers full of humans to sell, he knows he needs to take them all down. Director Jean-François Richet (Plane) makes crisp, clean use of the setting, and leans on Statham’s persona to fill in the gaps. We just believe he could navigate the tight turns and large pipes, the anchor and the harpoon gun. There are some thinly sketched characters around him, from a slimy captain to a sympathetic third-mate (Annabelle Wallis) to a navy vessel on the phone. But it’s largely his show and it’s fun to see him punch and stab his way through 20 villainous guys. He knows what his audience wants and just keeps delivering.

Girls Meet World: ROOMMATESand DON'T SAY GOOD LUCK

Wordsworth said the child is the father of the man. Consider the case of Adam Sandler. His early movies were certainly childish. They were boyish goofs, crude, rude, and ultimately harmless. They could be fun, too! That at their laziest they grew to become excuses to hang out with buddies on the studio’s dime is just symptomatic of those adolescent impulses. But time marches on. He’s a dad of two grown daughters now. They’re both actresses and he’s used his clout to help get them started. I’m glad he did. They give nepo babies a good name, with screen personas that are winningly sensitive and open-hearted. The older, Sadie, has a slightly distant and deeper vein of irony she’ll play around with. The younger, Sunny, has a more closely-held tremulous innocence. They’re similar instruments playing slightly different notes in the same timber. Their movies also happen to be the most emotionally intelligent Sandler’s Happy Madison productions has made. Turns out these children helped remake the man. It’s clear he’s proud of his daughters, and it’s nice that he holds their screenplays to a higher standard than his own. He co-starred with them in the charming tween comedy You’re So Not Invited to My Bar Mitzvah and they co-starred with him in the shaggy belated Happy Gilmore 2. The parent-daughter material of each elevated the projects, taking the former to terrific and the latter to passable. This summer has each daughter starring in her own movie, each without her father in the cast. Sadie Sandler has college comedy Roommates. Sunny Sandler has high school drama Don’t Say Good Luck. Both films are from terrific indie directors and are fitted perfectly to their strengths. Each has a nicely textured balance between emotional honesty and well-earned laughs, though in different proportions. 

Roommates is an unusually thoughtful college comedy, getting something truthful about friendship struggles into the usual moves for such a picture. It has crude humor, raucous parties, bad behavior, and other expected hijinks. But it also has a sharp understanding of the subtle shifts of power and insecurity in the pressure cooker setting of a freshman dorm room. Sadie Sandler plays a shy girl who never really made friends in high school, pinning her hopes on meeting new people at college. Her roommate (Chloe East) is a confident loose cannon, who wears revealing clothes and boldly struts toward whatever, and whomever, she wants. Sandler is drawn toward her charisma, wanting to be friends, but also a little nervous about her unpredictability. The movie is directed with a bright studio comedy aesthetic married to a perceptive attentiveness to character dynamics. Filmmaker Chandler Levack, whose indies I Love Movies and Mile End Kicks are similar sweet-and-sour character comedies about particular cultural spaces (the video rental store and music journalism, respectively), brings her casually insightful eye to a glossier studio product. She gets really terrific performances out of the cast—both the collegiate pals and adult figures (Natasha Lyonne, Nick Kroll, Janeane Garofalo, Carol Kane). Sandler makes an intensely sympathetic figure; we see why she’d want to go along out of her comfort zone, but it makes each little heartbreak all the more impactful. But it’s East—you might recognize her as one of the trapped missionaries in Heretic or Sammy’s Christian girlfriend in The Fabelmans—who makes the most out of what a lesser comedy would make a mere whirling dervish of party girl energy. Instead she brings out a brittle fragility just barely hidden beneath the bravado. It’s something her impressed new roomie easily misses until it’s too late. The movie gets a little broad and silly at times—the finale and frame story are especially goofy—but it never loses that believable core. 

Although it’s ultimately a tearjerker of a drama, Don’t Say Good Luck has some traditional high school comedy moves. It has warmly funny theater kid supporting players, some wise supportive teachers, and a sweet sentimental family life to surround Sunny Sandler’s main character. She’s a teenager excited to get the lead role in her school musical production of Waitress and is prepping for a hectic practice schedule. And then her mom gets a potentially fatal diagnosis. The movie becomes a breezy movie of usual high school problems consistently undercut by jackknifing emotional intrusions. Sudden jabbing grief cuts deep into what should be quotidian teenage concerns, making every usual problem—crushes, homework, friend drama—both heightened by her emotional rawness and diminished in comparison to the literal life and death problems at home. It’s a potent mix, getting some laughs in amid the gut-punch dramatic moments. As the mother, Melanie Lynskey brings such a deep well of maternal energy channeled into a fluttering between fear for herself and care for her family. And it’s all the more moving for her underplaying the lines that a heavier hand would’ve turned mawkish. Similarly, the movie as a whole, benefits from a gentle lived-in look and tone. It’s not a simple movie of Brave Suffering or a mere march through realistic misery. It’s just charmingly real in a polished studio movie way, refreshingly honest about the rough edges and crosscurrent pressures of its believable situations. As the mother’s condition worsens and the show’s opening night grows closer, you can start to see the outlines of moving moments ahead. But when it steers hard into them, it pays off with a succession of lump-in-the-throat scenes that are deeply felt and honestly portrayed. (If you’re already aware the songs in Waitress are moving, just wait for the climactic deployment here.) Director Julia Hart (Stargirl) knows how to make a small-scale, big emotion, broadly appealing movie, and trusts her cast to pull it off with subtle, but no less devastating, impact. She knows it’ll feel good to have such a genuine cry. 

Dino Might: THE END OF OAK STREET

We used to regularly have big summer special effects pictures with a light touch, lots of surprises, and a neat conclusion. The End of Oak Street makes it look so easy you’ll wonder why they've gone the way of the...well....dinosaur. If only all of its ilk were so simple and satisfying. Writer-director David Robert Mitchell’s working with an irresistible premise delivered quickly and confidently. It’s thin, but pays out with big results. The idea is this: a block of suburban Michigan is zapped from 1982 back to prehistoric times. The escalation is expertly handled from the early quotidian unease (maybe it’s just a power outage!), to the slow reveals (oh, it’s definitely not!), to the climactic tumbling out of variables that are both surprising and inevitable. We follow one family (mom Anne Hathaway, dad Ewan McGregor, and two teenagers) as they try to survive dinosaurs roaming their neighborhood. How do they get out of this predicament when their neighbors are getting chomped, and there seems to be no way home? The suspense is obvious here, but it’s no less exciting to see enormous creatures wandering down the asphalt, rummaging in trash cans, slipping through the forest, and towering over homes. What kid in a dinosaur phase hasn’t looked out the car window and wondered what that’d look like? The movie has the energy of imaginative wonderment driven into lean, effective survival thriller plotting. 

The movie has a playful mean streak and a sentimental core, a fun mix that works like jet fuel for its sequences’ thrills. No one’s safe from getting chomped, and the movie’s love of its lead family makes us flinch with every close call. Every time an enormous creatures comes stalking through the background of a shot is as effective as the last. (Watch out!) And each solution leads to another problem in fine roller coaster style. I enjoyed its overall sense of one-thing-after-another that works through every complication with gusto. And I appreciated the seriousness with which the characters take their dilemmas. They have doubts and stress, they slip and flail, they trial and error, they might even wet themselves when an enormous reptile is repeatedly slamming its head into the front door. But they also are animated by a clear love of one another that gets only tighter the more their lives threaten to slip away. That’s consistent with Mitchell’s strength with actors. He’s gotten earnest authenticity out of everything from awkward teen dramedy (The Myth of the American Sleepover) to arty horror (It Follows) and zany conspiracy thriller (Under the Silver Lake). And it’s consistent with the ease he has establishing widescreen mood and space while delineating high concepts. That’s enough on which to hang a quick and exciting genre picture. No need to load it up with extra metaphors or complicated twists. Just set it up cleanly and clearly, populate it with believable types, and let the blood start pumping. It may not be especially deep, but it’s a lot of fun. 

Web Sight: SPIDER-MAN: BRAND NEW DAY

Spider-Man: Brand New Day is the most straightforwardly entertaining Marvel movie in quite some time. It has no multiversal shenanigans or television tie-ins. It’s just a story about colorful characters colliding in the concrete canyons of New York City. Turns out Spidey’s at his best when he’s swinging between skyscrapers. That’s not to say the movie is without its Cinematic Universe trappings. It gets cluttered up with cameos and references and gives over most of its plotting in the back half to what is effectively a backdoor pilot for future comic book storylines with another character entirely. And yet it works pretty well, dovetailing with Peter Parker (Tom Holland) struggling with identity, while fueling some clever action sequences. We get lots of vignettes of crime-fighting, an attempt to stop a hijacked tank rumbling through the streets, a couple psychic chase scenes, and even some hopping among ninjas. Best is one that zips up, down, around, out, and through the top levels of a towering building while Hulk (Mark Ruffalo) and Punisher (Jon Bernthal) alternately help and hurt our main hero. It does a good job juggling variables, and heights. Finally we get one of these MCU Spider-Man movies getting the full vertiginous effect out of his hometown. Even the establishing shots of magic hour skylines or twinkling nighttime windows have some much-needed specificity that the increasingly hermetic green screens and volume video walls lacked in previous entries. (It doesn’t always feel like New York, but it generally feels like a real city streets. Progress!) Is it setting the bar too low to say this one always looks and plays out like a real movie?

It helps that the focus is on Spider-Man himself, even in the midst of all the walk-ons, foreshadowing, references, and loose threads. He’s center stage here; other heroes are clear supporting players in his story. He’s put through an emotional trial, grieving a death from the previous film, as well as recovering from the aftermath of the spell that caused everyone to forget Peter Parker. The citizens still love Spidey, but he’s never been more alone. He’s in constant action, and losing his sense of self. The balance between those ideas is held well in Holland’s body language. He’s a believably more mature and stressed superhero than his high school days. And it’s held in the tone and style, which director Destin Daniel Cretton is well-equipped to pull off from his experience with both outsized acrobatics (Shang-Chi) and small character studies (Short Term 12). He gets good milage out of the chemistry with Zendaya’s MJ, strained by her not knowing their history but sparkling all the same. And he digs into a mysterious quasi-villain played by Sadie Sink, who gets some terrific scenes, even if they often wink and nod in the direction other movies might take. (If they stick to their burgeoning metaphors in later entries, they might be onto something.) The movie is doing a lot, and suffers a bit for it, but it’s intending more of a sampler platter to go along with its core Spidey splash panels. It also manages to not devolve into CG nonsense for its climax, finding instead character-driven motivations and payoffs to root its effects. It’s all pretty entertaining. I’d almost forgotten what it was like to enjoy one of these. 

Coming Home: THE ODYSSEY

Christopher Nolan loves to play with time. Think about the dual timelines of Oppenheimer, the three speeds of Dunkirk, the backwards-and-forwards in Tenet, the dream levels in Inception, and relativity in Interstellar. So of course a part of Homer’s Odyssey that appeals to him is structural. Here’s a story that starts with an absence: Odysseus is gone. It’s been twenty years since he left for the Trojan War and, though his wife and son have long ago heard that the conflict has ended, he’s yet to return home. The son (Tom Holland) sneaks away from his mother (Anne Hathaway) and heads out to discover what happened to his father (Matt Damon). The story of his father’s leaving is told by a blind old man (John Leguizamo). An explanation of what happened during that absence is partially filled in by anecdotes from those who were at Troy and since made it home. It’s also filled in with Odysseus’ recollections of his travels, recounted on a remote island to a mysterious woman (Charlize Theron) as the words of a broken man slowly reawakening to his own memories. There’s also, in a nod to the original work’s oral tradition, a bard (Travis Scott) who gets the first words in the film: A face. A fleet. A war. A man. It’s his “sing to me of a man of twists and turns…” The movie feels suitably big and sprawling. The big budget’s on the screen. But because of its winding and familiar narrative, and the ways in which the telling holds back the emotions, Nolan’s typical momentum here draws slack as Odysseus’ crew gets lost and the chronology aligns. 

It ends up one of Nolan’s most straight-forward narratives, a recounting of several of the epic poem’s most famous sequences: the Trojan horse, encounters with giants, sirens, sea monsters, a witch, a cyclops, the dead. It’s given the full over-sized Nolan effect. The cast is jam-packed with recognizable faces doing solid work in every small role. The frames of IMAX film stock are towering and detailed with extras and effects. The landscapes and waterways are vast and real. (We’re never far from the roar and expanse of the wine-dark sea.) The soundtrack pounds away with repetitive deep bass and tense strings. And the film stretches to nearly three hours, winding its long way to the expected climactic homecoming confrontation. Along the way, the film smooths over some of the original text’s thornier elements, while introducing new notes of darkness and ambiguity (or muddling) all its own. Nolan makes the gods largely absent, but the monsters very real, and the effects of each moral failing fraught. It becomes a down-beat journey through a movie about loss and disappointment, about suffering the consequences of one’s actions and struggling to find honor and acceptance in troubled times. It finds uneasy answers, opting to give a bit of relational hope in its final moments even as the larger picture of civilization seems poised to topple. It evokes a certain amount of melancholy to have ancient Greeks talk about “living in ruins.” This Odysseus is full of regrets, feeling deeply the poems early lines that promise “he could not save [his people] from disaster…” In bringing this ancient story back to life, Nolan seems to be making a case for recognizing the damage in breaking old societal bonds for short-term gains, and how it leaves us all lost, fighting back to level from disaster. That may not be fully Homer, but it’s definitely now. How’s that for playing with time?

Moving Pictures: LUMIÈRE LE CINÉMA! andMINIONS & MONSTERS

We can always count on the French to do their part in keeping cinephilia alive. Thierry Frémaux takes us back to the dawn of the movies with his documentary Lumière, Le Cinéma! The form of the film couldn’t be more simple. The effect could not be more illuminating or entrancing. It’s a collection of late-19th century short films by the Lumière brothers, played one after the next without interruption. Frèmaux narrates, contextualizing and analyzing what we see. This is part of his ongoing project of researching and restoring the Lumières’ works. Those pioneers of cinema are perhaps best known today for two films: The Arrival of a Train at La Ciotat Station and Workers Leaving the Lumière Factory in Lyon. The apocryphal story of the audience leaping out of the way of the oncoming train has taken on a position as the mythic Birth of Cinema. You don’t need to think of the imaginary audience. Look at what’s really there on screen. The documentary realism of the camera’s witness of both machines and people locate these two shorts squarely in the time of the industrial revolution, and set a standard for the camera as observer that carries us through today. Together these shorts tell us a helpful story about the appeal of the movies. They provoke strong reactions. They take us places we may never go and show us people we’d never meet. 

The magic of these formative images is compounded by the truth of their making and their context within a body of work. Not content to repeat those greatest hits, Frèmaux’s patient pace and thorough explanations take us through more formative moments captured on shimmering celluloid—early comedic conceits, gymnastic stunts, home movies, anthropological travelogue. What an expansion of our understanding of their contributions! We see people behaving so naturally in front of the camera, our only opportunity to see people who have no context for what it means to be recorded in this way. We see machines in all their new might, whirring gears and moving parts. We see a window into an old world ending, and a new one arriving. Here’s cinema—the personal and the mechanical, the head and the heart, the documentary and the fantasy—as it’s born. Frèmaux, as artistic director of the Cannes Film Festival, already helps shape contemporary film culture. With this film he pays reverence to the early black and white frames that got us here. To let these shorts wash over you is to clean out your eyes and see moving images afresh.

But what if, when you saw the workers leaving the factory, there were a couple Minions there, too? If you, like me, are already laughing imagining a couple of those goggle-eyed, overalls-wearing, mostly-hairless squishes waddling out alongside turn-of-the-century factory workers, then you get the appeal of Minions & Monsters. The seventh entry of an animated series usually spells creative exhaustion. Instead this movie is the best one yet, and by quite a large margin. Pierre Coffin, director, co-writer, and voice of the eponymous little guys, has taken the opportunity to proudly place his creations as shimmering, glowing stars in the Hollywood firmament. The movie follows a heretofore untold tribe of the Minions who, lost on their centuries-long quest to find a Big Boss to serve, end up in 1920s Hollywood. After a raucous slapstick tumble through the streets, during which they interrupt the filming of a Charlie Chaplin, a Harold Lloyd, and a Buster Keaton film, they end up impressing the heads of a studio with their silliness and pluck. It makes perfect sense they’d be instant silent comedy stars themselves. 

They have an inexhaustible persistence of juvenile spirit, and a seemingly immortal capacity to take and enact cartoon pain and just keep going. There’s always destruction ahead of them and unintended chaos behind them. Popular comic conceits in any time! But, with their Minionese language, they’re left behind in the transition to talkies. Hoping to make a creature feature comeback, a trio of Minions filmmakers summon some cute, but dangerous, Lovecraftian monsters to play the antagonists. So they’re risking the end of the world, or at least Los Angeles. But they’re making cinema! There’s something so pure about these particular Minions’ drive to create movie magic it’s easy to root for them. So it’s a movie about The Movies, a mad jumble of references and influences done as bouncy cartoony joyousness for showbiz history, riffing on countless classics in a gleeful and affectionate way. (You’ll never forget Minion Charles Foster Kane’s dying word.) And it also appreciates the act of creativity’s dual purpose as personal satisfaction and community building. Isn’t nice when a movie loves being a movie? And this one wears it with genuine lightness. Here’s a celebration of moviemaking through being every kind of movie. It’s ultimately an animated slapstick comedy, a satirical period piece, a western, a monster movie, a let’s-put-on-a-show picture, a fantasy, a robot movie, a UFO movie, a behind-the-scenes movie-within-a-movie, and, of course, a Minions movie. Here they’ve risen to their highest potential, unleashed to be a pure mad gag-a-minute delight from first frame to last. To be a real cinephile is to recognize that, to paraphrase Ratatouille, great movies can come from anywhere. And isn’t that why we keep going?

Double Deutch: VOICEMAILS FOR ISABELLE and GAIL DAUGHTRY AND THE CELEBRITY SEX PASS

Here’s an interesting case study in modern movie distribution. Sony has two comedies starring Zoey Deutch this summer. You might recognize her from supporting roles in Zombieland: Double Tap or Juror #2 or Nouvelle Vague or from confusing her with Haley Lu Richardson. She can make for a sweet and believable center of a movie when given the chance. Of her two starring roles this year, one’s in a straightforward romantic comedy with a traditional blend of charm and sentiment. It’s sturdy crowd-pleasing, pushing all the right buttons. The other’s in an arch alt-comedy riff that transposes The Wizard of Oz into a goofy R-rated joke. It’s deliberately niche, a cult item at best. Which one has been sent straight to Netflix via Sony’s deal with the streamer, and which hit theaters through their boutique Sony Pictures Classics label? Both could’ve found an audience on the big screen. But it’s strange to find the broadly appealing picture is the one you can play from the couch right now. 

If you did you’d find Voicemails for Isabelle is a reasonably effective version of its kind. Deutch plays an aspiring chef trying to survive a tough kitchen run by Nick Offerman. She calls her sister all the time to share the details of her life. They’ve done that since childhood since the younger girl is housebound with an illness and lives vicariously through her big sister’s adventures. When the sister dies, Deutch keeps calling, but the number has been reassigned to the new phone of a yuppie (Nick Robinson) who falls in love with the mystery caller. So he doesn’t message her to let her know it’s now a wrong number just to continue eavesdropping on her life. Eventually he has to meet her. From the premise you can already see the broad strokes of where the plot will go—manipulated Meet Cute to dating montages to revelation to reconciliation. The leads are charming with some sweet chemistry. It gives just enough sparkle to the familiar beats. But where the movie really lifts above routine is the sister relationship, fleshed out in early flashbacks and then lingering throughout the movie as a glossy but honest expression of grief and mourning. Writer-director Leah McKendrick has a light and often routine movie here, with pop music and little quips throughout. It tilts toward glossy phoniness, but remains sensitive with attention to the sisters. It’s the most believable relationship in the movie, and hits hard when gone. That makes the lightness of the surrounding movie all the more of an uplift, and a fantasy. 

Far stranger, though, is Gail Daughtry and the Celebrity Sex Pass. Writer-director David Wain’s penchant for absurdity and vulgarity is an acquired taste. I quite like his loopy rom-com parody They Came Together, commune satire Wanderlust, and his raunchy man-child comedy Role Models. This one isn’t in that league.  Maybe it’s the ugly digital look, and awkward combination of high-concept winking, sitcom punchlines, and occasional violence and flatulence.(Maybe it’s the severe lack of Paul Rudd, the star of all those earlier pictures.) Regardless I found Gail Daughtry more theoretically funny than actually funny, with the kind of humor you watch silently registering the technical forms of the jokes while rarely rising to level of actual enjoyment. Deutch plays Gail, our Dorothy. The red shoes are a tip off. She’s a naive Kansan hairdresser about to marry a dopey guy next door. They jokingly discuss the hoary concept of the celebrity sex pass. He has a crush on Jennifer Aniston. She’s hot for Jon Hamm. Well, turns out the fiancé actually goes and hooks up with Aniston, which really gets Gail mad. When she’s off on a work trip to L.A. her buddy (Miles Gutierrez-Riley) convinces her to seek out Hamm and do the deed. True to Oz, she meets a collection of misfits on her trip: an absent-minded agent-in-training (Ben Wang), a paparazzo whose heart’s not in it (Ken Marino), and a cowardly John Slattery. There’s also a wicked mob boss (Sabrina Impacciatore) and her flunkies. The whole tone is pitched at a preposterous broad shtick, like a straight John Waters. The actors are committed to the straight-faced absurdity, and there are a few real laughs along the way. (I liked the assistant whose only threat is that he’ll “make you sick!”) But it’s so conceptual and airless that it never fully comes to life.