Movie review by Greg Carlson

David Robert Mitchell’s energizing dino-danger adventure “The End of Oak Street” descends upon us like a late-summer gift from the Hollywood heavens. If possible, go see it knowing nothing ahead of time and then come back to read the rest of this review. Mitchell’s fourth film as writer-director continues the moviemaker’s preoccupation with the subtleties and nuances of familiar suburban experiences charged through with a heightened sense of the uncanny. In “Oak Street,” an inexplicable cross-time event drops a family struggling with internal domestic peril into a prehistoric bubble of run-for-your-life peril. Both the early 1980s setting and the central presence of thundering theropods draw a straight line to principal inspiration Steven Spielberg.

But Mitchell’s critters, which include a massive, snake-like, Titanoboa-inspired scene-stealer, a fantastically-feathered Allosaurus, and a full complement of threats large and small, are integrated into a dynamic drama that stands apart from the Jurassic World-era of Universal’s franchise. By jettisoning Jurassic Park/World’s preoccupation with the hubristic fallout of unethical science beholden to investor greed, Mitchell invigorates the viewer by deliberately aligning our own confusion and disorientation with the stunned reactions of the Platts, a Michigan quartet made up of aspiring novelist Denise (Anne Hathaway), alcohol-dependent Greg (Ewan McGregor), and their kids Audrey (Maisy Stella) and Brian (Christian Convery).

The central family unit, threatened initially by the grim possibility of dissolution by divorce, must work together once the gnarly claws and jaws start stampeding across lawns. McGregor is as dependable as ever, but Hathaway, whose 2026 is turning out to be her annus mirabilis, takes over “Oak Street” with a ferocious conviction. Mitchell’s movie marks the fourth of Hathaway’s five releases this calendar year – the highest tally of her career. The Oscar-winning star’s chops are as impressive as her instincts; devoted fans might recall her terrific turn as another writer tangled up with a giant monster in Nacho Vigalondo’s darkly comic kaiju homage “Colossal.”

Grouches might argue that Mitchell skimps on richer and deeper characterizations in favor of the constant escalation of theme park thrills. To my mind, however, the filmmaker’s all gas-no brakes method here is as deliberate and methodical as many of Hitchcock’s prime chases. “The Myth of the American Sleepover,” “It Follows” and “Under the Silver Lake” all explored, to one degree or another, the illusion of safety and comfort falsely provided by our neighborhoods (a theme that David Lynch carried to its apotheosis in “Blue Velvet” and “Twin Peaks”). In this regard, “Oak Street” comfortably harmonizes with the director’s impressive filmography.

It’s difficult to say whether “The End of Oak Street” would have worked better without the limitations of the PG-13 rating, but Mitchell, like Spielberg before him, appears to take genuine pleasure in walking right up to the line without crossing it. What we don’t see, enhanced by sound designer Paula Fairfield and her team, is as unsettling as what we do witness. A few critics have detected a mean-spiritedness in the delivery of the carnage and mayhem while others (myself included) would like to imagine that the director is sending a clear message to the next generation of moviemakers: being scared is OK. The film’s dedication, made by Mitchell to his late father, speaks volumes.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Discussing the parameters, ramifications, and impossibilities of the absolutely outlandish premise of Will Gluck’s latest movie is nearly equal to the fun of gawping at the heavenly bodies of stars Callum Turner and Monica Barbaro as they work their way toward an inevitable rom-com resolution in “One Night Only.” Several wags have taken to calling the high-concept film “The Sex Purge,” as we land in a version of America in which the government has implemented a prohibition on unmarried intercourse for all but twelve free-for-all hours on a single night of the year. Despite the tantalizing politics hanging ripe on the vine, Gluck sticks close to the usual genre trappings.

The director, working from a screenplay by Travis Braun, fills in just enough information to allow pleasure-seeking viewers a sliver of suspended-disbelief verisimilitude during the world building that sets the stage. Information placed in the background and at the fringes of the frame makes for a clumsier version of the anamorphosis described by Slavoj Žižek in his perceptive notes on “Children of Men.” Signage and graffiti protesting the no-sex mandate pop up while cable news hosts and talking heads argue the values of the legislation. Corporate advertisements for condoms, lubricants, and less obvious products point toward some kind of capitalist buy-in, although the revelation that citizens have digital devices implanted in their wrists to biometrically monitor carnal activity sends a chill down the spine.

The desire to avoid committing a sex crime keeps most everyone in line, even if Orwell’s Big Brotherly predictions might otherwise put a damper on our enjoyment of the hijinx by cutting too close to our real world’s march toward authoritarianism and a 24/7 surveillance state. “One Night Only” essays and reviews opting to address these less savory aspects of Braun’s dystopia continue to sprout. One of the best of the bunch is a “Vulture” piece by Roxana Hadadi in which the author calls the film the “bleakest political allegory [of the] year, one in which Americans are sheep who willingly accept the rules of a conservative government; corporations support unpopular policies because it helps them make more money; and preening politicians go on TV to discuss their agendas with little pushback from journalists.”

All of this can be true and simultaneously coexist with the scopophilic charge provided by the movies. Gluck understands that much. We desperately want to see Barbaro’s aspiring composer/performer Allie and Turner’s pizza shop proprietor Owen get together in lust and in love. And, having consumed hundreds of erotically-charged silver screen romances built on the foundations of Lubitsch’s perfect touch, we expect that our star-crossed beauties will repeatedly postpone the consummation of their desire to heighten and intensify our excitement.

Given the ticking-clock urgency of the narrative, Gluck sketches a familiar range of slapstick complications standing in the way of true love’s course. Even with our eyes glued to Turner and Barbaro, the episodic structure allows for comic cameos by Molly Ringwald, LeVar Burton and a bunch of other recognizable faces. Allie and Owen feign some degree of moral resolve by denying the obvious; Owen’s long-term girlfriend blindsides him by deciding to sleep with someone else and he can’t quite decide what to do about it. Working together and splitting apart, and then repeating the cycle, the protagonists experience a compressed courtship that calls up everything from the effortless brilliance of “After Hours” (1985) to the mostly forgotten “Timer” (2009).

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Gregg Araki, New Queer Cinema legend and provocateur, now 66, brings some laughter and some pain to the kids who weren’t yet born when the Teenage Apocalypse trilogy shook up indie/outsider/DIY moviemaking back in the 1990s (where does the time go?). “I Want Your Sex,” which ends a dozen-year drought following 2014’s underseen “White Bird in a Blizzard,” premiered at the Sundance Film Festival in January. The energetic feature, which Araki co-wrote with Slutever founder Karley Sciortino, draws heavily from the filmmaker’s love for classic screwball comedy and talent for button-pushing. The result is a thoroughly entertaining and occasionally thought-provoking satire ready to grapple with art, politics, romance, and generational division.

In tandem with “The Invite,” which she also directed, Olivia Wilde notches a second memorable 2026 performance as Erika Tracey, a ruthless visual artist whose hire of young Elliot Bell (Cooper Hoffman) rapidly leads to a wholly unethical BDSM relationship complicated and compounded by Elliot’s feelings for longtime bestie/roommate Apple (Chase Sui Wonders) and post-doc bookworm girlfriend Minerva (Charlie XCX). Hoffman, drilling down on the Benjamin Braddock/Harold Chasen territory staked out in “Licorice Pizza,” makes the most of another golden opportunity to express lustful longing and drifting confusion in a young man/older woman dynamic.

And Wilde is top-of-game as the prowling, predatory Erika. Applying nuances, layers and shades not visible in the deliberately cartoonish version of the woman that exists on the page, Wilde manages a miracle in carving sympathy for the outwardly calculating and devilishly diabolical artist. Erika, whose high-ticket erotic pieces fund and fuel a Warhol-like factory managed by consigliere/business partner Vikktor (Daveed Diggs), saves her most intense acts of creation for the performative roleplay that defines her doomed dalliance with Elliot. Initially, Araki frames the exhilarating humiliation through the eyes of the young initiate as a kind of kinky bildungsroman, but by the time climax is reached, Erika has emerged to mirror her silver screen precursor, the venerable Norma Desmond.

Some of the juice can be attributed to Araki’s cinephilia; “I Want Your Sex” is, among other things, a glorious and candy-colored homage to Billy Wilder’s “Sunset Boulevard” (with winks to “9 ½ Weeks” and some Hitchcockian glitter bombs tossed in for good measure). Erika is not merely a cruel sadist toying with a helpless mouse. In Elliot, she finds a willing and eager pupil (Araki swapped the originally planned dom/sub genders in the wake of #MeToo). Like Norma, Erika completes her own meaningful arc and in so doing, personifies what David Lubin describes as Gloria Swanson’s “explosive mixture of power and pathos.”

Several critics have picked up on Araki’s invitation to twenty-something viewers who might otherwise be missing out on IRL human contact and intimacy in our screen-mediated climate. In an interview with Owen Myers for “The Guardian,” Araki suggests that “I Want Your Sex” exists in direct opposition to “this culture of oppression and fascism with the dictatorship of our current administration.” The movie refrains from the most obvious and direct politicization, but Araki’s sex positive sentiments are unmistakable.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

The movies love to dramatize, to one degree or another, the struggles of mental illness. Major studios are frequently seduced by the prestige potential of both fiction and nonfiction bestsellers on the topic that dangle the possibilities of award season accolades and even Oscar gold. More often than not, those adaptations (and the scores of similarly-themed original screenplays that make it to completion) emphasize conflict that fails to capture a comprehensive sense of the daily/weekly/monthly/yearly grind and quotidian experiences of individuals and families facing unique challenges, mandated interventions and a wide range of painful decisions resulting from a diagnosed or undiagnosed disorder.

In her feature-length debut “Blue Heron,” now available to view in America on the Criterion Channel following its world premiere last year at the Locarno Film Festival (where it received the Swatch First Feature Award), the talented filmmaker Sophy Romvari creates an extraordinary and extraordinarily cinematic evocation of memory and grief. In 2020, the director attracted significant attention for the short documentary “Still Processing,” which addresses a few of the same autobiographical elements used in “Blue Heron.” Romvari, the youngest of four siblings, was born in Victoria, British Columbia not long after her brothers and parents emigrated from Hungary.

Through the eyes of young Sasha (Eylul Guven), “Blue Heron” features a family that corresponds with Romvari’s real one. Set on Vancouver Island, where the filmmaker grew up, the first half of the movie carefully stacks an escalating series of tiny incidents that reveal the many ways in which Sasha and the viewers come to recognize the deep troubles of oldest brother Jeremy (a superb Edik Beddoes). Choosing snippets of overheard conversations rather than dialogue-dependent exposition, Romvari aligns the audience with Sasha in a kid’s-eye-view perspective of a family unraveling.

Following increasingly disturbing behavior that eventually results in a home visit from a social worker, we learn that Jeremy may be exhibiting signs of oppositional defiant disorder. Beddoes brings to his character a quiet menace while earning heartbreaking sympathy. Jeremy’s actions always speak louder than any of his infrequent words; Romvari locates the liminal passageway between Sasha’s love for her brother and the frustration wreaked by his disruptive and antisocial conduct. Some viewers will certainly be reminded of Lynne Ramsay’s astonishing gifts in work like “Die My Love” and especially “We Need to Talk About Kevin,” the latter of which thematically rhymes with “Blue Heron.”

While “We Need to Talk About Kevin” grapples with the toll of unthinkable violence, Romvari’s narrative approach to personal reckoning and reconciliation arrives in the movie’s depiction of Sasha as an adult (played by Amy Zimmer). We connect the dots to Sasha’s formative interactions as a mediamaker, fostered in part by the frequent presence of her father’s camcorder. In a tour de force series of scenes in which we are invited to witness Romvari the artist unpack the trauma of Romvari the daughter/sister, the director hotwires past and present. Operating partially as a kind of metatextual contemplation on the subjective elasticity of both remembrance and imagination, “Blue Heron” soars toward poetry.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Working from a script by Rashida Jones and Will McCormack, Olivia Wilde puts her own stamp on Cesc Gay’s play “Los vecinos de arriba,” which Gay made as a 2020 film known in English as both “Sentimental” and “The People Upstairs.” The story, revolving around two neighbor couples who experience a surprising evening together, unfolds largely over the course of a few hours and explores themes including love, lust, commitment and disconnection. The tantalizing farcical possibilities of an unexpected orgy and the relatively low cost of four performers in what is essentially a single location have turned Gay’s piece into a cottage industry.

Prior to Wilde’s take, audiences around the world have laughed, winced, and shed a few tears at cinematic iterations in Italy (“Vicini di casa”), France (“Tu plus si affinités”), Russia (“Neprilichnye gustosti”), the Czech Republic (“Ve dne v noci”), South Korea (“Witjip saramdeul”) and Switzerland (“Die Nachbarn von oben”). Jones and McCormack, longtime friends and writing partners who were romantically involved with one another many years ago, crack Gay’s writing by fine-tuning character specifics and peculiarities to the talents and charms of Wilde, Seth Rogen, Penélope Cruz and Edward Norton. The resulting feature has been called a return to form by those who thought Wilde stumbled with “Don’t Worry Darling” after the success of directorial debut “Booksmart.”

In addition to duties behind the camera, Wilde takes on the role of Angela, a nervous and insecure San Franciscan raising an almost teenage daughter with husband Joe (Rogen). Estranged from intimacy and barely navigating rocky marital waters, Angela and Joe prepare to welcome the smooth and attractive Hawk (Norton) and Piña (Cruz) – who have been disturbing the peace with some loud and boisterous sex – down to their apartment for food and drink. Joe intends to confront the thunderous sweethearts but things take a sharp turn when Hawk and Piña preemptively apologize for the volume of their lovemaking. The confession quickly becomes an admission; it turns out Hawk and Piña have some very progressive ideas when it comes to sexual experimentation.

Wilde avoids the pitfalls of set-bound claustrophobia by applying savvy compositions abetted by cinematographer Adam Newport-Berra and a silky editorial flow courtesy of Yorgos Mavropsaridis and Anthony Boys. Once the tension shifts from Joe and Angela’s bitter bickering to the potential for a guilt-free sex party, Wilde finds the perfect modulation between gears. Rogen’s affinity for physical comedy is matched by Norton’s unctuous smarm, while Wilde contrasts Angela’s anxious edges against the effortless manner in which Cruz communicates the tranquil confidence of Piña. Wilde makes space for all four performers to shine individually and together.

In movies that foreground deviation from sexual norms, difference and kink are more often than not played for broad laughs. Surprisingly, “The Invite” refuses to suggest that Hawk and Piña should be seen as aberrant freaks unworthy of our respect when it comes to matters of the flesh. The movie has been frequently compared to “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?” but Wilde’s treatment of Gay’s comic preoccupation with the possibilities of carefree pleasure and uninhibited sex takes up too much real estate to match the boozy recriminations and submerged pain that fuels the brilliant Mike Nichols adaptation of Albee. After a slapstick crescendo, Wilde confronts with wisdom and sincerity the misery that threatens to tear Joe and Angela asunder.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Functioning as a companion to David Shadrack Smith’s “Public Access,” the provocatively titled documentary “Bang My Box: The Robin Byrd Story” educates viewers with a history lesson covering the wild high seas of a bygone era of personal media-making through the eyes of one colorful veteran and pioneer. Long before outlets like YouTube (or, for that matter, the World Wide Web) existed, lawmakers mandated space on cable television for regular citizens to produce programming. In NYC, the content of user–made shows on Manhattan’s Channel J almost immediately tested limits and stretched boundaries.

Enter Robin Byrd. Following guest hosting duties on a show called “Hot Legs,” the model/performer/activist learned the ropes of television behind and in front of the camera, branding her own title and joining several emerging series that explored facets of sexuality, sex positivity, sex work, and the sex industry. Filmmakers Jyllian Gunther and Stephanie Schwam, embedded with their subject as she wraps up her 60s, construct a warm and frequently moving tale of perseverance, commitment, and conviction. The physical and mental decline of Byrd’s husband Shelly, her partner of more than half a century who now struggles with dementia, prompts the pair to explore the donation of their extensive collection to a proper academic archive.

Gunther and Schwam click back and forth between the garish red neon of “The Robin Byrd Show” and the hoarder’s clutter of the Byrd family apartment and storage facility, fashioning a makeshift time machine that teleports Robin to her past glory as an influential and recognizable New York fixture. Byrd’s cult status occasionally spilled past the borders of the Big Apple; in 1997 and 1998, Cheri Oteri played the host in three “Saturday Night Live” sketches. Oteri contributes to “Bang My Box,” but Gunther and Schwam might have provided more detailed context. With very few exceptions, the filmmakers rely on audio-only interviews with Byrd supporters, a list that includes Annie Sprinkle, Porsche Lynn, Michael Musto, and Nadine Strossen.

The vintage clips taken from Byrd’s show highlight an almost anything-goes frontier focused on the hedonistic and the permissive. But Byrd’s personal philosophy extended to unwavering support for her many gay colleagues in a time of crisis. With HIV/AIDS ravaging the queer community and the policies of Ronald Reagan causing far more harm than good, Byrd reminded viewers to use condoms and reduce risk. “Bang My Box” might not go far enough to fully appreciate Byrd as frontline first-responder and outspoken defender of the marginalized, but scenes on Fire Island highlight her status as a kind of honorary mayor and beloved character.

In parallel to Byrd’s role as sex educator in a time of fear and uncertainty, the documentary stitches together a chapter on challenges to free speech made by organizations like Jerry Falwell’s Moral Majority and other Christian right groups and conservative politicians. One wonders whether Supreme Court outcomes would be different had the cases been tried before today’s justices, but Gunther and Schwam clearly hope viewers will connect the dots between then and now in the culture wars. As a reflective Byrd comes closer to a decision on the ultimate fate of her library of master tapes and other ephemera, we are taken by an equally important legacy: her tender caregiving for Shelly and her indefatigable joie de vivre.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Alex Ross Perry follows his excellent “Pavements” by tackling the essay film with “Videoheaven,” a nearly 3-hour long analysis of the rise and fall of brick and mortar movie rental. Stimulating and satisfying for both older connoisseurs and curious cinephiles too young to have experienced the heyday of either mom-and-pop indie outlets or the blue and yellow ubiquity of Blockbuster’s corporate juggernaut, the documentary draws from Daniel Herbert’s 2014 book “Videoland: Movie Culture at the American Video Store.” Engagingly narrated by Maya Hawke, “Videoheaven” is smartly assembled from dozens of film and TV scenes by editor Clyde Folley, whose work for the Criterion Collection marks him as an ideal collaborator.

In March, Folley celebrated the fiftieth anniversary of the debut of VHS with a Perry interview available to read for free at Current, Criterion’s online magazine. In that piece, the two movie lovers apply a level of detail and care matching the “Videoheaven” endeavor, discussing supplementary aspects of rental history and fandom that couldn’t comfortably be squeezed into their already jumbo movie. From the concepts of time-shifting and home taping – which might easily consume another healthy chapter or full companion doc – to the particular joys of experiencing certain movies on tape, Perry and Folley dive deeper into a now bygone, frozen-in-time era.

Across several distinct chapters of “Videoheaven,” Perry contemplates video store culture with an anthropological eye akin to the best movie-centric journeys undertaken by essayists like Mark Rappaport and Thom Andersen. Perry’s own tenure at Kim’s Video provides the bona fides to locate and break down themes that coalesced into common tropes used by both independent and studio filmmakers. In one delightful segment, the onscreen video store employee receives a thoroughgoing examination. Quentin Tarantino and Kevin Smith cemented the 90s argument that using a job at a video store as a stepping stone to Hollywood effectively obviated the need for an expensive film school degree. And how many times did we see sitcom episodes or features in which snobbish, opinionated and unhelpful counter jockeys shamed customers for their inferior taste or lack of movie knowledge?

Despite, or perhaps due to, the solipsistic and masturbatory nature of movies about movies, Perry goes hard when it comes to the metatextual. Troma was not the only outfit to capitalize on self-promotional product placement. Perry points out that TriStar’s “The Fisher King” stocks the movie’s in-universe rental store with the “red-trimmed, identically typefaced RCA/Columbia videotapes” of the production’s parent company. Additionally, Perry has a lot of fun with actors who appeared in multiple projects calling for video store characters and scenes: Jeff Bridges, Jack Black, Matthew Lillard and David Spade all have membership cards in that club.

“Adults Only,” a discussion of pornography that extends beyond the topic’s placement as the movie’s fourth chapter, peeks behind the swinging doors and beaded curtains that led patrons to the glossy, oversized boxes featuring hardcore fare. Perry lays out the tensions of how backrooms embodied “privacy in public” and the pre-internet likelihood of inevitably and embarrassingly seeing someone you know while browsing/renting. Scenes from “Seinfeld,” “Jersey Girl,” “The Simpsons,” “(500) Days of Summer,” “3rd Rock From the Sun,” “King of the Hill,” “True Blood,” “Beverly Hills, 90210” and many more, to one degree or another, reinforce the misperception that “ … adult videos and adult sexuality are the domain of the undesirable and perverted.”

A complete list of all the excerpted movies appears in the end credits of “Videoheaven,” providing viewers with a useful guide for further exploration. Before we get there, Perry singles out a few essential titles as landmarks of one sort or another by extending commentary. Early entries like “Videodrome,” “Body Double,” and “Disconnected” anticipate home video’s social revolutions. And no film about video stores would be complete without acknowledging Cheryl Dunye’s brilliant “The Watermelon Woman.” I was also taken with a fine discussion of the many layers on display in Michel Gondry’s “Be Kind Rewind.” Perry positions an unexpected choice, “I Am Legend,” to sum up the proceedings, nodding to the deep supply of stories drawing on the once (and future?) prominence and potency of physical media.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Viewers who come to “Supergirl” without the experience of having read the extraordinary, self-contained, 8-issue Eisner-nominated series by Tom King and Bilquis Evely might mistake director Craig Gillespie’s adaptation for just another installment in the almost automated line of big budget spectacles breathing screen life into the most popular DC and Marvel characters. But for the devoted readers held in thrall to the stirring and poignant source material, the movie stings with disappointment, eliminating many of the essential ingredients that elevated the story of young Ruthye Marye Knoll and her life-changing relationship with the Woman of Tomorrow, Kara Zor-El, who we know more commonly as Supergirl.

Presumably in an effort to continue laying the groundwork for a successful, sustained and interconnected DC extended universe by concentrating on origin mythology, creative bosses James Gunn and Peter Safran abandon the commitment to rich, meaningful characterization and interpersonal connection that rocketed Gunn to the head of the class during his “Guardians of the Galaxy” days. Did Gunn, Safran, screenwriter Ana Noguiera, and others worry that retaining Ruthye as narrator and audience surrogate at the beating heart of the story would shrink our attention on Supergirl? Despite a decent performance from Eve Ridley, Ruthye is too often sidelined, diminished, and ignored.

King acknowledges the influence of “True Grit” on his tale. The curious cadences and vocabulary of Ruthye’s delightful narration on the page, shared with the reader in flashback long after she has become an old woman (just like aged spinster Mattie Ross in the Charles Portis novel) are sorely missed. So, too, is the stroke of genius that places Supergirl in Rooster Cogburn’s spot as a cynic who comes to appreciate a younger charge’s courage and determination so succinctly alluded to in the novel’s title. The hard-drinking Rooster/Supergirl alignment is one thing the movie gets right. Fortunately, Milly Alcock’s trauma-informed pain starkly distinguishes her own self-destructive streak from the “He sees the good in everyone” optimism of cousin Clark.

One can hope that the uninitiated will seek out “Supergirl: Woman of Tomorrow” and feast their senses on the exceptional original work. While I certainly did not mind the addition of Jason Momoa’s bounty hunter Lobo to the film (the character was considered for inclusion but does not appear in the King/Evely series), I would have much rather seen more of the comic book’s indelible highlights, from the quiet grace of Supergirl’s kindness when she teaches Ruthye how to wash her hands to the chilling Blue-versus-Purple atrocities kept secret in a town called Maypole (and even though I disagree with several of his key assertions, see also Noah Berlatsky’s thoughtful essay “Supergirl vs Genocide” for more).

While I am at it, I might as well gripe that the movie discards Comet and radically alters/messes up the ultimate fate of central villain Krem of the Yellow Hills (Matthias Schoenaerts, buried under “Fury Road” armor and given so little of substance to do he is not interesting on any level). Krem’s look as well as his Immortan Joe-like sex trafficking call to mind a superior film. In the fifth issue of the series, Ruthye stands vigil over a weakened Supergirl on the planet Barenton, a hostile environment with a green sun that saps Kara’s powers. Defending her companion against dinosaur-like creatures, Ruthye faces her own fears and saves Supergirl’s life, a defining moment of bildungsroman growth you won’t find in Gillespie’s adaptation.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

The feature directorial debut of established internet phenomenon and entertainment hyphenate Hayley Kiyoko – known unironically to her fans as “Lesbian Jesus” – carries with it a curious backstory becoming more and more common in the era of DIY media makers who came of age producing content for online platforms. The movie version of “Girls Like Girls” is based on the bestselling 2023 novel of the same title, itself an adaptation of Kiyoko’s 2015 single and music video. The lightspeed transformations of pop culture in our protean digital age partially imbue Kiyoko’s work with an almost quaint sense of queer teen romance as it might have been (re)presented years ago. Perhaps it is no coincidence the events of the movie are set in 2006.

Some viewers will surely take comfort in Kiyoko’s girl-meets-girl tale of Coley (Maya da Costa), a teenager reeling from the death of her mother as she seeks a sense of equilibrium with long-estranged father Curtis (Zach Braff). Relocating to the magic hours of a sun-dappled Oregon, “new girl” Coley falls hard for the mercurial Sonya (Myra Molloy), whose own nascent lesbian awakening remains carefully hidden from her boyfriend Trenton (Levon Hawke) and their group of pals. For older watchers already grown when the iconic AOL Instant Messenger chat ruled online communication, the presence of period details may not seem too far away or foreign.

Kiyoko’s infusion of post-Y2K nostalgia may cast a glow over the familiar terrain of a romance complicated by the “forbidden” nature of the submerged/hidden/unspoken, but a number of contemporary queer critics and audience members have questioned the extent to which “Girls Like Girls” successfully operates within the framework of LGBTQ+ screen stories more typical of the 1980s and 1990s. In other words, while mileage always varies for the individual consumer, there is a legitimate argument that Kiyoko fails to locate the necessary edges regardless of the chosen period. In any case, this is Coley’s narrative and she is the undisputed protagonist; Sonya, in a supporting spot, is the person coming out.

Given the director’s earnest tone, it is impossible to say whether “Girls Like Girls” will eventually be enshrined as essential cult lesbian cinema. Kiyoko’s built-in fandom will have some impact on that question. The movie frequently struggles to communicate the depth of characterization necessary to elevate both Coley and Sonya to a level allowing close viewer identification. As the obscure object of Coley’s desire, Sonya is surely meant to frustrate the course of true love via some degree of internal conflict in the antiquated “But-what-will-people-say?” movie tradition that equates homosexuality with wrongness.

Despite the R-rating, “Girls Like Girls” sticks to a modest sensuality that emphasizes Coley’s erotic longing for Sonya, who is always framed and shot and gazed-upon in a way that underlines her physical desirability to Coley and the rest of Sonya’s peers. The choice aligns the viewer with Coley’s intense emotions, which run from giddy, pulse-quickening excitement to frustration and heartbreak. The saving grace of “Girls Like Girls” emanates from Kiyoko’s conviction and personal connection to this world and material. Even viewers with little or no knowledge of the decade-long journey from song to movie will instantly clock the filmmaker’s authenticity.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Steven Spielberg, who will turn 80 this December, returns to the subject of aliens among us in “Disclosure Day,” his first feature since “The Fabelmans” in 2022. Now closer to the end than the beginning of one of the greatest and most storied Hollywood filmmaking careers, the master director continues to inspire new generations of wannabe moguls, even though a strong argument can be made that the run from theatrical debut “The Sugarland Express” in 1974 to “Saving Private Ryan” in 1998 is significantly more impactful and assuredly more seismic than the respectable set of 17 movies completed since the turn of the century.

Fans hoping for something on par with “Close Encounters of the Third Kind” and “E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial” should temper expectations. “Disclosure Day” lands somewhere closer to “War of the Worlds” than the territory of undisputed masterpiece status. Spielberg entrusted the screenwriting duties for his original story to longtime collaborator David Koepp, who reportedly toiled through an arduous gauntlet of 42 drafts. The result juggles an ensemble of top-level talents playing characters who plan to expose the long-guarded and classified secret of intelligent life visiting the planet versus the boss of a shadow-ops NGO who stands in their way.

Spielberg and Koepp employ a structure that principally cross-cuts among and between a quadrilateral. At the four vertices are Kansas City TV meteorologist Margaret Fairchild (Emily Blunt), cybersecurity genius turned whistleblower Daniel Kellner (Josh O’Connor), truth advocate Hugo Wakefield (Colman Domingo), and initially antagonistic WARDEX head honcho Noah Scanlon (Colin Firth). The mechanics of the story link each person to the next in a series of increasingly tense escalations leading up to the inevitable revelation promised by the title.

Outside the primary quartet, Eve Hewson makes an impression – until she doesn’t. As an ex-nun returned to secular life, Hewson’s Jane Blankenship accompanies boyfriend Kellner and addresses matters divine, injecting the movie with some very basic theological and metaphysical contemplation of whether the confirmation of life beyond the reaches of our solar system affirms or collapses the possibility of God’s existence. Weirdly, following the set-up of a clever hand-off masterminded by Daniel, Jane essentially vanishes from the story until the plot necessitates her convenient return.

As a top-tier manipulator, Spielberg’s gift for staging both action and dialogue-free pure cinema links him as much as ever to Alfred Hitchcock. “Disclosure Day” pays homage to the Master of Suspense in several recognizable tributes. Cinephiles will recognize a small nod to “Psycho” and a much bigger one to “North by Northwest,” and Spielberg can’t resist the magnetic pull of the MacGuffin, manifesting in both Kellner’s pilfered data drives and, more dramatically, the unstable alien “diving” device tech that serves otherworldly Swiss Army knife functions ranging from invisibility cloaking to body control and telepathic communication.

Given the spectrum of critical reactions, the jury is certainly out when it comes to the question of the movie’s ultimate satisfaction. To my own eye, “Disclosure Day” verges on taking itself a little too seriously, as if Spielberg fights strenuously against the full-on popcorn allure of Big Dumb Fun when he should be leaning into the spirit of the ridiculous. So many scenes unfold in cars one has to fight off carbon dioxide headaches. But thanks to the team of stalwart, longtime allies (glorious John Williams and Janusz Kamiński at the top of the list), “Disclosure Day” indicates that after more than half a century, Steven Spielberg still embraces optimism when more of it is sorely needed.