Movie review by Greg Carlson

Denis Villeneuve’s “Dune: Part Two” concludes, for the most part, the adaptation of Frank Herbert’s original 1965 science fiction epic while (inevitably?) making room for a further onscreen investigation of “Dune Messiah,” the sequel Herbert described as the inversion of the first section’s “heroic melody.” Even at two hours and forty-five minutes, Villeneuve’s version, which he wrote with Jon Spaihts, truncates and streamlines portions of the book to better shape the material as a polished cinematic object. At its very best, “Dune: Part Two” captures the visual grandeur of Herbert’s accomplished world-building and the complex themes questioning the boundaries of religious prophecy and the dangers of messianic belief.

The delay of the film has now aligned its big screen arrival with the latest intensity of the ongoing conflict of the Israel-Hamas war, a coincidence that – given the seemingly endless and eternal fighting in the Middle East – has already invited mention in think pieces and essays stretching beyond the usual confines of the brief review. Others have articulated interest in the ways this big-budgeted and star-studded juggernaut relies so heavily on clothing and design elements that read as, at best, Muslim cosplay and, at worst, cultural appropriation. Nadeine Asbali’s absolutely fierce takedown challenges viewers not to ignore commodification and erasure.

Hanna Flint’s incisive and fair-minded review in “The New Arab” wrestles with Villeneuve’s shortcomings. Flint, the author of “Strong Female Character,” concentrates a significant portion of her essay on the cinematic representation of the Fremen, pointing out that “Little time is spent in establishing these people and their culture beyond fighting, survival and religious fanaticism.” Additionally, the decision to withhold any deeper insight into “the secret histories and traditions” related to Jessica’s ascendancy within the Bene Gesserit sisterhood maintains a kind of mystical distance that others and exoticizes the sect, which may be, for good or ill, the director’s aim.

As a filmmaker, Villeneuve taps into state-of-the-art digital effects not available to David Lynch in the 1980s. To his credit, Villeneuve has maintained diplomacy and respect for what he calls Lynch’s “fantastic interpretation of the book,” even while admitting that the oft-maligned and ill-fated project contains choices “very far away from my sensibility.” I’m not convinced that Villeneuve’s rendering of the Fremen, to mention one example, has been radically improved. It seems like nearly every line of dialogue spoken by Javier Bardem’s delightfully devoted Stilgar is some variation on “We await your orders, Muad’Dib” or an affirmation that Paul is the Chosen One who will lead the way.

I appreciate the fan theories that Stilgar is shrewdly playing the hand he has been dealt, but even if he is outwardly stuck grinding in low gear, Chani (a righteously skeptical and often pissed-off Zendaya) refuses to drink the Usul-flavored Kool-Aid in a depiction that has drawn the most attention for deviating from the page. Meanwhile, Villeneuve introduces several exciting second-installment performers to sweeten the deal. Bringing the perfect note of regal bearing to Shaddam IV, the Padishah Emperor of the Known Universe, Christopher Walken’s hairstyle says just as much as the signature cadence of his offbeat delivery. He’s partnered with Florence Pugh as daughter Princess Irulan, who does her best to transcend the considerable challenges of scenes consisting solely of narrating into her journal.

Léa Seydoux’s Lady Margot Fenring isn’t afforded enough time for the reliably excellent actor to make much of an impact, but Austin Butler gets the spice flowing as House Harkonnen heir Feyd-Rautha, the cruel and violent nephew of the corpulent, gravity-defying Baron Vladimir (Stellan Skarsgård, certainly one of the most Lynchian spillovers). Butler described working with a dialect coach to banish the stubborn accent he developed playing Elvis Presley, which appears to be money well-spent; his mimicry of Skarsgård is as much a spectacle as cinematographer Greig Fraser’s application of infrared technology to render the startling monochrome of Giedi Prime.

In the end, Timothée Chalamet, as our young man of many epithets, stands at the precipice, struggling to reconcile the powerful tug of prophesied ascendancy with the desire to be a teenager in love. His choice, a pivot away from T. E. Lawrence and toward Michael Corleone that still signals the difficulty of avoiding the White Savior trope Herbert would tackle in “Dune Messiah,” lets Villeneuve show the audience that he knows Paul is not the ultimate hero, as tricky as that may be.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Veteran editor Carla Gutiérrez’s new documentary “Frida,” on the subject of the famed painter whose star has continued to shine with blinding incandescence since a 1980s popular cultural renaissance, premiered to mixed reviews at the 2024 Sundance Film Festival in January. Art lovers and biography hounds will be able to judge for themselves when the movie comes to Amazon Prime beginning March 14. At Sundance, Gutiérrez’s film received the festival’s Jonathan Oppenheim Editing Award in the U.S. Documentary category, and the movie’s combination of archival photographs, stock footage, journal entries, and animated reconstructions of many of Kahlo’s paintings showcases the filmmaker’s impressive skill set.

Some art historians and/or appreciators have criticized Gutiérrez with that most common of gripes: “Frida” doesn’t manage to do justice to the full breadth of the artist’s life, skipping over this or that and coming up short by not placing the work, the personal, or the political in the “proper” context. Defenders, however, would point to the (seemingly) obvious constraints of the feature-length form, arguing that one can only do so much in 90 minutes. In that sense, this chapter is as good a mediated introduction as (m)any, adding more brushstrokes to a canvas containing a multitude of interpretive explorations; the “Frida Kahlo & Contemporary Thoughts” site, for example, lists more than 15 films to investigate.

The first significant choice of style and structure is Gutiérrez’s decision to draw from Kahlo’s writings – both public and private – to guide the viewer through the journey via the artist’s own words. As read by Fernanda Echevarría, the variety of excerpts do indeed communicate an intimacy that only first-person narration can provide. The cuttings are organized and arranged along major themes that address expected preoccupations: sensuality and sexuality, Mexican identity, the life-changing and catastrophic bus-streetcar collision that would lead to dozens of operations and a lifetime of physical pain, the tumultuous relationship with Diego Rivera, the politics of struggle and revolution, etc.

As happens to powerful icons whose images convey potent shorthand messages to the masses, Frida the symbol long ago passed the point of complex critical understanding by the majority of tourists ringing up postcards, prints, mugs, and shirts in the gift shop. It can be difficult to get past the serene and self-possessed gaze of the woman whose Mona Lisa inscrutability announces more than just gender play via Tehuana dresses and upper-lip and facial hair (for more, see “Why Frida Kahlo’s Unibrow Is Important” by Georgia Simmonds). Hearing directly from Kahlo restores some of the individual who has been subsumed by the celebrity.

The second most distinctive creative decision, and the one that has perhaps caused the most division among viewers, is the use of animation by Sofía Inés Cázares and Renata Galindo to turn many of Kahlo’s iconic images into moving frames. Purists might find themselves wishing that the original paintings had instead been filmed to show texture, scale, and physical context (to at least point in the direction of Walter Benjamin’s “aura” construct), but there is something inviting about the way Cázares, Galindo and their team allow us to think about Kahlo’s choices and compositions with fresh eyes and big imaginations.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

In a short piece published recently in “The New York Times,” author Callie Holtermann summarizes the responses to director S. J. Clarkson’s “Madame Web,” attempting to make some sense of the many sticky strands of social media hot-takes as well as fan and critical backlash to the latest installment in the SSU – Sony’s Spider-Man Universe. Like the existential dread and loneliness captured in Dan Walsh’s webcomic “Garfield Minus Garfield,” the SSU’s live action features, including “Venom,” “Venom: Let There Be Carnage,” “Morbius,” the upcoming third “Venom” episode and “Kraven the Hunter,” the absence of Marvel’s flagship hero from the movies that would otherwise demand his presence is a study in windmill-tilting.

Holtermann’s concise analysis lays out the details and ponders the big questions: Is “Madame Web” so bad it’s good? Could the movie really become a future cult classic fueled by quotable lines of dialogue? How responsible is star Dakota Johnson, who made  “ambivalent” comments during the press junket, for the success or failure of the film? How much should the well-documented misogyny of the male-dominated troll community/feedback loop be taken into consideration (especially if their vitriol will erode opportunities for women to direct these films in the future)? Are we descending another rung on the “superhero movie fatigue” ladder?

The movie itself is hardly the worst big-screen superhero tale. Johnson’s Cassandra “Cassie” Webb is based on the precognitive clairvoyant created for the comics by Denny O’Neill and John Romita Jr. in 1980. Director Clarkson, one of a quartet of credited screenwriters, juggles action sequences with standard origin story beats that link Cassie’s harrowing encounters with Ezekiel Sims (a completely forgettable and strangely somnambulant Tahar Rahim) to, among other things, the birth of baby Peter Parker. Along the way, Cassie protects a trio of young women threatened by Sims, who has foreseen his own future defeat at their hands.

Not soon enough, the climax of “Madame Web” will revolve around the villain being dispatched by the massive Pepsi-Cola sign in Long Island City, putting the finishing touches on a ridiculous series of product placements that give Kendall Jenner’s tone-deaf and instantly condemned (and quickly canceled) “Live for Now” spot some competition for worst Pepsi advertising. Whether or not “death by Pepsi” contributed to Johnson’s refusal to watch herself in “Madame Web” as a form of self-care, her gift for withering comic jabs is evident on the screen and off. David Ehrlich observed that the star has a “rare gift for weaponizing social discomfort into sandpaper-dry comedy” when facing down the inanity and monotony of the thankless press interview.

Cassie Webb’s ability to see brief glimpses of possible futures (just far enough ahead for her to make choices that branch off into better outcomes) fits hand-in-glove with the multiverse ethos. But restless science fiction fans will immediately conjure visions of far superior applications of the general premise. I could not stop thinking about the jaw-droppingly brilliant and thoroughly joyous 2020 Japanese feature “Beyond the Infinite Two Minutes.” Director Junta Yamaguchi’s debut, from a screenplay by Makoto Ueda, does in 71 minutes what “Madame Web” fails to accomplish in 116: engage the brain and the heart on an unpredictable thrill ride. But that’s not enough to stop me from watching “Madame Web” again.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

The mixed reviews for “Lisa Frankenstein” are not necessarily indicative of the movie’s charms, which reside primarily in the colorful production and costume design, game performers, choice soundtrack, and frequent references, throwbacks, and homages. Set in 1989, not coincidentally the year of “Heathers” at the Sundance Film Festival following its 1988 Milan premiere, the twisted story from screenwriter Diablo Cody and director Zelda Williams stitches together a vintage-style Tim Burton goth comedy. The end result is as much a mixed bag as the sewn and sutured corpse reanimated by Cole Sprouse in a wordless performance.

Kathryn Newton’s Lisa Swallows can’t catch a break. If her mom’s murder didn’t provide enough trauma, the unpleasantness of evil stepmother Janet (Carla Gugino, woefully underutilized) and a sexual assault by a twerpy classmate amplify the misery. Regularly finding solace in an old cemetery filled with dead bachelors, Lisa’s life flips upside down when a bolt of eerie greenish lightning resurrects a Victorian-era local who immediately takes a shine to Lisa. At this point, it feels like anything could happen. Lisa’s budding relationship with the living dead boy (credited as the Creature) points to a rainbow of potentially weird and kinky paths.

At its best, “Lisa Frankenstein” appreciates the twisted logic of teenagers. Hilariously, the rotten stench and creepy crawlers emanating and wriggling from Lisa’s sad-eyed houseguest fail to dampen her desire to transform the Creature into a physically presentable suitor. For a minute, it seems like the movie might primarily focus on a quest to remake the living dead boy, since he needs a new ear to hear with and a new hand to touch with. He also requires one other special body part, but by the time Williams gets around to addressing that particular issue, the film has much larger messes to clean up.

The presence of Lisa’s crush Michael (Henry Eikenberry) initially points in the direction of a love triangle situating the heroine between the living and the dead, but Williams takes no interest in cultivating the necessary momentum or even the most basic storytelling devices of difficult choices and misunderstandings to suggest that there are any real stakes for Lisa to consider. With the exception of Lisa’s stepsister Taffy, who makes a wonderful foil through the comic choices of veteran Filipino performer and Hollywood newcomer Liza Soberano, the filmmakers show no interest in – pardon the pun – fleshing out the supporting cast.

Williams never quite locates the right tone to accommodate Cody’s arch satirical flourishes. “Lisa Frankenstein” longs to be R-rated and in-your-face, but the PG-13 handcuffs mute and tame all the best ideas. It’s abundantly clear that the “Lisa Frankenstein” universe operates by a set of rules, morals, and ethics miles away from our mundane reality, but the lack of any real alarm at the rising body count is handled with a cavalier indifference that does a genuine disservice to the characters. The far superior and truly subversive “Heathers,” one of the biggest single influences on “Lisa Frankenstein,” is how you do this sort of thing. Veronica Sawyer expresses a blend of fear and incredulity, along with a perfect balance of panic and poise, that Lisa just can’t match.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Following a 2023 South by Southwest world premiere, writer/director/star Leah McKendrick’s “Scrambled” gets a well-deserved theatrical run in U.S. cinemas. The busy and talented moviemaker, whose online presence in projects like the series “Destroy the Alpha Gammas” and the short Poison Ivy origin story “Pamela & Ivy” earned critical acclaim and caught the eye of Sony Pictures (among others), draws from her own experiences with egg retrieval in her new feature. Simultaneously a raucous, whip-smart comedy and a feminist treatise on self-image, self-actualization, and self-love, “Scrambled” has a heart as big as the laughs it consistently generates.

McKendrick plays Nellie Robinson, a woefully underemployed 34-year-old who feels like she’s running out of time to match the milestones of the peers inviting her to what seems like a nonstop celebration of engagements, weddings, baby showers, and birthday parties. Following pal Sheila’s (Ego Nwadim) nuptials, which inaugurate the movie with a hysterical cascade of rapid-fire gags alongside all the necessary exposition, Nellie decides to undergo the oocyte cryopreservation process. Borrowing funds from her financially successful brother Jesse (Andrew Santino), who perhaps attaches too many strings to the deal, Nellie starts a series of appointments with a deadpan and occasionally inappropriate doctor (a terrific Feodor Chin).

And if the painful abdomen injections aren’t enough, Nellie also embarks on a quest of hook-ups hoping to recapture some of the spark she briefly enjoyed with “The One (That Got Away).” Each of the doomed encounters is accompanied by an onscreen title (“The Cult Leader,” “The Nice Guy,” “The Prom King,” etc.) suggesting some character trait that summarizes romantic suitability or the lack thereof. When asked whether she is seeing anyone, Nellie’s reply is “I’m seeing everyone.” None of the prospects, however, click with our heroine, who faces additional pressure from the members of her family. The nuclear unit reminds Nellie (and us) of protracted childhood dependency.

Nellie’s father is played by Clancy Brown, who is just as good in the role of a gruff patriarch with a hidden heart of gold as he is inhabiting terrifying villains. Brown’s cluelessness as he perpetually manages to say the wrong thing at the wrong time finds a hilarious partnership with Santino. McKendrick the screenwriter has enough confidence to spread the best lines around. Her slow-burn reactions to insults lobbed by Brown and Santino add layers to Nellie. Many critics have identified the ways in which “Scrambled” walks and talks like a scripted television series. That may be true, but the style is not necessarily a liability or a shortcoming.

McKendrick doesn’t always find the perfect balance between horny comic hijinks and warm-hug affirmations (I prefer moments like the insistent, borderline cringe, pre-wedding dance review of the proper order of hand jive operations so that Nellie and her partner can make a memorable, if desperate, “Grease”-inspired entrance). The movie has at least one too many scenes in which Nellie pours out her heart in an act of brave vulnerability. Those monologues, however, are worth it as long as we also get to spend so much time with Nellie at her messy, embarrassing, free-spirited best.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Following a world premiere at the Palm Springs Film Festival, Jade Halley Bartlett’s feature debut as writer-director received a January theatrical release via Lionsgate. Despite the provocative subject matter and the presence of Jenna Ortega in the leading role, the absolutely dismal box office returns and mixed reviews of “Miller’s Girl” suggest the movie will soon be mostly forgotten. But for those willing to embrace the hothouse tone of Bartlett’s Southern Gothic-adjacent purple prose and the tongue-in-cheek black comedy that knowingly flirts with all kinds of teacher-pupil cliches, Bartlett’s inaugural outing is lurid, trashy fun.

Ortega plays the deliciously-named Cairo Sweet, an 18-year-old high school senior with literary ambitions and admission to Yale on her mind. Living alone in an empty mansion absent of neglectful attorney parents off somewhere to indulge their own pleasures and shirk any child-rearing responsibilities, Cairo walks to school each day through a kudzu-covered stand of trees like Little Red Riding Hood. Or perhaps the Big Bad Wolf. Her sexually frustrated creative writing teacher Jonathan Miller (Martin Freeman) asks her, “Don’t you get scared, walking through those woods?” Cairo’s reply: “I’m the scariest thing in there.”

Bartlett goes on to flex her affinity for all kinds of allusions, none more intense than the incorporation of Henry Miller’s “Under the Roofs of Paris,” which Cairo totes, along with a copy of Jonathan’s moldering short story collection “Apostrophes and Ampersands,” to class. The inclusion of the latter among Cairo’s stack simultaneously flatters and shames Jonathan, since his own dreams of bestselling fame and fortune have long been resigned to life as an educator. He is also reminded daily of his shortcomings by dipsomaniac wife Beatrice (Dagmara Domińczyk), who can never quite tear herself away from the phone long enough to intimately connect with him.

I am fascinated with the disagreements over the movie’s self-awareness, or lack thereof. Katie Walsh writes about what she calls the Completely Bonkers Cinematic Canon, placing herself among those who believe that Bartlett takes “Miller’s Girl” too seriously. Beauty is surely in the eye of the beholder, since my own gut feeling is that the filmmaker and her actors deliberately violate Walsh’s condition that a Completely Bonkers film “cannot wink or nudge at the audience.” To my eye, Bartlett’s metatextual flourishes, especially those contained in the running conversations between Jonathan and his pal Coach Fillmore (Bashir Salahuddin), offer all the necessary winks and nudges and then some.

The dual Millers – Jonathan and Henry – become dueling Millers as Bartlett fulfills some expectations of the erotic thrillers of the 1990s while undermining others with thought-provoking choices more in tune with contemporary conversations surrounding consent, ethics, gender dynamics, and power differentials. Bartlett makes a confident decision to let the viewer decide the extent of intimacy between Cairo and Jonathan by staging key scenes as dreamlike and possibly imagined fictions. “Miller’s Girl” is nowhere near perfect. It’s not always successful. But it did, at various points, call to mind a range of texts including the Police’s “Don’t Stand So Close to Me,” David Mamet’s “Oleanna,” and Rob Cohen’s “The Boy Next Door” – and that’s enough for me.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Science fiction thriller “I.S.S.” managed a woeful seventh place at the box office over its opening weekend, collecting 3 million dollars from a 2500+ theater release. To make matters worse, negative word-of-mouth will shut down any potential rebound. A small handful of critics have praised director Gabriela Cowperthwaite’s B-movie sensibilities, but the cumulative impact of the “Blackfish” documentarian’s movie – essentially left for dead in the January dumping-ground doldrums where theatrical releases wither and fade – is something less than the sum of its parts.

Oscar-winner Ariana DeBose leads the cast of six, a group of astronauts aboard the International Space Station faced with impossible decisions when nuclear war between the United States and Russia devastates Earth below. In December of 2020, the screenplay by Nick Shafir was included on Franklin Leonard’s Black List of best unproduced scripts. I don’t know how closely the finished film resembles the draft that received that honor, but much-needed intensity and paranoia is missing from the finished version. What should have been a roller coaster of shifting allegiances, filled with twists and turns alongside weighty political and philosophical puzzles pitting competition versus collaboration, never awakens from frustrating somnolence.

Instead of even the most rudimentary, reheated “2001: A Space Odyssey” leftovers, “I.S.S.” sidesteps the juiciest aspects of the logline, lurching toward “The Old Dark House” and “Alien” mathematics as the number of survivors moves in the direction of “And Then There Were None.” If you’re not paying close attention, the male cosmonauts Alexey (Pilou Asbæk) and Nicholai (Costa Ronin) look similar enough to mix up. Their colleague Weronika (Maria Mashkova), romantically involved with American skipper Gordon (Chris Messina), offers the most promising dramatic link between the increasingly wary teams, but Cowperthwaite is curiously stingy with character moments.

The sense of zero-gravity verisimilitude is so-so. Without the money to capture the most realistic onscreen depiction of weightlessness, actors were strapped into harnesses that would be digitally erased in post-production. The cheaper option doesn’t measure up to the razzle-dazzle of the big dogs, but fans of stuff like “Moon,” “High Life,” and “Prospect” will attest that audiences willingly suspend disbelief for something novel. “I.S.S.” production designer Geoff Wallace, who replicated what some refer to as the “clutter aesthetic” of the International Space Station, succeeds in suggesting believable conditions aboard the claustrophobic modules. But the authenticity of the sets is not enough.

It is unfair to make side-by-side comparisons between “I.S.S.” and something like Alfonso Cuaron’s Oscar-winner “Gravity,” released in 2013. Turns out, it’s also unfair to compare “I.S.S.” to Mario Bava’s “Planet of the Vampires” or Jim Lenahan’s “You Got Lucky” music video for Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, both of which do a lot with a little. But the reality is that you can’t expect miracles without excellent writing and the imagination to capitalize on the most cinematic elements of space exploration. “I.S.S.” is sorely in need of a lot more strangeness, weirdness, and wonder. What kid hasn’t imagined what it might be like to spend time floating above our Big Blue Marble, doing important and amazing things in the name of science, discovery, and humankind?

Movie review by Greg Carlson

The new “Mean Girls” movie, based on the Broadway musical that was in turn inspired by the 2004 film directed by Mark Waters, originated with Rosalind Wiseman’s 2002 book “Queen Bees and Wannabes.” All three adaptations were written by Tina Fey, who reprises her onscreen role as math teacher Ms. Norbury. Along with an avalanche of puff pieces and side-by-side comparisons debating the relative merits of the various incarnations, publicity surrounding the feature directorial debut of Samantha Jayne and Arturo Perez Jr. has covered everything from the marketing strategy downplaying the film’s status as a musical to Lindsay Lohan’s “hurt and disappointment” at the use of a particular term that may or may not have been directly leveled at the star of the first version.

Both “The Hollywood Reporter” and “Variety” used the colorful description in their headlines, indicating more than anything that the tried and true technique of drumming up mock outrage and much ado about little is alive and well in the movie business. In the new “Mean Girls,” Angourie Rice – who was so brilliant as the daughter of Ryan Gosling’s character in “The Nice Guys” that she just about walked off with the movie – plays Cady Heron. Rice is fine as the naive transplant from Kenya, although Lohan remains the definitive Cady. In parallel with Rice’s sweetness and light, the revision sands off some of the edges of the 2004 telling in favor of a more inclusive and less offensive product.

The core plot points and principal characters arrive virtually intact. The previously homeschooled Cady struggles to learn the rules for survival among the cliques of North Shore High, forging friendships of fluctuating strength with queer-identifying outsiders like Janis (Auliʻi Cravalho) and Damian (Jaquel Spivey) as well as the squad of Plastics composed of Regina (Reneé Rapp), Karen (Avantika), and Gretchen (Bebe Wood). To additionally complicate social expectations, Cady falls hard for Regina’s ex Aaron (Christopher Briney), feigning mathematical ignorance to set up opportunities for one-on-one tutoring.

The most devoted followers of the stage version will mourn the loss of many of the songs written by Jeff Richmond and Nell Benjamin, who shuffled, shifted, and cut to meet the demands of a reasonable movie runtime. In some cases, it is clear that decisions were made in part based on vocal skill (when in doubt, let Spivey sing), even though the less-trained convey a particular charm. “Everything Is a Remix” guru Kirby Ferguson will have a field day with the updates; over the course of two decades, some things have changed radically while others have remained entirely the same.

This new “Mean Girls” feels somehow safer, even if Tim Meadows is effortlessly funny no matter the era. A small number of happy surprises and cameos pop up next to Fey and Meadows, but Amy Poehler, who played Mrs. George, is sorely missed (Busy Philipps steps into the role). Other updates, like the intensified incorporation of social media apps and current technology, are par for the course. Judging by the enthusiastic reaction of current teenagers, however, the themes of “Mean Girls,” including issues of bullying, self-image, and self-worth, are evergreen.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Palme d’Or recipient “Anatomy of a Fall” is now enjoying an award-season victory tour, recently picking up Golden Globe wins for both screenplay and foreign language film as well as the National Board of Review’s prize for Best International Film. Oscar nominations should be forthcoming. Filmmaker Justine Triet, who wrote the script with partner and collaborator Arthur Harari, expertly uses the framework of the courtroom drama to explore the complex ways in which women are expected to sacrifice their own ambitions when managing marriage and children.

Triet has a powerful force in lead performer Sandra Hüller, whose equally valuable turn this past year in Jonathan Glazer’s “The Zone of Interest” signals the presence of a phenomenal talent building on the reputation of fearless characterizations like the one that anchored “Toni Erdmann.” Hüller’s Sandra Voyter is a novelist indicted for the death of her husband Samuel Maleski (Samuel Theis) after his body is found in the snow underneath the upper window of their mountain chalet in the south of France. Discovered by their visually-impaired son Daniel (Milo Machado Graner), Samuel’s corpse indicates a head wound that occurred prior to hitting the ground. The intrigue accelerates.

A sharp-eyed storyteller, Triet deftly juggles the circumstantial details that raise eyebrows as Sandra labors to prove her innocence. All sorts of genre tropes are layered, one by one, to cast doubt on the woman’s claim that she did not push her husband from a deadly height. Along with the curious pre-fall injury, Sandra contends with blood spatter theories, an inconvenient digital recording of a fight between her and Samuel, a bruise on her arm, and – in a touch that recalls “Basic Instinct” and other sources – fictionalized thoughts built into Sandra’s most recent book that make her look awfully guilty.

The inherent conflict of prosecution versus defense has too often been used as an easy chassis for novels, films, and TV shows; there are so many more bad courtroom-based stories than the handful of masterworks that have stood the test of time. Triet and Harari do better than most, showing the viewer so many compelling moments outside the legal proceedings. The death of Samuel may have been instantaneous, but the decay of the relationship he shared with Sandra took a long time. One of Triet’s triumphs is her refusal to compromise Sandra’s integrity in the face of the unfair and implicit accusations that share the same space as the explicit charge.

In her interview with Triet for “The New Yorker,” Alexandra Schwartz rhetorically asks exactly what components – other than murder – make up the accusations against Sandra: “ … neglecting [Samuel] for her work; flirting with other women; having ambition; being a foreigner, a mother, a writer, [and] an unreadable, unrepentant woman.” The themes of gender roles and expectations emerge as the film’s most powerful angle, and Triet has a great deal to say on the subjects. As a title, “Anatomy of a Fall” suggests multiple meanings. And the filmmaker relishes the charged back-and-forth of the exchanges that continually force the viewer to reevaluate what we think we know.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

The rough UK equivalent of America’s hedonistic spring break rite of passage, the annual descent of sun-seeking young people on tourist-friendly coastal resorts in Greece, Spain and other spots following stressful academic exams conjures up youthquake fantasies and parental nightmares in equal measure. The provocative title of filmmaker Molly Manning Walker’s feature directorial debut “How to Have Sex” partially obscures the layered meanings and irony contained within. The busy Walker served as the director of photographer on Charlotte Regan’s well-received “Scrapper,” and her visual bona fides as a cinematographer pay off handsomely in a coming-of-age tale noteworthy for its sensitive point-of-view and standout lead performance by Mia McKenna-Bruce.

Walker has revealed that her screenplay is partly autobiographical. During the events surrounding the film’s world premiere at the 2023 Cannes Film Festival,  where it won the Un Certain Regard prize, Walker spoke of being sexually assaulted at the age of 16. In the movie, the anticipation and tension surrounding what will happen to McKenna-Bruce’s teenage Tara is intensified by Walker’s stylistic choices, which plunge the viewer into the dizzying, neon-drenched, alcohol-fueled culture of clubs and casual hook-ups. Walker closely identifies the film’s perspective with Tara, taking care to withhold any judgment on the choices she makes.

Malia, on the island of Crete, is presented as a magnet for revelers enjoying a short respite before learning the results of their General Certificate of Secondary Education qualifications. The trio to which Tara belongs includes friends Em (Enva Lewis) and Skye (Lara Peake), and Walker establishes the inconvenient fact of Tara’s virginity as a kind of ominous harbinger of what will transpire during the vacation. It certainly doesn’t help that her pals poke fun at Tara’s lack of sexual experience; Walker often uses subtle reaction shots to indicate that Skye might not be capable of the kind-hearted sisterhood Tara desperately needs.

Tara’s liminal suspension between childhood and adulthood distinguishes “How to Have Sex” from Lynne Ramsay’s more accomplished “Morvern Callar,” which serves as a partial inspiration for Walker. The introduction of a slightly older group of northerners residing in the hotel room next door sharpens focus toward a slippery triangle. Tara circles the possibilities of the gentler but still game Badger (Shaun Thomas) and the colder, more “fit” Paddy (Sam Bottomley). All the while, Walker conveys the performative flirtations and rituals with a strong sense of authenticity favoring showing over telling.

At its very best, “How to Have Sex” journeys through the terrain of fear and confusion that accompanies the realization of being violated. How to process broken boundaries and the lack of positive consent? Lovia Gyarkye points out how McKenna-Bruce’s performance “dial[s] back Tara’s energy so that we can feel the character withdraw the more she remembers.” Tara’s awful experiences are not defined by Walker for her protagonist (as much as it might be obvious to the viewer) in a way that immediately registers in black and white. The outcome is less a critique of social constructs and their warped expectations than a moving and sympathetic diary entry simultaneously universal and specific.