Movie review by Greg Carlson

The chatter surrounding director Olivia Wilde’s new movie “Don’t Worry Darling” reached fever pitch in the days leading up to this week’s wide release. Cynics began to wonder whether the gossip – including a purported on-set rift between the director and star Florence Pugh involving the tabloid-ready romance that Wilde began to share with cast member Harry Styles – blossomed from the work of the savvy publicists tending to the hype. The movie is neither a masterpiece nor a failure (I prefer Wilde’s warmer “Booksmart”), but it has definitely made the shortlist as one of the year’s most talked-about.

Pugh portrays Alice Chambers, a hopelessly devoted wife and helpmate to husband Jack (Styles), who works for a hush-hush desert-based endeavor known as the Victory Project. While Jack and the other husbands of the New Frontier speed off to work each sunny morning in their candy-colored autos, the wives attend ballet class led by Shelley (Gemma Chan), the spouse of Victory co-founder Frank (Chris Pine). Cooking, cleaning, and keeping house do not distract Alice from a growing suspicion that her immaculate surroundings are some kind of gilded cage.

One can take a pick of keywords primed to launch a collection of “Don’t Worry Darling” essays: gaslighting, tradwives, hysteria, incels, and toxic masculinity are just a handful that have already been the subject of commentaries on the film. At CinemaCon, Wilde cited “Inception,” “The Matrix,” and “The Truman Show” as inspirations, but “The Stepford Wives” has been name-checked more often, and plenty of other movies – from “Parents” to “Swallow” – intersect thematically or stylistically with Wilde’s dark vision.

Whether or not you’ll think the film is any good depends in large measure on your willingness to suspend disbelief. A rewrite of the 2019 Black List version by Carey Van Dyke and Shane Van Dyke (who receive story credit), Katie Silberman’s screenplay turns on a bold if not entirely satisfactory twist. Supporters insist that Wilde shrewdly interrogates a patriarchy that thrives and proliferates as a direct result of keeping the bodies and actions of women under strict control. Others point to an abundance of red herrings and plot holes as nagging liabilities.

Along with Pugh, the late 1950s/early 1960s setting is the star attraction of “Don’t Worry Darling.” The arresting trailers for the film showcased a midcentury modern design aesthetic that all but screamed a warning to the imperiled Alice regarding the deceit of appearances. Richard Neutra’s 1946 Kaufmann House serves as the home of Frank and Shelley. In addition to that legendary Palm Springs landmark, the community is represented by the incredible Canyon View Estates, the Palm Springs Visitors Center, and the Palm Springs Art Museum. These spaces, complemented by sharp choices in Los Angeles, La Quinta, Pasadena, and Newberry Springs (the site of the otherworldly Volcano House), will have design fanatics salivating.

The human beings are another matter. With the possible exception of Pine’s watchful and mysterious boss, none of the members of the ensemble approach the quality of Pugh’s performance. As the frustratingly underwritten Alice, she must convince the viewer of her love for, and emotional investment in, husband Jack long after we’ve smelled a rat. The ample running time clocks in at just over two hours, and there is no doubt the movie would be improved with at least fifteen fewer minutes of the simmering dread that recurs in both Alice’s nightmares and the mock-sincere interactions she shares with her “close friends.”

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Making her English-language feature debut, Polish filmmaker Agnieszka Smoczyńska fails to replicate the quality and originality of either of her previous two movies. Both “The Lure,” which received a warm home media welcome from the Criterion Collection, and “Fugue” attracted well-deserved attention for Smoczyńska’s storytelling instincts and bold visual choices. “The Silent Twins,” adapted from Marjorie Wallace’s 1986 book of the same title, has all the makings of an intensely dramatic “based on a true story” experience. But the screenplay by novelist Andrea Seigel struggles to make sense of the unorthodox relationship of the protagonists.

June Gibbons (played as a child by Leah Mondesir-Simmonds before Letitia Wright takes over) and Jennifer Gibbons (Tamara Lawrance provides the grown-up version and Eva-Arianna Baxter plays the younger one) were twin sisters born in a military hospital in Yemen in 1963 to Caribbean immigrants who lived in England and later in Wales. Developing a fierce codependence, the girls spoke a speedily-enunciated Bajan Creole based on dialect from their parents’ native Barbados. Victimized by racist school bullies, June and Jennifer would further develop their cryptophasia, eventually shutting out all others and communicating almost exclusively with one another.

Smoczyńska opens the film with the voices of the young June and Jennifer narrating the credits. Matched with handmade artifacts that will recur in stop-motion sequences placed throughout the film, the promising start echoes the legendary title sequence Stephen Frankfurt designed for “To Kill a Mockingbird.” Frankfurt said that his goal was “to find a way to get into the head of a child,” and that is precisely the feeling emanating from the first frames of “The Silent Twins.” Soon, Lawrance and Wright will convey the peaks and valleys of the intimate connection between June and Jennifer.

Echoing the challenge faced by the mermaid sisters in “The Lure,” the most engaging section of “The Silent Twins” unfolds when the sisters seek out the companionship of an American teenager (Jack Bandeira) who is more than willing to provide the carnal education sought especially by Jennifer. The music cues, costumes, and choreography on display in these segments sparkle with vitality. Later, once the twins are committed to Broadmoor, the terrifying, high-security psychiatric hospital where they were held for years, the movie shifts toward a preoccupation with unpleasant conditions and the key conundrum facing the Gibbons siblings: abandon their secret language/connection and secure freedom or stick with it and be held under lock and key.

Jon Amiel directed a made-for-TV version of “The Silent Twins” for the BBC in 1986. The screenplay for that edition was written by Wallace the same year her book was published. I have not seen the movie, but would love to compare versions separated by more than 35 years. In this latest piece, both Lawrance and Wright deserve credit for depicting the idiosyncratic personalities of Jennifer and June – loving and fighting as artistic collaborators and jealous rivals – but “The Silent Twins” plugs away without the urgency or rising stakes that would invite viewers to identify with the special world inhabited by the women.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Co-directed by Saul Williams (who also wrote the screenplay and music) and Anisia Uzeyman (who also photographed and co-art directed), “Neptune Frost” recently made its way to a 2022 limited theatrical release via Kino Lorber following a 2021 Cannes premiere in the Directors Fortnight section of the festival. A vivid musical mashup blending science fiction with an emphatic political statement on the exploitation of African nations by American corporations greedy for the tantalum used in cell phones, computers, vehicles, and cameras, “Neptune Frost” makes for a visually and aurally arresting cinematic experience well worth seeking out.

Deeply committed to anti-capitalism and anti-colonialism, the movie introduces a handful of characters affiliated with a hacker collective operating on the fringes of safety and society within an oppressive police state. At the center of the cast is Neptune, a nonbinary runaway played by two actors: Cheryl Isheja and Elvis Ngabo. Neptune, who experiences an otherworldly connection to coltan, gets close to miner Matalusa (Bertrand Ninteretse), whose brother has been murdered while toiling for the precious ore. They interact with passionate disruptors like Memory (Eliane Umuhire) and Elohel (Rebecca Uwamahoro) to battle against the gross imbalance of the status quo.

Most reviews have made a point to identify “Neptune Frost” with Afrofuturism, the descriptive term coined in 1993 by Mark Dery in his essay “Black to the Future.” Arguably more prominent in recorded music than in feature film, the concept experienced a mainstream surge with the massive success of Ryan Coogler’s “Black Panther” in 2018. Ashley Clark, who curated the series “Space Is the Place: Afrofuturism on Film” for the Brooklyn Academy of Music in 2015, writes that the choices for the program were “united by one key theme: the centring of the international black experience in alternate and imagined realities, whether fiction or documentary; past or present; science fiction or straight drama.”

Common to many musicals, the biggest ideas take precedence over intimate character-building; it is no surprise to see Lin-Manuel Miranda listed as one of the movie’s executive producers (Ezra Miller also produced, but given the performer’s ongoing woes, the less said about their participation the better). Williams originally conceived “Neptune Frost” for the stage or even as a graphic novel. The music, which draws from his 2016 album “MartyrLoserKing,” is without question the film’s strong suit and chief draw. The original costumes by artist and designer Cedric Mizero follow as a close second.

Despite the film’s modest budget, the technological touches of the VFX enhance the aesthetic (I particularly enjoyed the aerial shots of the colorful pigeon called Frost taking wing to deliver important information). “Neptune Frost” challenges and frustrates, and often leaves one wishing for more clarity. But it is filled with poetry and it understands the importance of projecting an alternative to our reality. The resolute commitment to experimentation and the weblike structure of the hyperlinked world deliberately disregard some of the narrative conventions that may be expected by less adventurous viewers. Williams and Uzeyman embrace, and even depend upon, the glitches that position their movie as an original.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

“Tower” and “A Song for You: The Austin City Limits Story” director Keith Maitland returns with another engrossing and sharply made documentary in “Dear Mr. Brody,” the quirky tale of margarine heir Michael James Brody Jr. Not long after he turned 21, Brody grabbed his fifteen minutes of fame at the dawn of the 1970s when he publicly announced plans to give away his estimated 25 million dollar fortune  – in a variety of small and large amounts – to those who contacted him directly. Predictably, requests for cash poured in by the thousands. The contents of those letters, many of which are opened and read for the first time on camera in Maitland’s movie, run parallel to the whirlwind biography of the “hippie millionaire,” all of it woven together by the filmmaker in a moving mosaic of unrealized hopes and dreams.

At one point, prolific producer Ed Pressman (who met Brody in the early 70s in New York City) intended to transform Brody’s story into a feature film starring Richard Dreyfuss, but the project never came together. Other scripts by aspiring storytellers were written, but Pressman – who serves as an executive producer and appears in “Dear Mr. Brody – acquired about a dozen large boxes filled with an avalanche of Brody’s mail. Those North Pole-like messages sat in storage in Los Angeles until they were rediscovered by Pressman’s then-assistant Melissa Robyn Glassman. Glassman’s own curiosity and empathy are a major force behind the film’s central quest: locating letter writers, or their surviving family members, and recording their reactions to what they had to say all those decades ago.

“Dear Mr. Brody” supports multiple readings, but there is little question that Maitland gravitates to the earnest and sometimes heartbreaking personal reasons offered by many of the people who asked Brody for money. Brody himself is much harder to figure, even though Maitland spends plenty of time in conversation with members of the heir’s inner circle. Was the young philanthropist genuinely interested in using his resources to establish world peace or was he using the cash giveaway as a publicity stunt to attract the attention of the media and further his recording career and his fame? Was he a poor little rich boy or a con artist?

Maitland’s sense of graphic design and visual organization are chief pleasures of “Dear Mr. Brody.” The movie sparks with a rapid-fire cascade of images, including plentiful stock footage, perfectly grainy stagings and re-imaginings, a wealth of archival Brody news stories and appearances on TV (including a visit to Ed Sullivan’s show), colorful animations, and a multitude of close-ups of the handwriting, photographs, documents (which include everything from poems to hospital bills to invention schematics) and artwork that adorned both the inside and the outside of the envelopes delivered to Brody’s home or office.

Key players in the saga, led by the clear-eyed and contemplative Renee DuBois Brody – who married Michael after knowing him just a few weeks – provide helpful context and connect events of more than half a century ago to today by showing how the more things change, the more they stay the same. Incredibly, the original duration of Brody’s offer lasted less than two weeks before things fell apart, but not before he squeezed in a meeting with John Lennon and offered a joint to Walter Cronkite. Brody’s brief moment anticipates the instant celebrity cultivated today via the reach of the internet. The money, the privilege, and the power he enjoyed stands in contrast to the sadness of so many who hoped in vain that Brody would be true to his word.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Directors Emily Kunstler and Sarah Kunstler, daughters of storied attorneys William Kunstler and Margaret Ratner, blend creative visual storytelling with keen legal and historical acumen to transform Jeffery Robinson’s potent stage lecture into one of the most vital documentaries of the year. “Who We Are: A Chronicle of Racism in America” uses a recording of Robinson’s 2018 presentation at Town Hall in New York as the basis for a sobering examination of the pervasive and insidious proliferation of institutionalized, race-based, anti-Black discrimination and oppression in the United States. It is exactly the kind of information so many politicians serving the Trump-influenced GOP fear will be taught in school.

Harvard-educated Robinson, the executive director of the Who We Are Project, was previously an ACLU deputy legal director and the director of the ACLU Trone Center for Justice and Equality, which houses the organization’s work on criminal justice, racial justice, and reform issues. He developed and refined his talk over the course of a decade, and the Kunstlers – who approached Robinson about imagining the piece as a documentary film – earned trust by, in Robinson’s words, “their clear commitment to engage in anti-racist self-reflection and action.” The filmmakers also guaranteed Robinson’s ownership of all rights to the movie as well as final editorial control.

Robinson’s stage version of “Who We Are” incorporates Power Point-style slides, graphics, video clips, and limited animation, “showing the receipts” for the many underreported realities linking America’s foundational reliance on the labor of enslaved people to the building of the nation. Even the very well-educated will gain fresh and eye-opening insights related to a wide-ranging number of topics. The hidden-in-plain-sight sentiment of slaveholder Francis Scott Key’s third verse to the Star-Spangled Banner, for example, is but one talking point: “No refuge could save the hireling and slave/From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave.”

And even though we don’t hear Run the Jewels performing “JU$T” on the soundtrack, Robinson reminds us that before Andrew Jackson brought enslaved servants to the White House when he became the president, he offered “ten dollars extra, for every hundred lashes any person will give him, to the amount of three hundred” in an ad seeking the capture of his runaway “property.” Twelve presidents of the United States owned people. Along the way, Robinson also addresses the 1921 “Black Wall Street” massacre in Tulsa, the practice of red-lining, the horror of lynchings, the assassination of Martin Luther King Jr. and the murders of black and brown people at the hands of police officers (then and now).

Like Ibram X. Kendi’s essential 2016 book “Stamped from the Beginning: The Definitive History of Racist Ideas in America,” Robinson’s thesis may at first feel overwhelmingly bleak and acutely painful, but it nevertheless conveys hope, promise, and possibility – if we are willing to put in the work. Some of the most effective scenes in the film version are the personal stories the Kunstlers persuaded an initially reluctant Robinson to include. And each time we cut away from the auditorium to Robinson interacting with folks – some friends, some strangers – “Who We Are” enters a dimension in which the author’s observations are transformed into the recognizably familiar and the intensely human.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

With the documentary feature “Freakscene: The Story of Dinosaur Jr.,”director Philipp Reichenheim (who also uses the handle Philipp Virus) compiles a serviceable primer on the wall of sound produced by one of the seminal power trios of 1980s independent/DIY music. In the 90s, the band would go on to near-mainstream success during the ascendancy of “alternative” rock in the wake of Nirvana’s massive crossover appeal, via regular rotation on MTV programming like “120 Minutes.” Tracking some of the aesthetics of units like Hüsker Dü and the Pixies, who perfected the loud-quiet-loud dynamic that would inspire so much of Kurt Cobain’s songwriting, Dinosaur Jr. combined beautiful melodies with punishing sheets of distortion and feedback.

Reichenheim is the brother-in-law of Dinosaur bandleader J Mascis, and the proximity affords comprehensive access to the substantial trove of archival photography and video that fans will comb for glimpses of favorite performances and previously unseen surprises. “Freakscene” is not, however, structured primarily as a deep critical assessment of the group’s musical output and evolution, even though a pretty straightforward chronological account of key recordings guides the narrative. Instead, Reichenheim foregrounds solo talking-head interviews with the notoriously taciturn Mascis, bass player (and Sebadoh and Folk Implosion architect) Lou Barlow, and drummer Murph, who all spend more time recounting frustrations, struggles and disappointments than they do acknowledging peaks and triumphs.

This “no fun” theme contributes to an appropriately grumpy tone, perfectly complemented by the white and gray winter snowscapes in and around Amherst, Massachusetts, where Mascis was born and still resides. Eventually switching from percussion to guitar, Mascis surprised Barlow – who was certain his fellow hardcore Deep Wound bandmate hated him – by asking him to join Dinosaur. Over the next several years, the band’s commitment to ear-splitting volume, combined with what Barlow describes as the “purity” of Mascis’s far-ranging vision, led to a place at SST and the release in 1987 of “You’re Living All Over Me,” which built the fanbase by leaps and bounds.

In addition to new listeners, the increasingly skillful guitar wizardry practiced by Mascis drew fellow musicians to the Dinosaur enterprise. Sonic Youth, known for championing and nurturing up-and-coming artists, recognized something special. Both Kim Gordon and Thurston Moore appear in “Freakscene,” along with vintage footage shot on tour by Lee Ranaldo. And while the interview subjects rarely dig into specifics beyond the expected construction of band-as-dysfunctional-family, the presence of luminaries like Bob Mould, Frank Black, Kevin Shields, Henry Rollins, Kurt Vile, and Megan and Maura Jasper broadens the film’s appeal.

During the movie’s fleet running time, a great many aspects of Dinosaur Jr. are treated casually, offhandedly, or are skipped altogether. There is no doubt that some longtime followers would have salivated over a deeper dive into the details of songcraft and lyrics, but Reichenheim matches the content of his film to the personality of the band being profiled. In other words, Mascis largely remains an enigma, even following a confessional description of fatherhood and his personal journey toward Hindu spiritualism. One imagines, however, that the soft-spoken composer remains quite content to speak through the music.

Sometimes, I don’t thrill you
Sometimes, I think I’ll kill you
Just don’t let me fuck up, will you
‘Cause when I need a friend it’s still you

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Audrey Diwan’s “Happening,” which premiered at the 2021 Venice International Film Festival and screened in the Spotlight section of Sundance earlier this year, feels contemporary and immediate despite being set in 1963. The story of Anne (Anamaria Vartolomei) – a promising student of literature seeking an illegal abortion – unfolds with meticulous craft and exacting rhythm. Using the weeks of Anne’s pregnancy like chapter markers, an effect that intensifies the sense of urgency, Diwan forges an incredible collaborative partnership with Vartolomei, who appears in every scene.

Based on Annie Ernaux’s 2000 book “L’événement,” Diwan’s adaptation, which she co-wrote with Marcia Romano (Anne Berest also receives a credit), has been regularly discussed by American film critics in the context of the Supreme Court decision to overturn Roe v. Wade this past June. Surely, a film as well-made as “Happening” would be noticed no matter the current climate related to the politics of abortion, but Diwan’s movie takes on additional layers of meaning and significance given the recent turn of events.

Diwan approaches Anne’s dilemma with a series of realizations and obstacles that simultaneously frighten our protagonist and sharpen her resolve. Following the moment her pregnancy is confirmed, Anne faces a series of rapidly closing doors. Telling her parents is out of the question (Anne’s mother is played by the legendary Sandrine Bonnaire). Her closest friends distance themselves, a doctor tricks her into taking a prenatal supplement, an acquaintance pressures Anne for sex because “there’s no risk.” Anne’s frustrations underline a physician’s sober warning: “Anyone who helps you can end up in jail.”

“Happening” will remind viewers of Eliza Hittman’s “Never Rarely Sometimes Always” for the way in which both films present the practical challenges faced by women seeking abortion care. Many making those comparisons, including Shirley Li and Natalia Winkleman, also note a significant difference between the two movies: Anne ultimately navigates the frustrating process without a support system, and certainly without the kind of character portrayed by Talia Ryder in Hittman’s film.

Another point of departure for “Happening” is Diwan’s choice to not only recognize, but also fully validate, female sexual agency and pleasure. Many narratives that deal with abortion inadvertently perpetuate the trope that an accidental or unwanted pregnancy be read as a kind of punishment or consequence (equating sex with a lack of morals), no matter how the male partner may be depicted. “Happening” rejects that entire premise in a manner that, courtesy of two scenes in particular, feels almost radical.

“Happening” is filled with tight images of the central character’s expressive face. Diwan keeps cinematographer Laurent Tangy’s camera close to Anne, which serves as another reminder of Vartolomei’s remarkable skill as performer. Often hovering just over her shoulder, or following close as she enters a phone booth or pleads with her teacher, the intimacy is at times almost too much to bear. The effect, of course, is one of the ways Diwan tethers the viewer to the specificity of Anne’s journey. Among other things, that proximity concentrates the film’s most harrowing moments, which Diwan stages with unflinching honesty.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

In addition to boasting one of the year’s best titles, Jordan Peele’s mind- and genre-bending mash-up “Nope” is big and bold and willing to take risks, even if those wild gambits don’t always pay dividends. The filmmaker’s third feature as writer/producer/director pokes and prods at all kinds of fascinating text and subtext, once again suggesting that there is much more to his stories than what may only be observable on a superficial level. Experimenting with science fiction and the classic Hollywood Western without abandoning some of the horror and suspense that fueled “Get Out” and “Us,” Peele extends and expands upon his interest in historical and institutional racism.

Fictionally linked to the pioneering motion studies made by Eadweard Muybridge, Haywood’s Hollywood Horses owners O.J. (Daniel Kaluuya) and Emerald (Keke Palmer) aren’t exactly on the same page following the bizarre death of patriarch Otis Sr. (Keith David). Under financial duress, O.J. reluctantly makes an arrangement to sell some of his beloved animals to nearby entrepreneur and one-time kid actor Ricky “Jupe” Park (played as an adult by Steven Yeun and shown in flashback as a child portrayed by Jacob Kim), who runs an old-fashioned Wild West-themed carnival/fun fair called Jupiter’s Claim.

As a veteran of the entertainment industry, Peele is well-positioned to riff on the old adage that there’s no business like show business, and many observers have zeroed in on the ways in which “Nope” is a multi-layered critique of generational trauma and erasure inflicted by Hollywood on marginalized and underrepresented people as well as a rich exploration of the photographic process and the relationship between the viewer, the camera eye, and the things being observed. One of Peele’s central gimmicks is the Shyamalan-esque in-universe rule that making eye contact puts humans in harm’s way.

Some viewers and critics have griped that “Nope” fails to establish the kind of rich interpersonal relationship markers and detailed characterizations that would be expected in just this sort of “blockbuster” experience – think Spielberg’s magic touch with Brody, Hooper and Quint in “Jaws,” for example. But on closer inspection, the elision appears to be as deliberate a choice as the initially curious absence of local, state, or federal authorities who would, in movies across the decades, be overwhelmingly portrayed as white and male and in charge. Without compromising what ticket buyers expect as entertainment, Peele asks us to think about who and what is present.

One of the most refreshing dimensions of “Nope” resides in Peele’s willingness to trust viewers to follow him into unexpected territory. Even though the filmmaker organizes a narrative baseline – a UFO hiding in the clouds – the horrifying anecdote of “trained” sitcom performer Gordy the chimpanzee’s inexplicable attack on his co-stars during a routine production is an apparent side-trip that turns out to link the movie’s parallel stories. Jupe describes his almost unbelievable ordeal as “six and a half minutes of havoc” as Peele rhymes the past and present, pondering the public appetite for violence as processed through lenses large and small.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Available on Hulu and in a limited theatrical engagement following its premiere as part of the Sundance Film Festival in January, “Good Luck to You, Leo Grande” spins what might easily have been a much darker examination of sexuality, aging, generational and gender-based expectations, and the ethics of prostitution into a primaily fluffy corona of pink cotton candy. Many, myself included, will concede that is precisely the intention of screenwriter Katy Brand and director Sophie Hyde. The relationship at the center of the film – which takes place almost entirely within a tastefully-appointed hotel room – is a fantasy with transactional strings attached.

A frustrated widow in her mid-50s, Emma Thompson’s Nancy eventually confesses that the unfulfilling sex she shared with her longtime spouse and father of her two grown children never varied from the same pattern desired by her partner. Not only has she never had an orgasm (with or without her husband), she also never ventured beyond the most basic intercourse. Convinced she stands at the precipice of “one last shot,” Nancy engages the services of sex woker Leo Grande (Daryl McCormack), a young charmer ready to put his clients at ease.

It may not exactly be the complete “boyfriend experience,” but Leo talks the talk and walks the walk. Whether true or not, he insists that his personal enjoyment is genuine. No Viagra or artificial stimulants of any kind are necessary, since he so fancies the folks who hire him. Nancy’s skepticism may not be wholly misplaced, but her commitment to the adventure does not get in the way of buying into Leo’s gentle, persistent reassurance and flattery. Later, when inevitable conflict threatens the equilibrium, Nancy will call out Leo’s “sales pitch” even as she schedules more dates with him.

Brand handles each of the hotel encounters with candor when it comes to expressing Nancy’s insecurities and fears surrounding the realities of exploring cravings held for so long in check. Thompson does a lot of heavy lifting when it comes to building a fully-formed character, but McCormack earns his own share of praise for understanding how to convey honesty about his vocation without bursting the bubble necessary for repeat business. Brand avoids several traps – there is no scene where Nancy crosses a line by “falling” for Leo. If anything, her tendencies toward motherly advice irritate her otherwise unflappable escort.

Despite overwhelmingly positive reviews, a few critics have challenged the way in which the movie presents Leo as a kind of savior figure for Nancy – a magical “sex saint” or “menopause miracle,” as she puts it. But Hyde’s handling of the material, confirmed by her tone and the setting, should not be condemned for something it is decidedly not. “Good Luck to You, Leo Grande” includes some dialogue that ponders certain aspects of the sex trade from a moral/philosophical position (colored by Nancy’s own cultural standards as a retired religion educator, to be sure), but it is a long way from the raw and gritty contemplation of trafficking and child exploitation depicted by Josef Kubota Wladyka in “Catch the Fair One.”