Movie review by Greg Carlson

Thirty-six years is just a blink in eternity’s endless ocean of the afterlife, but as far as the Hollywood clock goes, it is a massive gulf. Lucky for us fans of Tim Burton’s original 1988 “Beetlejuice” that the key players from the classic horror-comedy decided to join the fun in what is certainly the filmmaker’s most enjoyable and satisfying movie in, well, a very long time. There is no shortage of chatter, both amateur and professional, expressing opinion on the sequel’s “necessity” – or lack thereof. But despite the character’s perennial popularity as an evergreen Halloween getup and the movie’s designation as the continuation of established intellectual property, the perfectly titled “Beetlejuice Beetlejuice” feels more fresh and dead-alive than the majority of its 2024 big studio peers.

Burton must share the credit with his game cast, anchored by returning MVPs Michael Keaton, Winona Ryder, and Catherine O’Hara. Newcomers Jenna Ortega (as Lydia’s daughter Astrid), Justin Theroux (as Lydia’s boyfriend Rory), Willem Dafoe (as detective/actor Wolf Jackson), Arthur Conti (as Astrid’s love interest Jeremy), and Monica Bellucci (as Betelgeuse’s ex-wife Delores LaVerge) top up the almost unwieldy ensemble. Despite the surplus of speaking parts, the screenplay by Alfred Gough and Miles Millar keeps most of the balls in the air. Much has already been said regarding the absence of Jeffrey Jones as Deetz patriarch Charles, whose storyline is handled with greater fidelity and dexterity than expected.

Along with Burton’s unique imagination and ghoulish vision, the careful metering of Betelgeuse was the first movie’s stealthy asset and shrewd gift. The obnoxious and unpredictable bio-exorcist left us wanting more by never monopolizing screen time. Had he populated every scene, one imagines the craven and horny trickster might be as taxing for the viewer as he is for the Deetz family. “Beetlejuice Beetlejuice” keeps the lesson, even if our “ghost with the most” once again looms large in final-act plot resolution. Burton and Keaton have emphasized the importance of Betelgeuse’s rather spectacular dearth of political correctness; I’ll take all the unwholesome bad behavior I can get.

With the exception of an exquisitely placed “Day-O (The Banana Boat Song)” callback, Harry Belafonte’s calypso candy gives way to some delightful needle-drops, including “MacArthur Park” in a showstopper of a sequence mirroring multiple moments from 1988. After several decades and projects great (“Ed Wood”) and not so great (“Alice in Wonderland”), it bears repeating that “Beetlejuice” was Burton’s sophomore feature, following what arguably remains his greatest movie: “Pee-wee’s Big Adventure.” There, at the beginning of a wildly successful career, Burton placed an emphasis on family and friendship that would fade from later work.

The most ardent admirers will be happy for the belated return of our horror host, given that we might never have seen the now 73-year-old Keaton return to his fright wig (especially when the likelihood of an immediate follow-up evaporated). The two unrealized sequel scripts commissioned in 1990 haunt fans with “what might have been.” The late Warren Skaaren’s “Beetlejuice in Love” proposed an unholy love triangle spanning the worlds of the living and the dead, and future “Mars Attacks!” collaborator Jonathan Gems described “Beetlejuice Goes Hawaiian” as a Burton-suggested mashup of surf flick and German Expressionism. Instead, “Beetlejuice Beetlejuice” lands with its own special blend of chaos and nostalgia. I will gladly take a number to wait for another installment. Even if 9,998,383,750,000 won’t be served for quite awhile.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

In January, Sean Wang’s thoroughly satisfying feature directorial debut “Didi” premiered to plenty of buzz and acclaim at Sundance, where it collected the U.S. Dramatic category’s audience award and a special jury recognition for its ensemble. On a serious roll, Wang has been a busy filmmaker in recent months. His short documentary “Nǎi Nai & Wài Pó” received an Oscar nomination and screened in the 2024 Fargo Film Festival, which awarded Wang best director honors. Like Bo Burnham’s “Eighth Grade,” “Didi” is a sensational coming of age story that finds the ideal balance between the painful awkwardness of adolescence and the warm-hearted hopefulness that everything will turn out alright.

On the cusp of leaving middle school behind, Chris (Izaac Wang) manages the typical struggles of a 13-year-old in 2008. He scraps daily with older sis Vivian (Shirley Chen), who is preparing to fly the nest they share with mom Chungsing (Joan Chen) and Nai Nai (Chang Li Hua) for UC San Diego. He hangs out with pals Fahad (Raul Dial) and Soup (Aaron Chang), with whom he makes short videos to post on YouTube. Chris crushes hard on dream girl Madi (Mahaela Park), who – against the seeming odds – returns his interest. But the bonds of friendship and the promise of romance can turn on a dime, as Chris will soon find out.

Chris is the only male in the household (his father supports the family from his job in Taiwan), and Wang juxtaposes the gynocratic hierarchy of three generations of women against the often horrifying expressions of ignorant and ugly misogyny casually applied by Chris’s peers to other classmates. The number of times that Chris uses an insult (he doesn’t fully comprehend the impact of repeating “dumb bitch”) that makes us wince has the effect of building up pressure that will lead to an inevitable confrontation with the patient and forgiving Chungsing. Chen is Wang’s not so secret weapon here, filling her character with oceans of grace.

Wang pays close attention to the period details of the social media and electronic communication of the time. The sights and sounds of Myspace, Facebook, Google, and AOL Instant Messenger as they appeared at the end of the first decade of the 21st century will certainly spark madeleine de Proust explosions of nostalgia for viewers who share a birth year (or thereabouts) with the director’s semi-autobiographical protagonist. “Didi” appreciates the rapidly accelerating impact of internet communication and digital technology. Many of the movie’s key moments occur via the text boxes of online chat, which Wang deploys with a deft touch.

In another universe, one could imagine the events of “Didi” unfolding as a screenlife exercise, but Wang’s affinity for his performers yields moments that are at times tender, hilarious, awkward, embarrassing, and charged with all the frustrations and growing pains one associates with being a kid. Chris will join up with a group of older skateboarders after claiming videography skills and experience he doesn’t yet possess. In one great scene, the skaters admonish Chris for the shabby way he treats Chungsing, offering a reality check neither Chris, nor the viewer, expects. Wang never strays too far from the ups and downs of the parent/child dynamics that define the liminal space Chris inhabits as a young person growing into someone whose innocence evaporates before our eyes.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Working from a screenplay she co-wrote with E.T. Feigenbaum, Zoë Kravitz adds a significant new line to her resume with feature directorial debut “Blink Twice.” The gender-focused thriller opens with a trigger warning that tips audience members to the central issue ahead: disturbing depictions of sexual violence will challenge viewers who may have thought the trailer portended some kind of equally sinister satire of the filthy rich in the vein of “Triangle of Sadness,” “Saltburn,” or any number of other displays of ostentatious lifestyle/wealth porn.

The movie’s title was changed from the more shocking and provocative “Pussy Island” in January. Kravitz has spoken at some length about the switch, suggesting that both the Motion Picture Association and potential ticket buyers were reluctant to embrace what could be perceived as a vulgarity – despite Kravitz’s intention to “reclaim the word.” Undoubtedly, the original title would have been much tougher commercial sledding than the more generic “Blink Twice” (which, in context, works well enough). But embedded within the first draft is a tacit nod to “Pedophile Island,” one of the nicknames for the private destination of Jeffrey Epstein and his powerful acquaintances.

Kravitz’s real-life partner Channing Tatum plays tech billionaire Slater King, who invites Frida (Naomi Ackie) and her friend Jess (Alia Shawkat) to join a small group of King’s friends at his personal paradise. King’s entourage includes a curious assortment of sycophants and hangers-on, played by actors including Christian Slater, Simon Rex, Haley Joel Osment, and an underused Geena Davis. Shortly after arrival, the Xanadu-like ecstasies give way to Frida’s concern that things are not what they seem. At its best, “Blink Twice” plays with the confusion and disequilibrium that accompanies drug-induced incapacitation and memory loss. These dimensions will remain the movie’s scariest components as Frida begins to piece together the details of her personal nightmare.

In my original review of Coralie Fargeat’s “Revenge,” I acknowledged the scholarship of Carol Clover, Jacinda Read, Alexandra Heller-Nicholas, and Claire Henry to point out the complexities and challenges of the rape-revenge form, which must balance the potentially exploitative spectacle of the act of violation with the journey from victimhood to vengeance. Does Kravitz successfully avoid reinforcing patriarchal violence once several of her story twists have played out? The resolution of “Blink Twice,” somewhat strained by the mayhem that immediately precedes it as well as the consequences for King, will split viewers.

Even though “Blink Twice” can and should be considered alongside other rape-revenge movies, the recent film it resembles most closely is Jordan Peele’s own directorial debut, “Get Out.” Peele’s is definitely the more successful, but both movies examine race, class, and power with style and smarts. Kravitz, who grew up on movie sets, demonstrates that she has absorbed many lessons from the filmmakers who have directed her. “Blink Twice” introduces just the right hints of menace within the too-good-to-be-true rapture of a tropical utopia where every whim is indulged and every desire fulfilled. Kravitz’s own celebrity dynasty bona fides suggest some level of authentic familiarity with the sweet life, but she also makes a compelling argument that the ugliness of rape culture affects every level of socio-economic status.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Set between the events of the original 1979 “Alien” and its propulsive 1986 sequel “Aliens,” the latest installment in the long-running series is called “Alien: Romulus.” Uruguayan-born director and co-writer Fede Alvarez, no stranger to franchise filmmaking, understands Disney/Fox’s assignment: “Romulus” functions as a blend of standard genre beats and as a loose refresh of Ridley Scott’s classic. The result is a mostly entertaining homage enlivened by lead Cailee Spaeny (overcoming an underwritten role) and her adopted synthetic Andy, a reprogrammed android played by David Jonsson. Newcomers to the dystopia should be intrigued enough to seek out the other movies. Seasoned fans will be content spotting all the references, in-jokes, and callbacks to other “Alien” media.

In the decades since Scott introduced viewers to Sigourney Weaver’s warrant officer Ellen Ripley and the other ill-fated members of the commercial bolt-bucket Nostromo, many of the filmmaker’s touches and flourishes have been reproduced ad infinitum. The essential “Old Dark House” structure – in which several disposable characters are stranded and picked off one by one – is the plot gift that has kept on giving since long before Dan O’Bannon and Ronald Shusett decided to play with it. Scott’s blend of horror and science fiction is meticulously paced and beautifully framed; the anxiousness and dread emanate from a sense of “everything in its right place.”

It also didn’t hurt to have the sexually-charged biomechanical nightmares of designer H. R. Giger at the heart of the movie’s unsettling body horror: the parasitic birth cycle that introduced the egg to facehugger to chestburster to xenomorph stages as an unholy corruption of a butterfly’s metamorphosis. No wonder, then, that the “Alien” universe has spilled from the big screen to encompass toys, video games, short films, novels, comics, web content, and a forthcoming episodic television series. As one of many players in the “Alien” sandbox, Alvarez can be commended for expressing the sense of stylish grandeur in his renderings of outer space’s vast oceans and the claustrophobia of being trapped in a labyrinth of metallic hallways infested by hostile critters.

Unfortunately, Alvarez and fellow writer and frequent creative partner Rodo Sayagues ignore the value of giving the supporting characters unique personalities or even hints of interior lives. “Alien” fans of a certain age can identify the little things that distinguished Ripley, Dallas, Kane, Lambert, Parker, Brett, and Ash (Jonesy, too). Roger Ebert pointed out that older actors added to the working class verisimilitude. The most significant exception in “Romulus” comes, unsurprisingly, from Jonsson’s Andy. Members of the fan community continue to argue over the merits of resurrecting a familiar face in a kind of cameo, but the androids across the entirety of “Alien” media are the most consistently complex presence.

It would be unfair to say more about Andy’s crucial function within the arc of “Romulus,” but Jonsson, so warm and winning in “Rye Lane,” sinks his teeth into the mercurial and mysterious simulacrum. Spaeny’s role, very much molded after Ripley – down to the exposed-flesh vulnerability of the parallel climaxes – is less meaty than the one enjoyed by her character’s companion. The exciting performer, whose recent contribution to “Civil War” as photojournalist Jessie Cullen also balanced physically demanding action and contemplative self-reflection, holds her own in the cruel hellscape wrought by the Weyland-Yutani Corporation.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

The behind-the-scenes drama swirling around Vera Drew’s feature directorial debut “The People’s Joker” has provided nearly as much excitement as the movie itself, an entertaining DIY bildungsroman built from bits and pieces of the decades-long media juggernaut driven by the mythology surrounding the most consistently popular American comic book character of the last century: Bruce Wayne’s Gotham City alter ego we know as the Batman. In Drew’s incarnation, though, the Dark Knight is no hero or main character and the faces populating the greatest rogues gallery ever assembled are no mere villains. In Joker the Harlequin, as performed and inhabited by Drew, the director imagines a worthy new addition to the Bat Family.

The catch: Drew’s efforts fall outside the sanctioned permission of DC’s corporate gatekeepers, making “The People’s Joker” a real oddity – a legally unauthorized fan film of sorts that slips through the net to attain a level of legitimacy enjoyed by precious few projects of similar pedigree. The roller-coaster details of Drew’s tenacity are still the subject of some unconfirmed speculation. Following a world premiere at the 2022 Toronto International Film Festival, subsequent screenings of “The People’s Joker” were canceled and the fate of the movie’s public availability appeared to be in doubt.

According to writer Aaron Couch in “The Hollywood Reporter,” as well as other entertainment journalists, DC parent company Warner Bros. Discovery initially exerted pressure to suspend exhibition and distribution of the movie based on copyright infringement claims. “The People’s Joker” opens with a title card identifying itself as a parody protected by fair use. As of this late July, following a limited theatrical engagement, consumers can access the movie on demand and purchase physical media including Blu-ray, DVD, and VHS thanks to queer-focused distributor Altered Innocence.

In “The People’s Joker,” Drew mixes her interest in Batman with autobiographical elements tracing the arc of the filmmaker’s personal transgender journey. Joker the Harlequin – a rather glorious combination of the masculine presentation of the Clown Prince of Crime and the femme characteristics of Dr. Harleen Quinzel – is a sympathetic protagonist that Drew imbues with pathos and vulnerability right alongside the nonstop gags and the homages and references to Batman’s vast vault. Nods to the 1966 ABC series, Burton and Schumacher-era highlights from Bob the Goon (voiced by Bob Odenkirk in one of the movie’s several celebrity cameos) to Bat-suit nipples, Prince’s musical contributions, “Batman: The Animated Series,” and many more all rocket by with dizzying frequency.

Not everything lands with the same force. Drew’s improv background and experiences in the sometimes arch circles of L.A. comedy as an editor for series including “On Cinema at the Cinema,” “Comedy Bang! Bang!” and “Who Is America?” result in some inside gags that will sail over the heads of many. But the greatest appeal to all viewers arrives courtesy of the coming-of-age story’s allure: from start to finish, Joker the Harlequin is figuring things out. A painful mother-child relationship, fraught with anxieties and the desire for love and acceptance, is just one of Drew’s fully realized storylines. Another is the difficult and unhealthy romance that develops between Joker the Harlequin and Mr. J (Kane Distler), a dangerous figure with DNA taken from Jared Leto’s “damaged” and maligned “Suicide Squad” interpretation as well as the novel configuration of Jason Todd and Carrie Kelley. Messing around in the Batman sandbox has rarely been as thrilling or as satisfying.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Vivacious, candid, and magnetic as ever, the now 83-year-old silver screen legend Faye Dunaway is profiled in a feature length documentary by veteran Laurent Bouzereau for HBO. With the full participation of the outspoken star and her son Liam, Bouzereau’s “Faye” cherry-picks key milestones that form a serviceable overview of one of the most electrifying American movie icons to emerge in the class of late 1960s New Hollywood talents. The most intense fans and cinephiles might lament the absence of sustained discussion featuring any number of roles – “Little Big Man,” “The Three Musketeers,” “The Towering Inferno,” “Three Days of the Condor,” and many others get nothing or next to it – but the uninitiated should come away with a strong sense of Dunaway’s unique power.

Typical of Bouzereau’s dozens of behind-the-scenes supplements for the home media releases of filmmakers including Steven Spielberg and Alfred Hitchcock, “Faye” draws from archival stills, film clips, TV appearances, and newly collected talking head interviews. A small number of never-before-seen images joins the flood of well-known portraits of Dunaway, whose expertise as a photographic subject yielded a massive portfolio of memorable frames by shooters like Jerry Schatzberg and Terry O’Neill (both of whom would factor significantly in Dunaway’s personal life). O’Neill’s well-known 1977 picture “The Morning After,” the early poolside reverie following Dunaway’s “Network” Oscar win, merits its own chapter in the documentary.

Following a neatly composed recap of the actor’s path from childhood to the stages of NYC, Bouzereau closely examines the central trio of Dunaway’s obvious cinematic summits: her incendiary star-making turn in “Bonnie and Clyde,” her complex interpretation of the tragic Evelyn Mulwray in “Chinatown,” and her armor-plated toughness in “Network.” Later, Bouzereau will do his best to untangle the wide-ranging responses to Dunaway’s wild transformation into Joan Crawford in “Mommie Dearest,” calling on a platoon of voices (Michael Korseky, Mara Hobel, Sharon Stone, Rutanya Alda, Mark Harris, and Julie Salamon) to explain the film’s weird appeal as a “trash” classic.

The chronological arrangement of the contents sets a snare; once Mickey Rourke has praised his costar’s generosity and commitment in “Barfly,” which might be the last of Dunaway’s towering big screen performances, Bouzereau concentrates the last sections of the movie on the transition to supporting roles (like “The Yards”), television (a guest spot on “Columbo” and the sitcom curio “It Had to Be You”), and return to the stage (“Master Class” and “Tea at Five”). Acknowledging the cruel realities of how women over the age of 40 are treated in an industry obsessed with youth, Bouzereau depends on Dunaway’s bluntness and sincerity to fill in some blanks.

There is also, expectedly, a strong whiff of careful curation and deliberate omission, a standard approach in the hagiographic tradition of cultivated celebrity profiles as old as the star system itself. Even the open admissions of mental health challenges and alcoholism play into the Dunaway mythology. Nobody will deny, however, that the diva’s reputation as “difficult” (a loaded adjective ultimately beyond the scope of Bouzereau’s movie) teases a multitude of opportunities to burnish a certain type of reputation. From “I want to shoot, now!” demands to the story of one unruly hair out of place to the origin of her Blistex “addiction,” our heroine plays it all perfectly. As Liam puts it, Faye Dunaway “started out as a normal person wanting to be famous, and ended up as a famous person wanting to be normal.”

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Writer/director/performer Kit Zauhar’s indieworld ascendancy continues its upward trajectory with sophomore feature “This Closeness,” which enjoyed a limited theatrical release this summer following a world premiere at South by Southwest in 2023. The movie is now available on streaming platform MUBI. The action unfolds in a cheap, two-bedroom apartment in Philadelphia that is being offered by Adam (Ian Edlund) as a kind of Airbnb/homestay spot at the urging of unseen ex-roommate Lance – whose very name calls his existence into question by guests Tessa (Zauhar) and Ben (Zane Pais). The project’s miniscule budget, performance style, and subject matter place “This Closeness” in the tradition of the early 2000s mumblecore movement, but Zauhar has a voice of her own.

The very best of the original wave of mumblecore movies transcended the modesty of their production resources through prickly characters and creative direction. At first glance, “This Closeness” embraces the “two people on a couch” aesthetic that inspired many novice moviemakers to produce features without formal film school training. Zauhar did major in film and television production at NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts (she minored in creative writing and philosophy), but the look and feel of “This Closeness” radiate strong DIY vibes. By the time Tessa insists to Ben that “We’re all good people,” viewers will have seen enough not to believe her.

The twenty-somethings are in town to attend Ben’s high school reunion, and the journey away from home will stir up threats to their relationship that might be molehills or mountains. As Ben, Pais constructs a particularly selfish, unpleasant, and immature cad. In one very funny bit, the visitors insist on unnecessarily removing a window air-conditioner against the advice of their host. Even if we can guess the outcome, Zauhar milks our anticipation of the inevitable payoff. Soon, Ben’s shabby treatment of Tessa will be compounded by the arrival of former classmate Lizzy (Jessie Pinnick), who has agreed to be part of Tessa’s intriguing YouTube series.

Zauhar’s choice to explore Tessa’s skills as a producer of ASMR (autonomous sensory meridian response) clips uploaded for the consumption of online followers guides both the core themes and the technical possibilities of sound design throughout “This Closeness.” ASMR – that tingling sensation that we feel on our scalp, spine, and back of our neck that can be triggered by whispered sounds, tapping fingernails, pages being turned in a book, exhalation into a microphone, and many other auditory stimuli – functions within Zauhar’s story as a beautifully complex and multi-layered expression of the desire for intimacy, touch, and connection in a mediated, electronic device-driven world.

Zauhar’s superb attention to the audio landscape distinguishes “This Closeness” from many contemporaries, indicating a bright future for the moviemaker. Despite being light years away from the champagne shimmer of Ernst Lubitsch’s romantic, studio-based confections, “This Closeness” uses doors (and some extra-thin walls) in a way that might remind some cinephiles of the great director’s penchant for concealing and then revealing surprises. Throughout the film, the boundaries between the private and common spaces in Adam’s apartment are frequently breached right along with expectations for a certain kind of social decorum.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Even though he is only fifty years old, Osgood “Oz” Perkins has been linked to the legacy of his father’s titanic portrayal of Norman Bates for more than four decades – when he appeared onscreen in 1983 as the younger version of Bates in “Psycho II.” As an adult, Perkins has now put together a trio of attention-grabbing feature projects as writer-director (with another, an adaptation of Stephen King’s “The Monkey,” on the way). “Longlegs,” an unsettling and contemplative homage to key influences including “The Silence of the Lambs,” represents a big leap forward for Perkins. The movie’s intriguing mash-up of serial killer procedural and supernatural satanic panic, enhanced by Neon’s ace marketing of Nicolas Cage’s nightmarish title character, add up to Halloween in July.

Jonathan Demme’s 1991 phenomenon provides the foundational ingredients for “Longlegs.” As a protagonist echoing Clarice Starling, Maika Monroe plays Lee Harker, a young FBI agent working on a grisly case overseen by an older male mentor (Blair Underwood’s Carter). Harker, who can from time to time rely on a preternatural gift bordering on clairvoyance, does not cross paths with anyone like Hannibal Lecter, but Perkins leans in hard to the Buffalo Bill figure via Longlegs, a bizarre symbol of malevolence inhabited with the usual commitment by Oscar-winner and industry institution Cage. Longlegs, like Bill, is intimate with transfiguration. Longlegs is a maker, a builder, a creator.

Additionally, the physical presentation and androgyny of Longlegs align with the same aspects of Bill that continue to generate scrutiny and conversation centered on questions of transphobia and transmisogyny. In her sharp monograph on “The Silence of the Lambs,” Yvonne Tasker meticulously probes the multiple layers and complexities of the sexual politics projected by and upon Jame “Buffalo Bill” Gumb. As a rightly or wrongly perceived vessel for the stereotypical equating of queer identity with perversity, Longlegs has already inspired essays like the one by Samantha Allen for “Them,” in which the author argues that Perkins, in part reckoning with the personal impact of his famous father’s hidden homosexuality, fully understands how the movie’s queerness might be framed.

A parallel flurry of pieces on Cage’s monster – many of them emphasizing the actor’s longstanding commitment to taking creative risks – collectively write another chapter in one of modern cinema’s most singular and fascinating biographies (and if you have not done so already, do yourself a favor and pick up “Age of Cage” by Keith Phipps). Cage has notched plenty of oddballs, creeps, and weirdos, so it really says something that Longlegs vaults into unexplored territory. In “Longlegs” press, Cage has (for now), sworn off future serial killer roles. Along with the widely circulated story of Monroe’s 170 BPM heart-rate spike when seeing Cage in makeup for the first time (a publicist’s dream item if ever there was one), curiosity will drive ticket sales.

Even though it is not perfect, “Longlegs” is handily my favorite of the features directed by Perkins. Surprises are plentiful, but the movie’s central “big reveal” might be spotted with relative ease by horror hounds. Perkins takes some huge swings, but the fusion of so many familiar devices (including dolls, nuns, symbol-heavy cryptography, and conveniently close connections) is less impressive than the movie’s strengths: genuine dread, Kubrickian camera moves, meticulous production design, moody atmospherics, and a way of getting inside your head that lasts for days.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Writer-director Nicole Riegel’s sophomore feature “Dandelion” is now playing in theaters following a world premiere at South by Southwest in March. The movie stars KiKi Layne as the titular singer-songwriter, a young Cincinnati woman looking for artistic and personal fulfillment while holding down a sparsely attended three-night-a-week hotel bar performing gig and caring for her ailing mother. The film’s emphasis on tentative romance and the important connections that happen while making music – the in-universe tunes are provided by twin brothers Aaron Dessner and Bryce Dessner of the National – links many of the vibes to some of the thematic territory more successfully explored by John Carney in “Once,” “Begin Again,” “Sing Street,” and last year’s “Flora and Son.”

When Dandelion’s mom blurts out that there’s “nothing cute” about eventually becoming a “40-year-old troubadour,” the stinging truth and a well-timed notice hyping a South Dakota motorcycle meet-up/live concert opportunity motivates our heroine to get on the road. Soon, Dandelion crosses paths with the charismatic player Casey (Thomas Doherty), a charming Scot whose talents draw others to him like a magnet. Despite some cryptic allusions to the past and a few raised eyebrows from Casey’s fellow bandmates, Dandelion hops on the back of his bike, embarking on a sun-dappled romance stretching through Badlands National Park, roadside prairie dog attractions, and the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally.

Layne, who made an impact in “If Beale Street Could Talk,” works a few minor miracles with what turns out to be a frustratingly underwritten principal role (reviewing for the Roger Ebert site, critic Peyton Robinson argues that the film “often loses sight of its lead” and that “Dandelion feels sidelined in her own story”). The blame for these types of observations belongs in part to a number of curious choices and sour notes composed by Riegel in the script’s handling of a major turn. Without spoiling plot information – though regular moviegoers should be able to sniff out the “shock” long before Dandelion reaches her rock bottom – the comeback during the final act would have worked better had Riegel taken greater pains to flesh out all the key characters.

During the central section, “Dandelion” works best when romantic anticipation builds. Dandelion and Casey are arguably more eloquent and articulate when speaking through their songwriting, and the director runs with it. Riegel constructs several scenes that show precisely how a strong musical collaboration can be every bit as intimate as a physical one. In one bit that calls to mind the erotic intensity of similar time-jumps in Nicolas Roeg’s “Don’t Look Now” and Steven Soderbergh’s tribute to Roeg’s film in “Out of Sight,” Riegel cross-cuts between lovemaking and songcraft as Casey and Dandelion express frustrations in one thread and work them out in the other.

While her two features exist in distinct genre spaces, one can spot a number of similarities between “Dandelion” and 2020’s “Holler.” Both movies carefully and convincingly explore fiercely independent young women who must dig deep to operate within spaces typically dominated by men. Both films are also built around undeniable tour-de-force leads. Jessica Barden’s Ruth in “Holler,” at least outwardly, battles more dire financial circumstances than those that bring Dandelion to part with her beloved Les Paul-style gold top. While “Holler” is the better of the two movies, the triumphant musical number that closes “Dandelion” suggests Riegel has a bright filmmaking future.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

With the welcome participation of several actors who gave their giddy all in the more exuberant fantasia of “Poor Things,” the follow-up from Greek auteur Yorgos Lanthimos returns to the more measured melancholy and surrealist stylings of “The Killing of a Sacred Deer,” “The Lobster,” and “Dogtooth.” “Kinds of Kindness” is an anthology of three dark and woeful tales in which the central cast members play new roles each time the board is reset. Lanthimos favorite (or should that be favourite?) Emma Stone and Lanthiverse newcomer Jesse Plemons lead the way, supported by Margaret Qualley, Hong Chau, Mamoudou Athie, Joe Alwyn, and the indispensable Willem Dafoe.

Writing with longtime collaborator Efthimis Filippou, Lanthimos links the chapters of the triptych to a mysterious figure identified as R.M.F. (Yorgos Stefanakos). Each segment also uses his name in the title: “The Death of R.M.F.,” “R.M.F. Is Flying,” and “R.M.F. Eats a Sandwich.” This enigmatic presence is a cipher in the truest sense. From homicide victim to helicopter pilot to the miraculously resurrected, R.M.F. – ketchup spills and all – invites many more questions than he provides answers as a logical zero, an empty void. The Lanthimos faithful will not be at all troubled by the question marks.

In the opening story, Plemons inhabits the masochist Robert Fletcher, who lives to serve his controlling employer Raymond (Dafoe) in every tiny detail of life. Robert’s failure to carry out a gruesome task leads to a pitiful spiral and then what might charitably be called the very worst kind of redemption. The mannered dialogue delivery and the pauses that hang, impossibly expectant for sound judgments that never materialize, feel precision-engineered to fluster the typical moviegoer, who will be stressed to last the running time of two hours and forty-five minutes.

But for those who can tune their dials to the weird frequency on which Lanthimos broadcasts, the humor and the wonder burst through the clouds of gore and violence and cannibalism and sex tapes and pain with technicolor rainbows. The filmmaker finds all sorts of unexpected places to hide these confections in plain view. For my money, the brief visual realization of an Isle of Dogs ruled by compassionate canines could be a standalone feature; “I must admit, Dad, the dogs treated us pretty well,” says Stone’s Liz in “R.M.F. Is Flying.” It can be difficult to imagine a time when Lanthimos wasn’t intrigued by the ways in which human beings behave like absolute animals.

As someone who embraces the uncanny, Lanthimos has fashioned his very own place among contemporary moviemakers. Able to attract A-list talent to weird terrain far from mainstream safety, the filmmaker owes something to Bunuel and Dreyer and Bergman and Lynch. Watching “Kinds of Kindness,” my friend Trina Moore recounted the time she unwittingly rented “Blue Velvet” to screen with her mother and father in the basement of their Max, North Dakota home during a college break. Trina says, “I realized I was very, very wrong about what sort of movie ‘Blue Velvet’ was and should NOT have watched it with my parents, ever. ‘Kinds of Kindness’ is, in a way, on that level.”