Movie review by Greg Carlson

I love “The Sopranos.”

I have spent many hours with the show, re-watching favorite episodes, reading popular and academic books and essays deconstructing the series, queuing up clip playlists on YouTube to numb the pain of months in pandemic-imposed isolation. Like many others for whom David Chase’s vivid universe is “our thing,” I awaited “The Many Saints of Newark” with an equal amount of excitement and trepidation. I hoped that it could open up a fresh chapter in mob movie mythology the way that Scorsese’s “Goodfellas” was an extension of the indelible marks made by Coppola in “The Godfather” and “The Godfather Part II.” I expected it would honor traditions stretching back to that early sound-era trinity of “Little Caesar,” “The Public Enemy,” and “Scarface.”

But I also knew going in that James Gandolfini would not be in the movie. And no matter how close the resemblance between Gandolfini and his son Michael, who plays the teenage version of Anthony John Soprano Sr., the odds were long that Chase and his collaborators would successfully recapture the right place/right time zeitgeist that spanned 1999 to 2007. Yes, “The Many Saints of Newark” walks and talks more like the pilot to a new season of HBO prequel content than a standalone feature, but given how often it was said that nearly any individual installment of “The Sopranos” was so good it felt like a self-contained movie, I choose to cut “Saints” a break.

The misleading marketing that suggested the film would focus primarily on Tony’s origin story didn’t do Chase any favors and has been — along with several applications of retroactive continuity (Silvio and Tony’s age gap? C’mon!) — a thorn in the movie’s side on fan message boards throughout the film’s opening weekend. “Saints” is narrated, “Our Town” and “Lincoln in the Bardo”-style, by the doomed Christopher Moltisanti (Michael Imperioli). Christopher’s father, Dickie Moltisanti (Alessandro Nivola) emerges as the film’s central character. True to Chase’s skill as a storyteller and his interest in mirrored and rhyming themes, Dickie is an intriguing mixture of both the Christopher and Tony of the original series.

Despite a variety of shortcomings that encompass eye-rolling fan-service lollipops and unresolved narrative threads, there is much to savor here. Chase’s interest in the dreamscapes of the unexplainable, the hallucinatory and the mystical, which manifested so strongly in wild side trips including “Funhouse” and “The Test Dream,” may or may not be hiding in plain sight with a provocative bit of classic soap opera evil-twinning that will catch fans who viewed the trailer completely off guard. The audacious device hints that Dickie’s desire to do good and to make amends for the unforgivable exists only in his imagination: “Maybe some of the things you do aren’t God’s favorite.”

With veteran collaborators Alan Taylor as director and Lawrence Konner as co-writer, Chase packs much, maybe even too much, into this particular tale. But I appreciated the many grace notes and blue notes that Chase always plays so well. Not unlike the arrival of Furio Giunta, the presence of Michela De Rossi’s Giuseppina deepens our understanding of the immigrant’s connections between the North Jersey DiMeo family and the romanticized Old Country. And Chase’s magic touch informs the way in which fate, chance, luck, and timing briefly suggest glimmers of hope for Tony — beautifully suggested by key moments in time like a shot at the end of the ice cream truck hijacking, the misinterpretation of the Elavil in Dickie’s pocket, and waiting in vain at Holsten’s.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Ting Poo and Leo Scott may be the directors of record, but “Val” unfolds almost purely as the kaleidoscopic personal diary of subject and writer Val Kilmer, the mercurial one-time superstar who has spent more time in recent years dealing with throat cancer than pursuing screen roles. Kilmer’s initial public denial of his diagnosis — which in retrospect seems entirely in keeping with his idiosyncratic approach to the line between the real and the performed — spawned both speculation and rumor. “Val” is striking for its intimacy and for its candor (at least as far as Kilmer’s current health goes). Kilmer now speaks on camera by covering the hole in his throat. His son Jack, in the first-person role of his father, provides the voiceover narration.

Near the beginning of the film, Kilmer declares that “I was the first guy I knew to own a video camera.” And even before he amassed thousands of hours of home movies and behind-the-scenes footage, he was expressing himself through wildly imaginative original short films and stage plays as a kid, often with his brothers Mark and Wesley. Kilmer’s artistic inclinations would lead him to Juilliard, where he was the youngest person at that time accepted into the Drama Division. At first, it seems like Kilmer leads a charmed and magical existence. Significant tragedy, however, waits in the wings.

Kilmer’s personal observations and insights are always engaging and occasionally yield details and particulars that allow viewers to peek behind the curtain of fame. Sober assessments of key portrayals are among the film’s highlights, and serve to remind us that once upon a time, Kilmer was an A-list force with Hollywood at his feet. He notes that, “Yes, every boy wants to be Batman. They actually want to be him. They don’t necessarily want to play him in a movie.” Certain characters require more time for Kilmer to unpack, but unsolicited audition tapes he made while pursuing “Full Metal Jacket” and “Goodfellas” are easily as fascinating as the way in which he prepared for Doc Holliday and Jim Morrison.

Even more affecting is Kilmer’s openness regarding the realities of making ends meet when lucrative marquee contracts are no longer an option. He says, “I’m selling, basically, my old self, my old career. For many people it’s like the lowest thing you can do is talk about your old pictures and sell photographs…” But to his credit, Kilmer refuses to speak ill of fellow actors who have resorted to the same convention circuit or of the fans who wait in line for hours to meet their idol.

Kilmer crossed paths with legends of different generations, but the sole occupant atop the throne of the Dream Factory’s Mount Olympus was Marlon Brando. The bizarre tale of the making of “The Island of Dr. Moreau,” one of the most dysfunctional studio-backed projects of the 1990s, is already the subject of David Gregory’s fascinating 2014 documentary “Lost Soul.” In “Val” we get a glimpse of Kilmer’s perspective on the debacle, riveting in its own smaller-scale way. As things quickly go off the rails, we share in Kilmer’s crushing disappointment.

The moviemaking stories are juicy, but the filmmakers also capitalize on the intimacy of Kilmer’s family saga, including portraits of father Eugene and mother Gladys (Kilmer’s parents split when he was eight years old). Kilmer’s marriage to and divorce from Joanne Whalley is handled with more respect and fewer fireworks than many of the backstage anecdotes. Along with Jack, daughter Mercedes also appears in the film. Both children dote on their dad, who concludes this scrapbook with the signature self-confidence and optimism that fueled his meteoric career.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Equally frustrating and fascinating, Soleil Moon Frye’s quasi-confessional nostalgia documentary “Kid 90” will attract pop culture consumers of a certain age lured by the promise of pre-internet home movies and video diaries capturing an astonishing number of young performers before, during, and in some cases at the peaks of their fame. Frye is still best known for headlining the NBC sitcom “Punky Brewster,” which debuted in 1984 when she was just eight years old. By the time she was a teen, Frye was shooting footage of her life and her interactions with an array of fellow dream factory aspirants.

As director/compiler/star, Frye is careful to withhold any clips that could potentially damage her own brand or the images of her fellow Hollywood peers. One of the film’s executive producers is Leonardo DiCaprio, whose own fleeting presence in “Kid 90” is limited to the period of time before he embarked on the decidedly politically incorrect, pre-Me Too shenanigans that saw his circle of pals coarsely dubbed the “Pussy Posse.” Frye makes no mention of that specific pack of brats, even though a number of “Don’s Plum” alumni, including Kevin Connolly, Jenny Lewis, and Heather McComb are among those in Frye’s orbit.

There is some level at which “Kid 90” circles the ethical dilemmas faced for decades by professional child actors, their youth exploited and their innocence shredded in the teeth of the entertainment industry that has elevated profit above welfare since Jackie Coogan became a poster boy for mistreated minors. By all accounts, Frye’s own mother was perceived by her daughter and her daughter’s friends as a nurturing, supportive presence. Frye’s father, the actor Virgil Frye, is the subject of her 2004 documentary “Sonny Boy” and was not always around (something “Kid 90” mentions more than once).

“Kid 90” includes as one major thread the unacceptable number of young lives cut short in Frye’s community of friends and acquaintances, but as Inkoo Kang so astutely put it, the movie “is conspicuously incurious about the systemic factors that may have contributed to their deaths, such as financial and familial pressure, addiction, sexual trauma and other mental health struggles.” Or, for that matter, the nature of the industry in which they labored. Instead, there is a small measure of Frye’s own perspective as a grown-up, many years later.

Frye speaks about her personal experience with sexual assault, but as director also makes it clear that the movie’s “dark side” material will avoid any investigation of predatory practices or men who coerced vulnerable girls and women. And even though Frye’s aim is to find some kind of balance between the draw of fans getting glimpses of their favorite stars and a kind of public processing of her own grief and loss, the new interviews skew almost entirely male — Brian Austin Green, Balthazar Getty, David Arquette, Mark-Paul Gosselaar, Daniel “Danny Boy” O’Connor, Perry Farrell, and Stephen Dorff all get more time than McComb.

In “Singin’ in the Rain,” Jean Hagen’s Lina Lamont famously notes, “If we bring a little joy into your humdrum lives, it makes us feel as though our hard work ain’t been in vain for nothin’.” The comment continues to speak volumes about the gulf between wealthy celebrities and us common folk. Frye, who has continued to thrive as a performer, voice actor, entrepreneur, filmmaker, author, web series host, and parent, is savvy enough to recognize her position of privilege. Even so, “Kid 90” is a story that could have used more unguarded introspection.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Filmmaker Heather Ross combines a variety of striking visuals — including creative nonfiction reenactments, animated comic book panels and collages, archival stills and film clips, vintage stock footage, and conventional talking heads — to assemble “For Madmen Only: The Stories of Del Close.” Described by Bill Murray and others as “the most famous person you’ve never heard of,” Close was the monumentally influential mentor who counted dozens of comic powerhouses among his students. Close was also one of the early practitioners to recognize long-form improvisational performance as an art in and of itself. He died of emphysema on March 4, 1999, just a few days shy of his 65th birthday.

Ross is not the first person to document the Del Close phenomenon, but “For Madmen Only” covers an impressive amount of historical and spiritual territory in just under an hour and a half without ever suggesting that significant milestones were ignored or excised. Close fanatics might quibble over the real estate afforded one thing or another (the sections devoted to Close, played by James Urbaniak, working on some of the twisted autobiographical material that would end up in the DC comic “Wasteland” would be better in slightly smaller doses). But one has to admire the way in which Ross honors her subject by devising something as willing to take risks as the guru himself.

The “who’s who” of talent in interviews new and old undoubtedly presented Ross with a nearly endless supply of tough choices. And despite the late critical aside that Close had a tendency to favor white boys — who are thoroughly represented in the movie — the lineup also includes key input from Tim Meadows, Amy Poehler, Tina Fey, and others. Arguably, the most important on-camera subject to speak with authority on Close is Charna Halpern, the collaborator, partner, and ImprovOlympic cofounder who perhaps best understood his unique gifts and harnessed and honed the Harold concept into the version most fully appreciated by audiences.

Given the vault of stories focused on Close’s prodigious appetite for smoking, drinking, and drug-taking, Ross elects to maintain a kind of balance between the man’s most magnificent impulses in the direction of generosity and humanity (evident in Close’s belief that the tools and techniques of improv could be taught to any willing student and not just sublime natural talents like John Belushi and Gilda Radner) and his darker moments. Even though he would come to embrace his role as sage bestower of comedic wisdom in the laboratory setting, the movie does suggest that Close experienced significant frustrations throughout his career.

The first of these professional potholes involves the jaw-dropping tale of Close’s membership in the Compass Players, his romance with Elaine May, and the insult of being left out when May and fellow Compass performer Mike Nichols decided to do their own thing after making it to New York. Close’s rocky yet indelible relationship with Chicago and Second City follows, and Ross shows the emerging pattern.

Undoubtedly, “For Madmen Only” is essential viewing for comedy and improvisation hounds, but Ross must be praised for her ability to appeal to general audiences as well as hardcore scholars. In their valuable 2012 “Studies in American Humor” article on Close, Diana DePasquale and Melinda M. Lewis wrote, “As with any great teacher, it is impossible to quantify Close’s impact with finality, as it continues to permeate culture and entertainment.” Thanks to Ross’s film, Close’s legacy will reach the next generation of performers-to-be.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Busy performer Natalie Morales makes her solo feature directorial debut with the winning road trip teen comedy “Plan B.” Equally raucous and heartfelt, the movie follows in the footsteps of Olivia Wilde’s influential “Booksmart” by focusing on the relationship of two close high school friends. And not unlike the frequently-discussed phenomenon sometimes called “twin films,” (like “Dante’s Peak” and “Volcano” in 1997, “Capote” and “Infamous” in 2006, and “Friends with Benefits” and “No Strings Attached” in 2011, to name just a few) “Plan B” shares enough striking similarities to Rachel Lee Goldenberg’s “Unpregnant” that “Decider” and “Salon” articles have pondered the recent emergence of so-called “reproductive rights road films.”

Syracuse, New York stands in for South Dakota, but the escalating complications requiring the protagonists to get in the van are universal enough to take place in just about Anytown, U.S.A. Kuhoo Verma’s Sunny, eager for some kind of carnal experience, makes a hasty and questionable choice while hosting an impromptu house party while her real estate agent mom is out of town on business. Instead of hooking up with crush Hunter (Michael Provost) as planned, Sunny impulsively has sex with devout Christian goofball Kyle (Mason Cook). Sunny’s best pal Lupe (Victoria Moroles) — who does not know about the boy switch — supports Sunny when a condom mishap necessitates a wild goose chase after an emergency contraceptive pill.

Even while marking the checklist of outrageous teen movie tropes revolving around awkward predicaments, mind-altering substances, lies told to oneself and lies told to others, hasty escapes, embarrassing sexual encounters, and the multitude of liminal passages en route to hard-earned maturity, Morales consistently seeks out the pathos and humanity of her leads. Some of the obstacles are less convincing than others (a diversion involving a temporarily stolen vehicle strains the film’s already elastic internal logic). But Morales works several small miracles in moments that allow supporting characters to surprise us.

Screenwriters Prathiksha Srinivasan and Joshua Levy maintain a close watch on the emotional growth of the principal partners. As a result, “Plan B” is a rare bird in that it gets better as it goes along. So many movies in the teensploitation tradition start strong and quickly run out of gas. It is also true that many films in the genre turn authority figures, parents, and all other grown-ups into caricatures, but Sunny’s mother and Lupe’s father reveal nuances in the parent/child dynamic that transcend the surface gags (although the running “Indian mafia” joke is pretty solid) to at least briefly answer the age-old question, “Are parents people?”

Along with the worry and concern that nettle both Sunny and Lupe when it comes to their fears regarding possible parental reactions, “Plan B” also takes seriously the themes of bodily autonomy, female health and wellness, and the politically-driven mechanisms in place in states like South Dakota that seek to regulate and control women. Kylie Cheung cites a trio of other recent movies, including “Grandma,” “Little Woods,” and “Never Rarely Sometimes Always,” noting that “..while growth and improving representation of abortion and reproductive care in media is a victory, it’s a victory that’s hard to celebrate when the dehumanizing, real-life conditions upon which these movies are based shouldn’t exist at all.” It seems improbable that the need for stories like the one told in “Plan B” will go away anytime soon.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Cousins and co-writers Jessica Barr (who also plays the lead) and Jessie Barr (who also directs) build a thoughtful and sensitive coming of age drama in “Sophie Jones,” which made its world premiere this past autumn as part of the 2020 Festival du Cinéma Américain de Deauville. The movie is now available to rent from the major streaming services and should not be missed by fans of personal, low-budget, indie storytelling. Braiding together themes of grief and sexual experimentation, the Barrs confidently operate with enough self-awareness to offset any tendency toward overplaying the heavy melodrama that comes with a story about a teenager figuring out how to move forward following the death of a parent.

Jessica Barr’s Sophie is smart and sympathetic, despite the snark, sarcasm, and cruelty she sometimes directs toward her dad Aaron (Dave Roberts), sister Lucy (Charlie Jackson), and best friend Claire (Claire Manning). We have to guess how salty she might have been before she lost her mom, but the filmmakers make clear that some of Sophie’s behavior is a coping mechanism. Jessie Barr favors intimate handheld photography — beautifully realized by Scott Miller — that brings the viewer in close to the action without necessarily climbing completely into Sophie’s head. The young director has a sophisticated command of how much to make explicit and how much to withhold.

The ambiguity, confusion, and self-doubt of the protagonist contrast with the quotidian routines surrounding mealtimes, drama rehearsals, and homework. Sophie seeks out opportunities for intimacy with a small number of boys. Her choices, not always wise from the perspective of an older viewer, feel completely authentic to the character. Sophie’s grief exists in proximity to the things she does in response to her pain. Only in rare instances does she allow herself to be unguarded and vulnerable to others. When those moments take place, the Barrs approach an almost transcendent expression of the line marking the public/private self.

Faced with the unthinkable, Sophie uses trial and error like anyone in her situation. In some instances, desperation creeps past her well-polished armor. She longs to more easily integrate into a certain clique, fights with Claire, and breaks protocol by asking to sit with Lucy and friends at lunch. Yet one of the most carefully examined dimensions of the story is the way Sophie doesn’t care, or pretends not to care, about social constructions like her “reputation.” Both of the Barrs refrain from passing judgment on Sophie, and their expression of grace and forgiveness invites the viewer to offer the same courtesy.

Those who have faced tremendous or even overwhelming emotional hurricanes following the death of a close friend or family member will appreciate the movement of time in “Sophie Jones.” Even though many scenes at first appear to be communicated as self-contained vignettes, the Barrs have a deliberate strategy. They opt out of flashbacks and play with the passing days, weeks, and months, expanding and contracting Sophie’s experiences without constantly orienting the viewer to a traditional progression of what might be schematically called “stages” of grieving. The film eventually offers some kind of closure, but in many ways, Sophie’s future remains acutely uncertain.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Writer-director Siân Heder steers “CODA” through the treacherous shoals of cinematic cliche, drawing on a deeply talented cast and a strong command of world-building verisimilitude. Since the film’s debut at the virtual 2021 Sundance Film Festival, where it received a quartet of awards, critics and early viewers have sustained a steady level of buzz ahead of wider release. Scooped up by Apple for a Sundance record 25 million dollars, “CODA” — which doubles in meaning as an acronym for a child of deaf adults and the musical designation for a concluding passage — is crowd-pleasing, tear-jerking, and feel-good in the best senses of those often suspect descriptions.

Heder reworks Éric Lartigau’s 2014 film “La Famille Bélier,” swapping a rural farm operation for a working-class Massachusetts fishing vessel. In both the original and the remake — which owe some debt to the 1996 German film “Beyond Silence,” directed by Caroline Link — a teenager interested in studying music faces a difficult decision between personal dreams and the obligations and responsibilities of providing continued support to the family livelihood. And even if you think you’ve seen this basic conundrum a hundred times before, Heder puts her movie together with enough attention to detail and specificity to stand out from the crowd.

The English actor Emilia Jones, best known for her work in the Netflix series “Locke & Key,” plays Ruby Rossi, daughter of deaf parents Jackie (Marlee Matlin) and Frank (Troy Kotsur) and sister of deaf sibling Leo (Daniel Durant). Heder, who relied on the input of collaborators Alexandra Wailes and Anne Tomasetti as her self-described “ASL masters,” exhibits a desire to avoid essentializing or exoticizing the non-hearing characters in the story. And her work pays off. Even though the comic juxtapositions — more often than not of a sexual nature — can be as broad as the side of a barn, the familial conflicts on the flip side of the coin resonate with hard truths.

“La Famille Bélier” received some pointed criticism for casting actors who could hear as the deaf parents of the protagonist. And Matlin threatened to leave “CODA” when producers considered casting non-deaf performers as deaf characters (a disappointing but unsurprising example of the film business’s shortsighted adherence to the bottom line). I believe that one could mount a successful argument that “CODA” is less audist than a film like Myroslav Slaboshpytskiy’s “The Tribe,” even if both works are made and sound-designed principally for hearing audiences (by hearing filmmakers).

Obviously, “The Tribe” and “CODA” are worlds apart in terms of genre. But despite the acclaim, there is something to ponder in the argument posited by Rebecca Atkinson in her original review of “La Famille Bélier” that questions why “Deaf people’s culture and experiences have long been appropriated for the fascination and entertainment of others” even as few films have been made by deaf directors. Additionally, Atkinson points to the potentially misplaced fascination hearing people exhibit toward stories exploring the “relationship between music and deafness.”

Despite these legitimate questions that could and should invite additional dialogue, “CODA” is a profoundly moving and highly recommended film.