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.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Fans and readers as well as the uninitiated will appreciate veteran filmmaker Vivian Kleiman’s “No Straight Lines: The Rise of Queer Comics.” Drawing from richly detailed and insightful interviews with a quintet of masters, Kleiman elects to cover as much territory and history as possible without taking on the burden of comprehensiveness. Even so, the director’s scope is broad and illuminating. Viewers without any background in mainstream or independent comics should be inspired by the deeply personal — often confessional — descriptions of the art life.

The principal interview subjects are Alison Bechdel, Jennifer Camper, Howard Cruse, Rupert Kinnard, and Mary Wings, but Kleiman also periodically cuts to comments from younger creators who acknowledge specific relationships — and debts of gratitude — to the work of the trailblazers. Additionally, these representatives appearing under the label “Next Gen Comics” articulate with acuity the importance of representation. For example, Ajuan Mance says, “The idea of creating comics that aren’t really about making people heroic is one of the things that I think queer comics have done the best.”

Maia Kobabe adds, “When you are drawing yourself, you can draw yourself however you want. And that is another reason why I think that comics is a media that is so friendly to a queer author.” Kleiman is particularly skillful in grabbing hold of and communicating the universal and the precise. “No Straight Lines” never once feels like homework, even when covering the historical emergence of LGBTQ+ comics or how the impact of the HIV/AIDS crisis motivated raw and haunting expressions of rage, grief, and pain in achievements like David Wojnarowicz’s “Seven Miles a Second.”

For the general audience, Bechdel might be the best known of the featured artists (especially today), but few followers would disagree with Camper’s widely-repeated assertion that Howard Cruse deserves to be known as the “Godfather of Queer Comics.” A monumental figure and mentor to many, Cruse’s death at the age of 75 in November of 2019 casts both a celebratory and elegiac glow over his featured scenes. From his emergence in the 70s underground to his role as founding editor of “Gay Comix” to the publication of the “Wendel” strip in “The Advocate” and the wider reach of “Stuck Rubber Baby,” Cruse’s biography could easily sustain a feature documentary by itself.

Impressively, Kleiman manages to spread the wealth. One could argue that “No Straight Lines” might have benefited from a little more Wings, even though the film does make time to recall the birth of “Come Out Comix” as a direct response to Trina Robbins’s “Sandy Comes Out.” Kinnard explains his motivation for bringing to life characters like Superbad and Brown Bomber. The influence of Bechdel’s “Dykes to Watch Out For” and the multiple successes of “Fun Home” are finely rendered, and the often hilarious and always razor-sharp perspectives of Camper, the founding director of the Queers and Comics conference, may constitute the film’s most valuable set of observations.

One of the most enjoyable aspects of “No Straight Lines” is evident again and again in the close-knit support shared among the “elder statespeople.” The element of game recognizing game in the broadest sense, the mutual admiration of top-flight talent, and expressions of love fill in the spaces between looks at specific titles and publishing milestones. In one example, Kinnard shows a special gift organized by Bechdel, and the placement of the moment within the larger context illustrates Kleiman’s sense of perfect timing.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Of the many offspring of “The Graduate,” few films approach the original’s perfect blend of eager but anxious anticipation regarding the future and post-adolescent tendencies toward solipsistic self-pity. Or, for that matter, the quality of the comedy and the level of craftsmanship. Mike Nichols directed the 1967 masterpiece with such skill, filmmakers still drink from the well more than half a century on, seeking to replicate some of that bottled lightning. “Shiva Baby,” Emma Seligman’s feature debut as writer and director, doesn’t have a budget equivalent to “The Graduate.” Nearly all of it takes place in a single location and close to real time. But the new filmmaker works wonders within these limitations.

As spiritual heir to Benjamin Braddock and his soul-crushing indecisiveness and lack of direction and purpose, Rachel Sennott’s Danielle is a roiling cauldron of contradictions. And although Sennott is neither Jewish nor bisexual, her commitment to the character results in what deserves to be a star-making performance. Danielle shares many other traits with Dustin Hoffman’s Ben. Both are smart, charismatic, horny, insecure, funny, cruel, petty, and self-centered. And both navigate difficult and potentially explosive sexual minefields with older, married partners.

The double application of the movie’s title refers to Danielle and to the child of her “sugar daddy” Max (Danny Deferrari), who unexpectedly shows up at the post-funeral gathering of the mutual acquaintance Danielle never manages to identify. Max’s baby, along with wife Kim (Dianna Agron), will provide plenty of tension as the story unfolds. But before all that awkwardness, we learn in the opening scene that the adulterous Max offers Danielle cash (and a lovely bracelet that will work as a mini MacGuffin) in exchange for sex. Danielle’s parents, who still cover her living expenses, believe that she earns money babysitting.

“Shiva Baby” is most certainly not a movie for those who get clammy and start to sweat at secondhand embarrassment. Seligman brilliantly modulates the rhythms of the social gathering, placing viewers in position to vicariously share one humiliation after another as Danielle is continuously infantilized by her mom and dad (Polly Draper and Fred Melamed). The original short version of “Shiva Baby” was Seligman’s NYU thesis film. A comparison of the two demonstrates several strong choices made by the writer-director to expand the narrative world. “Sugar,” a 30-minute comedy series based on the “Shiva Baby” universe, is being developed by Seligman for HBO.

The short, which can be found online, showcases Seligman’s already sharp staging and timing chops. It stands on its own as a self-contained gem of the form. The feature adds a rewarding subplot involving longtime close friend/one-time girlfriend Maya (Molly Gordon). Maya’s bullshit detector is finely calibrated. She knows something weird is up with Danielle and aims to figure it out, stacking another layer of stress on the increasingly harried protagonist. Seligman nails the multiple ways in which we perform identities tailored to the specific requirements of any given audience — especially the ones made up of our closest relatives. Which facet of the protean Danielle represents the “real” or “authentic” person?

Movie review by Greg Carlson

The prerequisites for continued Marvel Cinematic Universe domination are met: a script balancing eye-popping action and emotionally-charged character development; a narrative that functions as a standalone entertainment but also plugs directly into the massive, always-expanding mainframe; an expert ensemble capable of playing both tongue-in-cheek metanarrative and earnest pathos as required from scene to scene. And as an added bonus for those who keep their scorecards up to date, we finally learn what happened in Budapest.

For fans, the lengthy wait for “Black Widow” was worth it. Despite the very real potential for franchise fatigue — the amount of so-called Phase Four content, which includes the already available Disney+ “WandaVision,” “The Falcon and the Winter Soldier,” and “Loki,” with another ten small screen titles and ten more theatrical features on the way, is… a lot. But one look at director Cate Shortland’s solid entry confirms that Scarlett Johansson most certainly merits her own standalone victory lap following Natasha Romanoff’s fate in “Avengers: Endgame.”

Shortland brings her keen feature filmmaking chops to “Black Widow” as a welcome addition to the talented pool of storytellers who can match the Kevin Feige house style without any significant artistic compromise. For my money, James Gunn remains the most recognizable and distinctive directorial voice in the stable, but Shortland’s previous features — “Somersault” (2004), “Lore” (2012), and “Berlin Syndrome” (2017) — form an engrossing and intense cinematic hat trick that rivals the filmography of any director on the Marvel team.

“Black Widow” runs 134 minutes to the 145 minutes of meme-generator “F9,” but it can teach the Fast and Furious gang a thing or two about family. The ties that bind kickstart a white-knuckle, running-on-empty, opening action sequence set in 1995 Ohio that serves as a prelude for a closer look at the gender-based costs of the mysterious Red Room and its unethical programs. As General Dreykov, Ray Winstone makes a menacing adversary to our hero. Screenwriter Eric Pearson ups the ante in his use of Taskmaster, playing with the themes of patriarchy and doubling/mirroring Natasha’s emphasis on and interest in lineage.

Several critics have compared “Black Widow” to the Bourne series of political thrillers based on the adventures of Robert Ludlum’s gifted assassin. The resemblance most certainly extends to the specialized training of the lead characters and the stylistic focus on intense stunt work and kinetic hand-to-hand combat. But Shortland, who includes a clip of “Moonraker” along with evidence that Nat can recite Christopher Wood’s James Bond dialogue by heart, resists taking things too seriously, despite the tragic shadows that darken Romanoff’s origin story.

“Black Widow” is closer to the Christopher McQuarrie “Mission: Impossible” films than to Bourne, bending toward elements of the fantastic and liberal doses of visual and verbal wit (not to mention a shared affinity for a great motorcycle chase). David Harbour’s bearish Alexei “Red Guardian” Shostakov struggles to squeeze into the old uniform and Florence Pugh’s Yelena Belova mocks the signature Marvel landing pose. Rachel Weisz’s Melina Vostokoff is funny, too. She just isn’t given as much to do. If indeed the torch has been passed from Johansson to Pugh, who has looked every bit the star since her stunning breakout performance in “Lady Macbeth,” the Black Widow legacy is in fine and capable hands.