Movie review by Greg Carlson

Writer-director Riley Stearns confronts the foul odor of hypermasculinity and misogyny in “The Art of Self-Defense,” a pitch-black comedy featuring Jesse Eisenberg, Alessandro Nivola, and Imogen Poots. Eisenberg’s Casey Davies is another of the actor’s signature submissives, a “35-year-old dog owner” (according to a local news report) victimized by a group of motorcycle thugs while on his way to purchase chow for his dachshund. The brutal physical assault merely adds to Casey’s daily humiliations. His every waking hour is fraught with a suffocating series of micro and macro indignities, which Stearns presents with droll self-reflexiveness.    

Casey joins a karate class led by the enigmatic Sensei (Nivola), a supremely confident martial artist whose unorthodox methods on the mat are paired with increasingly alarming invective. Especially troubling is the openly hostile criticism Sensei directs toward skillful brown-belt Anna (Poots), the only female student in the dojo. Sensei’s ugly leadership in “The Art of Self-Defense” invites comparisons to the reactionary and defensive buffoonery of Donald Trump and his MAGA legion. As satirical critique, Stearns’ vision metaphorically intersects with ongoing discussions centered on the politics of white male fragility.   

The film’s pronounced references to its own artificiality irritate or delight, depending on one’s tastes. Stearns expresses a level of individuality that merits attention, but his grasp of tone — which includes an often successful blend of surrealism and banality — lacks the consistency of Quentin Dupieux, whose “Wrong” parallels “The Art of Self-Defense” in several respects. Blunt-force radical honesty and statements of the obvious to generate uneasy laughter call to mind Yorgos Lanthimos’ “Dogtooth.” Stearns’ association with David and Nathan Zellner, who serve as two of the movie’s executive producers, builds additional goodwill and credibility. David Zellner is a welcome onscreen presence as blue-belt karate student Henry.  

Like “God’s lonely man” Travis Bickle, Casey’s inclination to lash out with the aid of a firearm leads to a comic exchange with a purveyor of guns and serves as a terrifying reminder of just how easily the frustration of an Angry Man in America can escalate to mayhem and murder. The arch dialogue in the interaction between Casey and Davey Johnson’s blunt shopkeeper echoes the famous scene between De Niro’s cabbie and Steven Prince’s smooth-talking salesman in “Taxi Driver.” Paul Schrader’s dialogue, however, is subtle by comparison, as Stearns imagines a no-pressure dealer eager to describe every possible statistical horror awaiting a new pistol owner.   

Karate provides Casey with a sense of purpose, a feeling of self-control, and an avenue for reinvention. But cracks in Sensei’s facade present our protagonist with increasingly thorny dilemmas. While Stearns exploits a number of ridiculous possibilities invited by the color-coded hierarchical structure of the ancient combat system — Casey’s desire to wear a yellow belt at all times inspires one of the movie’s funniest scenes  — “The Art of Self-Defense” just as comfortably embraces horror tropes. The close proximity of sudden, shocking violence to the humor challenges viewer expectations, but with a few notable exceptions in the movie’s later sections, the filmmaker successfully pulls off his tricks.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Legendary British skipper Tracy Edwards, who in 1989 led the first all-female crew of sailors to compete in the tough-as-nails, 33,000-mile Whitbread Round the World Yacht Race, makes for a convincing heroine in filmmaker Alex Holmes’ thrilling sports documentary “Maiden.” Named for the refurbished, King Hussein of Jordan-sponsored vessel Edwards piloted in the competition, the film unfolds with a strong sense of adventure and excitement — due in part to the likely ignorance of a majority of viewers who don’t know the outcome of the contest, and also to the urgency and immediacy suggested by Katie Bryer’s skillful editing. 

Yacht racing, when referenced at all in mainstream popular culture, suggests wealth, whiteness, masculinity, exclusivity, and privilege. Holmes doesn’t comprehensively dispel these characteristics, but does emphasize the rebellious, scrappy, outsider aspects of Edwards during her restless youth. The exposition, handled with economy, sets the film’s core thematic agenda: a tradition-smashing bid for respect in a space historically closed off to women. A period clip from a local news station package draws laughs and gasps. The merciless and cruel male chauvinism of observers is still present in several of the newly-shot interviews. And yet, then and now, Edwards is determined and undaunted. 

Holmes cuts among straightforward talking head interviews with crew, rival sailors, journalists, and others to fill in the narrative of the odyssey, but the lower-quality, archival, shot-on-video footage, often taken by Maiden cook (and Edwards’ childhood friend) Joanna Gooding, gives the director gripping raw material illustrating the power and extremes of weather conditions throughout the race. Those seafaring images are Edwards’ equal in star power, and should drive viewers to the movie. “Maiden” additionally weaves together recollections from Edwards’ supporting cast of voyagers, providing details about all kinds of doubts, fears, and challenges. One noteworthy example is the personality conflict that led to the dismissal of first mate Marie-Claude Kieffer Heys.      

During the course of the film, which charts the progress of the nine-month endeavor through its six legs, the commitment of the women to the cause and to the boat and to each other transcends the obvious messages of gender-indicated empowerment to say something even more profound. Edwards is rock-solid in this respect, delivering one naked truth bomb after another on the topics of both sailing and misogyny, with articulate, crystalline, no-bullshit perspicacity. The women on board the Maiden, nearly all of whom are on hand to look back, speak with such candor, tears will stain the cheeks of all but the hardest spectators.

Holmes, who first encountered Edwards when she spoke at his daughter’s school, suggests that the feminism of yesterday versus today can illustrate the insidious grip of entrenched, male-run institutions. Reflecting and refracting the ongoing conversations around everything from the salary inequity between male and female soccer players to the alleged child sex trafficking hellscape perpetuated by Jeffrey Epstein (the latter of which is brilliantly addressed by Rebecca Solnit in her recent Literary Hub essay “In Patriarchy No One Can Hear You Scream”), “Maiden” can be read as both time capsule and time bomb.  

Movie review by Greg Carlson

“Hereditary” director Ari Aster’s sophomore feature “Midsommar” firmly cements the filmmaker’s auteur bona fides. A visually stunning slice of art-house “folk horror” that draws from several touchstone movies — most notably Robin Hardy’s 1973 masterpiece “The Wicker Man” — Aster once again explores the insidious devastation of grief, this time within the framework of a romantic relationship break-up. Bereft of jump scares and absent the visceral action of many of its scenes necessaires, “Midsommar” is executed with Bressonian control. Gorehounds should not despair, however, as Aster unleashes several nauseating depictions of mayhem, barbarity, and damage visited upon the human body.

Even prior to release, it was inevitable that “Midsommar” would divide viewers; internet discussion boards have hosted lively, intense deliberations scrutinizing the film’s minutiae. Comparisons of the script to the finished film, which clocks in at a rather expansive 147 minutes, is but one of the topics. Others delve into Aster’s considerations of religious faith and fanaticism vis-a-vis Christianity and paganism, explorations of gender politics, numerological symbolism, altered states through hallucinogens, and assorted conspiracies and speculations that prod at the movie’s “real” meanings.  

Aster creatively takes advantage of setting to drench “Midsommar” in the light of the midnight sun. Hungary stands in for the north Sweden commune inhabited by the blue-eyed, blonde-haired Harga villagers, and cinematographer Pawel Pogorzelski and production designer Henrik Svensson combine forces to render a geometrically seductive arrangement of striking, elegantly simple buildings integrated with natural features including woods, meadows, and an ominous rock formation that features in what might be the film’s most shocking and stunning sequence. One could spend hours contemplating Aster’s use of indoor and outdoor spaces.

Aster’s previous work with Toni Collette indicated the director’s appreciation of deeply accomplished, next-level performance, and the casting of Florence Pugh as the grieving, fraying-at-the-seams Dani Ardor matches the rawness and intensity displayed in “Hereditary.” As a young woman clinging to a boyfriend who remains with her out of pity, Dani is Pugh’s richest character opportunity since her utterly jaw-dropping and Oscar-worthy breakout in “Lady Macbeth.” She navigates the complex emotional terrain of Dani’s incredible journey with convincing and surefooted skill. 

Aster carefully structures his films, and so much detail is provided in the expository arc. The composition of multiple frames in which Dani is the lone female amidst the quartet of faux-sympathetic partner Christian (Jack Reynor) and his friends adds to the chill. “Midsommar” captures the way in which males in a group can so completely ostracize an unwanted female “intruder.” In one of Aster’s many inventive touches, the prologue immediately establishes Dani as the final girl even prior to her acceptance of Christian’s insincere invitation to join the trip to the rural collective where pal Pelle (Vilhelm Blomgren) grew up. 

In Jordan Peele’s excellent interview with Aster in the fourth issue of the relaunched “Fangoria,” the “Us” director lavishes praise on his peer, suggesting that Aster has accomplished in “Midsommar” an “ascension of horror” that subverts the common victimization of the viewer in favor of a remarkable identification with Dani. Peele says, “I felt like I was being put up on this pedestal and honored through the eyes of the protagonist.” Peele’s astute observation acknowledges yet another way in which Aster transcends genre expectation as a teller of distinctive and original stories.     

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Writer-producer-director-photographer Rachel Lears teams with writer-producer-editor (and spouse) Robin Blotnick and producer Sarah Olson on advocacy doc “Knock Down the House,” now streaming on Netflix following a world premiere in January at the Sundance Film Festival. A direct response to the election of Donald Trump, Lears follows the grassroots campaigns of a quartet of political newcomers: Cori Bush in Missouri, Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez in New York, Paula Jean Swearengin in West Virginia, and Amy Vilela in Nevada. The result is an energizing portrait of working class, mad-as-hell action — and the birth of a national celebrity.

“Knock Down the House” invites its quartet of progressives to articulate the personal reasons that inspired each woman to run in Democratic primaries versus establishment candidates. The results of the midterm elections are in the rearview, and of the film’s subjects, only Ocasio-Cortez succeeded. AOC’s history-making bid to unseat the ten-term incumbent and Democratic Caucus Chair Joe Crowley (who is consistently seen in the film as an absolute fool) is accompanied by her close-up-ready charisma, moving her story into the central spot. Had any of the others won their races, the film would have undoubtedly been shaped into a somewhat different narrative. 

But don’t fault Lears for her filmmaking tactics. Many documentarians collect footage during time-sensitive events with unknown outcomes — embracing the reality that a great deal of the storytelling will be shaped in post-production. The bigger picture for the filmmakers, one imagines, was clearly not originally meant to be a personality profile of Ocasio-Cortez. Blotnick switches among the most compelling aspects of each journey, but there is no denying AOC’s commanding presence. Vilela describes the painful experience that inspired her decision. And all of the women leverage identification with specific issues and the common folks at the bottom of the dogpile.

So many political documentaries trade on the razzle-dazzle of fame, power, and media coverage that the nuts and bolts of on-the-ground strategies are treated as a kind of sorcery practiced by wizards who more often than not prefer to stay behind the curtain. In the case of “Knock Down the House,” the activist groups Justice Democrats and Brand New Congress are seen and heard, but the details of how potential candidates are selected and vetted remain murky and mysterious. Lears introduces a few intriguing players, including Corbin Trent and Saikat Chakrabarti, and they at least offer direct answers about their end goals if not their formulae.  

Lears ends with the election night outcomes of the Democrat-versus-Democrat primary challenges. As a result, the content of the film doesn’t fully take the deep dive into the general contest that would more directly address the national climate/snapshot regarding the Trump presidency. That November scorecard would see a net gain of 40 seats for the Democrats in the House of Representatives and a net gain of 2 seats for the Republicans in the Senate. Short of the complete Blue Wave victory sought by the Democrats, all eyes now turn toward 2020. As AOC says in the movie, “…in order for one of us to make it through, 100 of us have to try.” 

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Nisha Ganatra’s “Late Night,” featuring Mindy Kaling as both star and screenwriter, tackles a wide range of challenging topics. Toxic masculinity, white privilege, gender inequity, tokenism, quota-based hiring, and intragender conflict and competition are a few of the areas under examination in the writer’s room and surrounding milieu of the multiple Emmy-decorated talk show hosted by Emma Thompson’s Katherine Newbury. Newbury’s vehicle faces waning ratings and the indignity of a replacement host in the form of a below-the-belt bro comic played, in a parodic industry swipe, by Ike Barinholtz. Can Kaling’s Molly Patel, an enthusiastic newbie, save the day?

Close kin to “The Devil Wears Prada” and the broad outlines of the superior-subordinate relationship movie, “Late Night” borrows elements from Kaling’s biography while sticking close to the beats and rhythms of the episodic serialized television sources familiar to the performer’s fans (both good and, per Emily Nussbaum, bad). Patel’s growth is mapped in several ways, including the interactions she shares in groups and one-on-one with the frustrated Newbury, and the equally tough treatment meted out by the immature members of the staff. Kaling’s effectiveness is certainly open to interpretation, but most jokes and gags land with more confidence than the film’s odd depiction of the deficiencies of Newbury and her show.   

“Late Night” struggles to define almost all the characters in the ensemble beyond providing the majority with a single, instantly recognizable trait. Thompson and Kaling eke out something closer to multidimensionality, but worthy and formidable veterans like Amy Ryan, as a tough network chief, and John Lithgow, as Newbury’s devoted but ailing partner, should have been given more. The young-ish white dudes writing for Newbury, led by the fragile and thin-skinned head monologue scribe Tom Campbell (Reid Scott in a meta-allusion to Kaling’s friend and ex B. J. Novak) work interchangeably as a one-headed pack of unenlightened wolves.

Any number of small screen examples — from “The Mary Tyler Moore Show” to “30 Rock” — contain sharper, richer explorations of gender within the milieu of behind-the-scenes media and TV production. Had “Late Night” been stretched out to a season of episodes, some of the curious choices might have been better justified or explained. Why is Patel shown making the leap from work in a chemical plant to a nightly television series with only the thinnest experience doing stand-up? Why does Newbury seem so utterly distant, clueless, and out of touch in relation to the kinds of bits that succeed for her competitors — especially if her show has been a powerhouse Emmy magnet?

Still, there is much to like about a universe in which a multi-decade late-night network talk show starring a woman is a given thing. Ganatra alternates between showing how both Patel and Newbury, one at the bottom rung and the other at the top, figure out the necessary armor to best protect against the worst kinds of daily, sex-based bias in a world so typically geared toward males and masculinity. Fortunately, Ganatra and Kaling skip the establishment of an unnecessary friendship between the women (although the movie comes closest in a scene where Newbury climbs multiple flights to see Patel), emphasizing instead that the skill and instinct needed to survive come in individual varieties.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Martin Scorsese embraces the prankster spirit of a longtime inspiration/subject in “Rolling Thunder Revue: A Bob Dylan Story.” The confounding testimony is as much mockumentary as documentary, combining new interviews and gorgeous archival footage into an entertaining put-on. Not everyone, and not even every Dylan fan, will go along with the tall tales, but amidst the japes are several of the most riveting live performances of Dylan’s career. “Rolling Thunder Revue” is not, however, a concert film. Just as much time and energy is poured into the backstage and offstage happenings — real and fabricated — as the music.

Dylan’s traveling circus, his 1975 response to the conclusion of a larger-scale stadium tour with the Band, featured performers Joan Baez, Allen Ginsberg, Joni Mitchell, Roger McGuinn, Ronee Blakley, Ramblin’ Jack Elliott, Bobby Neuwirth, Scarlet Rivera, Mick Ronson, and others. Following the release of “Blood on the Tracks,” the shows highlighted electrifying reworkings of Dylan staples as well as fierce and fresh previews of songs that would fill out the Jacques Levy collaboration “Desire,” which was released between the autumn and spring legs of Rolling Thunder. The scope of the experiment boggles the mind of any Dylanologist; Scorsese’s movie leaves out even potential cameo appearances by Muhammad Ali, Coretta Scott King, Harry Dean Stanton, Dennis Hopper, Ringo Starr, Stevie Wonder, and Dr. John. Sara Dylan is also omitted.  

The absence of any direct explanation or mention of Howard Alk and the making of “Renaldo and Clara” is perhaps the biggest clue to Scorsese’s agenda. A Sam Shepard interview broadly describes the writer’s participation in Dylan’s vision, but aside from an allusion to Carne’s “Les Enfants du Paradis,” the new movie is mute on the original film project. Instead, Scorsese introduces bogus documentarian Stefan van Dorp (played by Kipper Kids performance artist and Bette Midler spouse Martin von Haselberg) as the acidic cinematic chronicler of the revue. Van Dorp is a hilarious presence, deadpanning great lines like his Ratso Sloman insult, “Please. Does the cockroach really cause problems for the house?”

Beyond the imaginary van Dorp, all kinds of helpful guides and breakdowns are floating around to separate out the lies, but the brave and untroubled viewer might prefer a first pass without a cheat sheet. Scorsese, in a sly nod to the era’s hair-raising attitudes about the casual presence of teenage groupies, calls on Sharon Stone to concoct a phony narrative that she got hooked up on the tour by her ambitious stage mother. Michael Murphy reprises his role as Michigan representative Jack Tanner from Robert Altman’s “Tanner ‘88” to add a yarn that Jimmy Carter scored him admission to one of the shows. Current Paramount Pictures CEO Jim Gianopulos did not work as the promoter of the tour. And so on.

But for every single sidetracking goof, “Rolling Thunder Revue” showcases at least two transcendent time capsules. Dylan and Ginsberg sit down at the gravesite of Jack Kerouac. The troupe members take their troubles down to Madame Ruth in a joyous interpretation of “Love Potion No. 9.” Dylan follows along, grinning and awestruck, on Joni Mitchell’s breathtaking performance of “Coyote” at Gordon Lightfoot’s house party. Add Dylan’s own commentary, befitting the mask-wearing, train-hopping legacy of the creative trickster. Attempting to define and summarize (both anathema in the Dylan dictionary), Bob says, “I don’t remember a thing about Rolling Thunder… It happened so long ago I wasn’t even born.”    

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Joining several recent titles that consider, among other things, gentrification and race in the San Francisco Bay Area, Joe Talbot’s feature directorial debut is left of the dial compared to the frequencies of “Blindspotting” and “Sorry to Bother You.” All three of these movies express complex emotional connections and relationships (“You can’t hate something if you didn’t love it first”) with the beautiful and infuriating dimensions of home and place in times of rapid change through economic upheaval, but “The Last Black Man in San Francisco” is quieter, dreamier, and sweeter — though no less passionate — than the earlier pair.

The movie is loosely based on experiences from the real life of Talbot’s longtime friend Jimmie Fails, who created the story with the director (they dreamed about realizing the idea as a film since they were kids). Fails’ character in the movie also happens to be named Jimmie Fails. And even though Talbot picked up the U.S. Dramatic Directing Award at Sundance, the film is unimaginable without the unique presence and perspective of Fails. Notably, a Special Jury Award for Creative Collaboration was also bestowed on the movie.

Undoubtedly, natives of the 415 will spot details and nuances invisible to outsiders, and several reviewers have made a point of noting asides, quirks, and references — like the naked man at the bus stop, the hazmat suits, Jello Biafra as a tour guide, and Rudolph Maté’s “D.O.A.” on the TV — that speak to the character of the Golden Gate City. But Talbot and Fails, along with co-writer Rob Richert, understand the importance of communicating a universal experience. In this capacity, “The Last Black Man in San Francisco” soars, stretching gull wings as a poetic lament articulating longing and loss recognizable and accessible to all.

The stately Fillmore District Victorian that was once inhabited by Jimmie’s family emerges as the movie’s MacGuffin, and soon comes to represent much more than a plot catalyst (San Francisco has seen its Black population shrink by more than 30 percent over the last two decades). Jimmie, who often crashes in the clutter of the modest dwelling belonging to best friend Mont’s Grandpa Allen (Danny Glover), longs to reclaim the beautiful mansion built by his grandfather. Mont, perfectly inhabited by Jonathan Majors, sketches and writes in an ever-present notebook. He may be the most important human in Jimmie’s life, but the house looms just as large.

Brilliant comic images see Jimmie lovingly care for the exterior of the residence. His touch-up painting, however, irks the current owners, who have most assuredly not given permission or blessing for the maintenance. Later, Jimmie and Mont will move in as squatters, but with the twist that long-stowed furnishings appoint the space with a nostalgia and majesty befitting the house’s significance to Jimmie’s personal history. Mont stages a remarkable theatrical production in the attic, and the while Talbot’s stylistic presentation differs from Wes Anderson’s frequent use of mise en abyme, “The Last Black Man in San Francisco” touches some of the same kinds of notes, bringing joy and wistfulness into close proximity.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Forty years ago this week, the release of “Alien” added a seminal text to the American movie library. Mixed reviews would, with time, give way to admiration from scholars and critics articulating what early adopters recognized from the first: Ridley Scott’s elegant, observant masterwork combines pinpoint design, allusive writing, and patient direction into a hall-of-fame nightmare. Exemplifying the ne plus ultra of the “old dark house” formula, “Alien” occupies a place at the high table of modern marriages of science fiction and horror. Like “Star Wars,” the original article has also spawned an ongoing industry of sequels and spinoffs with ancillary merchandise from comics to video games to T-shirts to toys.   

Filmmaker Alexandre O. Philippe, veteran chronicler of deep-dive cinematic phenomena, has prepared his most satisfying work yet with “Memory: The Origins of Alien” (simply “Memory” in the onscreen title at Sundance). From the study of fandom and ownership in “The People vs. George Lucas” to the consideration of the zombie in “Doc of the Dead,” Philippe interrogates intersections of movie culture and psychology with the enthusiasm and ardor of a cinephile. His previous documentary, “78/52,” a near-comprehensive breakdown of the shower scene in Alfred Hitchcock’s “Psycho,” anticipates “Memory” in terms of how the deconstruction of a single movie moment/element — in this case the ghastly demise of John Hurt’s Kane — enriches and excites.

Philippe devotes more time to the chestburster than to any other component of “Alien,” but the sheer volume of additional information dazzles in both breadth and depth. Plenty of new talking head interviews from cast members and scholars provide context, but Philippe judiciously selects key archival material to organize the film’s thesis into a creative triangle. Presented as equally valuable artists in the journey of “Alien,” Philippe studies the input of writer Dan O’Bannon, designer H. R. Giger, and director Scott. Several well-known chapters from “Alien” history are recounted, including literary inspirations like Lovecraft’s “At the Mountains of Madness” and Al Feldstein’s “Seeds of Jupiter!” from “Weird Science” #8.

More dots are connected between “Alien” and forerunners like Edward L. Cahn’s “It! The Terror from Beyond Space” and Mario Bava’s “Planet of the Vampires.” Philippe consistently presents all the collected clips, photographs, interviews, and other images with vivid clarity. “Memory” is his handsomest package to date. Even hardcore fans who have logged time with the more than 60 hours and 12,000 supplemental images contained in Fox’s “Alien Anthology” home video collection should be impressed with the filmmaker’s considered, thoughtful assemblage. At 95 minutes, “Memory” can’t cover every last aspect of “Alien,” but that is not Philippe’s intention.        

As evidenced by the entrepreneurial, DIY production of “Alien: The Play” at New Jersey’s North Bergen High School earlier this spring, “Alien” is a gift that keeps on giving, and “Memory” unwraps so many colorfully wrapped boxes of various shapes and sizes. Next month’s publication of J. W. Rinzler’s “The Making of Alien” promises a comprehensive account of the film’s production history, but Philippe calls on the Furies in the construction of his mythological sense of both the movie’s core creative trio and the themes of gender and sex destabilization exploring male rape, male impregnation/fertilization, and male birthing/delivery. The cycle of parasitic facehugger to full-grown biomechanical xenomorph perpetuates alongside our constantly refreshed interest in the doomed crew of the Nostromo and her last survivor.  

Movie review by Greg Carlson

“Booksmart,” Olivia Wilde’s great feature directorial debut, is — like several of the very best teen/teensploitation/coming-of-age comedies — about many things. But the one that resonates most is contained in the ancient maxim regarding the deceit in appearances. Both the filmmaking, which repurposes a healthy checklist of genre chestnuts in a consistently fresh package, and the journey of best friends and graduating high school seniors Molly (Beanie Feldstein) and Amy (Kaitlyn Dever), value the real work of upending expectations, casting aside stereotypes, and demolishing one’s uninformed positions of ignorance.

All of those outcomes spring from the simple yet hilarious premise in which Yale-bound Molly’s valedictory sense of superiority is deflated when she learns, on the last day of school, that several seemingly unworthy classmates are also headed for Yale, Stanford, Georgetown, and, in one case, a six-figure salary writing code for Google. Turns out Molly and Amy might have been able to squeeze in more fun and shenanigans. Their sense of outrage at having spent more time in the library than pursuing social events and romantic relationships leads to a spontaneous decision: they will go to a party or die trying.

“Booksmart” is not without a few hiccups and missteps. And it raises several interesting and unanswered questions. How come we get to meet Amy’s supportive folks but learn nothing about Molly’s domestic situation beyond the conspicuous establishing exteriors of the apartment building where she lives? That hint at economic imbalance may be nothing of consequence, but Skyler Gisondo’s obnoxious yet tender Jared spends ridiculous amounts of cash on a party to secure the affections of his classmates — until the script calls for an epiphany about money’s inability to secure happiness.

These minor quibbles, however, melt in the sunshine of Molly and Amy’s partnership. Wilde lavishes attention on the quirks of their closeness, familiarity, and camaraderie. The shorthand and friendspeak, illustrated by nerdy dances, frank and judgement-free discussion of embarrassing intimacies, and the endearing way in which the two perform a ritual in which escalating compliments are traded back and forth, become the heartbeat of the movie. When the inevitable moment of the temporary falling-out arrives, in the shape of a wrenching argument that might put a lump in your throat, “Booksmart” seals the deal as a break-up/make-up bullseye. The presence of the reconciliation trope is nearly a given, but it has rarely been so effectively realized.

By keeping a close directorial watch on the nuance of character, Wilde carves out the space to experiment visually (an animated interlude with Amy and Molly as Barbie-like dolls turns into a comic confrontation of the complexity of body and beauty myths). Much has already been made of the film’s status as a feminist addition to the historically male-dominated teen canon. But one of the things that defines this movie is the location of the universal in the specific. You don’t have to be a queer teenage activist to relate to Amy, but imagine what “Booksmart” might mean to those who have not seen themselves regularly represented on the mainstream screen.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Impossibly beautiful lead performers underline the YA fantasy aspects of Ry Russo-Young’s translation of “The Sun Is Also a Star,” based on Nicola Yoon’s bestseller. Russo-Young’s sharp handling of the 2017 adaptation of “Before I Fall” indicates her bona fides in the contemporary teen genre, but the filmmaker struggles to locate the intensity and urgency that fueled her previous feature, despite a plot with a built-in imperative. As star-crossed (potential) lovers cramming a whirlwind courtship into the fleeting hours remaining on a ticking clock, Yara Shahidi and Charles Melton don’t generate the necessary heat to make enough audience members — of any generation — swoon.

Throughout the film, and despite numerous attempts to convince us of their against-all-odds compatibility, Shahidi and Melton remain curiously closed off from one another. Both performers are blessed with the physical countenances of catwalk supermodels, but that elusive X-factor Melton’s character Daniel Bae insists is present never shows up for the eager viewer. Daniel, a poet at heart, is the son of South Korean immigrants who expect him to attend Dartmouth to study medicine. Shahidi’s Natasha Kingsley is a Jamaican-born high school student whose residency in New York City is about to end with the deportation of her whole family.

While her parents are resigned to their cruel fate, Natasha chooses to spend her last day in America pursuing last ditch legal efforts to postpone the departure. En route to a meeting with an immigration attorney, a distracted Natasha’s life is saved by Daniel. Daniel, who had been following Natasha since he spotted her satin “Deus Ex Machina” jacket in Grand Central Station, is instantly transformed from pursuer/stalker into guardian angel. He thinks he can convince Natasha to fall in love with him via the set of 36 questions referred to in Mandy Len Catron’s essay “To Fall in Love with Anyone, Do This.”

As a slice of daydream make-believe, we aren’t supposed to scrutinize the nuts and bolts of Natasha’s catastrophic predicament too closely, but it’s certainly a stretch to suspend disbelief enough to accept the series of cute interludes, from Daniel’s coffee shop love pitch to a sultry karaoke rendition of “Crimson and Clover” to a stargazing show at the Hayden Planetarium. Wouldn’t Natasha be more consumed by her overwhelming family crisis? Is she already packed? Strangely, the distractions become the principal spectacle, and “The Sun Is Also a Star” ignores the timely politics of the Trump administration’s draconian and xenophobic orientation to border security and the undocumented.     

The movie also misses the mark as an exemplar of the teen film simply because too many hallmarks of the genre are absent. Both “kids” are presented as high school students (Shahidi is currently 19, Melton is currently 28), but their maturity, poise, and independence are more typical of narratives featuring college-age or post-undergraduate characters. Despite entertaining directorial flourishes often accompanied by striking stock footage cutaways — from Carl Sagan to a history lesson on African American hair care products — Russo-Young can’t set her hooks into much beyond the postcard images of the Big Apple.