Movie review by Greg Carlson

Eliza Hittman’s Sundance favorite “Never Rarely Sometimes Always,” which played in theaters for just three days before Focus Features pulled the film amidst the widespread and unprecedented coronavirus-related closures, will be made available on demand beginning April 3. According to Anne Thompson, the movie will cost $19.99 to rent for a 48 hour period and will be carried on several platforms. As distributors and consumers navigate the unexpected changes brought about by stay-at-home measures, social distancing, and self-quarantine, the industry will adjust — at least for the time being — to the idea of premium video on demand rather than a traditional rollout in movie theaters.

“Never Rarely Sometimes Always,” which received a Sundance Special Jury Award for Neo-Realism before going on to claim the Silver Bear at the 70th Berlin International Film Festival, tells the story of a pregnant Pennsylvania teenager who travels with her cousin to New York City to get an abortion. Hittman’s third feature continues to demonstrate the talents, sensibilities, and cinematic evolution of a first-rate writer-director, following the closely-observed and emotionally-charged “It Felt Like Love” (2013) and “Beach Rats” (2017) — both of which premiered at Sundance.

A stunning debut performance by Sidney Flanigan, who anchors the movie as the pregnant Autumn, keeps with Hittman’s tradition of using young actors who convey achingly recognizable humanity. We spend the movie in close proximity to Autumn, whose determination in the face of seemingly insurmountable setbacks and challenges aligns with Hittman’s own surgical restraint and withheld judgements regarding her protagonist’s actions. For reasons that Hittman allows the audience to infer from the behavior of the people depicted in the expository scenes, self-reliance is the first, best, and only option as Autumn sees it. But she does take cousin Skylar (Talia Ryder) along on her journey, and the relationship of the two develops as one of the movie’s most rewarding components.

Despite, or perhaps because of, the devastating consequences anticipated by Autumn, “Never Rarely Sometimes Always” is as powerful a coming-of-age story as any in recent memory. Hittman is unfailingly good at expressing the uncertainties of the liminal passages facing the two young women. Autumn is naive not only to the speed and volume of NYC, but also to the labyrinth of abortion services, rules, and regulations. The cousins are also caught right on the very edge between childhood and adulthood, innocence and experience. Hittman effectively illustrates the latter via the introduction of Jasper (Theodore Pellerin), a pushy, pesky, and persistent admirer of Skylar. The unsettling mood that accompanies his presence underscores the extent to which both Skylar and Autumn are vulnerable.

Throughout the course of the film, Autumn meets with a series of adults, and these figures exist along the entire spectrum of pro- and anti-choice (one such scene, among the very best of the year, gives the movie its title). Hittman does not hide her own sympathies, and all of these counselors, caretakers, and practitioners act from deep personal investment and firmly-held moral and ethical orientations. In other words, all intend to do what they think is right, or best, for Autumn and others like her. Hittman’s depictions of these interactions, which were constructed from the director’s own deep research, remain wholly devoted to the personal experience of Autumn, whose face and voice reveal the deepest and most empathetic notes, again and again.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Veteran sound editor and USC professor Midge Costin educates and entertains as the director of “Making Waves: The Art of Cinematic Sound.” An engaging, entry-level crash course on the role of audio in motion picture storytelling, the film is a sibling to “Visions of Light,” “Side by Side,” and other behind-the-scenes documentaries that examine various aspects of the dream factory. Movies like “Making Waves” follow a common formula: talking head interviews with well-known filmmakers alternate with dazzling images from spectacular Hollywood successes. The addition of just enough explanation of technique and process, delivered in layperson-friendly terms with helpful graphics, rounds out the presentation.

“Making Waves” pays tribute to key historical flashpoints before vaulting into the era defined by the work of Walter Murch and Ben Burtt. After a quick segment bridging the silent era to the immediately popular phenomenon of synchronous dialogue, Costin acknowledges the pioneering, game-changing contributions of Murray Spivack, the legendary sound engineer and musician who effectively created an entire motion picture audioscape for the 1933 “King Kong.” Spivack’s innovations, which included recording a set of animal voices and manipulating their speeds to suggest creatures previously unheard, stood in contrast to the less expensive method that reused and recycled stock ricochets, punches, explosions, and other effects.

Along with Spivack, radio veteran Orson Welles is cited for the enormity of respect he held for crafting unique sonic signatures for each location in “Citizen Kane.” Due admiration is also given to sound-savvy filmmakers like Alfred Hitchcock, David Lean, and Stanley Kubrick. Costin shifts into higher gear with the section devoted to Murch, who may deserve the largest share of individual credit for treating sound as a critical artistic element in filmmaking. Murch’s philosophy is illustrated through some beautiful examples, and one of the most effective — Michael Corleone’s restaurant murder of Sollozzo and McCluskey in “The Godfather” — is an eye-opening lesson in Murch’s affinity for musique concrete and the role of sound in conveying meaning and emotion in film.

So many popular media documents that communicate the historical evolution of the Hollywood story overlook, diminish, or erase the contributions of women and people of color. “Making Waves” marks a refreshing corrective to that trend, and Costin shares a terrific section on the indefatigable Barbra Streisand and her commitment to next-generation sound on “A Star Is Born.” Costin also makes certain to place the observations of Pat Jackson, Ryan Coogler, Victoria Rose Sampson (who talks about working with her mom Kay Rose), Teresa Eckton, Karen Baker Landers, Jessica Gallavan, Bobbi Banks, Greg Hedgepath, Cece Hall, Ai-Ling Lee, Alyson Dee Moore, Anna Behlmer, and others alongside those offered by household names like George Lucas and Steven Spielberg. Lora Hirschberg’s thoughts on the layering of sound in the airport scene in “Nashville” are as inspiring as her later comments on dismantling gender barriers in the industry.

No matter how many times we have listened, awestruck, to the emergence of Burtt as the preternaturally gifted, galaxy-building sound wizard of “Star Wars,” it is still an expected stop on the journey. The most dedicated cinephiles might quibble with the distribution of wealth (more David Lynch and Alan Splet for me, please), but Costin parcels out each of her major segments with built-in arguments and a sense of mission. The chapter on Foley will take film students of a certain vintage back to Terry Burke’s 1979 “Track Stars,” and “Making Waves” often turns its ears to previously unheard nooks and crannies that will light a fire in the next generation of world-class film artists.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

In 2017, the always vital Guy Maddin and regular collaborators Evan and Galen Johnson were commissioned by the San Francisco Film Society to create some kind of city-themed motion picture homage/tribute in collage form for the 60th San Francisco International Film Festival. The movie that resulted, “The Green Fog,” has not been previously accessible to audiences outside of several big 2018 dates on the international film festival circuit. Finally, Maddin has remedied fan disgruntlement by making the superbly strange trip available to view free of charge on his Vimeo channel.

In an interview with Eric Kohn published at the time of the festival premiere in April of 2017, Maddin stated that he and the Johnsons initially approached their task by screening some 200 San Francisco-set movies and television shows at ramped-up speeds, mining the footage for key motifs. Sometime during that process, the spirit of Alfred Hitchcock’s “Vertigo” emerged as the central reference point around which “The Green Fog” would come to be organized. At just over an hour, the final product is a glorious and triumphant metanarrative to be cherished by Maddin’s fellow film-obsessives and lovers of the Master of Suspense’s 1958 gift that keeps on giving.

Shrewd and nimble editing by the Johnsons cuts carefully around and over choices that might otherwise have brought the wrath of copyright-holding corporations greedy for some kind of financial compensation. One of the movie’s most consistently delightful techniques slices away nearly all the spoken dialogue from Ernie’s-tipped dining room conversation scenes, but leaves the breaths, lip-smacks, sighs, hesitations, pauses and reactions. The effect is deliciously erotic. Maddin has always been an equal opportunity satyr, a pansexual provocateur whose libidinous fevers are as often homosexual as they are heterosexual. “The Green Fog” exhibits compelling evidence that the gaze can be cast in the direction of men in their very own state of to-be-looked-at-ness.

Thankfully, the conclusion of “The Green Fog” cuts together the title cards from the source material used by the moviemakers, allowing the curious to compile a future viewing list of the less familiar content. The roll call serves as a reminder of Maddin’s considerable gifts as an appreciator of the tragic and the comic (“The Green Fog” inspires awe, but it is also very, very funny). After all, we’ve seen glimpses of “Basic Instinct” and “An Eye for an Eye,” “Portrait in Black” and “Pacific Heights,” “McMillan and Wife” and, liberally and indispensably, so many astonishing clips from “The Streets of San Francisco.”

Several inspirations/precursors inform the categorization of “The Green Fog.” From Christian Marclay’s monumental experiment “The Clock,” to great city-themed postcards such as Thom Andersen’s “Los Angeles Plays Itself,” “The Green Fog” is another shining example of how easy it can be to disappear in the silver screen labyrinth. These mirrors and rhymes of familiar sights, looks, places, actions, and themes form the basis of how we experience narrative filmmaking.

In “Bring Me the Head of Tim Horton,” Maddin narrates, “The colors, sounds, and desires of the living can never be perfectly replicated by video or film. Close, but only approximated. And anything that approximates imperfectly, no matter how well, is a distortion, as good as a lie, and every bit as dangerous.” The sentiment could just as easily apply to “Vertigo” and “The Green Fog.” Who better than Maddin, who has spent a career exploring the conundrum of cinema’s battle between reality and artifice, to remix as splendidly and confidently as Marclay and Andersen and Gyorgy Palfi?

“The Green Fog” is a more pointed and precise variation of the cinephilia constructed by Palfi in the spectacular “Final Cut: Ladies and Gentlemen.” Where the 450 plus sources used in the Hungarian mashup build a much wider love story, Maddin’s “Vertigo”-based specificity motivates a reading of Hitchcock’s masterpiece that invites us to reconsider everything we thought we knew about rooftop chases, voyeurism, surveillance, sexual obsession, and the overlooked and ignored thoughts and feelings of Madeleine Elster and Judy Barton.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Documentary filmmaker Liz Garbus visited the Fargo Film Festival in 2002 — the second year of the event — to introduce a screening of her Emmy and Sundance Grand Jury Prize-winning, Oscar-nominated “The Farm: Angola, USA.” The supremely talented artist would go on to make many other nonfiction films of note before “Lost Girls,” her fiction debut, which premiered at the 2020 Sundance Film Festival before finding its current home on Netflix. Based on Robert Kolker’s book “Lost Girls: An Unsolved American Mystery,” the movie follows the painful odyssey of Mari Gilbert (Amy Ryan) as she doggedly pursues justice and closure in the case of her missing daughter Shannan, a likely victim of the so-called Long Island serial killer, who operated from 1996 to 2010.

Plenty of liberties are taken in the screenplay by Michael Werwie, whose script for last year’s “Extremely Wicked, Shockingly Evil and Vile” represents another instance of collaboration with a social justice documentarian — Joe Berlinger in that example — who interprets the events described in a true-crime book. Of the two projects, “Lost Girls” is significantly more successful. Garbus emphasizes the female relationships in a loose network of victims’ family members over the more sensational tropes of the serial killer narrative. The result is a story that espouses a point of view focused as sharply on the experiences of women as Gilbert herself was focused on attaining answers from an unhelpful police department.

“Lost Girls” avoids some of the less effective cliches of the genre, but stumbles over others. Kevin Corrigan’s axe-grinding conspiracy theorist, for example, needed another short scene or two in order to fully make sense. The weary police commissioner, played sympathetically by Gabriel Byrne, offers little more than frustrating impotence and borderline ineptitude. In contrast and by design, the female characters own the narrative. Orbiting around Ryan’s indefatigable crusader are Thomasin McKenzie and Oona Laurence as daughters Sherre and Sarra. Lola Kirke makes a real impression as Kim, a sex worker whose proximity to the murders and similarity to Shannan initially put Mari on edge.

One of the most important messages Garbus communicates in “Lost Girls” is the idea that the victims are human beings deserving of a degree of dignity that is otherwise absent when media narratives and police frame them as “only” or “just” prostitutes. Unfortunately, Werwie’s script is never subtle enough to give the same treatment to the overarching systems and structures that fail women who are marginalized just for existing on the fringes and edges of society.

In contrast to the success Garbus enjoys in her collaboration with Ryan, whose edge remains sharp from beginning to end, the lack of resolution inherent in the source material sets up an insurmountable task: the solution to the central crime and mystery that puts this particular story in motion. Kolker’s book looks at the lives of five of the serial killer’s victims and considers the implications of Craigslist and online personal ad spaces used to sell sex; the movie selects one victim and opts to ignore any probing consideration of web-based sex work. Had “Lost Girls” scrutinized the latter, the film may have been able to stack up alongside the director’s more accomplished documentaries.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Photographer and music video veteran Autumn de Wilde makes a bold statement with her feature directorial debut, punctuating the title of the oft-adapted Jane Austen favorite with an emphatic period as if to suggest she gets the last word with this particular edition of “Emma.” Sumptuously designed, elegantly appointed, and spectacularly costumed and coiffed, de Wilde’s fresh rendition has a piquant flavor complemented as much by self-aware sexiness as the abundant pastel hues on display. Anya Taylor-Joy joins the ranks of confident Emma interpreters, handily managing and navigating the character’s meddlesome insensitivity along with her expressive capacity to learn from ugly mistakes.

De Wilde’s tone might not please every Austen purist, as the filmmaker opts more often than not for a kind of comedically arch and ironic detachment from what some critics have identified as Austen’s serious subtext: the high stakes of negotiating the most advantageous marital match in a sphere both limited and limiting for young women disadvantaged by patriarchal norms. The economic prospects of key female characters are most certainly not ignored by the director, however, who deploys Harriet Smith (Mia Goth, doing her best work to date) and Miss Bates (Miranda Hart, stealing every scene in which she appears) as important reminders of and contrasts to Emma’s own privilege.

As Emma’s longtime friend and eventual husband, Johnny Flynn makes a charming George Knightley. The novel’s sixteen-plus year gap between the pair isn’t too far off from the thirteen-year difference between Taylor-Joy and Flynn’s birthdays, but the common May-December convention and its typical Hollywood disparity isn’t terribly obvious either. De Wilde also capitalizes on Flynn’s physical beauty, working in a backside nude scene that would most certainly have scandalized Austen and her original readership. “Emma” is a movie of lusty gazes aimed in all directions, and de Wilde incorporates several scenes in which characters are elaborately dressed and undressed.

Emma and George remain fully clothed for the movie’s hottest interaction: a formal dance in which the opportunity to look and touch is briefly sanctioned. The scene is expertly handled by de Wilde. She manages to communicate the lightning-quick moment of discovery and surprise shared simultaneously by George and Emma as they realize they are into each other. The audience is equally caught up in the confusion and excitement, made all the more delightful by Knightley’s kindness and decency toward a harried Harriet. That gentlemanly behavior will come back to (briefly) bite Emma for her shabby and misguided treatment of her best girlfriend, but de Wilde, working from a script by novelist Eleanor Catton, smartly endeavors to update and excise Mr. Knightley’s tendencies to mansplain.

De Wilde’s penchant for Easter-egg color combinations calls to mind some of the opulence on display in Sofia Coppola’s “Marie Antoinette,” but “Emma” holds in check the boldest acts of blissful anachronism flaunted by Coppola. Both movies, at heart, are unafraid to embrace a rock and roll sensibility that acknowledges and powers a distinctly female point of view. Austen’s heroine, who arrived in December of 1815, was as flawed and complex then as she would continue to be interpreted across the centuries. Her fallibility, narrowness, and humanness coexist in equal measure with our fantasies of “handsome, clever, and rich” to make Emma so timelessly compelling.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

“Goodnight Mommy” filmmakers Veronika Franz and Severin Fiala continue to carve up chills, thrills, and nightmares in “The Lodge,” a Sundance 2019 favorite finally receiving the theatrical release it rightfully deserves. With an unrelentingly oppressive atmosphere in the claustrophobically framed location of the title, “The Lodge” is perfect slow-burn arthouse horror that never cheats and always rewards the patience and intelligence of the viewer. Accordingly, jump scares are mostly banished in favor of a psychological head trip that hides the dread in plain sight and lingers long after the lights come up. The less one knows about the film the better, and woe to the many reviewers who have already revealed too much.

Like Ari Aster’s “Hereditary” and “Midsommar,” “The Lodge” explores familiar experiences of trauma through the lens of horror. In this case, the particular facet of grief is a painful divorce that unravels the children of Richard (Richard Armitage), a journalist who has, perhaps inadvisably, fallen in love with his subject Grace (Riley Keough), the sole survivor of a fanatic doomsday cult’s mass suicide. With that bloody red flag firmly planted, Richard’s kids Aiden (Jaeden Lieberher) and Mia (Lia McHugh) understandably want absolutely nothing to do with the strange intruder threatening to replace their mom Laura (Alicia Silverstone, making every moment count).

In a set-up worthy of Shirley Jackson or Rod Serling, a planned Christmas holiday at a remote cabin trades comfort for panic when Richard leaves Grace alone with the children for a few days. With all the necessary two-way animosities well-established, it is only a matter of time before the past comes calling on the present. The carefully constructed back-and-forth fuels the core of “The Lodge,” and Franz and Fiala improve on the themes they established in “Goodnight Mommy” by manipulating audience sympathies between the children and their stepmother-to-be, who take turns as antagonist and protagonist in seesaw balance.

The straightforward brilliance of the movie’s premise allows two equally plausible explanations for the unsettling occurrences unfolding before our eyes. The scenarios compete for logical primacy in the viewer’s mind. Grace’s sinister past, rendered via indications that she must work very hard to function with a degree of self-control and a sense of safety, provide her with a motivation equivalent to the expression of anger and frustration expressed by Aiden and Mia. All the performances are true, but Keough is especially riveting.

Franz and Fiala beautifully capture the film’s locations. Interiors are a set of rooms so deceptively simple that the prowling camera is all it takes for us to begin projecting our own visions on the chilly spaces. Winter’s icy presence can be felt outside as well as inside, and in both realms the compositions arrestingly juxtapose the long shot with the close-up, disorienting us in parallel to the mounting anxiety. “The Lodge” has already drawn comparisons to “The Shining,” which does share a preoccupation with eroding mental health via the metaphor of isolation and cabin fever. But Franz and Fiala scale down Kubrick’s more expansive vision, and the result offers its own kind of skin-crawling satisfaction.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Stella Meghie writes and directs “The Photograph,” a romantic drama that weaves together the cross-generational journeys of a mother and daughter finding themselves with and without the love that might otherwise nurture and sustain them. Starring Issa Rae and LaKeith Stanfield, Meghie’s earnest valentine demonstrates enough restraint to transcend the soapiest coincidences of the story, which is occasionally burdened by a comfortable pace that allows viewers time to get ahead of the action. Fortunately, the appealing leads spark with genuine onscreen chemistry, and Meghie capitalizes on a terrific supporting cast to vividly render past and present in complementary balance.

Rae’s Mae Morton receives a pair of sealed envelopes following the death of her photographer mother Christina Eames (Chante Adams), who left Louisiana for New York City as a young woman in search of something bigger and more satisfying than rural stasis and her own mother’s implied disapproval. While one letter is addressed to Mae, the other is for Christina’s long-ago love Isaac (Y’lan Noel then, Rob Morgan now). Writer Michael Block (Stanfield) crosses paths with Isaac while working on a story and we know it won’t be long before he and Mae will forge their own connection. Meghie spends more time in the present than in flashback, but both timelines include detailed depictions of emotional weight as the various characters make decisions and mistakes that impact others whether they are aware of it or not.

Despite the presence of a big thunderstorm that descends on Mae and Michael with symbolic portent, Meghie keeps a lid on any overtly demonstrative outbursts from her ensemble. She elects instead to trust the viewer’s intuitions to suss out what is going on behind all those pairs of searching eyes, and the tactic is a double-edged sword: more melodrama could tip the scales into silliness, but the existing quietude mutes the possibilities to the point of occasional inertia. “The Photograph” is a series of conversations that surely could have used more visceral visual storytelling in pure cinematic terms.

Meghie is no stranger to farfetched screen passion. Her 2017 adaptation of Nicola Yoon’s YA novel “Everything, Everything” — with a “girl in a bubble” premise that amped up the anticipation of skin-to-skin contact between Amandla Stenberg and Nick Robinson — allowed hearts to swoon even if heads were shaking in disbelief. The commitment to all-consuming, exhilarating intimacy is one of Meghie’s real strengths. Mae’s gorgeous yellow dress might even remind some viewers of the striking canary-colored bathing suit Stenberg’s Maddy wore on her own fantasy getaway.

As Mae’s mother, Chante Adams must figure out a character whose actions sometimes defy logic. The unresolved tensions between Christina and Mae might have formed the basis for another movie. We are told that Christina chose herself over others, including Mae, to build the kind of big city life and career she could only imagine as a young woman in Louisiana. But Meghie withholds scenes between Christina and Mae as an adult. And all the interactions we do see indicate that Christina was not at all selfish at the expense of her child. As a result, Christina wears a shroud of mystery made even more opaque by the photographs selected for her retrospective — curated, naturally, by Mae.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Even before the release of David Ayer’s dreadful “Suicide Squad” in 2016, Warner Bros. announced a forthcoming feature in the DC Extended Universe for breakout character Harley Quinn. Producer and star Margot Robbie buckled down, developing a project in competition against other potential Quinn movies being considered at the studio. Director Cathy Yan’s “Birds of Prey and the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn” showcases the two-time Oscar nominee in a colorful and appealing big screen extension of the popular psychologist-turned-criminal, but the movie lacks the emotional depth and narrative coherence associated with rival MCU titles.

Christina Hodson’s screenplay uses a sizable chunk of its opening act to uncouple Harley from her one-time partner and lover, the larger-than-life Mistah J, a.k.a Puddin’, a.k.a the Joker. So long and imposing is the shadow of the Clown Prince of Crime, this weekend’s Oscar telecast will very likely see some curious history made when and if Joaquin Phoenix collects a statuette for his work in Todd Phillips’ “Joker.” The feat would mark a second performance Academy Award bestowed upon an actor for playing the legendary supervillain and Batman archenemy. That would be wild.

But lest we forget, Harley’s mad love for her one-time patient is fraught with the complications of abuse. “Birds of Prey” references the masochistic dimensions of Quinn without ever fully accounting for her trauma. Yan shoots a parade of kinetically-staged action set-pieces with all the poses, punches, and pay-offs audiences expect from the genre. “Black Betty” and “Barracuda” fight scene soundtrack cues aren’t particularly fresh, but the speed changes highlight each bone-crunching heel kick with panache, and Robbie’s gleeful interpretation — now accompanied by less objectification and overt ogling — resides at the center of a story uniting five women in common cause against shitty fanboys.

The movie’s R-rating and comic tilt have already drawn numerous comparisons to “Deadpool.” “Birds of Prey” certainly breaks the fourth wall and winks at several comic book cliches, but the film’s raison d’etre — unfortunately tied to the overly familiar trope of saddling a jaded cynic with a plucky youngster who teaches the teacher a thing or two — parts company with the Ryan Reynolds formula by zeroing in on Harley’s embrace of sisterhood and female collaboration in a violent and misogynist Gotham City. If the title alludes to yet another origin story, Quinn also experiences her very own awakening.

The giddy mayhem might be enough to satisfy a certain segment of the public, but “Birds of Prey” relies too much on short-burst episodic structure that revolves around a stolen diamond sought by Ewan McGregor’s pastel-jacketed crime lord. McGregor, like Robbie, plays big and never takes anything too seriously, but the various spaces occupied by supporting players including Mary Elizabeth Winstead’s revenge-seeking Huntress, Jurnee Smollett-Bell’s hypersonic screamer Black Canary, and Rosie Perez’s GCPD detective Renee Montoya, never overlap in a way that transcends the routine. As proof of concept for Harley Quinn’s ability to control center stage, “Birds of Prey” works. But expectations will be much higher when James Gunn unveils “The Suicide Squad” in 2021.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

The telling one-two punch of a January release date dump and a rocky production history spells serious trouble for Floria Sigismondi’s “The Turning,” a supernatural horror based on Henry James’ timeless “The Turn of the Screw.” A one-time “passion project” championed by no less a light than Steven Spielberg, the original incarnation of the film was developed for Spanish director Juan Carlos Fresnadillo before a Scott Z. Burns script rewrite failed to convince Amblin Entertainment to move ahead. Now, we can only imagine what Alfre Woodard and Rose Leslie might have brought to the table. Instead, veteran commercial and music video director Sigismondi limps through a murky ghost story that is dead on arrival.

Sigismondi probably deserves less blame than screenwriting twins Carey W. and Chad Hayes, who rather inexplicably update the novella’s original 1898 period to the weeks following the suicide of Kurt Cobain. The choice to set the events of the film in 1994 has little to no bearing on any aspect of the story, but the soundtrack conveys a grunge-era sensibility without using any Nirvana. The basic contours of James’ popular tale remain: a governess in charge of two children at a stately country house begins to see apparitions of a man and woman who may or may not be previous employees of the estate. Macabre menace ensues.

Mackenzie Davis, who was given so much more to work with in Sophia Takal’s “Always Shine,” does what she can with an empty and underwritten role. She can offer only the slightest inkling why her Kate Mandell would choose to leave a beloved teaching gig for a live-in position working with a single pupil (Brooklynn Prince, who will make you long for “The Florida Project”). Beyond Kate’s steely resolve and stubborn refusal to give up even when common sense would send any reasonable person packing, there is very little to hold the viewer’s interest. Two hallmarks of “The Turn of the Screw” — the question of the protagonist’s own sanity and a strange air of sexual repression — are both so thoroughly mishandled by the filmmakers that Davis drowns in the murky waters.

Finn Wolfhard plays the teenage Miles as a moody and manipulative creep. Even before we meet him in person, Kate recoils at his nasty handiwork: a multitude of pins piercing the breasts of a dressmaker’s dummy. Once expelled from boarding school, Miles follows a common set of forbidden and/or inappropriate relationship tropes, alternating between traumatized kid and knowing predator who tests the limits of his minder’s tolerance. Sigismondi seems uncertain how to resolve the question of Miles’ harassment of Kate, and the entire subplot evaporates when other more pressing bump-in-the-night set pieces take priority in the final act.

Like the oft-filmed “Little Women,” there is no shortage of continuing interest in “The Turn of the Screw.” While Jack Clayton’s 1961 “The Innocents” continues to hold the title of most cinematically satisfying adaptation, Alejandro Amenabar’s 2001 thematic sibling “The Others” — while an original work — is indebted to James. At least a half-dozen other theatrical features and more than a half-dozen television versions have been made. The upcoming second season of Netflix’s “The Haunting of Hill House” will be called “The Haunting of Bly Manor,” and director Mike Flanagan is loosely basing that series on “The Turn of the Screw.” Chances are good it will be superior to “The Turning.”