Movie review by Greg Carlson

Filmmaker Melanie Oates follows 2019 feature debut “Body and Bones” with another thoughtful and well-observed drama in which the challenges and limitations of the small town put pressure on a young woman yearning for something greater than provincial dead-ends. In “Sweet Angel Baby,” which premiered last year in the Toronto Film Festival’s Centerpiece program, Eliza (Michaela Kurimsky) hides two significant secrets from the close-knit community members she sees every day at the diner where she works and the church where she worships. One is her artistic outlet: a social media account to which Eliza posts artful, erotic, and anonymous self-portraits posed frequently in outdoor spaces. The second is her queerness: Eliza is privately entangled with co-worker Toni (Elle-Máijá Tailfeathers), an outsider tolerated but not wholly welcomed by the townsfolk.

Oates has in Kurimsky a superior collaborator. The director-actor dynamic might remind some viewers of the almost telepathic relationship shared by Kelly Reichardt and Michelle Williams (whose blend of emotional vulnerability and flinty self-possession Kurimsky often evokes), even if “Sweet Angel Baby” isn’t as sophisticated as any of the four movies Reichardt has made with her favorite performer. A cursory glance at the “Sweet Angel Baby” trailer points in the direction of the central conflict: the fallout once family, friends and neighbors discover one or both of Eliza’s private activities. The contemporary take on “The Scarlet Letter” could be the movie’s strongest asset and weakest link, as Oates aims to thread a needle in which her protagonist reckons with negative narrow-mindedness on the path to self-acceptance.

Oates makes a very good choice by writing Eliza as a “woman who takes matters into her own hands” (a description/compliment voiced by one of the residents). Eliza has carved out a position of respect in this coastal Newfoundland fishing hamlet; it comes as no surprise that she is the one to organize and lead the effort to raise the money it will take to save the chapel. But it is Eliza’s double, or perhaps triple, life that keeps us invested. Along the way, Kurimsky manages to convince us that Eliza’s ill-advised reciprocation of romantic overtures made by the married-with-children Shawn (Peter Mooney) can be attributed to frustration and curiosity, even if viewers scream for her to run as fast as possible in the opposite direction.

Sometimes, “Sweet Angel Baby” can feel too simple and too obvious, especially in the post-exposure wrath of certain antagonistic villagers at the ready with metaphorical pitchforks. A number of critics have also made compelling arguments that Toni deserved more attention and deeper exploration of her mostly unexamined interiority. Why does she put up with the ostracism and collective cold-shoulder given to her by the rude and homophobic customers? Fortunately, Tailfeathers and Kurimsky have the chops and the chemistry to overcome the melodramatic predictability of several quarrels.

Oates depicts Eliza’s ongoing self-portrait project as an outlet, working hard to imply all the ways that it might represent enough personal liberation to counter the stifling attitudes holding her back from revealing her most authentic outwardly-presented self. Through the variety of fantasies Eliza conjures, the filmmaker hints fleetingly at a kinkier world than Eliza’s mundane realities can offer. Assuredly, the viewer is meant to champion and cheer for the protagonist’s hard-fought triumphs in much the same way that Hawthorne convincingly argued on behalf of Hester Prynne’s inherent goodness.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

As a follow-up to “The Whale,” a raucous adaptation of the first novel in Charlie Huston’s Henry Thompson series was a good choice for eclectic auteur Darren Aronofksy, whose bold visions have attracted a devoted following. Since the mentaculus mania and stark monochrome of “Pi” announced the arrival of an ambitious artistic voice in 1998, Aronofsky has frequently interwoven themes of mysticism and questions of meaning and existence into the lives of obsessive, self-destructive protagonists. Comfortable directing A-list stars at the peak of the Hollywood Olympus, Aronofsky has been equally effective resurrecting stalled careers and lighting fuses for up-and-coming talent.

As the kind of comic crime thriller launched into the stratosphere by Quentin Tarantino’s “Reservoir Dogs” and “Pulp Fiction,” not to mention the work of the Coen brothers, “Caught Stealing” uses a playbook very familiar to Guy Ritchie, David Leitch and others to walk the tightrope suspended between gritty movie-toughness and arch, exaggerated character types always ready for action. Huston, who adapted his own 2004 book of the same name for Aronofsky, makes several key alterations that generally enhance and improve the story as a cinematic experience. The filmmaker has often incorporated grim, dark humor into his worlds, but “Caught Stealing” is surely his most intentionally funny movie to date.

Austin Butler’s Henry, a once promising baseball player whose drinking and driving resulted in the death of a fellow athlete, now tends bar on the Lower East Side. With his ever-present San Francisco giants cap and regular telephone contact with his devoted mother (an uncredited Laura Dern), the affable alcoholic radiates enough charm and devastating good looks for us to understand why paramedic Yvonne (Zoë Kravitz) is willing to put in the time and effort to develop a relationship. Any minor contretemps over Henry’s boozing takes a backseat to the physical release of their erotic spark, which Aronofksy details in a sexy interlude prior to fireworks of a more violent nature.

Apartment neighbor Russ, a classic British punk played with panache by Matt Smith, sets the plot wheels in motion when he asks Henry to watch his cat while on a visit to London to see his ailing father. Smith’s mohawk-adorned hooligan heralds the parade of colorful goons, toughs, and thugs that will soon join a search for the movie’s MacGuffin: a small storage-unit key that might unlock access to a massive amount of cash. In short order, Henry runs afoul of Russian gangsters, a corrupt cop, and ultra-Orthodox Jewish siblings whose grandmother expects some attention and respect at the dinner table. “Caught Stealing” features one of the most absurdly comic Shabbos observations since Walter Sobchak refused to roll in “The Big Lebowski.”

The casting of a beautifully unrecognizable Griffin Dunne as Henry’s boss Paul is Aronofsky’s most blatant nod to Martin Scorsese’s brilliant nocturnal odyssey “After Hours,” but other aspects of Henry’s borderline surreal adventure draw plenty of inspiration from the 1985 cult classic. Butler holds the screen like he was born to do it, finding chemistry with the entire supporting cast (and especially Kravitz, who should have been in more of the movie). In many respects, it is nice to see Aronofsky working with material that isn’t as serious – or self-serious – as we have come to expect. That he manages to escalate tension and keep us on alert for flashes of brutal violence amidst the laughs suggests good things to come.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Now available on HBO after a theatrical debut earlier this year at Tribeca in the Spotlight Documentary section, “Dear Ms.: A Revolution in Print” considers the groundbreaking impact of the famous feminist magazine through the lenses of three talented moviemakers. Each of the episodes dives into a different topic with as much sophistication and contemplation as might be possible in an anthology feature, although one could easily imagine three complete movies, given the vast amount of material and the ongoing cultural conversations addressing race, intersectionality, misogyny, allyship, pornography, and sexual identity.

Salima Koroma’s first chapter, titled “A Magazine for Women,” establishes the use of simple, eye-catching animation with a vintage-inspired design. Used throughout the duration of the film, these artistic graphics supplement the wealth of archival clips and the newly acquired interviews with many of the participants at the forefront of the periodical’s genesis and expansion. Koroma places into context the idea that a publication by and for women that existed outside the limitations of “traditional,” patriarchy-aligned content (that had focused on homemaking, cooking, cleaning, and parenting) was nothing short of radical. “Ms.” co-founder Gloria Steinem (91 years old at the time of this writing) and other key editors, contributors, activists and voices, including Letty Cottin Pogrebin, Patricia Carbine, Suzanne Braun Levine, and Marcia Ann Gillespie, share illuminating stories.

Former “Ms.” staff writer Lindsy Van Gelder kicks off the second part of the documentary by cheekily suggesting that we talk about the “famous feminist topic” of men. Director Alice Gu’s “A Portable Friend” follows with a montage of sitcom and talk show clips from the likes of “The Mary Tyler Moore Show,” “Saturday Night Live,” “Good Times,” “The Jeffersons,” “The Brady Bunch,” “Taxi,” and “All in the Family” to illustrate assumptions about female subservience in the workplace and the marriage. Throughout the film, landmark issues of “Ms.” merit close consideration, and Gu zooms in on several, including covers on domestic violence, workplace harassment, and the 1975 “men’s issue.” Alan Alda, whose support of gender equality and egalitarianism would turn him into a punching bag/target for conservatives, sits down with Gu for a very good interview.

The third and final segment, directed by Cecilia Aldarondo, is named “No Comment” after the long-running “Ms.” feature made up of frequently reader-submitted examples of horrendously offensive and sexist advertisements from major companies and corporations. The heart of Aldarondo’s exploration, and for my money the most engrossing of the entire feature, is a balanced look at the variety of conundra tangling up sexual exploitation and objectification of women in both the mainstream and adult content industries versus the right of women to choose how they wish to demonstrate and engage in erotic and sexual expression. This philosophical battlefield is but one of the places where sharp disagreements create division within the larger movement.

The death of “Ms.” co-founder Dorothy Pitman Hughes in 2022 unfortunately robs the viewer of her voice in the newly recorded interviews that were collected especially for the documentary. A few critics have taken the filmmakers to task for not expanding the number of comments provided by women of color, but Koroma’s insightful and candid critique of “Ms.” in terms of the magazine’s handling and mishandling of race is certainly a worthwhile start. Right next to its central social, cultural and political themes, “Dear Ms.” is also essential viewing for anyone interested in the history of journalism. The carefully curated cover images, from the now iconic elevation of Wonder Woman as a symbol of power, confidence and self-reliance to Miriam Wosk’s unforgettable illustration of a tearful, pregnant Kali hoisting eight arms encumbered by household obligations, always announced that “Ms.” valued style and substance.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

“Misericordia” premiered at Cannes in 2024 and is now available to see in the United States on the Criterion Channel and other streaming services. In the sharp and thought-provoking thriller from “Stranger by the Lake” writer/director Alain Guiraudie, the viewer is introduced to Jérémie (Félix Kysyl), a mysterious and inscrutable prodigal who returns to his hometown village of Saint-Martial to mourn the death of his mentor. Guiraudie, with more than a dash of Hitchcockian precision, establishes a magnetic bond between Jérémie and the small group of characters in his orbit. Following an inexplicable disappearance, Jérémie is suspected of any number of possibly catastrophic actions. We will ponder and wonder and try to figure him out along with the film’s supporting characters.

Jérémie’s deceased master, the baker Jean-Pierre Rigal (Serge Richard), is survived by wife Martine (Catherine Frot), who appears to cherish the one-time employee as much as her own son, the wary Vincent (Jean-Baptiste Durand). Guiraudie sends a steady electric and erotic current through multiple relationships, suggesting sexual dynamics between Jérémie and each of the three Rigal family members. Additionally, Jérémie expresses an interest in friendly neighbor Walter (David Ayala). And if that is not enough, the country priest, Abbé Grisolles (Jacques Develay), makes his own lust for Jérémie as plain as the erection that will later provide a plausible alibi.

Guiraudie curates a rewarding cinematic experience that might be described as deceptively simple. The concrete sequence of events that unfolds throughout the course of the narrative is completely clear and straightforward. The psychological motivations of Jérémie and others, however, leave our heads spinning and our sense of curiosity reeling. “Misericordia” luxuriates in the amount of breathing room it affords the patient reader/viewer, committing to the show-don’t-tell rule of pure cinema in scene after scene. The filmmaker delights in withholding just enough information; we never come to know exactly why the characters do what they do, but we sure want to keep trying to figure it all out as the scenes unfold.

As the legendary Master of Suspense, Hitchcock routinely operated within the framework of the privileged viewer, in which audience members have access to information unknown to one or more characters. Guiraudie puts his own wicked spin on the “bomb theory,” as  Jérémie’s friends, acquaintances and local law enforcement suspect all kinds of obvious truths without necessarily gaining access to the kind of irrefutable evidence that leaves no doubt. And when some of the most terrible suspicions are confirmed, Guiraudie has a blast defying our expectations by doubling down on the mercies implied by the movie’s title.

Guiraudie flexes a wicked sense of irreverent humor throughout Jérémie’s slow-simmering misadventures. How the veteran director manages to wring wry laughs out of such a morbid set of cover-ups following a brutal death is one of the film’s gifts, especially because Guiraudie pulls it off without exhibiting any disrespect to social and religious institutions. Instead, “Misericordia” reverentially respects human desire – both the sexual and the platonic – as its own kind of spiritual summit on par with the worshipful piety of disciples taking a posture of prayer.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

There are so many memorable moments in the short life of musician Jeff Buckley that filmmaker Amy J. Berg could easily have gotten lost in an endless highlight reel. The veteran documentarian, whose feature debut “Deliver Us From Evil” (2006) received an Oscar nomination, focuses instead on the core relationships in her fascinating subject’s orbit, constructing a detailed portrait that will satisfy longtime fans and make believers out of the previously uninitiated. In “It’s Never Over, Jeff Buckley” (the title a reference to “Lover, You Should’ve Come Over,” one of several masterworks from Buckley’s first and only studio album) Berg recognizes and honors the artist’s communion with the feminine by placing a trio of women at the heart of the film.

Berg reports that she pursued Buckley’s mother Mary Guibert for close to twenty years. And I trust Guibert knows that she made the right decision to finally accept Berg into her life and agree to sit for on-camera interviews and open up her personal archive, for the result is as moving and personal as any narrative, in fiction or lived reality, concerning the iron bond between a single mom and her child. Guibert, a first-generation immigrant, met Tim Buckley in a high school French class not far from the gates of Disneyland in Anaheim, California. And even though Guibert speaks fondly of the unique and electric connection she felt with the pre-fame singer-songwriter, she refuses to sugarcoat the pain that radiated from Tim’s decision to have no part in raising Jeff.

Even so, the shadow of Tim Buckley, who died of a heroin overdose at the age of 28, looms large throughout the young life of his gifted son. Their paths would cross for just the briefest flicker of time in 1975 when Jeff was 8 years old. Berg handles the younger Buckley’s confusion and yearning, along with Mary’s trepidation and skepticism, with a potent shot of the matchbook cover on which Tim wrote down his phone number for his estranged kid only a couple weeks before he would be dead. Later, as Jeff put in the work to sharpen his own prodigious talent, the desire to avoid direct comparisons to Tim comes to a head before Jeff’s decision to accept producer Hal Willner’s invitation to perform at the “Greetings From Tim Buckley” tribute show in 1991.

Along with Guibert, artists Rebecca Moore and Joan Wasser offer exacting insights. Berg limits the total number of interview subjects to a carefully-chosen handful, including Michael Tighe, Ben Harper, Aimee Mann, and Matt Johnson, but the director capitalizes on the many ways that the close partnerships Buckley enjoyed with Moore and Wasser influenced his music. Of course, Guibert undoubtedly helped cultivate Jeff’s ear by exposing him to all kinds of incredible recordings. We get a crystal understanding of exactly how Buckley would aspire to be like Nina Simone and Judy Garland as much as Robert Plant (and unless you are made of stone, have tissues ready when Wasser recounts a meeting between Jeff and Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan).

Berg also spends just the right amount of time unpacking the transcendence of Buckley’s most-played recording: the phenomenal cover of “Hallelujah” that would mark Leonard Cohen’s original with the same kind of indelible stamp made by Sinead O’Connor’s version of “Nothing Compares 2 U,” Johnny Cash’s take on “Hurt,” and Jimi Hendrix’s rendition of “All Along the Watchtower.” From beginning to end, Berg reveals herself as a genuine admirer and scholar, evidenced in part by the fulfilling title, which in most other iterations of the multiverse would have used some variation of “Grace.” On my way in to see the film, my friend Nicole commented, “We know how it ends.” But like thousands of others, we will never stop listening.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Shortly following its world premiere in January, first-time feature filmmaker Kate Beecroft’s “East of Wall” won the NEXT section’s audience award at the 2025 Sundance Film Festival. A persuasive blend of nonfiction and fiction elements, the movie’s stunning South Dakota setting serves as an additional character in the ensemble. Populated by a number of newcomers and nonactors who in many cases inhabit versions of their real-life selves, Beecroft places two talented professionals – Jennifer Ehle and Scoot McNairy – in vital roles, seamlessly integrating the veterans with the core group led by Tabatha Zimiga and her daughter Porshia Zimiga.

Beecroft has recounted the practicalities of how she constructed “East of Wall” over a period of several years. Sundance/indie film aficionados will instantly draw comparisons to Chloe Zhao’s Pine Ridge-set features “Songs My Brothers Taught Me” and “The Rider.” Along with the South Dakota location and the rural milieus focused on horseback riding and intense relationships between caretakers and animals (both “The Rider” and “East of Wall” include stunning scenes in which protagonists calm and commune with horses), both Zhao and Beecroft sculpt magic from “embedded” relationships with performers asked to place a great deal of trust in their respective storytellers.

The elder Zimiga portrays a gloriously complex mother, daughter, partner, and friend. Tabatha’s distinctive look includes a hairstyle of long blonde locks on one side and a close shave on the other – referenced within the story as both a fierce symbol of equine identification and her gifts as a rider and trainer. The haircut can even be earned by the rough-edged teenagers who live under her care on the 3000 acres previously overseen by her late husband, who took his own life. Those kids, who practice enough trick riding and horsemanship to help Tabatha sell at local shows and on TikTok, may not always make good choices but they certainly recognize the matriarchal power of Tabatha’s eye-of-the-hurricane presence.

McNairy’s wealthy Roy Waters could easily have been reduced to a single-minded villain, but Beecroft invests in a subtler and more satisfying way of engineering narrative conflict by filling out the character with critical details that explain his personal interest in working so closely with Porshia. Waters openly admits that he stands to benefit from the financial terms of the deal he puts in front of Tabatha. Her wariness is shared by us. But making ends meet is only one of many burdens faced by Tabatha, whose strained relationship with Porshia mirrors her own difficult bond with mother Tracey (Ehle), who carries herself with enough self-awareness to acknowledge the extent to which she messed things up with Tabatha.

The three generations of women at the heart of “East of Wall” point in the direction of feminine solidarity that Beecroft so clearly values. In one emotionally raw interlude, a group of women disclose painful memories to one another while drinking around a campfire (Tabatha’s real-life mother is among that number). Beecroft handles nearly every element of her film with the confidence of a veteran moviemaker. Out of Sundance, a small number of critics expressed reservations about one thing or another, but I belong to the group of admirers who recognize Beecroft’s respect for her audience. “East of Wall,” like the wide open spaces in and around the Badlands, offers enough questions without answers and lots of room to sit with our own thoughts.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

The wildly talented and ambitious Zach Cregger drags us back to the basement in “Weapons,” one of the year’s most satisfying and enjoyable films of any genre. While fans of “Barbarian” know to expect the unexpected when it comes to the filmmaker’s investment in horror and comedy, Cregger’s latest feature will expand his audience to waves of newcomers eager to see what the hype is about. Opening weekend performance at the box office has been as strong as the general critical consensus.

Word of mouth should continue to drive turnout, but don’t sleep: “Weapons” is the kind of movie that surprises and delights and rewards viewers who go in knowing little to nothing about it. And while this review aims to minimize any spoilers, I would encourage you to stop reading until you have watched the film. The premise leads us to believe that Cregger plans to explore the trauma of America’s ongoing crisis of school shootings through a chilling metaphor: 17 of the 18 third-graders enrolled in Justine Gandy’s class awake in the middle of the night and run away from their homes at exactly the same time, leaving no trace as to their whereabouts. A shocked and mystified community demands answers.

One frustrated and suspicious parent, a general contractor named Archer Graff (Josh Brolin), begins his own investigation after suggesting that Justine (Julia Garner) isn’t telling authorities everything she knows. Archer and Justine at first appear to be the central characters. But Cregger’s screenplay soon reveals a structure in the tradition of “Rashomon,” doubling back over events from the perspectives of several other important people. “Weapons” evolves into a layered symphony as each new chapter drives toward a deeper understanding of what is really going on. The approach also gives Cregger the space required to outline and refine the underlying themes of grief, loneliness, and addiction.

Some of those other people include police officer Paul (Alden Ehrenreich), drug addict and burglar James (Austin Abrams), school principal Marcus (Benedict Wong), student Alex (Cary Christopher) – the sole child from Justine’s class who did not disappear – and Alex’s aunt Gladys (Amy Madigan). The cross-section of society embodied by Cregger’s supporting players ties “Weapons” together like a miniature version of “The Rules of the Game.” Cregger has cited Paul Thomas Anderson’s “Magnolia” and Jennfier Egan’s novel “A Visit From the Goon Squad” as inspirations. Throughout the movie, which caroms from pitch-black humor to creeping dread to enough gruesome splatter to please the discerning gorehound, the director compels us to continually increase our emotional investment.

Cregger consistently shows a command of tone that turns out to be the most audacious and creative dimension of “Weapons.” By the time we reach an absolutely bonkers final section, the scares and the laughs are being traded like a top-tier Wimbledon rally. Cregger, whose liberal application of the evergreen and contextually apropos question “What the fuck?” (the phrase is uttered by multiple characters and works every single time), also pays direct homage to “Raising Arizona” and “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.” Every ounce of bottled-up tension comes blasting out of the screen in a firehose of cathartic release that wholly melts down any boundary between the horrific and the comedic.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

When I first heard the premise for “Oh, Hi!” – which has been described as a “romantic comedy,” if you imagine a twisted sense of the term – visions of two Stephen King novels popped into my head. In “Misery,” a writer is held captive by an obsessed fan. And in “Gerald’s Game,” a woman must figure out how to survive after finding herself handcuffed to a bed. King’s two stories exist principally in the space of the psychological thriller (with scary elements incorporated) while “Oh, Hi!” hopes for some laughter along with its rueful recognition of failed intimate partnerships. Director Sophie Brooks, who wrote the screenplay from a story she created with star Molly Gordon, understands the border that separates the most ridiculous expression of bad ideas from the pathos that accompanies rejection.

Gordon plays Iris, a young woman inclined to hide her tightly-wound neuroticism behind a veil of affability and enthusiasm. Iris has been seeing Isaac (Logan Lerman) long enough for the couple to plan a road trip getaway, but not long enough, we discover, for an exclusive commitment. The opening sections of the movie are the strongest, as we enjoy figuring out the contours and dynamics of this pairing. Some brief flashbacks will also fill in a few blanks. Brooks stages a clever scene on the way to the farmhouse rental in which Iris and Isaac stop to buy strawberries from a local whose flirtatious comments to Isaac bug Iris. Along with a hilarious slapstick button that wraps up the exchange and might be a sign of things to come, we note just enough of the insecurity that will shortly roar like a lion.

Settling in, Iris discovers that a bedroom closet contains handcuffs, costumes, and other erotic bondage paraphernalia. One thing leads to another, and Isaac ends up locked to the bedframe without access to a key. Iris makes the unwise decision to keep him restrained, eventually involving friends Max (Geraldine Viswanathan) and Kenny (John Reynolds), who add more fuel to the chaotic and illegal conundrum. Brooks and Gordon don’t fully sustain the electricity of the first-half set-up once Max and Kenny enter the story, in large part due to the way in which the broken-logic shenanigans resemble so many tropes routinely deployed in TV sitcoms. That said, Viswanathan swipes a few scenes, including one in which she casts an absurd black magic incantation.

Brooks and Gordon began discussing what would become “Oh, Hi!” during the isolation of the COVID-19 pandemic, operating with the idea that limited locations and a small number of actors could be the route to getting something made. In a reflection published in “Variety” ahead of the movie’s Sundance premiere, Brooks summarized the desired tone: “Molly and I dreamed up a story about a woman desperately seeking love as a way to process our own fears and poke fun at them, in the hopes that people would watch it and laugh and cringe and feel seen and entertained.” Fair enough.

“Oh, Hi!” never tells the viewer exactly how to feel about either Isaac or Iris, a move that works in the film’s favor. Brooks comfortably toys with expectations and stereotypes that we all ingest on a daily basis, carefully pulling back when we start to think that Iris looks “crazy” or desperate. The same courtesy is extended to Lerman’s Isaac, who never crosses over into full-blown user/asshole territory (some critics have wrongly dismissed the quality of his performance). By withholding moral judgement of her characters, Brooks largely gets to have her cake and eat it.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Cinephiles and fans of classic midcentury Hollywood biography will find much to appreciate in Mariska Hargitay’s insightful documentary “My Mom Jayne.” As protagonist Olivia Benson on NBC’s “Law & Order: Special Victims Unit,” Hargitay holds the record for playing the longest-running primetime character on network television. Many also know her as the daughter of iconic sex symbol Jayne Mansfield. Hargitay’s feature directorial debut transcends the typical movie star portrait by re-imagining the frequently mistaken public image of Mansfield and her tragically short time in the spotlight. The first-time filmmaker’s decades of experience in the industry contribute to the ease and confidence with which she pulls together a compelling story both intimately personal and openly public.

Hargitay was only three years old in the summer of 1967 when Mansfield was killed along with boyfriend Sam Brody and driver Ronnie Harrison in a car wreck. The toddler and her brothers Miklos and Zoltan were in the back seat and survived the crash. Hargitay describes having virtually no recollection of her famous mom, conceding that her strongest memory might be more imagined than concrete. She goes on to explain that her own perceptions of her mother’s popular image led her to keep any feelings about their relationship at a distance for many years. As the story unfolds, Hargitay turns to her siblings, collecting their own stories on the way to piecing together a puzzle that will culminate with a series of shocking revelations.

After Mansfield and Mariska, the most important figure in the documentary is Mansfield’s second husband Mickey Hargitay, who served as the filmmaker’s greatest supporter and champion while she was growing up. He is depicted as the one romantic partner in Mansfield’s life that would not be characterized as a bad choice. Hargitay raises many tantalizing questions throughout the film, leaving many deliberately unanswered. Why was such a smart person so unlucky in love?

The previously buried knowledge arrives in the late sections of the film and will surprise all but the most intense followers of Mansfield. Jayne’s longtime publicist and press secretary, who was more than 100 years old at the time Hargitay interviewed him for her film, wrote a bombshell tell-all in 1974 titled “The Tragic Secret Life of Jayne Mansfield” that disclosed the truth. But Hargitay’s on-camera conversations with Raymond “Rusty” Strait confront secrets and lies with a level of calm restraint rarely seen in a space that celebrates conflict and accusation, especially in the tabloid sphere. The impressive result of their meeting opens a path for Hargitay to exorcise some ghosts that have been equally shared by herself and her mother.

Hargitay uses some choice television appearance clips to dispel perceptions that Mansfield was merely a “dumb blonde” cloned in the image of Marilyn Monroe. Mansfield spoke multiple languages fluently and loved playing the piano and the violin. We come to understand the extent to which the ambitious star used her sex symbol popularity as a means to an end. I love the interview she does with Groucho Marx, who appeared in the movie version of Mansfield’s highlight “Will Success Spoil Rock Hunter?” in a cameo role. On a 1962 episode of “Tell It to Groucho,” Mansfield responds to Groucho’s observation that the crafted fantasy image was indeed an act/facade, saying, “I think that it’s like this: the public pays money at the box office to see me in a certain way.”

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Ari Aster’s political satire “Eddington” premiered in competition for the Palme d’Or at Cannes in May, where Jafar Panahi’s “It Was Just an Accident” received the prize. A frequently laborious mash-up of genres including flashes of the filmmaker’s horror comfort zone (“Hereditary” and “Midsommar” remain the best films he has made) and slow-burn American Western/noir touches that aspire to the blending of violence and comedy that the Coens perfected, “Eddington” sees Aster taking some narrative risks, even if not every choice pays off. The nearly two-and-a-half hour length, exacerbated by somnolent pacing until at least the first shocking turning point, works against Aster by sorely testing the patience of even the most curious viewers.

Joaquin Phoenix, who led Aster’s previous feature “Beau Is Afraid,” plays the sheriff of the title New Mexico township. Pedro Pascal portrays the mayor. The rivals form two sides of a scalene triangle with Emma Stone, in which Phoenix’s Joe > Pascal’s Ted > Stone’s Louise, at least in terms of significant screen time. The diminished presence of Stone is just one of the movie’s disappointments. Her character, lost in the fog of the world during the isolation of the COVID-19 pandemic, is married to Joe but was previously involved with Ted. Aster clearly enjoys manipulating the chess pieces of his sprawling ensemble cast, which also includes Austin Butler in a glorified cameo as a strange cult leader, Deirdre O’Connell as Louise’s mother, Luke Grimes and Micheal Ward as law enforcement officers working under Joe, and William Belleau as an Indigenous policeman with jurisdiction in the adjacent tribal lands.

Aster also introduces a group of young Black Lives Matter and social justice protesters, linking the historical events that occurred in the wake of the murder of George Floyd in Minneapolis to the fictional catastrophes unfolding in Eddington. The filmmaker’s ambitious recipe, which addresses not only BLM, but Antifa, mask mandates, anti-vax conspiracies, corruption and racism and brutality in policing, the environmental impact of data farms, white privilege, and the avalanche of disinformation made worse by the pastime of doom-scrolling, cooks up into a stew that can be difficult to swallow. Even as Aster boldly introduces all manner of Trump-era malaise, “Eddington” is deliberately opaque.

In her thoughtful and incisive NPR review for “Pop Culture Happy Hour,” Aisha Harris puts her finger on one of Aster’s shortcomings: “Eddington” reduces its Black and Indigenous characters to symbols, doubling-down on what Harris identifies as the movie’s status as a “cynical simulacrum.” And while it is certainly fair to argue that “Eddington” is not a character-driven story, Aster’s lack of investment in his array of inhabitants spills over into something like contempt. And it doesn’t matter whether a figure is identified with the right or the left, everyone just bumbles and stumbles along making awful decisions.

Perhaps the most American thing about the particular kind of America depicted in “Eddington” is the feverish commitment to gun violence (and violence in general). Even the trailer revels in the sights and sounds of Joe unloading a high-capacity magazine when all hell breaks loose on the streets of his otherwise sleepy town. We understand that Aster intends a kind of absurdist and comical mockery of our worst impulses as a society,  but the “both sides are equally bad” insinuation that progressives and fascists all deserve to be ridiculed – and lumped in together – is a massive false equivalency.