Movie review by Greg Carlson

Scaring up early buzz as a premiere in the Midnight section of the 2018 Sundance Film Festival, Ari Aster’s “Hereditary” is the horror film of the year. Anchored by the vital performance of Toni Collette as grieving, disintegrating mother Annie Graham — arguably the actor’s career-best work — the movie’s other noteworthy MVP may just be Pawel Pogorzelski’s sharp cinematography, which features one breathtaking day/night cut so perfect it serves as a reminder that not even the bright sun can ward off the inevitable. Aster, making his feature film debut as writer-director, assembles “Hereditary” with the confidence of a clockmaker, his gifts reflected in the dollhouse designs of both the scale miniatures by Steve Newburn and the life-size environment of the hell house inhabited by the Graham family.  

The movie opens with the brief obituary of Ellen Leigh, the mother of Annie. At the funeral, Annie indicates some surprise at the large number of mourners, citing Ellen’s intense secrecy, her difficultness, and her suspicious nature. It’s an early tip-off that Ellen’s fierce sense of personal privacy veiled some awful secrets, and Aster relishes his opportunity to tease out the precise manifestation of family skeletons in the closet. The most devoted genre fans may be able to predict the film’s trajectory with some accuracy, but many viewers will be confronted with disequilibrium designed for maximum anxiety, especially as Aster punctuates the action with some well-timed bombshells.   

“Hereditary” maximizes the one-two punch of what several observers have referred to as “slow horror” or “slow burn horror,” which eschews the jump scare and the emphasis on gore in favor of a kind of psychologically-oriented accretion of dread. Aster also supplies bold structural feints, powered in part by the deceptive brilliance of A24’s sensational trailer and marketing. Not everyone has been completely won over by the film’s so-called “art house” factor, however, and some intelligent explorations of the pros and cons of the filmmaker’s technique can be found online for anyone interested in a very deep dive.   

Horror aficionados have embraced Aster’s meticulous attention to detail, ringing up comparisons to everything from “Rosemary’s Baby” and “The Shining” to “The Babadook” and “The Witch.” Aster himself reminds viewers that plenty of inspiration was mined from less obvious sources. He has cited “Cries and Whispers,” “Don’t Look Now,” “Ordinary People,” “In the Bedroom,” and several other titles as important texts informing various aspects of “Hereditary.” The cinema-literate filmmaker’s focus on sturdy examples of wrenching family melodrama makes perfect sense as the subtextual concerns of “Hereditary” break through to the surface.

While many fingers remain crossed that Aster will prepare an audio commentary for the eventual home release of “Hereditary,” the devoted must currently settle for multiple viewings and spirited discussions. Whether or not the movie will become a canonized horror classic can’t truly be known for some years, of course, but “Hereditary” certainly has a shot. The film’s minor drawbacks, which count the tip-off casting of Ann Dowd (nothing wrong with the work itself) are outnumbered by the strengths. Principal among them is the respect with which Aster works both the demonic/supernatural angles and the heartbreaking metaphors of serious mental illness straining to unravel a family.  

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Writer-director Chloe Zhao’s sophomore feature “The Rider” cements her status as one of contemporary filmmaking’s most promising voices. A carefully curated blend of fact and fiction, the movie focuses on the aftermath of a traumatic head injury suffered by a young Sioux rodeo cowboy. Played by Brady Jandreau, the fictional Brady Blackburn is faced with an impossible choice: accept the reality that his riding days are done or court almost certain death by returning to competition. Many films have stuck their protagonist with a variation of this conundrum, but Zhao’s humaneness elevates “The Rider” to poetic, personal storytelling.  

Darren Aronofsky’s “The Wrestler,” for example, successfully explores much of the same terrain. Both movies use a touch of “meta-casting” in their leading men. Both Brady and Randy “The Ram” Robinson are sidelined doing what they know/love (or in Randy’s case at least once loved) and are warned by medical professionals to stop. Both movies also show rent troubles and the acceptance of work that sharply contrasts with the spectacle of past glories. Both men are recognized by fans while toiling at those jobs. Zhao, who followed her instincts toward similar unorthodox techniques while building “Songs My Brothers Taught Me” from 100 hours of footage shot and no script, also parallels — to some degree — Aronofsky’s commitment on “The Wrestler” to verisimilitude through the blend of the authentic and the imagined.    

And yet, even compounded by the minefield of potential sentimentality attached to a boy-and-his-horse tale, Zhao manipulates all the dangerous chestnuts to her advantage. “The Rider” finds the sweet spot between well-worn themes that could have so easily soured into cliche and the kind of fresh and unexpected surprises that reward and delight dedicated appreciators of “small” filmmaking. In other words, the specific challenges of making ends meet in and around the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation are presented with rich layers of exquisite detail even as Zhao commandingly locates the universal familiarity in Brady’s aching heart.

For my money, the most electrifying sequence in “The Rider” is one in which Brady trains a neighbor’s unbroken horse. Like any number of other scenes in the film, Zhao puts together something that unfolds with a startling sense of what might be called evidence-based certainty. Yes, Brady’s cowboy pals swap what are surely unscripted stories around a campfire, and even more remarkably, Brady’s father and sister are played by Tim Jandreau and Lilly Jandreau — his real-life family — but the almost wordless scene of Brady moving through a series of exercises to calm and prepare an animal to accept a human on its back is a superb piece of observation and dramatization that allows viewers to feel something close to awe for the privilege of bearing witness.

The understated beauty of this scene contrasts to some degree with more traditionally dramatic crisis points and climaxes, but Zhao directs both with grace. Brady’s close relationship with Lane Scott (playing Lane Scott), a paralyzed former rodeo brother whose own injuries require potentially permanent nursing care, a wheelchair, and physical therapy, add another layer to the film both on and off camera. The real-world Lane Scott suffered a catastrophic car accident and not a bull-riding mishap as imagined for the film, but Zhao’s modification fits the narrative without diminishing the love that exists between Scott and close friend Jandreau. That bond, like the rest of “The Rider,” is not easily shaken or forgotten.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

In a bit of fortuitous timing, Oscar-winning filmmaker Morgan Neville turns his attention to public television superstar Fred Rogers, an almost universally beloved figure whose unwavering message of peace, friendship, love and kindness contrasts diametrically with today’s bullying tone of undignified late-night tweets issuing from a certain well-covered account. One wonders how Rogers, a devoted Republican, might have dealt with the grim political partisanship that currently hamstrings just about any kind of cooperation and civility between lawmakers of opposing parties. Neville’s documentary, titled “Won’t You Be My Neighbor?,” doesn’t directly speculate on the marked differences between the quality program for children and the Orwellian doublethink accompanying so many of the president’s messages. It doesn’t really need to do so.

In several significant ways, “Won’t You Be My Neighbor?” works best as a straightforward piece of media history chronicling a true anomaly. As producer Margy Whitmer notes, “[If] you take all of the elements that make good television and do the exact opposite, you have ‘Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood.’” Neville touches on Rogers’ core philosophies, which span from the worth of each and every individual to the musically-inspired attempt to recognize and honor the difficult “modulations” experienced by children. Rogers famously devoted airtime to deconstructions of heavy topics like divorce and, following the death of Robert Kennedy, assassination. Still remarkable, even radical, when you think about it.

For committed fans of Rogers, Neville’s film offers few new or earth-shattering revelations. Given the director’s track record, the depth, breadth, and quality of the archival footage is predictably tremendous. And there is absolutely nothing amiss about the inclusion of some familiar series highlights, from the appearance of ten-year-old Jeff Erlanger in his electric wheelchair to the sight of Rogers cooling his feet in a kiddie pool with Francois Clemmons (an anecdote also visited in a memorable 2016 installment of StoryCorps). Neville also confirms Rogers’ incredible skill as a puppeteer, revealing the emotional map of the man’s keen understanding of children through characters like King Friday XIII and close-to-the-heart alter ego Daniel Striped Tiger.  

Despite the fact that Rogers died in 2003, the huge amount of film and tape covering his work and career from beginning to end allows Neville to place his principal subject’s voice and words at the heart of the documentary. The upshot of so much content with Rogers front and center is an immediacy that has the effect of virtually erasing the passage of time. The downside, however, is a certain amount of carefully cultivated distancing that perpetuates the myth of Rogers as a servant to his work (other tall tales that weirdly dogged Rogers for years, including wartime exploits, tattoos, and hidden sexuality, are lightheartedly but firmly dispelled). Fortunately, Neville makes sure to include a few examples of off-script Rogers. One, supplied by Rogers’ son, reveals that the Lady Elaine Fairchilde voice would materialize when Fred was perturbed or aggravated by his own kids.     

To Neville’s credit, “Won’t You Be My Neighbor?” sidesteps the cliche of similar feature biographies by avoiding a parade of celebrities holding forth on the meaning of the person of the hour. Instead, he curates a very select set of interviews with key collaborators and confidantes to fill in the chapters, and the viewer is better for it. Some have wondered whether Neville should have worked harder to address frustrations and shortcomings (the movie does include a brief but valuable segment on Rogers’ “Old Friends… New Friends,” perceived largely as an unsuccessful attempt to make a show for grown-ups). But one look at a clip of Rogers greeting graduates following a commencement address affirms the what-you-see-is-what-you-get reality. As mirrored in the “New York Times” obituary of Rogers by Daniel Lewis, “…if college seniors were not always bowled over by his pronouncements, they often cried tears of joy just to see him.” Watching “Won’t You Be My Neighbor?,” you will too.     

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Betsy West and Julie Cohen assemble a welcome biographical portrait of Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg, the octogenarian icon whose legacy already includes her groundbreaking work in the area of gender-based discrimination and her powerful dissents in cases decided by an increasingly conservative high bench. “RBG,” which playfully alludes to the meme-based appellation linking the jurist to hip-hop’s Christopher Wallace, a.k.a. the Notorious B.I.G., is but one boulder in an avalanche of nonfiction features attempting to untangle, in whole or in part, the roller coaster ride of the Trump presidency. To the credit of the filmmakers, their movie juggles the (sur)realities of our current moment without pulling focus away from the small-in-stature, large-in-accomplishment superstar.  

For the many younger viewers who might only know Ginsburg from her later-blooming cultural popularity on and in jabot-accessorized Halloween costumes, coffee mugs, screen-printed tees, and endlessly shareable images on the internet, “RBG” does a terrific job filling in the blanks of the associate justice’s life prior to her confirmation in 1993 as only the second woman in U.S. history to sit on the Supreme Court. To that end, West and Cohen shape several prominent narrative threads into a deeply human love story tracing Ginsburg’s marriage to and partnership with Martin D. Ginsburg and her tenacious and strategic brilliance as a litigator fluent in every possible legal nuance of women’s rights via the Equal Protection Clause of the Fourteenth Amendment of the U.S. Constitution.

Alternating between explications of important cases like Frontiero v. Richardson and anecdotes from friends and family members attesting to the relentlessness, grit, and determination demonstrated by Ginsburg in her public and private journey, “RBG” calls up an impressive group of interview subjects. And where new testimonials were simply not available, West and Cohen — aided by skillful editor Carla Gutierrez — seamlessly integrate archival content. One of many highlights in this latter category is an exploration of the unlikely friendship between Ginsburg and fellow justice and operaphile Antonin Scalia. Glimpses of joint public appearances, including a witty retort explaining why the feminist Ginsburg sat behind Scalia on the back of an elephant during a trip to India, add nuance to the film and remind us that collegiality is possible even when philosophies are virtually incompatible.

Ginsburg’s more controversial 2016 criticisms of Republican presidential candidate Donald Trump, which resulted in a formal apology following the sizable outcry from many quarters of the media, merits its own short section in the film. Despite longtime Ginsburg friend Nina Totenberg’s acknowledgement that Ginsburg’s comments about Trump were “inappropriate,” the filmmakers aren’t too bothered or dissuaded, doubling down by including footage of Ginsburg’s non-singing appearance in the Washington National Opera’s production of “The Daughter of the Regiment,” during which Ginsburg alluded to Trump’s “birther” position and other moral and intellectual failings.

That stuff, as well as clips of Ginsburg working out with trainer Bryant Johnson and laughing at Kate McKinnon’s antic, vitamin-chugging parody on “Saturday Night Live,” is more colorful than some of the audio clips of Ginsburg arguing before the Supreme Court and the images of her carefully facing down the male legislators firing off questions at her confirmation hearing. But West and Cohen are so deeply committed to laying out the hard-fought details of Ginsburg’s role in American history that “RBG” keeps careful track of the discriminatory realities experienced by their hero.

Jeffrey Toobin noted in “Heavyweight: How Ruth Bader Ginsburg Has Moved the Supreme Court,” his 2013 profile in “The New Yorker,” that “…her reputation as the Thurgood Marshall of the women’s-rights movement exceeds her renown as a Justice.” Once Ginsburg’s tenure concludes — which supporters hope will not happen for at least an Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr. or John Paul Stevens length of service — one wonders whether Toobin’s statement will need to be rebalanced.   

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Writer-director Alexandra Dean’s “Bombshell” recounts the remarkable life and achievements of Hedy Lamarr, the Golden Age screen goddess whose physical beauty and career as a Hollywood actor long overshadowed her groundbreaking technological inventions. The documentary, which premiered at the 2017 Tribeca Film Festival, will be broadcast on PBS as an installment of “American Masters” on May 18, 2018. The cult of Lamarr, which flowered following a 1990 “Forbes” profile by Fleming Meeks, has more recently taken up residence on the internet — including an appearance in a 2015 Google Doodle honoring the 101st anniversary of Lamarr’s birth.

Dean’s straightforward presentational style, which relies heavily on talking head interviews and a wealth of archival content, presents the key events of Lamarr’s life in chronological order. Thematically, the director privileges Lamarr’s offscreen work, even though the arc of her tumultuous filmography supplies the movie with a parade of clips. The movie’s key section details Lamarr’s collaboration with the avant garde composer George Antheil, with whom she developed her ideas on the subject of frequency hopping. The two friends filed a patent, and offered their tech to aid the war effort, but it was shelved by the United States Navy. The foundations of Lamarr’s work with spread spectrum frequency eventually proved important in the development of Bluetooth, GPS, and Wi-Fi.   

Dean has so much raw material, an opening montage flashes past several anecdotes that would have merited a deeper dive had Lamarr’s resume been less crowded. Claims that Disney’s animated Snow White and DC Comics’ Catwoman were directly inspired by Lamarr zip past, and Mel Brooks more or less credits his entire career to Lamarr, cracking that the star’s unique allure in “Algiers” drew him to Los Angeles. Later, Dean highlights a suggestion that Louis B. Mayer’s inability to see past Lamarr’s sex appeal negatively affected her film opportunities.   

Along with luminaries like Brooks, Robert Osborne, Diane Kruger, and Peter Bogdanovich, Lamarr’s family members participate in the project, but Dean struggles to find the right balance. Lamarr’s daughter Denise makes a number of insightful comments, but is overshadowed by the presence of her younger brother Anthony. Anthony, whose commitment to his mother’s legacy can be seen in the volume of preserved and catalogued press clippings, photographs, magazines, and correspondence he has archived, emerges as the de facto spokesperson. Curiously, Dean only devotes a cursory mention to Lamarr’s other son. James Loder speaks briefly on his own behalf, as Dean attempts to reconcile the grim reality of a fraught relationship with a mother who publicly claimed James was adopted.   

Dean directly addresses other aspects of Lamarr’s personal life that might be construed as dream factory cliche, most notably the subject’s six marriages (all of which ended in divorce), drug addictions, and Lamarr’s later penchant for frequent visits to the plastic surgeon. The filmmaker relies on a few key interviews to revise the narrative, pointedly noting that Lamarr certainly did not want to be perceived as a joke in parodies like Lucille Ball’s “I am Tondelayo” shimmy. Lamarr’s status as an iconoclastic original is enhanced by her string of unsuccessful partnerships, as her inability to enjoy lasting love is explained by son Anthony as stemming from trust issues exacerbated by men who only cared about the way she looked. The documentary opens with the quotable Lamarr epigraph/lament, “Any girl can be glamorous. All you have to do is stand still and look stupid.”  

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Earning a limited theatrical release following a successful run of festival appearances and a streaming deal with Shudder, writer-director Coralie Fargeat’s “Revenge” simultaneously embraces and subverts many tropes of the rape-revenge film. Powered by a supercharged central performance by Matilda Lutz, Fargeat’s feature also draws from the implied isolation of its evocative locations and the saturated hues of Robrecht Heyvaert’s dazzling cinematography. Given the nature of its subject matter and execution, “Revenge” will not likely find a receptive home in too many suburban multiplexes.  

Carol Clover, Jacinda Read, Alexandra Heller-Nicholas, Claire Henry, and other scholars have taken hard looks at the rape-revenge film, a categorization commonly linked to a set of exploitation titles produced in the 1970s but occasionally explored in mainstream studio releases and by A-list and “prestige” filmmakers. The defining characteristics of the subgenre, argued by Heller-Nicholas, require that the sexual assault or assaults “must be the core action that provokes revenge,” whether or not the rape is shown. Moral and ethical implications complicate the rape-revenge film. As Heller-Nicholas points out, the visualization of rape can be motivated by the maker or consumer’s “ugly desire to watch sexual violence.”

That particular conundrum — how to critique hypermasculinized bro behavior and the unchecked misogyny of rape culture in a vehicle that thrives on a voyeuristic gaze at eroticized femininity — provides different answers for different spectators. Fargeat and Lutz collaborate on several strategies to accomplish the task. As Jen, the young girlfriend of a married man, Lutz infuses her character with an initially naive openness and misplaced trust that will transform, post-trauma, into gritty resolve and intense self-reliance. Like many action movie protagonists, Jen’s very life depends on her autodidacticism in impossible situations, and in “Revenge” that includes several satisfying pegs, including a memorable self-surgery.        

As noted by Katie Walsh, “Fargeat’s camera apes the male gaze in such an ostentatious way that it’s nearly laughable, a parody of the way that women’s bodies are consumed in horror movies.” Later, phoenix imagery symbolizes Jen’s return from the brink. The potential obviousness of those choices could easily unravel or backfire, but Fargeat is comfortable rendering her world in streamlined archetype, and it mostly pays off. The filmmaker strikes a hallucinatory tone (complete with peyote trip) that allows for maximum stylization without ever losing sight of the seriousness of her heroine’s experiences.    

“Revenge” is not as rich or rewarding as “Raw,” Julia Ducournau’s midnight-programmed barn-burner that made the rounds last year. Although they focus on different aspects of horror, the two films have in common female-centric storylines and French-language directors deeply invested in explorations of gender empowerment. Both movies also cut together pulse-quickening scenes reliant on significant amounts of blood. The middle sections of “Revenge” struggle at times to match the voltage of the first act, but Fargeat comes out blazing with a climax that cements the movie’s future cult-item bona fides.

The harrowing crucible suffered by Jen culminates in a cat-and-mouse showdown through the slippery corridors of a modernist home. The set-piece, conjuring a warped mash-up of the lurid pop production design of “Pulp Fiction” and the gliding Steadicam shots in both the Overlook and the hedge maze in “The Shining,” is staged and directed with supreme confidence by Fargeat. When all is said and done, many might stumble away with what A. O. Scott aptly calls a “lurid, punchy afterimage, an impression somewhere between righteous delight and quivering revulsion.” Scott’s accurate description speaks to the promise of Fargeat’s talent.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

In the most Gus Van Sant scene in a very Gus Van Sant movie, John Callahan (Joaquin Phoenix) spills out of his wheelchair and into the street after picking up a little too much speed. The predicament elicits immediate concern for Callahan’s well-being, so the kind assistance from a group of skateboarding kids melts our fear into a glimmer of faith and hope for the world. “Don’t Worry, He Won’t Get Far on Foot” is named for the pitiless, Vantablack caption accompanying one of cult cartoonist Callahan’s quasi-autobiographical panels, and Van Sant honors his subject with this more cinematic title than the equally acerbic “Will the Real John Callahan Please Stand Up?”

Callahan, who died in 2010, regularly contributed to Portland’s alternative paper “Willamette Week,” and some of his cartooning is delightfully translated to inventive animation throughout Van Sant’s biopic. At Sundance and in additional interviews, Van Sant described his labor-of-love in bringing this particular story to the screen by repeating the anecdote that Robin Williams, who held the option on the film rights to Callahan’s biography, pitched the idea to Van Sant during “Good Will Hunting.” When the proposed movie never came together, Callahan quipped that we would “all be in wheelchairs” before it saw the light of day.   

Phoenix is predictably fantastic in the deeply-connected lead performance, and Jonah Hill expands his own bona fides as AA sponsor Donnie, a wealthy philosopher king whose endlessly inspiring wardrobe matches the breadth of his laid-back charm and generosity of spirit. Less successful is Van Sant’s integration of Rooney Mara’s Annu, a different kind of angel to Callahan than Donnie. Following a promising introduction, Van Sant’s screenplay just allows her to vanish, and the movie’s idiosyncratic rhythms keep you wondering when she might return. The director also invites a few old friends (and new) to the party, and the attendance of Udo Kier, Kim Gordon, and Beth Ditto at Donnie’s AA meetings will please the Van Sant faithful.

Along with Hill, Jack Black as Callahan’s ill-fated drinking companion Dexter deserves supporting performance accolades. In the film’s most visceral sequence, a painful, gut-churning reconstruction of the 1972 night that paralyzed Callahan, Van Sant does some of his best directing in years. Striking a perfect balance between the giddy, comic shenanigans of the souses (Callahan, then 21, was a veteran imbiber at 13) and the awful knowledge that the initially happy evening will not end well, the filmmaker puts together a doozy of a drunk driving cautionary tale.

Unfortunately, the sweaty-palms immediacy of that bad luck fable only periodically shows up in the rest of the loose and often meandering film, which could easily do away with fifteen or twenty minutes. The veteran filmmaker boasts one of the strangest filmographies of anyone who has made both intensely personal independents and sanded-smooth studio work-for-hire. Much of his recent output has failed to approach any of the magic of “Drugstore Cowboy” and “My Own Private Idaho.” Even so, “Don’t Worry, He Won’t Get Far on Foot” has plenty to recommend it, and the movie joins the ranks of cinema’s long list of stories fascinated with alcoholism and/or disability.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Jane Magnusson and Hynek Pallas’ “Trespassing Bergman,” an often playful deconstruction of the work and life of the legendary Swedish filmmaker through the eyes of a murderer’s row of auteurs, is a guaranteed ticket for the hardcore cinephile. Stacked with observations from Tomas Alfredson, Woody Allen, Wes Anderson, Harriet Andersson, Pernilla August, Francis Ford Coppola, Wes Craven, Robert De Niro, Claire Denis, Laura Dern, Daniel Espinosa, Michael Haneke, Holly Hunter, Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu, Takeshi Kitano, John Landis, Ang Lee, Alexander Payne, Isabella Rossellini, Martin Scorsese, Ridley Scott, Lars von Trier, and Yimou Zhang, the film’s real superstar is Bergman’s Faro Island compound — where the best parts of the movie take place.

Despite the black hole density of the concatenation of talking heads, Magnusson and Pallas don’t skimp on the film clips, photographs, and archival content of the indefatigable Bergman. Some of the behind-the-scenes footage has reportedly never been publicly available, offering yet another magnetic pull for fans. Career-spanning highlights from “Summer with Monika,” “The Seventh Seal,” “Wild Strawberries,” “The Virgin Spring,” “Persona,” “Scenes from a Marriage,” “Autumn Sonata,” “Fanny and Alexander,” and others are punctuated with insights that range from predictable (the neverending question asking whether “The Seventh Seal” is overrated) to the fresh (Haneke on Bergman’s use of violence).

Given the movie’s number of participating filmmakers, every viewer is likely to choose favorites. The ones visiting Faro, however, have the clear advantage, since the cameras capture their reactions to the eerie intimacies of Bergman’s pristinely preserved personal spaces. Guests remove shoes at the door and select a pair of slippers. Some, like Inarritu, examine the master’s graffiti on tabletop and wall chart, speculating on the possible meaning of the inscrutable hieroglyphics. Hilariously, Alfredson quips that being there feels like going to the “not fun house.” Denis, subjected to a loudspeaker looping a trespass warning, seems unnerved and uncomfortable. Landis, the odd man out, makes himself right at home.

The interlopers delight in poking through the well-organized shelves of Bergman’s famous, massive, personal videotape library, pulling cassettes of eye-catching titles and spotting surprising Hollywood blockbusters and offbeat genre flicks. Sometimes, Bergman’s handwritten notes adorn the cases — Haneke appears to get a real kick out of receiving a four-out-of-five star rating for “The Piano Teacher.” Magnusson and Pallas also make the most of unscripted, unguarded moments with their interviewees. It’s a glimpse behind the curtain, as walking encyclopediae Anderson and Scorsese test out ideas, fact-check, and practice their soundbites before the “real” recording begins.

For better or worse, the film’s most engaging interview is von Trier, who wears his heart on his sleeve in a set of passive-aggressive, love-hate speculations on his cinematic hero. Even so, the Danish director, unnamed but accused of sexual harassment and bullying by Bjork, and Allen, accused of sexual assault by Dylan Farrow, now cast dark shadows over the document. While Allen’s comments avoid the kind of ribald vulgarities and incitements on display in von Trier’s theories about Bergman’s own libidinous obsessions, the presence of the two moviemakers revises those parts of the film that deliberately address the ways in which Bergman dealt with sex onscreen and off.  

“Trespassing Bergman” showed this past week as part of the Minneapolis St. Paul International Film Festival and is available to view on-demand.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Longtime writing partners Abby Kohn and Marc Silverstein make their joint directorial debut but don’t quite get everything right in “I Feel Pretty,” an Amy Schumer vehicle that jettisons the hard-R ribaldry of “Trainwreck” and “Snatched” for the potentially wider-appeal territory of PG-13 content. Schumer, who has long been the target of relentless trolls on platforms including Reddit, plays Renee, a woman — according to the official film website — “who struggles with feelings of deep insecurity and low self-esteem.” A spin class head injury causes Renee to see herself as the impossibly “perfect” supermodel-type unrealistically constructed and perpetuated in mass media imagery.   

Jeffrey Wells brought up thematic similarities between “I Feel Pretty” and the 1945 film “The Enchanted Cottage,” but it is far more likely that viewers will see parallels to obvious inspirations like “Big” (which is clip-checked in “I Feel Pretty”) and “Shallow Hal.” Additionally, “I Feel Pretty” uses key aspects of the Cinderella story, from magical transformation to broken spell, as well as a variation on the rags-to-riches aspiration of fantasy wish-fulfillment that drives “Working Girl,” “The Devil Wears Prada,” and dozens, if not hundreds, of other movies.  

As a person who is now “undeniably pretty,” Renee’s self-confidence empowers her to make all kinds of her own previously out-of-reach dreams come true, including a fast-track professional trajectory at the cosmetics company where she works. Whether or not the film’s wobbly screenplay engages in body-shaming, several critics have wondered if “I Feel Pretty” laughs with or laughs at the situations Renee must navigate. The depiction of Renee’s relationship with her two best friends (Busy Philipps and Aidy Bryant) is a highlight until Kohn and Silverstein choose to almost entirely ignore the consequences of Renee’s increasingly boorish and shitty post-transformation treatment of her pals.  

Specifically, “I Feel Pretty” misses that golden opportunity once Renee begins to behave with the entitlement that the traditional moralistic narrative tradition places hand-in-hand with the power bestowed by factors like physical beauty/attractiveness or wealth. As Manohla Dargis points out, Renee’s post-concussion attitude “…undermines the character, suggesting that she never was the inherently decent person she seemed to be.” Had the movie explored its “lessons learned” component with more seriousness, “I Feel Pretty” might have escaped becoming more like the thing it attempts to critique.

The contradictory messages of the climactic moment don’t make a lot of sense. Renee inexplicably semi-hijacks the public launch of her employer’s new bargain makeup line in an “everyone is beautiful” speech that somehow forgets the rhetorical function of the product being sold. And the film also never fully comes to grips with the fact that Renee was promoted precisely because she was perceived by her bosses as ordinary. Much safer, albeit just as predictable within the genre, is the wrap-up scene in which Renee reconciles with love interest Rory Scovel.  

In defense of Kohn and Silverstein, to the viewer, Renee looks like Renee at all times (which is just one thing that distinguishes the movie from “Shallow Hal”). In a “Vulture” interview, Schumer noted that the dialogue avoids specific indicators that the “new” Renee sees herself, for example, as thinner, even if much of the audience makes that assumption. Schumer also acknowledges the inherent contradictions of her big speech’s “Dove soap stuff” — plugging beauty products with messages of individuality and uplift. In general, that kind of ambiguity and contradiction (see also the wide range of positive and negative takes on the bikini contest scene) fuels genuinely interesting conversation around the film.    

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Leveraging whatever name-brand clout it might carry with the target demographic, “Blumhouse’s Truth or Dare” — the onscreen title for the pre and post-credit sequences — won’t make the kind of impact previously enjoyed by “Get Out” or, for that matter, the “Purge” series. Even so, the Jeff Wadlow-directed horror feature should draw teen viewers intrigued by the “And Then There Were None”-style trailer. Populated by a cast of young actors with plenty of television experience, the film can’t fully sustain the premise of a deadly, supernatural game of truth or dare, falling short of the superior, smarter “Nerve.”

Olivia (Lucy Hale) ditches her Habitat for Humanity service for a final spring break in Mexico with her group of close friends. Olivia’s bestie Markie (Violett Beane) harbors some serious psychological pain that won’t be explained until late in the film, and she acts out by cheating on her boyfriend Lucas (Tyler Posey). Oh, Olivia also has a serious, barely-concealed crush on Lucas. That inconvenience, and a dark secret she cannot bear to reveal to Markie, will come in handy as plot business when the movie begins to explore the dimensions of the cursed game that dogs the friends like the relentless entity in “It Follows.”

The theme of transference is also borrowed from “It Follows,” when we learn that the contenders cannot opt out of the high-stakes, consequence-heavy realities of the game. Refusing to play is not an option, since death also follows hot on the heels of anyone who violates the spirit of the challenges by either lying or not completing a dare. Why an ancient demon named Calax would bother with a party pastime so closely associated with the adolescent catnip of potential social embarrassment and/or physical intimacy is never satisfactorily explained, and “Truth or Dare” runs out of steam the more it pays attention to solving the mystery of Calax.

As for the revelations and predicaments that emerge from the ongoing turns in the game taken by the ensemble, the movie unsurprisingly leans heavily toward the grim, the gory, and the grotesque in a way that recalls the “Final Destination” films. Broken necks, severed tongues, and ballpoint pens jabbed into eye sockets are joined by a dispiriting number of scenes in which characters hold one another (and sometimes themselves) at gunpoint. But despite the lazy ubiquity of the drawn sidearm, “Truth or Dare” manages at least one exchange, between Hayden Szeto’s Brad Chang and Tom Choi’s Han Chang, that resonates with acute empathy.

The sexuality inherent in the popular conception of truth/dare challenges is not entirely absent from the film. In her “New York Times” review, Jeannette Catsoulis humorously pointed out audience reaction to the one provocation that involves intercourse. Spoiler alert: the viewers in Catsoulis’ screening questioned the “script’s notion of a dare,” even if the story logic argues that the participants feign reluctance and acknowledge that their act will hurt someone they both love. At least ten minutes too long, “Truth or Dare” never matches the charms of the recent “Happy Death Day,” a much more enjoyable high-concept title in the Blumhouse arsenal.