Movie review by Greg Carlson

Celine Song’s thrilling debut “Past Lives” was nominated for Best Picture and Best Original Screenplay Oscars. It was one of the most memorable and rewarding films of 2023. The writer-director’s sophomore effort “Materialists” is another triangle-based romance. “Materialists” centers on a successful NYC matchmaker played by Dakota Johnson. Johnson’s Lucy Mason, whose occupation requires a curious blend of deception and candor, finesses her desperate and lovelorn clients into eventual partnerships that sometimes end in marriage. Her front-row view of dating pitfalls and perils informs her own circumspection, putting her in a tricky spot between wealthy “unicorn” Harry Castillo (Pedro Pascal) and ex-boyfriend/struggling actor John Pitts (Chris Evans).

Song’s deconstruction of an entire genre is deceptively simple; how many movies have relied on two suitors representing the poles of economic success? But the filmmaker is a sharp scripter of dialogue and a skillful crafter of how the pauses between words can open up an equally rich visual vocabulary. Lucy meets Harry at the wedding of a couple she brought together. Harry is the brother of the groom. John is serving as a waiter at the same event. Song, whose own experiences working once upon a time as a matchmaker, knows enough about this world to give Lucy the bona fides necessary for viewers to believe. In real life, most of us mortals won’t ever face the exquisite torture of a choice between two people as beautiful as Pascal and Evans.

Johnson has for some time been a much better performer than critics would have you believe. Lucy is one of her juiciest roles yet. Together, Song and Johnson must convince us that Lucy, as a former actor, balances on the tightrope between charming, persuasive selling and whether she buys into these fantasies being peddled to others. “Materialists” works its most magical spells in the space where we can see Lucy struggling with the complexities of relationship-building as it rests on a spectrum that runs from stupid, crazy attraction to the more sober calculations of business partnerships and sound investments. Song’s excellent expressions on these matters routinely delight by undercutting obvious choices.

It is a bit disappointing, then, to unpack some of the less successful plotting that revolves around an assault perpetrated by a prospective date against a client played by Zoë Winters. While the grim and previously invisible realities of the job come roaring at Lucy hard enough to make her seriously question the ethics of her vocation, the resolution of this storyline strains the credulity previously established by Song. The heaviness, in my opinion, disqualifies “Materialists” as a potential romantic comedy. There is some warmth and some humor, but no evidence of the effortless type of Lubitsch Touch as presented in masterworks like “Trouble in Paradise” and “Design for Living.”

I was frustrated that Song did not include clearer character development for John and especially Harry. It makes some kind of sense that Lucy keeps her own cards close to the vest, since her deep knowledge of the dating pool necessitates exercising a lot of caution and because the filmmaker wants to maintain some level of “who will she choose?” tension. But there is no reason we couldn’t get a stronger sense of Harry. There is one scene of vulnerability in which the audience is allowed a glimpse of Harry’s own insecurities, and Pascal is especially great, but it is not quite enough.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Wes Anderson’s twelfth full-length feature, “The Phoenician Scheme,” sees the idiosyncratic auteur pull back from the elaborate storytelling scaffolding and structures of “The Grand Budapest Hotel” and “Asteroid City,” movies that dazzled viewers with metanarrative gymnastics nesting stories inside stories. Even so, “The Phoenician Scheme” bears enough of the familiar stylistic rigor identified with Anderson to be instantly recognizable. Fans and followers will be watching closely to see how Anderson’s first live-action movie without regular DP Robert Yeoman will compare to the eye of cinematographer Bruno Delbonnel. In front of the camera, ensemble newcomers Mia Threapleton and Michael Cera fit right in with the Anderson regulars who show up time after time.

Benicio del Toro leads the sprawling cast as unscrupulous business titan and war profiteer Zsa-zsa Korda. Frequently targeted for sabotage and assassination by his many enemies, Korda plans to put together the financing for a massive infrastructure project in the imaginary nation of Phoenicia with the help of his young adult daughter Liesl (Threapleton), who has taken vows to become a nun. Along with newly acquired administrative assistant Bjørn (Cera), Zsa-zsa and Liesl meet with a lineup of eccentric potential co-investors to cover the budgetary shortfall Korda refers to as “the Gap.” In keeping with his affinity for onscreen text, charts, maps, headings, and diagrams, Anderson dutifully apprises the audience of the ever-changing share percentages pledged by Korda’s associates.

Set in 1950, the tale of adventure, espionage, price-fixing and revolution develops themes of redemption, forgiveness, and spirituality as another of Anderson’s “bad dads” comes to a better understanding of himself through a complex parental relationship. At the risk of identifying the less fanciful and more emotionally-grounded contents of the movie within the parameters of an autobiographical reading, Anderson dedicates the movie to his late father-in-law, Fouad Mikhael Maalouf, whose initially intimidating demeanor inspired elements of Korda. In press interviews, Anderson has also mentioned his relationship to his own mom and dad. And of course, the director has been a father since 2016.

Certainly, the homage paid by Anderson to Ernst Lubitsch at least as early as “The Grand Budapest Hotel” ignites the harder-than-it-looks blend of screwball comedy, romanticism, and moments of shining emotional transcendence that fuel “The Phoenician Scheme.” The similarities extend to the central triangles composed of the former movie’s Gustave/Zero/Agatha and the latter’s Zsa-zsa/Liesl/Bjørn. Devoted Anderson disciples will have a ball debating their favorite laugh-out-loud moments, which run the gamut from outrageous slapstick pratfalls and hand-to-hand combat to ridiculous and sublime dialogue. While subject to change with multiple viewings, my current favorite is Bjørn’s awkward declaration to Liesl onboard yet another ill-fated Air Korda plane.

Anderson’s films are a repository of his passions for fine art, music, and cinephilia. “The Phoenician Scheme” makes inspiring use of Stravinsky and Mussorgsky alongside Glenn Miller and Gene Krupa. A monochromatic series of holy dreams/visions conjures up Luis Buñuel. And in another stroke of Andersonian ambition, several original paintings – not reproductions – bring their aura to the screen in cameo appearances, including a Renoir once owned by Greta Garbo. The masterworks are even given dedicated credits. All of these meticulous details contribute to a whole experience that beautifully concludes with a powerful epiphany: Korda’s real Phoenician Scheme is not a failure at all.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

The writing/directing partnership of Anna Boden and Ryan Fleck has to be one of the most curious cases of crazy connect-the-dots career moves in recent cinema. From short documentaries and safe-sex content for the Centers for Disease Control to television work, Boden and Fleck broke through in 2006 with the fantastic feature “Half Nelson,” adapted from their own Sundance prize-winner “Gowanus, Brooklyn.” “Half Nelson,” a captivating portrait of a troubled middle school teacher, snagged an Oscar nomination for actor Ryan Gosling. Underrated follow-up “Sugar” didn’t catch fire. But a couple movies later, Boden and Fleck took the helm of the MCU’s “Captain Marvel, “ which would gross more than a billion dollars.

A love letter to the Bay Area set during the second Reagan administration, “Freaky Tales” premiered at the 2024 Sundance Film Festival before landing a wider release this April. Telling four separate stories that all intertwine and overlap, the new movie owes both structural and stylistic debts to Quentin Tarantino. “Freaky Tales” doesn’t manage to achieve the remarkable sense of tone that defines QT’s genre-hugging fireballs, but the raucous and giddy historical revisionism that fueled major plot points in “Inglourious Basterds” and “Once Upon a Time in Hollywood” turns up in a wild reimagining of the night of the fourth game of the NBA’s 1987 Western Conference Semifinals between the Golden State Warriors and the Los Angeles Lakers.

In a huge swing for the fences, the filmmakers turn real-life Warriors guard Eric “Sleepy” Floyd (Jay Ellis) into a mystical swordsman prepared to avenge a horrific wrong committed against his family by Nazi biker gang thugs aligned with a corrupt and racist police officer known as “the Guy” (Ben Mendelsohn). Over-the-top mayhem echoes the Bride’s singlehanded battle versus the Crazy 88 in “Kill Bill: Vol. 1,” with the added bonus of a rooting interest against the kind of intolerant xenophobes who seem to be affiliated these days with a particular slogan stitched on their red baseball caps. While this final segment is the movie’s clear showstopper, the preceding storylines make up a trio of tantalizing glimpses highlighting Oakland’s colorful character.

Superstar Pedro Pascal will attract the most attention as underworld enforcer Clint, toplining third story “Born to Mack,” a classic “one last job” tale. Unless you have instincts and skills on par with Wes Anderson, it’s surely a risk to cast a big name in a small(er) role, but anthology-style moviemaking’s all-for-one spirit brings together A-listers and lesser-known performers. Bay Area kid and Skyline High graduate Tom Hanks, for example, pops up as a grouchy video store proprietor. Additional bona fides come courtesy of Too Short, whose narration guides viewers from story to story. He also portrays Mendelsohn’s work partner and in turn is played as his younger self by DeMario “Symba” Driver in “Don’t Fight the Feeling.”

That second story depicts elements of Too Short’s breakthrough hit, the epic track for which the movie is titled. Its over-the-top braggadocio lays out a pimping parody that was embraced by listeners entertained perhaps a bit too easily by the sexually explicit misogyny, and Boden and Fleck manage to rewire some of the boys club dominance with characters Entice (Normani) and Barbie (Dominique Thorne), who can go toe to toe with the fellas. My own favorite tale, however, is the inaugural account of punks versus skinheads at the Berkeley venue popularly known as the Gilman. Smoothly mixing the political and the personal, the directors build enough interest around the adventures of Ji-young Yoo’s Tina to keep viewers hooked.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Filmmaker Antonella Sudasassi Furniss constructs an engaging sophomore feature with “Memories of a Burning Body,” selected by Costa Rica to be entered for consideration as a possible Oscar nominee for Best International Feature Film. While the movie would not go on to make the final roster of Academy Award hopefuls, its spot as an art house attention-getter was already secure. “Memories” won the audience award for best feature in the Panorama section of the 2024 Berlin International Film Festival. Sudasassi Furniss, who also wrote and produced the movie, makes a compassionate statement supporting a sisterhood of previously silenced voices.

The logline of Giorgia Del Don’s early Berlinale coverage summarizes the essence of the film by describing it as an “emancipatory cry uniting different generations … held back by limits set by the patriarchy.” Sudasassi Furniss recorded audio testimonials and conversations with a trio of anonymous older women willing to open up and reflect – essentially for the first time – on a variety of challenges, traumas, and eventual triumphs directly related to their personal journeys. The suffocating expectations governed by gender and social position inform each of the stories, which Sudasassi Furniss organizes and dramatizes with a composite character (depicted by a trio of performers) representing different ages and life stages.

Paying homage to the artistry and cinematic storytelling of heroes like Chantal Akerman, whose work is visually referenced several times throughout “Memories of a Burning Body,” Sudasassi Furniss begins her movie with a shot that exposes the filmmaking process by showing lead Sol Carabello (younger versions will eventually be played by Paulina Bernini Víquez and Juliana Filloy Bogantes) moving through the main domestic set while busy crew members place lights and prepare equipment. In combination with the voiced excerpts of the women we hear on the soundtrack, Carabello’s presence partly suggests the kind of bold blend of fiction and nonfiction devised by Clio Barnard for her brilliant 2010 documentary “The Arbor.”

Regressive approaches to sex education further delay the enlightenment that, Sudasassi Furniss seems to argue, can only be gained by reaching the status of septuagenarian. “Memories of a Burning Body” belongs to a group of films pondering gerontological concerns with a degree of dignity and curiosity rarely seen in an industry that usually makes comic sport of older people when not ignoring them entirely. A few critics have argued that the film’s lack of “connective tissue” and tendency to float from one topic or scene to another is a deficiency. I saw those elements as strengths.

Sudasassi Furniss comprehends the value of shaping and staging quotidian life events in a way that crystallizes their raw intensity. For example, the director chooses not to explicitly visualize the horror of marital rape endured over a lengthy time period, knowing that the spoken words we hear will reverberate with great power alongside images of an angry, frustrated, and cruel spouse unconcerned with his wife’s feelings and ignorant regarding her own dreams and desires. By mostly avoiding any kind of literalization of sexual awakening, Sudasassi Furniss can focus instead on developing overarching themes that coalesce from the accumulated vignettes. We witness the glory of release, deliverance and salvation discovered through the eventual recognition of one’s self-worth.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

In a Sundance profile for feature debut “The Ugly Stepsister,” which opened the festival’s 2025 Midnight section, filmmaker Emilie Blichfeldt described growing up “in a tiny village above the Arctic Circle on the rough coast of northern Norway” where her parents initially chose books over movies. By her early teens, however, repeat viewings of “Amelie” and the galvanizing impact of “Dogville” inspired the future storyteller. Blichfeldt’s film, which handily and truly earns the description of “dark and twisted,” reimagines the Cinderella story with gruesome attention to Brothers Grimm-inspired detail. Assuredly not for the squamish, the handsomely photographed movie makes good in several ways on promises to bring beauty and ugliness into close proximity.

While many film adaptations of the “Aschenputtel” (little ash girl/Cinderella) folktale have been designed to appeal to both children and adults, a smaller set is aimed exclusively for grown-up viewers. Blichfeldt’s version is not the first to embrace the horror genre, but “The Ugly Stepsister,” inspired in part by the grotesque bodies of David Cronenberg (as well as several lurid giallo classics from masters like Argento and Fulci), stages enough gore and violence to satisfy aficionados seeking top-level effects that rely on blood, viscera, vomit, and other unpleasantness. I don’t want to spoil the fun, but if you don’t want to see what results from the deliberate swallowing of a tapeworm, “The Ugly Stepsister” might not be for you.

In lead Lea Myren, Blichfeldt finds an ideal collaborator. Embracing the overarching “beauty is pain” theme with total commitment, Myren’s performance as the hapless, tragic Elvira rhymes with the parallel intensity of Mia Goth’s work in Ti West’s “X” trilogy (especially the raw desperation displayed in “Pearl”). Despite Myren’s real-life occupation as a part-time fashion model, Blichfeldt attempts to play with the Disneyfied equation of inner and outer beauty by transferring audience identification from the beleaguered Cinderella figure to one of the two step siblings. The traditional Cinderella in this variant is named Agnes (Thea Sofie Loch Næss), and like the majority of her predecessors, she has the great misfortune to acquire a cruel stepmother.

Blichfeldt’s outright refusal to align sympathy with either Elvira or Agnes has flummoxed multiple reviewers who have critiqued that particular choice as the movie’s central shortcoming. Those viewpoints are not necessarily wrong, but it is surely fair to read the film’s “sour air” as a means for the director to confront the no-win situation demanded by the impossible expectations placed upon women across centuries. In this sense, a more detached and cerebral contemplation of Blichfeldt’s intentions could partially excuse the movie’s lack of empathy for Elvira as she is drawn deeper and deeper into her dilemma. The other stepsister, Flo Fagerli’s altogether pleasant and level-headed Alma, rather unfortunately remains in the background.

While Blichfelft gleefully fixates on some gnarly visuals (beware to all who flinch at sustained and close-up eye trauma), the straightforward plot unfolds with few surprises or innovations beyond the principal POV switch away from Cinderella/Agnes and the amped-up mutilations. Occasionally, “The Ugly Stepsister” shows glimpses of a more sophisticated and layered approach to its outwardly feminist themes. The clandestine late-night coupling between Agnes and stable boy Isak (Malte Gårdinger) suggests a possible fresh direction that is immediately doused. That level of pleasure-seeking and self-determination has rarely been bestowed on the typically virginal and innocent Cinderella.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Of the many photographs that help tell the story “I Know Catherine, the Log Lady,” the one of David Lynch dressed as FBI Regional Bureau Chief (and later Deputy Director) Gordon Cole saying something amusing to a laughing, slightly out of focus Catherine E. Coulson is my favorite. Director Richard Green, Coulson’s friend of decades, has access to many images and uses dozens – from childhood portraits to surprisingly saucy candids – that add depth to a feature documentary eulogizing a vibrant and creative light. Made with more love and heart than technical polish and filmmaking skill, Green’s movie opened May 9 in Los Angeles ahead of streaming availability this summer.

Obviously, die-hard fans and followers of Lynch and “Twin Peaks” will seek out Green’s portrait, especially because so much of it concentrates on Coulson’s best-known role: wise and watchful Margaret Lanterman, the sphinxlike seer whose presence as the Log Lady made her an enduring favorite throughout the original series, the feature “Twin Peaks: Fire Walk with Me,” and “Twin Peaks: The Return,” the thrilling, 2017 incarnation of the show that operates as a third season suspended for a quarter of a century. Coulson’s death at the age of 71 from complications related to lung cancer also interrupted her stage career, and Green includes testimonials of his subject’s determination by Oregon Shakespeare Festival collaborators and other friends.

Lynch’s death in January links his own mortality to Coulson’s, especially since some of his onscreen commentary addresses their personal interactions when it became clear that her diminished health would make it impossible to travel to film any scenes on location. Green devotes a major section late in the film to a detailed explanation of how the last Log Lady appearance was collected: Lynch directing a local crew over video chat along with the realization for all in attendance that they were witnessing the final communication between old friends. Close since her title appearance in Lynch’s 1974 short “The Amputee,” Coulson’s tireless work on “Eraserhead” cemented her place within Lynch’s filmmaking universe and set the stage to launch her own career as a valued camera operator and focus puller.

Despite the often jumbled and disjointed assembly of events, Green does not downplay Jack Nance’s abuse of then-spouse Coulson during the creation of “Eraserhead.” And to that end, neither does Lynch. Coulson’s later romances and second marriage (especially in relation to her intense love for daughter Zoey Sirinsky) are threaded throughout the film with as much weight and consideration as Green gives to the aftermath of Coulson’s diagnosis and the marquee draw of Log Lady fandom. Along with Lynch, many key “Twin Peaks” cast members sit for interviews, including Kyle MacLachlan, Kimmy Robertson, Michael Horse, Charlotte Stewart, Dana Ashbrook, and Grace Zabriskie.

The likeliest viewers of “I Know Catherine, the Log Lady” will already be enthusiastic consumers of black coffee and cherry pie. One can hope, however, that the uninitiated who stumble upon the doc might be drawn to the mysteries surrounding the life and death of Laura Palmer through the cosmic gateway unlatched by the idiosyncratic Margaret Lanterman. Green makes sure to include a somewhat abbreviated account of the Log Lady’s origin story via Lynch’s long-ago plan to hatch an episodic series called “I’ll Test My Log with Every Branch of Knowledge,” a title committed to memory by fans who still dream about the log’s educational visits to the dentist and other professionals while in the loving arms of Ms. Coulson.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Anchored by the dependable Florence Pugh, “Thunderbolts*” easily tops “Captain America: Brave New World” to make it the most satisfying MCU movie of 2025 – so far. The asterisk alludes to an alternative title that appears onscreen as one of several end-credits revelations, but an equally welcome surprise is the realization that Kevin Feige could revitalize widespread interest in Marvel on the big screen as we look ahead to renditions of the Fantastic Four and the X-Men. Wrapping up Phase Five of what is arguably the most successful sustained brand of interconnected feature films in the history of Hollywood, director Jake Schreier’s bounce into the superhero game greatly benefits from the filmmaker’s interest in character-driven storytelling.

Devoted superhero fans don’t need any convincing to check out what’s on offer. And on the flipside, those who align with Martin Scorsese and don’t want the homework of keeping track of all the characters, callbacks, and references across so many “amusement park ride” titles aren’t going to rush out to the box office, especially for a movie with minor league headliners. The challenge for Feige is simultaneously keeping all the crossovers and tie-ins unified while allowing the hired filmmakers enough room to put their personal stamps on features that should be allowed to stand on their own as self-contained pieces of entertainment. In that regard, “Thunderbolts*” pretty much gets to have its cake and eat it.

For the past several years, Schreier has been steadily racking up multiple music video and episodic television credits, including the AMC-distributed concert film “Chance the Rapper’s Magnificent Coloring World.” But his only two traditional narrative features prior to “Thunderbolts*” are 2012 debut “Robot & Frank” and the 2015 adaptation of John Green’s coming-of-age novel “Paper Towns.” Those two titles don’t necessarily anticipate a transition to the massive scale of apocalyptic set pieces and computer-generated visual effects for a full team of super agents, but Schreier handles explosions as comfortably as he mines the tortured and melodramatic psychological darkness plaguing Lewis Pullman’s godlike Sentry, an amnesiac more powerful than all the Avengers combined.

Two press narratives have routinely accompanied the film’s release. The first is that the Thunderbolts are Marvel’s answer to DC’s Suicide Squad, which, I suppose, works as a bit of shorthand to explain the group’s ragtag misfit status as a gang of expendable “punch and shoot” B-listers assigned to carry out thankless dirty work. The slippery and untrustworthy antagonist Valentina Allegra de Fontaine, played by Julia Louis-Dreyfus, might be in a few more scenes than necessary in this one; the movie rinses and repeats often enough. But Pugh rhymes with glue, and she holds together three worse-for-wear super soldiers (Sebastian Stan’s Bucky Barnes, Wyatt Russell’s John Walker and David Harbour’s Alexei Shostakov) and the less impactful Ava Starr (Hannah John-Kamen).

The second narrative, buoyed by Pugh’s now seized-upon and oft-repeated suggestion in an “Empire” interview that “Thunderbolts*” “ … ended up becoming this quite badass indie, A24-feeling assassin movie with Marvel superheroes” is more of a stretch given the budget and saturation, but the sentiment activates conversation around the tone and the vibe, which drills deep into all kinds of somber mental health issues. The climactic outcome of the seemingly hopeless mission to stop Sentry/Void from snuffing out lives like an updated version of super-robot Gort blasting perceived threats in “The Day the Earth Stood Still” relies not on brute force but on intellect and empathy.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Toronto-based filmmaker Alison Duke shines a light on a pioneering Jamaican recording artist and her most famous and durable song in the documentary feature “Bam Bam: The Sister Nancy Story.” Duke’s movie, which premiered at the 2024 Tribeca Film Festival, is a must-see for music fans, but the big personality of its principal subject is appealing enough to attract any curious viewer who might cross paths with the colorful and engrossing tale. Sister Nancy, the performing handle of Ophlin Russell, broke industry barriers with the LP “One, Two.” Released in 1982 when Russell was 20 years old, the record’s ten tracks included “Bam Bam,” which would go on to become the most-sampled reggae/dancehall song in hip-hop.

Duke serves up a good primer on the incredible sounds that came from Kingston and also spends plenty of time conveying what it’s like to just hang out with Sister Nancy, whose unglamorous day job as a fraud investigator at a bank is humorously depicted as a kind of alter-ego or secret identity to the on-stage star who jets off to live performances during weekends and vacation days. Russell’s husband does not appear, but Duke introduces viewers to daughter Shandy. The two women share a warm and close relationship. The director balances the intimacy of these down-to-earth, personal experiences with the awe and regard expressed by current stars like Janelle Monae, who invited Sister Nancy to join her on “The French 75” for “The Age of Pleasure” album.

Members of Main Source, hip-hop legends who were the first of dozens to sample “Bam Bam” when they used it in “Just Hangin’ Out,” speak to the bona fides of Sister Nancy’s anthem. Some of the most legendary production ears in the business, including Pete Rock, DJ Red Alert, DJ Kool Herc, and Young Guru, also speak on camera with deep reverence. It would have been nice to explore a few other key Sister Nancy highlights, but “Bam Bam” is ubiquitous. From the movie “Belly” to Beyonce to a Reebok spot, the supply of examples is so deep, there is no room to include dozens of other high-profile variants.

It isn’t easy to make a feature-length film about a single song. Nate Harrison’s like-minded 2004 video essay on the so-called Amen break is the kind of companion piece that hints at a largely unexplored avenue of pop culture history. Harrison’s work, lasting less than 20 minutes, succinctly walks listeners through many of the same issues excavated by Duke. The Amen break, taken from the 1969 song “Amen, Brother” by the Winstons (the B-side of hit “Color Him Father”), would go on to become the most reinterpreted six seconds in modern music history, turning up in one form or another on thousands of derivative recordings made by artists across many genres and used in a multitude of radio and television commercials.

Both Duke and Harrison examine the complexities of sampling from the symbolic North Pole of artistic homage to the South Pole of uncompensated and/or plagiarized appropriation. The latter section of Duke’s film is mainly focused on a kind of magnetic-tape archaeological dig that begins with decades of lost revenue and royalties owed to Sister Nancy and arrives at a contentious date reuniting several studio musicians who played on “Stalag 17,” the 1974 recording that lays down the “riddim,” or rhythm section, of “Bam Bam.” Superfans might desire a bit more detail and nuance in the film’s look at the tradition of the Jamaican sampling culture that routinely repurposed material – even the use of the phrase “bam bam” goes back to Toots and the Maytals in 1966 – but Duke keeps the beat.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Ryan Coogler goes big and bold with “Sinners,” a sweaty, bloody vampire movie set in 1932. The filmmaker stuffs this universe with enough ideas to serve a limited-series season of episodic television, but the feature format ultimately suits something that brings together Coogler’s large canvas experiences at the helm of massive Marvel hits and the more intimate contours of debut “Fruitvale Station.” Close collaborator Michael B. Jordan has appeared in all five of Coogler’s movies, and here plays entrepreneurial, color-coded twins Elijah “Smoke” Moore and Elias “Stack” Moore, World War I vets who return to the Mississippi Delta following some Capone-related post-military service time in Chicago.

Coogler delights in showcasing Autumn Durald Arkapaw’s beautifully-shot imagery (photographed on IMAX 65mm cameras and 65mm large-format film), taking time to introduce Jordan’s Moore siblings and other key figures in the cast. Chief among them is newcomer Miles Caton’s Sammie “Preacher Boy” Moore, a cousin whose natural gift for blues guitar places him at odds with his religious father (Saul Williams). Hailee Steinfeld’s Mary, whose late mother links her to the Moores, has a tempestuous relationship with Stack. Wunmi Mosaku’s Annie rekindles her connection to Smoke, with whom she shares the heartbreak of a child who died. Smoke and Stack purchase a building and property that they plan to turn into a rollicking juke joint.

The action of the first half of “Sinners” primarily tracks a series of errands and preparations undertaken by the Moore family ahead of their grand opening. Coogler seamlessly blends these tasks with character-building exposition, introducing general store owners Grace and Bo Chow (Li Jun Li and Yao), Sammie’s love interest Pearline (Jayme Lawson), and alcoholic musician Delta Slim (Delroy Lindo). The director briefly makes a hard shift to a separate storyline in which Jack O’Connell’s desperate Remmick tries to stay one step ahead of a posse of Choctaw vampire hunters. In one of Coogler’s few missteps, the Indigenous pursuers vanish from the movie as abruptly as they enter.

Even before “Sinners” builds to a battle royale that will be followed by another showdown (and then a coda and then one last performance), Coogler makes sure viewers get their money’s worth in the climax department. “Sinners” has already drawn some attention for its sensuality and sexuality. The filmmaker explores desire in multiple guises and multiple moments, with both verbal and visual investment in cunnilingus frequently foregrounded as a motif. No less potent is one of the most exhilarating scenes of the year, in which past, present and future griots writhe, stomp, and shred in a stunning, show-stopping set piece attesting to the awesome power of Black music.

For those who gravitate toward any and all depictions of the onscreen vampire, Coogler’s placement of the culturally durable bloodsuckers within a larger framework that considers race, community and belonging calls to mind a variety of precedents, from classics like “Blacula” and “Ganja & Hess” to more recent titles such as “Black as Night.” There are also echoes of “Near Dark,” “The Lost Boys,” “From Dusk Till Dawn,” and “True Blood.” But “Sinners” really comes into its own with enough juice/mojo/electricity to seriously contemplate the greater evil: vampires or Ku Klux Klansmen. Needless to say, if this movie ever gets added to the collection of the U.S. Naval Academy library, the Trump administration would certainly ban it.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Given the volume of existing media material on the topic, longtime admirers of legendary documentarian Errol Morris might wonder why he would elect to become the umpteenth person to cover the horrific crimes of the Manson Family. Whether or not the fee paid to Morris by Netflix factored into the decision I cannot say, but “Chaos: The Manson Murders,” while typical in many ways of the established Morris style, never rises to the top-tier level of quality that marks the filmmaker’s very best work. Based on Tom O’Neill’s 2019 book “CHAOS: Charles Manson, the CIA, and the Secret History of the Sixties,” the standalone documentary races through familiar and unfamiliar aspects of the ghoulish but perpetually fascinating chapter of American history.

O’Neill’s all-caps CHAOS, despite its equally acceptable use as a descriptor, refers to the CIA’s domestic espionage project that the author links to several theories related to Charles Manson and his ability to operate for as long as he did without consequences. Along with the FBI’s COINTELPRO (an abbreviation of Counter Intelligence Program), the covert and mostly illegal government operations attempted to surveil, infiltrate, and disrupt all kinds of mainly leftist political organizations, including the Black Panthers and the American Indian Movement. Was Manson swept up, trained, and supported by the feds? It sounds preposterous.

Initially, one might question these outrageous claims contained within the tapestry of connect-the-dots conspiracies offered by O’Neill, but thankfully, the traditionally wary and skeptical Morris gives equal time to the more mundane – and more likely – scenario that former Manson Family member Bobby Beausoleil states from his prison cell: Manson coerced and pressured his followers and they went along with it. Morris entertains enough “new” ideas as a provocative counterpoint to the deeply ingrained and widely accepted account written by Manson prosecutor Vincent Bugliosi (collaborating with Curt Gentry) in what remains to this day the best-selling true crime book in history: “Helter Skelter: The True Story of the Manson Murders.”

As a publishing phenomenon, “Helter Skelter” is responsible for a great deal of the ongoing public fascination with the Manson Family and could sustain a documentary of its own. In recent treatments like Karina Longworth’s “You Must Remember This” podcast, which devoted an entire season to Charles Manson’s Hollywood in 2015, and the six-episode 2020 miniseries “Helter Skelter: An American Myth,” the cottage industry fueled by the Manson machine is so widespread that one can’t help but think that Morris should have come up with something far more radical and coherent than “Chaos.”

For decades, clips of Manson’s post-conviction prison interviews have radiated with an inexplicable magnetic pull. I remember watching footage in my public high school library during a social studies unit; it was essentially a rite of passage for older students to pass along the details of the 1969 Tate-LaBianca slayings as part of a larger discussion on the ethics of the death penalty. Whether Manson was out of his mind or merely putting on a convincing performance sparked lengthy conversations. One thing is for sure: none of us would ever want to be in the same room with Charlie under any circumstances. Morris confirms that.