Category: Drama

SONG SUNG BLUE

By Marc S. Sanders

Films that are based on true stories will always take theatrical liberties with the storytelling.  Look at Oliver Stone’s JFK.  Sometimes, if it is so skewed you absolutely should not approve of it.  Consider Bowling For Columbine which starts out with an offensive, bold-faced lie to draw you in.  

On other occasions, the alterations made justifiably serve the picture to obtain an emotional reach from the audience.  Craig Brewer wrote and directed Song Sung Blue, which he calls an incredible true story.  The set ups seem too perfect to convince me some of these events actually happened.  However, the major highlights ring absolutely authentic and with an entertaining pair like Hugh Jackman and Kate Hudson leading the picture, this is a magnificent experience.  The audience I saw it with on Christmas Day was so wrapped in what was put on screen, with organic comedy, tragic setbacks and toe tapping harmonized energy from the two actors doing outstanding “impressionism” of Grammy winning singer Neil Diamond.  

Mike and Claire Sardina (Jackman and Hudson) meet while working as tribute performers at a local fair.  She’s doing Patsy Cline.  He’s refusing to be Don Ho.  They quickly fall in love, like literally on the next night after they meet, and brainstorm with his guitar and her piano how they can become a musical act on their own.  Mike wants to emulate someone that lives up to his energy and persona. He declares to an AA group that he’s a “superhero of music.”  He’s Lightning.  She’s Thunder.  Claire thinks Neil Diamond is the perfect facade.  Mike agrees so long as the unfavorable “Suleman” opens their shows, and they resort to other numbers besides “Sweet Caroline.”

Soon they are married while his daughter Angelina (King Princess) befriends her daughter Rachel (Ella Anderson).  Her son Dana (Hudson Henley) takes to video recording their performances.  One happy, blended family.  

Like most musician biographies, Lightning and Thunder get off to a rocky start performing in seedy venues with audiences who would rather they play Lynyrd Skynyrd.  Naturally, a following and a stride eventually build, and the act is somehow opening for a popular grunge band from the 1990s.  I won’t spoil who it is because Mike and Claire never heard of this headliner. This delivers a great gag.

Song Sung Blue is a warm comfortable journey through its first act.  It’s hard not to love anyone occupying this picture, including supporting turns from Michael Imperioli, Fisher Stevens and an unrecognizable Jim Belushi.  Once you’re settled into the story the dramatic weight of the piece enters, and it becomes heartbreaking for Lightning and Thunder.  Only after this unexpected change is introduced does the need for triumph work as the story’s conflict, and there is a lot to contend with for the couple, and particularly Rachel.

These characters are so likable that you’re apt to feel proud of them and Brewer does good work at showing the struggle.  Kate Hudson, with a Midwest accent, is especially effective.  She goes from offering a welcome personality to being cold, bitter and angry.  I wouldn’t object if she got an Oscar nomination.

Hugh Jackman is a magnificent entertainer.  Unlike his Wolverine films, his real age with wrinkles and grey hair deliver a twenty-year sober alcoholic living with a chronic health issue. However, Mike has an unstoppable drive of positivity through music with a microphone, a strumming guitar, and his flowing hair to compliment his colorful and sparkled stage outfits.  Brewer allows room for Lightning’s weaknesses, both physically and mentally.  

There’s a nice balance of both characters at the top of their game as well as far beneath the bottom rung of the ladder.

Song Sung Blue is very absorbing in the moment.  Only after I walked out did I question some of the set ups and wonder if certain events truly happened as assembled into the final edit.  I’m skeptical if the conclusion for one character truly played out like it did.  It’s just too neatly wrapped up like a Hallmark film or a soap opera episode.  That being said, the manipulations worked on me and the audience.  So, why should it bother us?

A twisted irony also happens though, which I had no choice but to believe.  It’s just simply too outrageous that Craig Brewer would work it into this story if it wasn’t true.  My wife exclaimed “No way!  You’ve got to be kidding me!”  Without knowing anything about the real Mike and Claire or seeing the documentary film this picture is based on, my gut insists this has got to be true and a reason why Song Sung Blue merits a movie presentation featuring two Oscar nominated actors.

When you see Song Sung Blue I urge not to frown on the film if you notice some of the truths are stretched a little.  Instead, absorb the outstanding performances of Hugh Jackman and Kate Hudson doing electrifying interpretations of Neil Diamond’s collection of hit songs including “Better In Blue Jeans” and of course “Sweet Caroline.”

Song Sung Blue is marvelous entertainment.

BEFORE THE DEVIL KNOWS YOU’RE DEAD

By Marc S. Sanders

When it comes to crime – New York crime – few directors come as close as Sidney Lumet to make an audience feel the authenticity of its trappings.  Maybe only Martin Scorsese can stand next to Lumet.  Either with crime on the streets (Dog Day Afternoon, Serpico) or within the courtrooms (Find Me Guilty, 12 Angry Men), or both (Night Falls On Manhattan), Sidney Lumet hones directly upon how the plans should operate and when everything should unfold or derail.  

With the last picture before his death, Before The Devil Knows You’re Dead zeroes in on crime within an educated Irish family nucleus.  Andrew (Phillip Seymour Hoffman) has it laid out perfectly for his younger brother Hank (Ethan Hawke) to commit the perfect robbery. No one will get hurt and the insurance company will cover any loss.  The approximate take is around six hundred thousand. These guys carry their own desperate reasons for even considering such an idea, but Andy knows nothing can go wrong.  Hank has some trepidation though, because the target is mom and dad’s jewelry store.

Kelly Masterson’s script shows how quickly everything comes undone with bloodshed and unaccounted for details that could lead straight back to the two brothers.  It’s all told through three different perspectives – Andy, Hank and their father Charles played by Albert Finney.  Often, Lumet will return to the very same scene you saw moments earlier to show two sides of a phone call or in what direction one character goes versus that of another following a particular action that has occurred.  The timeline even jumps back in time a few days to show the direct perspective of any of these three particular characters ahead of showpiece scene – the robbery. Charles was retaking his driver’s license test. Elsewhere, Hank was struggling to pay spousal and child support with an angry ex-wife (Amy Ryan). Andrew was scheming and committing other clandestine acts both at work and in his free time.

However, Masterson’s script weaves all of these side details into how much more complicated this botched robbery becomes in the aftermath. All of what they commit following the robbery compounds into potentially making it worse for everyone involved.

Some of the breadcrumbs don’t carry enough water at times though. You might have to tolerate the characters being more intuitive than they likely should be.  Andrew leaves a business card with a side character.  When the film circles back to this item, it seems a little too easy for someone else to get wise about what has transpired.  I just chose to go with it.

Marisa Tomei is also part of the cast, caught in a love triangle as Andy’s wife and Hank’s mistress.  Tomei is really good, lending some authenticity with unscrupulous nudity in scenes with both Hoffman and Hawke.  This storyline serves as character exposition and only briefly scrapes against the crime drama at play.  It could have been excised from the film, but because the dialogue and scenario is written and performed so well, it effectively held my attention.

Albert Finney is magnificent as the patriarch owner of the store.  Simply his devastated, echoey breathing and the way he fumbles to put his eyeglasses on to learn more about what has occurred is absolutely genuine.  A late middle-aged man discovering horrible truths.  Finney plays it beautifully.  That being said, I wish the film offered more backstory to his character.  There are few hints suggesting how he regarded Andy as the first born who needed be thrown to the wolves and learn to fend for himself.  Contrarily, Hank is the younger and more disappointing son.  Yet, the script is short on material that further explores the relationship between the father and his sons.  I felt the film demanded more because Charles is quite significant to the conclusion of the story, which carries an unexpectedly abrupt ending.  

The acting and assembly of time and perspective are so finely tuned by the whole cast under Lumet’s direction.  Still, Before The Devil Knows You’re Dead needed another twenty to thirty minutes of storytelling.  One character runs out of frame with an unfinished storyline.  Another, seems too hasty in making a final decision with an easy convenience.

Don’t get me wrong.  I strongly recommend this last effort from Sidney Lumet.  It’s a unique crime yarn with an especially conniving Phillip Seymour Hoffman doing some of his best work.  The set up had me riveted and I couldn’t wait to see how all these terrible scenarios were going to fix themselves or make things horribly worse.

A SIMPLE PLAN

By Marc S. Sanders

“Three can keep a secret if two are dead.”  – Benjamin Franklin, pictured on the one-hundred-dollar bill

A murder of crows is made especially prominent at the beginning of this dark, wintry fable from director Sam Raimi and writer Scott B Smith, based off of his novel, A Simple Plan.  

On the afternoon of New Year’s Eve Day, Hank, his brother Jacob and Leon get swerved off a slippery Minnesota road while riding in a beat-up pickup truck. They come upon a crashed airplane buried under a blanket of snow in the woods.  Besides the pecking crows feasting on the corpse of a dead pilot, they uncover a duffle bag with over four million dollars; tons of bales of strapped hundred-dollar bills.  What should they do? Report the discovery to the police or secretly keep it to divide among themselves?

Hank (Bill Paxton) is the educated sensible member of the trio.  Jacob (Billy Bob Thornton) is his dim-witted brother.  Leon (Brent Briscoe) is Jacob’s loudmouth drinking buddy.  After much debate, the men agree that Hank will hold on to the money until springtime.  By then, if no one is looking for the loot, then it surely can be shared among them.  

Easier said than done.

This is one of Bill Paxton’s best roles, not only because he’s a fine actor, but his character is constructed beautifully with one internal conflict after another.  He carries an appearance of a doting husband to his pregnant wife Sarah (Bridget Fonda, who I wish never retired from acting) and he’s well-liked by the folks of this town.  He’s also a protective brother to Jacob.   However, money changes people and hypocrisy and plotting turn this good man corrupt.

Billy Bob Thornton is brilliant in an Oscar nominated role. It’s not easy to portray the sweet dumb guy when your career has demonstrated how insightful you are as a winning screenwriter and actor (Sling Blade).  Jacob looks “lived in” within this sleepy town with a pair of broken eyeglasses, an old parka and boots.  He’s the troublemaker and the sheriff knows this schlub can’t take care of himself.  As Hank changes one way over the course of the film, Jacob literally transitions in a completely opposite direction of character.  Both approach their tests of ethics and morality differently, and it’s fair to say that a gift of simple logic and sensibility can be more of a curse rather than a blessing.

Bridget Fonda operates like a conniving Lady MacBeth as Hank’s wife Sarah.  She’s adorable and sweet as the happy couple await the delivery of their first child any day now.  What good fortune to come upon this money to help with living a lifetime of comfort and joy.  Sarah knows this is all going to work out, but what’s important is that Hank covers his tracks while also being especially cautious of Leon and Jacob’s reputation for carelessness.  Sarah has an answer for everything and a proactive approach to handle this surprise windfall.

Yet, the luck of one man is the demise of another, and another and maybe even another.  

A Simple Plan is anything but.  Too many people know what is discovered.  Even the inconvenience of snow-covered plains work against any kind of airtight solution.  Snow leaves tracks.  What if someone lets a simple, but curious, word slip?  What if someone wants his share sooner than agreed upon?  What if someone is in the wrong place at the wrong time? 

Scott B Smith changes the tune of his script over and over.  First, it questions the morality of man.  Later, it traverses into crime and cover up.  After that, A Simple Plan hinges upon survival while questioning a series of costs.

Because most of the characters in this small Minnesota town are blue collar and not formally educated, you might believe they lack the intuition to properly guard themselves or the ones they hold dear.  On the surface, this is a friendly community, and everyone bears a facade of innocence with Happy New Year greetings. Actually, desperation only enhances the thinking abilities of these people to do the most twisted of acts to protect what they consider their rightful, personal entitlement.  

Each act of extreme behavior seems justified in the eyes of Hank, Jacob, Sarah and Leon. I mean this is four million dollars we are talking about here.  Try to see it their way, and you’ll know what I mean.

CHRISTY

By Marc S. Sanders

Boxing movies are nothing new.  The best ones depict the fighter surviving personal battles outside of the ring.  That was likely true with the fictional Rocky Balboa.  It might have also been what kept Jake LaMotta alive well beyond his demons.  It’s definitely a fair argument for Christy Martin, the first boxing champion to bring the sport into the mainstream for females.

Her story comes to the big screen with an astonishing Oscar caliber performance from Sydney Sweeney.  I saw Christy a week ago and I cannot stop thinking about it.  The material within this biography from writer/director David Michôd is entirely familiar.  Still, the character of Christy and what she endures is worthy of a movie.

Beginning in 1989, eighteen-year-old Christy Salters haphazardly begins her climb up the ranks with small time underground fights in her Virginia hometown.  She’s not educated and she’s not embarrassed about being in a relationship with her girlfriend.  Her bible loving mother Joyce (Merritt Weaver in an authentic, all too real and villainous role) says otherwise. She’d take her daughter to the local minister to draw the gay out of her if the girl wouldn’t rebel with a temper inflamed by F-bombs.

Christy is summoned for higher stakes fights in Texas.  She wins that one and then is connected with Jim Martin (Ben Foster) who witnesses one hard swing from the girl in a sparring match. He commits his entire life to being her coach.  Ask Jim and he’ll say he made Christy what she becomes, a near undefeated champion adorned in signature pink and on the cover of Sports Illustrated – a first for a female boxer.  The film reminds the audience that Jim’s perspective is hardly true.  This jerk nearly screws up Christy’s chances of getting a lucrative contract with Don King (Chad L Coleman) which included pre-fights ahead of Mike Tyson’s Vegas appearances in the ring.  If only Jim’s laziness and procrastination were his worst qualities, though.

Christy becomes an emotional challenge to watch as it progresses. David Michôd’s film burrows into the dark underbelly of athletic success. Once Jim and Christy are married, a limited lifestyle cages the young phenomenon with the husband/coach’s monstrous tendencies.  The torment that victimizes this woman is beyond compare as she must succumb to demonizing sex slavery for his twisted, intoxicating yearnings, as well as for anyone he collects money from who ready to engage in brawls with her, in dirty hotel rooms.  Working in her corner at the fights, Jim does not protect Christy against opponents that she is clearly no match for.

Christy is physically abused and mentally tortured by Jim, and maybe by other intimidating powers like Don King.  Chad L Coleman delivers a brilliant and familiar persona to King.  The boxer is also financially getting ripped off, despite opening a Florida gym in her name with Jim listed before her on the front door.  

It’s astonishing to see how much peace Christy can find in a boxing ring alone against an opponent.  At home, she can only acquiesce to what’s demanded or forced upon her.  There’s no fight at home.  Only surrender.

I had recently seen Sydney Sweeney host Saturday Night Live.  It was one of many terrible episodes in the show’s history because the writers only catered to Sweeney’s youthful glamour and looks.  There was a skit taking place in a Hooter’s restaurant where her character was collecting the biggest tips based upon how she filled out the signature uniform.  It was lousy, unaware and insensitive writing.  Actors like Anne Hathaway or Natalie Portman were never treated this way on the program. None of the skits gave Sweeney something unique and worthy of what she’s capable of.

In Christy, with a white trash twang, and a puffed up brunette curly hair style (later it becomes blond corn rows), Sydney Sweeney is doing what Meryl Streep would have committed to in a physically taxing role like this.  Sweeney demonstrates a focused young girl going after what she wants even if it means she has to make up for her husband’s shortcomings as a negotiator.  He’ll beat the shit out of her, but Christy Martin matures as Michôd’s film progresses with intense training moments and riveting fight scenes that have Sweeney in action.  

Ben Foster is that committed actor who never looks the same in two different roles.  I didn’t even recognize the former Disney kid until I saw his name in the end credits.  Outdated polyester clothing and track suits from the 1990s do not hide that paunch, ugly belly.  Christy’s winning purses of prize money cannot conceal his bleach blond combover or his trashy southern accent.  Yet, he is nothing but noticeable when he is on screen.  Foster is the worst kind of cad with a terrifying grip on his wife and her career.  A terrible eyesore within the presence of the film.  Jim Martin is none too bright, but he knows how to hold a wrenching grasp and he’s entirely frightening.

Merritt Weaver is the quiet antagonist.  Unlike Foster’s character, the mind games that Joyce plays on her daughter are not so intentional as they are natural.  This mother refuses to see beyond the expected dominance of a man to uphold a catholic home, devoid of sinful lesbian practices.  It’s awful when a mother will side with a daughter’s abusive husband. Weaver’s portrayal of Christy’s bible committed mother demands to be hated.  

Ahead of seeing this film, I knew nothing about Christy Martin.  So, when a shocking moment occurs in the third act, my jaw dropped at the direction of the scene.  An action occurs and Michôd’s camera seems frozen in position as a character paces in and out of the room.  Then the character returns and commits a much uglier act.  Then the back-and-forth pace continues with a harrowing stare down before exiting to take a shower.  I know Christy is just a movie.  Yet, I cannot recall the last time I felt so helpless as a witness to what I was observing. I wanted step into the screen and lend aid. I only hope that when the film comes out in digital format, some insight is provided into how Sydney Sweeney and Ben Foster circumvented around their clashes of characters.  All of it feels too real.

Sydney Sweeney is also convincing as the battering boxer.  Like most films that cover sports, there are typical training and fighting montages here.  Sweeney is not afraid to behave ugly for the showmanship needed to be in an elite ring.  There’s one expression she delivers in a blink/miss wide shot lens after she knocks out an opponent.  It feels so organic as a bloodied Sydney Sweeney outstretched with her gloved fists, prances around the ring, gives a shoulder shrug and sticks her tongue out.  This actress knew exactly how to play this character, soaked in sweat with blood streaking out of her mouth and nose absent of any kind of humility that would show weakness in a champion fighter.

I am afraid though.  Christy is currently not the box office titan it deserves to be and come awards time, I’m certain Sweeney, Foster, Coleman and Weaver will be wrongfully overlooked.  Sydney Sweeney, a producer on the film, was asked what her reaction is to the sluggish financial returns.  Best she could, she replied by saying not all films are made for the money.  Some need to be made for the art.  I’ll go a step further and declare that Christy serves as an advocate for awareness of domestic violence and prevention.  Amazingly though, this film executes astounding triumphs for those underdogs who have next to nothing.

Christy is one of the best films of the year.  

THE EXTERMINATING ANGEL (Mexico, 1962)

by Miguel E. Rodriguez

DIRECTOR: Luis Buñuel
CAST: Silvia Pinal, Jacqueline Andere, José Baviera
MY RATING: 9/10
ROTTEN TOMATOMETER: 94% Fresh

PLOT: The guests at an upper-class dinner party find themselves unable to leave the drawing room in Buñuel’s famous, none-too-subtle satire.


Buñuel’s The Exterminating Angel has many moods.  On the one hand, it’s a dark comedy of manners railing against the entitlements of the upper classes, much like the more recent Triangle of Sadness (2022), which owes much to this film.  On the other, it’s a Serling-esque horror story mining a common occasion for unexpected suspense, like The Ruins (2008) or Open Water (2003).  On a deeper level, perhaps it’s a Lynchian exploration of the human psyche, regardless of class, like Mulholland Drive (2001) or…well, with Lynch, you can probably just take your pick.

I experienced all of those moods while watching The Exterminating Angel.  I haven’t seen such an effective juxtaposition of tone since Everything Everywhere All at Once (2022).

The weirdness starts right away, in scenes that seem to be setting the stage for a Marx Brothers comedy.  Edmundo Nobile (“Nobile”, “noble”, get it, wink, wink?) has invited a large number of his posh friends to his mansion for dinner following an opera.  The moment they arrive, Nobile notes that his servants are not stationed at the door to take the visitors’ coats.  This is because most of the servants felt the sudden need to take the night off and left, being careful to avoid their employer.  He makes a statement about his servants, then everyone troops up the grand staircase to the dining room.

Moments later, this scene literally repeats itself, not by re-using the same footage, but in a separate take.  This kind of repetition occurs multiple times during the actual dinner scene, as well.  If there’s a deeper meaning to this device, I’ll have to leave it to film scholars to analyze.  For myself, it simply added a layer of oddness to the proceedings, but not in a bad way.

The dinner scene contains pratfalls, repeated conversations, and a visit to a side room containing three or four lambs and a bear on a leash.  What the WHAT…?  I remember thinking, okay, so this is going to a broad comedy turning upper-class manners into slapstick.  Seen it before, so I hope this movie executes it well.

The weirdness escalates when everyone retreats to a drawing room just off the dining room, where one of Nobile’s guests entertains everyone with a piano solo.  But when one of them tries to leave, he finds he can’t.  Not physically, like there’s suddenly an invisible wall, but one by one the guests discover they’re simply unable to leave the room.

They slowly realize the logistics of this bizarre situation.  The drawing room has no food.  Water runs low.  The one servant who remained outside manages to bring in a tray of water and coffee, but when he tries to leave to bring food…he can’t.  There’s no phone for them to call anyone about their predicament.

Outside the house, people find themselves unable to enter the grounds, so no one can tell what has happened to the people inside.  Curious crowds gather.  Inside, social structure starts to degenerate.  There are no restrooms, but one quick shot reveals a closet full of nothing but vases, and we see people entering and exiting these rooms repeatedly.  Ick.  Arguments are started with the drop of a hat.  One couple finds a unique, but undesirable, method of escaping their prison.

I responded to this material very unexpectedly, due mostly to its unpredictability.  I wasn’t cheering at the sight of upper-class twits being brought low when faced with bizarre circumstances, but I was more in tune with the horrific aspects of this story.  Buñuel has stated in interviews that he regretted not being able to take the story even further by including cannibalism, which is honestly where I thought things were headed.  It would have made a marvelous satirical statement, hearkening all the way back to Jonathan Swift.

(So, what DO they eat, you may be asking yourself?  Wouldn’t EWE like to know?)

I realize this review of the film hasn’t been much more than just a summary of its events, minus the surprising, “circular” ending.  A more detailed analysis might require listening to the commentary or reading Roger Ebert’s review or something.  But I hope I’ve conveyed how much I enjoyed The Exterminating Angel.  It was weird and surreal and absurd, and comic and horrific, and slapstick and satiric, and totally unpredictable all the way to the final frame.

P.S.  Now that I’ve seen this movie, the Woody Allen film Midnight in Paris (2011) has even deeper resonance when Gil meets Buñuel at a party and gives him the idea for The Exterminating Angel, and even Buñuel can’t understand it: “But I don’t get it. Why don’t they just walk out of the room?”  Funny stuff.

ASHES AND DIAMONDS (Poland, 1958)

by Miguel E. Rodriguez

DIRECTOR: Andrzej Wajda
CAST: Zbigniew Cybulski, Ewa Krzyzewska, Waclaw Zastrzezynski
MY RATING: 7/10
ROTTEN TOMATOMETER: 96% Fresh

PLOT: Against a backdrop of internal political turmoil at the end of World War II, a Polish resistance fighter faces a crisis of conscience when ordered to assassinate a Soviet official.


The Polish film Ashes and Diamonds is reportedly Francis Ford Coppola’s favorite movie, and Martin Scorsese has stated in interviews that he used it as an answer for one of his finals at film school.  From a technical standpoint, I can see why.  Echoes of this film (and perhaps others from director Andrzej Wajda’s filmography) are overwhelmingly evident in the bodies of work of both directors, from the mobile camera to the shocking moments of violence to the psychological makeup of the characters themselves.  As an emotional experience, I confess I didn’t get “worked up” over it, but it was interesting to see where two of the greatest American film directors got a healthy dose of inspiration.

Ashes and Diamonds opens on May 8, 1945, with an idyllic scene outside a country church that quickly degenerates into a brutal double murder.  The killers are the calm, detached Andrzej and the flighty, charismatic Maciek, who spends most of the movie behind dark sunglasses.  We quickly learn their victims are not who they thought they would be.  Instead of killing two Soviet/Communist officials, they have killed two innocent factory workers.  War is hell.

Later, through circumstances that feel very Hitchcockian, Andrzej and Maciek hole up in a hotel bar, only to discover that one of their real targets, Szczuka, has booked a room in the very same hotel.  Maciek books a room directly below Szczuka’s, and the rest of the film plays out with that element of suspense hanging in the background, leaving us to wonder when and how Maciek will complete his assignment.

Complications arise when Maciek becomes infatuated with the hotel bartender, Krystyna, a blond beauty who rebuffs Maciek’s advances at first.  Later, they connect, but she doesn’t want to get involved with someone when it will eventually have to end: “I don’t want bad memories when memories are all I have left.”  Maciek falls for her so hard that he starts to doubt his resolve to kill his target.  “Will he or won’t he?” becomes the movie’s prime conflict.

Where to begin with the comparisons to Coppola and Scorsese?  The most obvious one is the unblinking attitude towards violence.  The two killings at the beginning of the film are done with very few cutaways as we see the multiple bullet hits on each victim, with one of them getting hit in the eye and another shot in the back at point blank range with such force his shirt catches fire.  (Malfunctioning squib?  Possibly, but it’s still effective.)  It’s interesting that this movie predates Bonnie and Clyde (1967) by almost a decade, but its depiction of onscreen violence feels very modern, even by today’s standards.

Then you’ve got the moral struggle of the main character, a man of action capable of casual murder who is suddenly given a reason to make something different with his life.  This reminded me of Scorsese’s The Departed (2006), with DiCaprio’s character undergoing the same internal conflict.  Maciek has multiple opportunities to kill Szczuka throughout the film, but something always pulls him back from the brink.  His partner, Andrzej, becomes impatient and reminds him what happens when soldiers let personal feelings interfere with their duties.  I had a vivid flashback of Michael Corleone’s credo: “It’s not personal, Sonny.  It’s just business.”

(I also felt that the dynamic between Maciek and his more level-headed partner Andrzej were evoked in Scorsese’s Mean Streets [1973], with De Niro’s Johnny Boy and his more level-headed partner Charlie, played by Harvey Keitel.)

But, cinematic comparisons aside, I didn’t find Ashes and Diamonds to be as gripping as other war or crime dramas of that era, such as Elevator to the Gallows, Touch of Evil (both 1958), or Rififi (1955), to name a few.  It’s a little weird to me, because all the pieces are there for a first-rate thriller.  I’m not asking that every drama pack the exact same kind of emotional gut punch every single time because I know that’s unrealistic.  But the fact remains: Ashes and Diamonds, while clearly very influential on future filmmakers, did not get me as involved as I would like to have been.  I was never bored, but neither was I over the moon.  It was…average.  Perhaps one day I’ll watch it again with a fresh eye to maybe see what I missed the first time around.

FRANKENSTEIN (2025)

by Miguel E. Rodriguez

DIRECTOR: Guillermo del Toro
CAST: Oscar Isaac, Jacob Elordi, Christoph Waltz, Mia Goth, Charles Dance, David Bradley
MY RATING: 8/10
ROTTEN TOMATOMETER: 86% Certified Fresh

PLOT: A brilliant but egotistical scientist brings a creature to life in a monstrous experiment that threatens to undo both the creator and his tragic creation.


Having never read the original novel by Mary Shelley, I have no idea if Guillermo del Toro’s rendition of Frankenstein is any more or less faithful to the source material.  What’s interesting about this version is that it feels like it is.  There are long passages of dialogue and even some monologuing on the nature of life, death, and the creator’s responsibility to their creation.  del Toro is smart enough to balance these cerebral discussions with enough gothic (and gory) horror to satisfy any fan of the genre.  Call it a good example of a thinking man’s horror film.

Oscar Isaac’s performance as Victor Frankenstein puts a new spin on the stereotypical mad scientist.  He’s no less obsessed than previous versions, but del Toro and Isaac went for a slightly different vibe in his personal appearance.  Rather than a cackling lunatic with a god complex, Isaac’s doctor looks and sometimes behaves more like a self-absorbed rock star…with a god complex.  (I learn on IMDb that this was by design; del Toro wanted Victor to evoke David Bowie, Mick Jagger, and Prince…mission accomplished.)

Jacob Elordi as The Creature does an admirable job of generating sympathy and empathy for perhaps the greatest misunderstood monster of all time.  The unique makeup (which took up to 10 hours to apply!) allows Elordi to emote and lend humanity to the Creature in the second half of the film, especially during his encounter with the blind man.  There is a subtle but ingenious effect where one of his eyes will sometimes glow orange with reflected light as a reminder that, when push comes to shove, this Creature is not to be trifled with.

Mia Goth is a welcome presence as Elizabeth, who is not Victor’s love interest this time around, but fiancé to Victor’s younger brother, William.  I supposed I could quibble that the screenplay does not give Elizabeth much to do.  She comes across as the intellectual equal of Victor in a few well-written scenes, but her encounter with the chained Creature felt a little trope-y, and her character’s payoff left me wanting more.

The visual style of the film is crammed with del Toro’s signature fingerprints: huge gothic structures, elaborate costume designs (loved Victor’s mother’s red outfits near the start of the film), startling dream sequences, and lots of practical effects…well, more than there were in Pacific Rim (2013) and Crimson Peak (2015), anyway.  One image that really struck me was the unique design of two coffins seen in the film.  They looked more like futuristic cryogenic chambers than Victorian-era caskets.  Watch the movie and you’ll see what I mean.

Other things I loved:

  1. Victor’s early presentation of his theories to a disciplinary board, in which we get an echo of that creepy dead guy resurrected by Ron Perlman in del Toro’s Hellboy (2004).
  2. The towering set for Frankenstein’s laboratory.  What it lacks in the whirring, crackling machinery we normally associate with his lab, it makes up for in scale, including a yawning pit several feet across that really should have had a guardrail.
  3. Being able to get inside the Creature’s head this time around.  There have no doubt been other variations where the Creature speaks, but I haven’t seen one where he is this eloquent, expressing his pain and anguish over his unwanted existence and apparent immortality (his wounds are self-healing).  This is another factor that makes this movie feel more faithful to Shelley’s novel, even if it isn’t.
  4. The no-holds-barred aspect to the violence and gore, which can be quease-inducing, but which never feels overdone or exploitative.  In fact, the moment that scared me the most in the film had nothing to do with the gore or violence at all, but with one of the doctor’s early experiments that comes to life in a most surprising manner.

Above all, there’s the tragic nature of the poor Creature’s existence, the misunderstood monster that has been so often satirized or spoofed, and the deeper questions the story raises about our own lives.  It might be tempting to listen to the closing passages of the film and dismiss them as trite and sentimental, but Frankenstein earns those moments, in my opinion.  More than any other Frankenstein movie I’ve seen, this one made me think, and jump a little, in equal measures.  Tricky stuff.

THE LIFE OF EMILE ZOLA (1937)

by Miguel E. Rodriguez

DIRECTOR: William Dieterle
CAST: Paul Muni, Gale Sondergaard, Joseph Schildkraut, Gloria Holden
MY RATING: 9/10
ROTTEN TOMATOMETER: 92% Certified Fresh

PLOT: Prolific novelist and muckraker Emile Zola becomes involved in fighting the injustice of the infamous Dreyfus affair.


If you want to get me angry at the movies, you can do one of two things (besides leaving your phone on): Make a really terrible movie that makes me sorry I’ll never get those two hours back…or make a really good movie about some kind of social injustice, where those in power are so empirically wrong that any fool can see it, except those in power.  Matewan (1987) comes to mind, as do I, Daniel Blake (2016) and Do the Right Thing (1989).  William Dieterle’s The Life of Emile Zola falls neatly into that category, as well.

I’m tempted to give a play-by-play summary, but that would take too long.  In short, novelist and muckraking author Emile Zola is approached by the wife of Alfred Dreyfus, a French officer wrongly convicted of espionage and sentenced to Devil’s Island.  Mme. Dreyfus convinces Zola of her husband’s innocence, and Zola pens the famous J’Accuse…! article, an open letter published in the paper accusing the French military of antisemitism (Dreyfus was Jewish) and conspiracy.  The last act of the film covers Zola’s trial for libel.

The scenes that really made me angry were the ones where French officers planted, suppressed, or burned incriminating evidence of their own treachery.  Outright lies were paraded as fact, and the actual spy was acquitted in a court-martial of his own, just so the French government could continue the façade of Dreyfus’s guilt.  When the comeuppance arrives for the parties involved, it is immensely satisfying.  No one is drawn and quartered, which is what I would have preferred, but it’s good enough.

While the actor playing Dreyfus himself (Joseph Schildkraut) won the Oscar for Best Supporting Actor, it seems incredible to me that Paul Muni did not win for Best Actor that same year.  It went to Spencer Tracy for Captains Courageous, and I’m sure Tracy’s performance was exceptional, but Muni as Zola is pretty amazing.  He ages convincingly with Zola, from starving artist to a well-fed member of respected Parisian society, never less than convincing while playing a man much older than himself for much of the film.  The highlight is a late courtroom monologue that runs about six minutes.  It’s not exactly subtle screenwriting, but Muni makes the most of it.

The same could be said about the film’s screenplay as a whole.  It’s not the kind of story where the two sides have equal validity, so the script doesn’t have to be coy about where its sympathies lie.  There may be a few moments that feel like the film is preaching to the choir, but it nevertheless has great power.  That might just be me, though, given my proclivity for rooting against social injustice at the movies.

On the whole, The Life of Emile Zola is the tale of a life well-lived, punctuated by an incident that made Zola’s name immortal, and contains one of the best courtroom sequences I’ve ever seen.  It’s biography at old Hollywood’s best, not 100% historically accurate (as stated in an opening title card), but capturing the emotional essence of the story in a way no history textbook ever could.

EAST OF EDEN (1955)

by special guest Ronnie Clements

“A special, re-written review of my favourite Jimmy film, to mark the 70th anniversary of his death on September 30, 1955. Forget Rebel, this is James Dean’s defining performance!”


East of Eden is unmistakably a product of 1950’s cinema, steeped in the era’s stylistic restraint and tonal sincerity. But that’s not a flaw, it’s a virtue. The film unfolds with a deliberate pace, anchored by a thoughtful script, evocative cinematography and deeply felt performances. There are no dazzling effects or adrenaline-fueled sequences here. Instead, the piece leans into emotional truth.

Despite its vintage aesthetic, complete with a sweeping overture and classic framing, the themes of East of Eden remain timeless. Set in 1917, it explores the fractures of a family in turmoil and a young man’s aching search for identity, love and belonging. These struggles resonate just as powerfully today.

Adapted from John Steinbeck’s novel and directed by Elia Kazan, the story takes place in Monterey, California. At its heart is Cal Trask (James Dean), a brooding, impulsive and emotionally raw young man, desperate for the approval of his stern father, Adam (Raymond Massey). His brother Aron (Richard Davalos) and Aron’s girlfriend Abra (Julie Harris) form the emotional triangle that complicates Cal’s journey. As buried truths surface, the drama deepens with quiet intensity.

Kazan’s direction is masterful. His use of framing and camera angles, especially in intimate scenes, reveals a deep understanding of character psychology. You feel the tension, the longing, the isolation … all through the lens.

This film holds a special place in cinematic history as Dean’s first major role, preceding Rebel Without a Cause and Giant. Tragically, he wouldn’t live to see either of those released. But here, in East of Eden, he is alive and electric. Every gesture, every glance, every awkward pause speaks volumes. This isn’t just a performance, it’s a revelation. Forget Rebel. Forget Giant. East of Eden is Dean at his most vulnerable, most human, most unforgettable!

Raymond Massey delivers a chilling portrayal of the emotionally distant father. The real-life tension between Massey and Dean (Massey’s rigid traditionalism clashing with Dean’s improvisational method acting) only enriches their on-screen dynamic. Kazan, ever the tactician, allowed that friction to simmer, knowing it would serve the story.

The supporting cast is equally compelling. Richard Davalos brings quiet strength to Aron. Jo Van Fleet is haunting as Cal’s estranged mother. And Julie Harris, caught between three emotionally volatile men, brings grace and complexity to Abra.

Revisiting East of Eden is always a bitter-sweet experience for me. Dean’s tragic death in a car accident not long afterwards casts a long shadow. Watching him as Cal Trask, so alive, so raw, makes you ache for the roles he never got to play. But through this film Jimmy becomes immortal!

Cal Trask lives!

42nd STREET (1933)

by Miguel E. Rodriguez

DIRECTOR: Lloyd Bacon (with choreo by Busby Berkeley)
CAST: Warner Baxter, Bebe Daniels, George Brent, Ruby Keeler, Una Merkel, Ginger Rogers, Dick Powell
MY RATING: 9/10
ROTTEN TOMATOMETER: 92% Fresh

PLOT: The unglamorous side of life on Broadway is laid bare in this unexpectedly enthralling musical from Hollywood’s golden years.


I’ll admit it: I was a victim of my own expectations.

For decades, I assumed that Lloyd Bacon and Busby Berkeley’s 42nd Street was your standard Hollywood fluff musical from an era when the genre had been beaten nearly to death, filled with wall-to-wall corny songs and even cornier story lines.  I was aware of the famous line from the film: “Sawyer, you’re going out a youngster, but you’ve got to come back a star!”  I was certain I knew everything I needed to know about the movie right there.  Unknown chorus girl gets a lucky break, becomes a star, a little song, a little dance, happy endings for everyone.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I love it when I’m wrong.  42nd Street defied all of my expectations, and even when it felt like it was caving to the genre, it did it so exuberantly that I caved into it myself.

The story is ancient: A Broadway show is holding auditions at an unnamed theater on New York’s famed 42nd Street.  A rookie actress, Peggy Sawyer (Ruby Keeler), is one of scores of hopefuls at the cattle call, among them seasoned veterans Lorraine Fleming (Una Merkel) and Ann Lowell, played by Ginger Rogers the same year she was first paired with Fred Astaire in Flying Down to Rio…a legend in the making.  The show’s director, Julian Marsh (Warner Baxter), is a taskmaster who wants this show, “Pretty Lady”, to be his final masterpiece before he retires on advice from his doctors.  Then there’s Dorothy Brock (Bebe Daniels), the diva whose sugar daddy ensures she will get the plum role; Pat Denning (George Brent), Dorothy’s penniless paramour; and Billy Lawler (Dick Powell), the show’s “juvenile”, aka “mangenue”, who takes a shine to Peggy Sawyer when she interrupts him in his underwear in the dressing room.  Long story.

So, all the stock characters are here for a plot that was probably old even before the introduction of sound.  But 42nd Street subverted my assumptions by doing several things.

First, it is definitely NOT wall-to-wall with song and dance.  In fact, before we hit the final tune-filled 15 minutes, only one full number is performed.  Everything else is rehearsals, endless rehearsals with masses of dancers in their practice clothes or solo singers at the piano.  The backgrounds of the main characters are fleshed out in several scenes outside the theater, but the filmmakers were smart enough to keep those scenes to a minimum.  The real drama is on the stage, where it belongs.

(I loved those rehearsal scenes.  As an amateur actor in community theater myself, I had all sorts of flashbacks to my first shows as an ensemble member of big shows like The Music Man and Camelot, going through endless repetitions of musical numbers or just SEGMENTS of musical numbers until the director was satisfied.  I particularly loved one number being rehearsed on stage while the camera showed most of the cast and crew watching from the wings.  Pitch perfect.)

Second, the screenplay was not as cornball as the plot summary makes it sound.  I expected kitsch, but instead I got unexpected drama and grittiness, interspersed with comic relief and some outstanding zingers.  (“It must have been tough on your mother, not having any children.”)  Peggy Sawyer, the rookie, faints during rehearsal; Julian, after first making sure she’s not dead, yells at the stagehands to remove her from the stage so rehearsals can continue.  And they do.  When Julian learns of Dorothy Brock’s affair with Pat Denning, an affair which could jeopardize her participation in the show, he reaches out to an unsavory connection who agrees to rough Pat up as a warning.  Granted, this is all handled with a light touch, but this is serious business.  Putting a “hit” on someone?  Would a Broadway director ever actually do such a thing?  (Spoiler alert: probably.)

Third, by easing off the musical numbers until the last reel, 42nd Street positively had me eager for a full-blown song and dance.  And, brother, does it deliver.  The mythical Busby Berkeley pulls out all the stops for three sensational numbers that begin within the confines of a Broadway stage, and then magically “open up” into a cinematic tour de force.  I especially enjoyed the number where Ruby Keeler is clearly doing a complicated tap dance for real, but the best of the three is the film’s namesake, “42nd Street”, which is basically a travelogue of NYC, and which contains wild mood swings and some show-stopping choreography.  Watch for the moment when a young woman escapes a bad situation in her tenement apartment by running to the 3rd floor fire escape and then leaping to the street below.  I’m sure there were safety measures in place just out of camera range, like Harold Lloyd dangling from that clock, but in the moment, it genuinely looks like the cameras captured an actress leaping to her death.  Not to mention the sequence where the chorus transforms into the NYC skyline.  (In fact, I’d say the movie’s worth watching just for that final dance sequence…it’s astonishing.)

Fourth, the very end of the film took me totally by surprise.  At the risk of spoiling it, I’ll say that it takes place after I thought the movie WOULD end, and that it perfectly captures the combination of emotions that go through a stage director’s mind and soul after a show goes up and is an apparent success.  It’s another moment that felt absolutely real, with no overcooked dialogue or mugging.

It’s said that, before the release of 42nd Street, the movie musical was dead in the water.  Too many musicals had come before it, musicals that overdid the song and dance or had a half-baked story, etc.  Not only did 42nd Street singlehandedly revive the genre for decades to come, it also apparently saved Warner Bros. Studios from bankruptcy.  As someone who is not a particularly huge fan of older movie musicals, I wholeheartedly recommend this movie to anyone who is like me and has put off watching it because you think you already know everything about it you need to know.  I’m here to tell you: you probably don’t.  (And I especially recommend it to theatre aficionados who are familiar with the stage musical “42nd Street”, which pads the running time with dozens of additional songs, most of which were taken from Gold Diggers of 1933 [1933].)