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The Archivist: Bernie Casey and Pam Grier in HIT MAN (1972), Finally on Blu
The indomitably bad and effortlessly cool Bernie Casey stars in an early blaxploitation film that was not only one of his first major roles, but one of Pam Grier’s as well.
Following the sudden death of his brother, Tyrone Tackett (Casey) returns to L.A. hungry for justice and thirty for blood. He doesn’t believe his brother’s fatal car crash was an accident, and his suspicions are immediately confirmed by an icy welcome. It’s not long before shady cats start hitting him with unsubtle advice to get out of town. Tyrone may be a dapper fellow, with his stylish afro and fabulous wardrobe of suits and hats, but not afraid to get his hands dirty. He’s also not particularly scrupulous in his own dealings or shy about laying down the hurt on his enemies, especially after multiple encounters and betrayals wear down his patience.
It’s a relatively mean-spirited film, and while Tyrone occasionally stops to make time for some lovin’ and some spots of comedy, he’s mostly raising hell. His dogged trek through the underbelly of L.A. is an escalating shakedown in a world of prostitutes and porn magnates, and motel rooms and high-rises, and even mixes things up with some forays into the animal violence – an underground dogfight and a wildlife sanctuary that hosts some hungry lions (who aren’t picky about what kind of meat they can get).
Oh, and lots and lots of phone calls.
Casey and Grier are supported by a solid cast of character actors, including some familiar genre and TV actors like Edmund Cambridge, Roger E. Mosley, and one of the most expressively grizzled and recognizable “that guy” faces of the 70s, Sam Laws.
Like many blaxploitation films, this Americanized remake of Get Carter is narratively heightened and stylized, but physically a window into a real time and place, in this case shot on location in early 70s L.A. – from the grittiest street level hovels and porno theaters to mansions and developments of the elite and powerful, and seemingly everywhere in between. In a bit of a trope for 70s action films and exploitation pictures, the film’s climax takes place in the towering steel conveyances of a big industrial shipping yard.
The film was produced by Gene Corman, whose brother Roger had just given Pam her start. With her terrific qualities immediately evident while working in Roger’s Philippines-shot women in prison productions, she was quickly tapped for supporting roles in Gene’s Cool Breeze and Hit Man, her first appearances in the emerging blaxploitation genre. (Her third, Coffy, would make her a star). At the helm was George Armitage (Vigilante Force), a member and later graduate of the Corman circle who’s arguably better known for his 90s films, Grosse Pointe Blank and Miami Blues.
The Package
At long last, Hit Man is now available on Blu-ray as part of the Warner Archive Collection. The film has long been part of Warner Archive’s catalogue as an MOD DVD and has finally made its long-anticipated (by me) Blu-ray debut.
The release is part of a recent effort to bring Warner’s Archive’s blaxploitation DVD back catalogue – including Black Belt Jones, Black Eye, Three the Hard Way, and the upcoming Melinda – to Blu-ray.
While not particularly known for being a beautiful film, it’s quite nicely shot by Andrew Davis, who got his feature film start working on Gene Corman productions including Cool Breeze, Private Parts, and The Slams – if that name sounds familiar, it’s probably because he went on to become one of the biggest action directors of the 90s (The Fugitive, Above the Law, Under Siege).
This Blu-ray does a terrific job of showing off his eye, especially pertaining to some of the film’s low light cinematography and more striking compositions.
This Blu-ray edition’s sole supplement is an okay-quality Theatrical Trailer. While more supplemental features would have been appreciated, this output isn’t particularly surprising as the DVD release was a Warner Archive MOD, rather than a standard release.)
A/V Out.
Get it at Amazon: https://amzn.to/43CBdJA
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Family Legacies are Waking Nightmares in BEST WISHES TO ALL
Yuta Shimotsu’s unsettling debut unearths the ritual brutality at the heart of generational loyalty
In Yuta Shimotsu’s Best Wishes to All, Kotone Furukawa (Cloud, Wheel of Fortune and Fantasy) plays an unnamed nursing student who returns to her remote village to visit her elderly grandparents. With the rest of her family delayed due to her little brother’s illness, she’s forced to make the trip alone, allowing her time to reacquaint herself with the picturesque hamlet and her loving relatives. However, it’s not long before their home reminds her of a childhood phobia–an upstairs room, shut off from the rest of the house, where creaking noises emanate at night. The student also observes her grandparents’ increasingly odd behavior, whether inexplicably snorting like pigs at the dining room table over freshly cut pork, staring off into space in the middle of midnight hallways, or sleepwalking into door-crashing runs. Are these signs of dementia, a homegrown conspiracy, or something far more sinister?
The best kinds of horror films take their time revealing just what kind of horror lies at their core. The Exorcist, for example, spends much of its time as a slow-burn medical thriller before diving full deep into possession, as does Hereditary with its exploration of Faustian bargains. Part of the joy of these films is the dreadful thrill of discovery, realizing alongside the characters what’s at stake, what rules must be followed, and how our heroes fit into the terrifying scheme of things.
It’s an element that first drew me to Japanese horror films as an impressionable preteen in the early 2000s, dazzled by the idea that horror films could evoke powerful dread without a central antagonist like Michael Myers or Jason. Although the genre eventually leaned towards prominent yurei ghosts like Ring’s Sadako and Ju-on’s Kayako, many films still drew from the depths of horror in ordinary life, transforming even the simplest scenarios into threats with a perfect blend of menace and impending doom. Influential J-Horror figures like Kiyoshi Kurosawa and Takashi Shimizu have quietly fostered the next generation of Japanese Horror. Consequently, it has been intriguing to observe the transformation of Japanese horror beyond the archetypes that once fascinated global audiences, as creatives like Mari Asato, Koji Shiraishi, and Yoshihiro Nakamura forge distinctive visions of horror that resist such broad classification.
Winner of the Scariest Film Award at this year’s Overlook Film Festival, Yuta Shimotsu’s Best Wishes to All marks another exciting leap forward for Japanese horror. Supervised by Ju-on creator Takashi Shimizu, Shimotsu’s feature adaptation of his award-winning short film is a magnetic slow burn, whose true nature remains elusive to its increasingly disturbed audience until a captivating and chilling third act unveils unsettling consequences for the world at large. At its core, Best Wishes to All is a film that doesn’t just induce dread, but also evokes a crucial, timely anger. Rather than drawing from ancient folklore or a detached supernatural force as sources for terror, Shimotsu emphasizes pressing real-world anxieties about generational dynamics and the immeasurable burdens the old normalize for and weaponize against the young.
Running a concise 88 minutes, Shimotsu’s bleak vision is both aggressively and methodically paced. Furukawa’s return to the village and many moments afterward are illuminated with dappled sunshine, evoking a pastoral nostalgia that swiftly turns to decay. Its horrors are not immediately evident as Furukawa takes detours reconnecting with childhood friends or witnessing other quaint village matters, cultivating an illusion of Best Wishes as more of a slice-of-life drama. Those familiar with the pacing of films by Kiyoshi Kurosawa or his contemporary Ryusuke Hamaguchi will be well-prepared for Shimotsu’s Best Wishes, as his moments of silence are often interrupted by jarring instances of surreality. These unexpected breaks feel completely out of place yet entirely organic to the preceding situations, leading us to doubt the normalcy we’ve taken for granted. Ironically, the horror of Best Wishes is altogether relative – playing into an acknowledged phobia of this writer, these scenarios often go unacknowledged by the students’ relatives and other strangers, rendering Furukawa’s bewilderment or terror as isolating as it is relatable.
This alienating approach creates a chameleonic tone that Shimotsu and co-writer Rumi Kakuta can shape into whatever genre directions they choose. Initially, Best Wishes to All resembles a Japanese interpretation of something like The Visit or Get Out, with the perplexing actions of these diabolical grandparents seemingly confined to the claustrophobic house until a dramatic shift propels Best Wishes to All into a gleefully grim and expansive new emotional register. Shimotsu’s scope broadens to capture the essence of something like The Wicker Man without any reliance on religious framing, and the film’s sardonic humor aligns more with Ari Aster’s Beau is Afraid rather than the expected Midsommar–but with much more successful outcomes due to its sharp, focused brevity.
However, Best Wishes to All’s opacity and power of suggestion represent both a weakness and a strength. Some emotional beats are quickly glossed over as Shimotsu pushes Furukawa from one emotional extreme to another, and moments of understandable and much-needed action are deliberately delayed for slice-of-life scenes that end up feeling out of place, provoking viewers’ impatience. Your mileage may vary regarding the effectiveness of Shimotsu’s plotting here–as a fan of Kurosawa and Hamaguchi, the palpable frustration only underscored the banal evil of what Furukawa faced; however, I understand how this may irritate other genre fans expecting more exciting J-Horror-esque fare.
While the film’s story delightfully zigzags away from its audience’s expectations, Shimotsu and Kakuta remain firmly connected to the significant societal issues that create fertile ground for their series of scares. Declining birth rates, economic unpredictability, and other societal anxieties in Japan have strained traditional values of filial piety over the past few decades. With Best Wishes, Shimotsu channels these issues into a universal sense of existential, nearly cosmic terror throughout the film, even before Furukawa discovers her relatives’ central secret, one she initially resists but is pressured to take a culpable role in. Furukawa’s relatives and acquaintances downplay her horrified reactions as childlike naïveté toward how the world truly works, further underlining the eroding generational gap at the film’s core as part of a disturbing, society-wide dystopia. There are interesting thoughts on what Shimotsu refers to as the “urban legend concept of The Law of Conservation of Earthly Emotions”–that there is a finite balance between happiness and unhappiness; here, the world Furukawa’s elders have created in their children’s name only makes chattel out of future generations, fueling a disturbing sense lopsided hereditary unease. Over time, the terrors of Best Wishes evolve and recede the longer she and the audience are immersed in this world, leading us to contemplate what we’re willing to accept to achieve and maintain the lives we and our loved ones deserve. It’s less about escaping or changing the world we inhabit, and, even worse, more about accepting our place in the world into which we are born.
This sense of futile acceptance, shaped by the past two decades of Japanese horror, becomes even more energized by Best Wishes’ bitter social relevance. In witnessing how this woman seeks to rebel against the realities of her everyday world, we may find the strength as a society to question the values that have placed its audience in similar circumstances. It’s an excellent utilization of passive acceptance as a clarion call for change, even if Shimotsu doesn’t aim to provide many (if any) answers to the intriguing questions he raises.
Best Wishes to All premieres exclusively on Shudder on June 13, 2025.
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DIABLO: It’s Marko Zaror Versus Scott Adkins in a Killer Showdown
Chilean director Ernesto Díaz Espinoza has been reliably cranking out action films for almost 20 years now, not to mention also writing and editing many of them, and kind of single handedly putting Chilean cinema on the international stage. Much of his work has been in collaboration with another rising star of the international action scene, Mr. Marko Zaror. Together they’ve brought us Mirageman (2006), Kiltro (2006), Mandrill (2008), Redeemer (2014), and Fist Of The Condor (2023). I’ve personally seen and enjoyed all of those titles to varying extents, and probably rank Fist Of The Condor as their best collaboration. So they’re on a roll, even as Zaror continues to shine in top notch action projects like John Wick Chapter 4.
For their latest collaboration, they brought in the hardest working man in modern action cinema, Mr. Scott Adkins, to be the leading man in Diablo. Adkins is a talent I follow just about anywhere, having seen virtually every single project he’s ever starred in. Lately I’ve slowed down a little and haven’t caught all of his most recent work outside of stellar turns in One More Shot and John Wick Chapter 4. Here in Diablo he plays Kris Chaney, a guy who seems to be our protagonist and hero, but who also kidnaps a teenage girl (Alanna De La Rossa as Elisa) in the first act to spark our curiosity and keep us on our toes. As Kris and Elisa form a bit of an understanding amidst repeated attempts at Elisa’s life, the landscape is cleared for a major showdown between Adkins’ straight man Kris and Zaror’s frightening and flamboyant hired killer El Corvo (“the crooked”).
The bones of Diablo are quite solid. Adkins, Zaror, and Espinoza assisted on story with Mat Sansom writing. It seems clear the story was honed to highlight some of the stars’ best talents and capabilities. Kris is a bit of a square, but as his back story is unveiled we come to root for him to win over Elisa and rescue her from Vicente, the drug dealing kingpin who has also raised her as a loving father. Kris and Vicente (Lucho Valesco) have a past, which complicates things. But El Corvo is a mystery to Kris, and it’s Zaror’s crazed serial killing hitman who is the absolute standout of Diablo. Zaror pulls out all the stops to create what is hands down one of his most memorable characters to date. Bald, bespectacled, and bewildering, El Corvo is like a martial arts practicing Anton Chigur from No Country For Old Men. He’s disciplined, unsettling, and he absolutely will not stop. Ever. Until you are dead. So you’ve got equal parts Chigur, the Terminator, and even a little Han from Enter The Dragon with his interchangeable prosthetic hands that sometimes serve as assets in his murderous toolkit.
I will say that Zaror’s psycho killer is far and away the best and most entertaining part of Diablo. Zaror’s performance is dialed in, the writing is chilling, and the realization of this character through the fights and set pieces is wildly entertaining. To some extent, Zaror far outshines everyone else and runs away with the movie. I think 10 years from now El Corvo will be the element audiences generally remember from Diablo. That said, there’s genuinely a lot to like beyond Zaror. Espinoza is a clean-as-hell action director and Adkins comes off looking fantastic in his various fight scenes. Composer “Rocco” infuses the film with a catchy electronic score. And ultimately the bond between Kris and Elisa is pretty well done.
But beyond Zaror’s frightening killer character, the second most standout element would have to be the final action setpiece. I won’t spoil many of the dynamics at play in this epic conclusion, but I will say it’s set in an old factory (where most self-respecting DTV action films wrap up if we’re being honest). And there’s an absolutely mental ticking clock working against our heroes that you have to see to believe. Diablo thrives not on wads of major studio cash for a spectacle-laden CGI finale, but rather harkens back to the literal silent film days, with a damsel in distress tied to railroad tracks and a mustache twirling villain cackling as our hero desperately tries to save the day. As a lifelong action fan, even I will say that one the genre’s biggest faults is its samey-ness. There’s only so many ways to kick and punch someone, or to save the damsel, or to outfox the villain. Here in 2025, Diablo thrives on finding ways to make itself stand out with solid essential bones and successful theatrical flare harkening back to the earliest days of cinema.
And I’m Out.
Diablo hits theaters, on demand, and digital on June 13th, 2025 from Lionsgate
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The Archivist – Bring Home TOM & JERRY’s Best with The Complete Cinemascope Collection
The duo’s cinematic widescreen shorts are collected on Blu-ray
Tom and Jerry are one of television and cinema’s most enduring duos, still regularly featured in a never-ending parade of slapstick-packed movies and television shows.
They’re been through lots of different iterations, from their origins as human characters at RKO, to modern feature films, from their re-invention as cat and mouse by Hanna-Barbera, to my personal favorite version, the Chuck Jones era.
But I think if you ask most animation fans about the most classic or iconic version of the duo, they’ll likely conjure up mental images of the 1950s toons as the golden age versions these characters.
Warner Archive’s new Cinemascope Collection collects 23 classic Tom & Jerry shorts from the 1950s, specifically all the theatrical in the widescreen theatrical Cinemascope format. It’s not a complete collection of all the shorts of the era; which also saw the release of other shorts in standard aspect ratio.
This era of the cartoons series represents the height of Hanna-Barbera’s gorgeous theatrical animation (which would later be cheapened for television as the more familiar version of their “house style”), and featured some wonderful recurring characters like Spike the bulldog and his puppy son Tyke, Tom’s neighborhood rival cat Butch, the adorable Quacker the duckling, Nibbles the mouse, and Jeannie the teen babysitter. Tom and Jerry are usually natural rivals, but if you like the episodes where they team up (I do), there are some of those gems here.
In addition to the Tom & Jerry cartoons, the disc also includes are also a couple of bonus shorts featuring spinoff characters Spike and Tyke, as well as a very unusual holiday-themed sort, Good Will to Men.
Some of the highlights from this collection:
Blue Cat Blues
Probably the greatest Tom & Jerry toon of all time, and certainly one of the most unusual. It’s narrated by the usually non-speaking Jerry (voice of Paul Frees), who relates the sad story of his friend Tom. Tom squandered away his life savings and went into debt trying to impress his love interest, only to lose out to his rival Butch. It’s an iconic episode that’s sad, hilarious, and more adult than the usual subject matter.
Pet Peeve
Tom’s Photo FinishIn Pet Peeve, upset by the high cost of feeding their pets who eat non-stop, Tom and Spike’s owners contemplate giving one of them up, sparking an intense rivalry as each tries to be the ideal pet while sabotaging the other.
Tom’s Photo Finish is another story that focuses on the rivalry between Tom and Spike as pets of the same owners. Tom plants incriminating evidence on Spot to shift his own blame, but Jerry took a photo of the deed, and is now posting copies all over the house while a panic-stricken Tom tries to stop him.
Southbound Duckling
That’s My Mommy
Happy Go DuckySeveral shorts feature Quacker the baby duckling (whose voice resembles a cuter Donald Duck), a little fella whose naivete tends to get him into trouble. My favorite among these is That’s My Mommy, which features him as a brand new hatchling who imprints Tom – who is plotting to eat him – as his mother.
The Flying Sorceress
Tired of his home life, Tom answers a want ad seeking a cat – but it turns out his new job is a position as a witch’s familiar. Tom being Tom, makes the mistake of swiping her broomstick.
Busy Buddies
Tot WatchersIt’ll take all of Tom and Jerry’s wits to try to mind the ornery baby as it crawls through increasingly dangerous scenarios while Jeannie, the inattentive teen babysitter, gabs on the phone. The Roger Rabbit shorts with Baby Herman, produced forty years later, were clearly inspired by these shorts.
Touche, Pussy Cat
Tom and Cherie
Royal Cat NapThese Musketeers-themed short feature Jerry as a French kingsguard trying to train up a young d’Artagnon-esgue Nibbles. The same duo also features in a similar Robin Hood-themed episode, Robin Hoodwinked.
The Package
Tom and Jerry: The Complete CinemaScope Collection features 23 Tom and Jerry , plus 3 bonus shorts, on a single Blu-ray disc.
If you’re a fan of the material this is an easy recommend, as these are among the best shorts from the Tom and Jerry catalogue and of the era.
But you’ll want to weigh it against the digital option. On digital platforms like iTunes, you can purchase a massive super-collection called Tom & Jerry Volumes 1-6 , a massive set of 119 shorts for only $40 (and I’ve seen it priced as low as $20, which is what I paid for it). It includes all 23 of the Tom and Jerry shorts in this collection – but not the 3 bonus shorts.
A/V Out.
Get it at Amazon:
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THE PHOENICIAN SCHEME, Wes Anderson Returns With Another Pitch-Perfect Period Comedy
Filmmaker Wes Anderson’s (Asteroid City, The French Dispatch, Moonrise Kingdom) latest film, The Phoenician Scheme, a typically brilliant period satire, centers on the mid-20th-century embodiment of corrupt, late-stage capitalism, an unscrupulous, megalomaniacal titan of industry (aka, an oligarch), Anatole “Zsa-Zsa” Korda (Benicio del Toro), as he faces all manner of existential, personal, and professional crises, up to and including multiple attempts on his life by assassins known and unknown, an uncertain, fraught relationship with his daughter, Liesl (standout Mia Threapleton), and the potential failure of his life’s work, a massive infrastructure project long on egomaniacal ambition and potentially short on the necessary funds.
The Phoenician Scheme opens on a predictably comic note, with Korda’s near-demise as his private airplane suffers an emergency decompression followed by a rapid unscheduled disassembly courtesy of a well-placed bomb. Korda’s unnamed assistant doesn’t survive, but Korda and his pilot (Stephen Park) do, the latter via parachute moments after his unceremonious firing. In unmistakably Andersonian fashion, an on-the-spot news crew assumes Korda didn’t survive the airplane’s crash in a cornfield. An out-of-frame Korda, gingerly holding what he drolly describes as an errant “vestigial organ,” strides into view, definitely worse for wear, but even more eager to conquer what’s left of the mid-20th-century world.
Except, maybe not, at least not in Korda’s complicated case. Between the annoyances, setbacks, and obstacles associated with repeated attempts on his life and frequent forays into a medieval black-and-white dream world where the Powers-That-Be have put Korda’s immortal soul on trial for a multitude of venal and mortal sins, Korda begins an essential, introspective journey, reflecting on his failings and failures as a parent to Liesl, a novitiate nun in the Roman Catholic Church weeks away from taking her final vows. In Korda’s eyes, she’s a paragon of virtue — and not just virtue-signaling — in a fallen world, and thus his exact opposite in every way. Liesl represents a rare second chance for a man who seemingly has everything (e.g., wealth, power, influence), but who starts to question the relentless, unyielding capitalistic ethos that’s defined his life until now.
Like practically every captain or titan of industry before him (fictional or otherwise), Korda has constructed his life around amassing wealth, palatial estates in far-flung countries, and classical European art. But even that’s not enough for Korda. He wants to be remembered long after he’s departed this mortal plane for the next. Korda wants to build a gargantuan monument to match his equally gargantuan ego, the kind of monument monarchs and dictators tend to build for — and to — themselves: A project so massive, so mammoth, and thus, undeniably memorable well beyond the capacity for Korda to fund himself; in turn creating a potentially ruinous “Gap.” Filling that gap drives The Phoenician Scheme’s otherwise episodic, cameo-rich plot set in various corners and quadrants of the fractious, fictionalized, Middle Eastern-inspired nation-state of Phoenicia.
Increasingly mindful of his impending mortality, Korda makes Liesl his sole heir (his 9 sons, some adopted, some biological, get yearly stipends, apparently) and the provisional executor of his affairs if an assassin’s bullet finds him before he completes his life’s work. She understandably balks, preferring the pious, unadorned life of a nun to the far more complicated, materially focused life of a capitalistic entrepreneur. That, in turn, sets in motion, The Phoenician Scheme’s central conflict and through-line: Korda’s gradual humanization, not to mention evolution into a human being no longer obsessed with material acquisition or social status, through his interactions with the steadfast, loyal Liesl, and his newly hired administrative assistant and tutor, Bjørn Lund (Michael Cera).
The various in-film stops essential to filling in the funding “gap” allow Anderson, a singular auteurist without parallel, to indulge his usual playfulness (aka whimsy, a dirty word to some, the opposite to others) in settings, tone, and humor. The first interlude involves a pick-up game of basketball inside a train tunnel, the second at a Moroccan-inspired nightclub, the third aboard a steamer, the fourth in the proximity of a dam construction, and the last at a cheekily garish, Egyptian-themed hotel where the various characters, subplots, and themes happily devolve into physical comedy and a literally farcical explosion to the proceedings and the central, overarching storyline.
It’s all, of course, eminently satisfying, pleasing, and ultimately entertaining as only Anderson’s films can be, benefitting from Anderson’s signature visual style (centered compositions, traveling or tracking shots, etc.), Bruno Delbonnel’s picture-perfect cinematography, Adam Stockhausen’s geometrically oriented production design, and Milena Canonero’s impeccably tailored, complementary costumes, and an earworm-worthy score courtesy of Alexandre Desplat.
As with most of Anderson’s decades-spanning filmography, artifice reigns supreme in The Phoenician Scheme. Not just the usual, mostly invisible artifice typical of traditional, realist filmmaking, but on artifice front and center, first and foremost, both for the aesthetic pleasures surface-level artifice provides and for its seamless merging with theme, story, and character until Andersonian authenticity, emotional more than narrative, emerges: Once examined through The Phoenician Scheme‘s fanciful permutations, Korda’s life becomes all the more worth living.
The Phoenician Scheme opens theatrically on Friday, June 6th, via Focus Features.
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BALLERINA, John Wick Spinoff Delivers an Impressive Star Vehicle for Ana de Armas
Following lengthy delays, some related to development, others not atypically, to production-side issues, including two or three months of reshoots, Ballerina (officially “From the World of John Wick: Ballerina”) arrives in theaters with a mix of anticipation and dread, specifically from John Wick fans understandably protective about an action franchise defined by the charismatic presence of its brooding leading man, Keanu Reeves, as the title character, a ruthlessly efficient, near unstoppable ex-assassin forced out of retirement and into a bloodily impressive, four-film, multi-continent killing spree, its cinematically pure, stripped-down approach to storytelling, and action-oriented, ground-level set pieces second to none.Set primarily between the events of John Wick 3 – Parabellum and John Wick 4, the last, but not final, film, in the Reeves-led series, Ballerina follows the title character, Eve Macarro (Ana de Armas), a onetime ballet dancer, full-time assassin for the Ruska Roma, who, like Wick in the first entry, finds herself a woman alone, single-mindedly pursuing a potentially disastrous mission for vengeance (Wick’s dog in the first film, Eve’s fallen father here). Over the better part of two, occasionally slack, mostly taught hours, Eve breaks all manner of esoteric rules, runs afoul of directives from her superiors, and not unexpectedly, separates roughly 357 souls from their earthly bodies, all, of course, as part of Eve’s Righteous Rampage of Revenge.
Ballerina opens with a narratively redundant, if well-directed, prologue centered on a preteen Eve (Victoria Comte), her soon-to-expire father, Javier (David Castañeda), and an unsuccessful attempt to escape the clutches of a rival group of assassins off the coast of an unnamed country. Long-haired and bearded, the ill-fated Javier resembles a Latin-American John Wick, albeit with an obvious expiration date, while Eve, far from the skilled, assured assassin we’ll meet later, watches in stunned disbelief as her father loses his life to a villainous cult leader known only as the Chancellor (Gabriel Byrne).
Film-long motivation for revenge set, Ballerina skips ahead a dozen years as Eve, now a ward of the Ruska Roma, trains as both a ballerina and an assassin. Unsurprisingly, she proves a significantly better assassin than a ballerina, and after suitable training and preparation, goes on her first, successful mission, not to assassinate anyone in particular, but to serve as the unofficial bodyguard to a visiting dignitary’s twenty-something daughter, Katla Park (Sooyoung Choi), at a high-end, neon-lit nightclub.
Cue, finally, Eve in action mode, as mercenaries attempt to kidnap Katla, presumably for ransom. It’s the first excuse among many for Eve — and, by extension, de Armas — to prove herself John Wick’s approximate equal. Though mostly a close-combat fighter, Eve handles herself just as adroitly with firearms, though in a first of many twists on the Wick formula, she’s forced to use rubber bullets on Katla’s relentlessly persistent wannabe abductors.
That’s just a taste, of course, of what’s to come. Once Eve uncovers a clue as to her father’s killer and later, his location, Ballerina slips more readily into John Wick mode: A smattering of plot, a few brief exchanges of dialogue, and a series of increasingly elaborate set pieces. Once Eve arrives at an alpine village in Europe, she finds herself at a distinct disadvantage, minus recognizable allies and facing potential foes in every direction and around every corner.
Arriving as it does after an hour crammed with unnecessary exposition and an over-emphasis on lore, the late-film narrative shift to the well-fortified, well-armed alpine village and an Eve forced to improvise with whatever she can find (e.g., axes, knives, flamethrowers) just to survive the night. The constantly shifting setting gives the stunt team a welcome opportunity to flex their creative muscles (among other things), in effect turning an otherwise middling addition to the John Wick universe into the best — or its close approximation —of the series.
While the nominal director, Len Wiseman (Total Recall, the Underworld series), certainly deserves credit for the results onscreen, it’s stunt-choreographer-turned-director Chad Stahelski who deserves the most, before (as a key producer and action choreographer), during, and after the end of principal photography. Stahelski handled or supervised the bulk of reshoots, specifically action-oriented sequences, and it shows both in their organic similarities to earlier entries in the series and their differences, specifically in how they take advantage of de Armas’ physicality for maximum impact without undermining all-important believability.
Almost as importantly, Ballerina unequivocally succeeds as both an action-oriented, star vehicle for de Armas and an expansion of her viability beyond dramatic or comedic roles. Setting aside her tantalizing cameo in No Time to Die and the already forgotten Ghosted, de Armas has been rarely asked to show audiences what else she can do beyond drama or comedy. If Ballerina proves anything, it proves that de Armas can truly do it all.
Ballerina opens theatrically on Friday, June 6th, via Lionsgate.
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Two Cents Opens Up THE BIRDCAGE
“I just never realized John Wayne walked like that.”
Two Cents is a Cinapse original column akin to a book club for films. The Cinapse team curates the series and contribute their “two cents” using a maximum of 200-400 words. Guest contributors and comments are encouraged, as are suggestions for future picks. Join us as we share our two cents on films we love, films we are curious about, and films we believe merit some discussion. Would you like to be a guest contributor or programmer for an upcoming Two Cents entry? Simply watch along with us and/or send your pitches or 200-400 word reviews to cinapse.twocents@gmail.com.
With the times being as tough as they are and many different groups trying to hold on to their place in this scary society, it’s obvious that Pride month was going to look a little different this year. However, we here at Cinapse have decided that not only are we going to celebrate the month, but we will celebrate it with a collection of titles that have an undeniable edge to them. As varied as the month’s films may be, each one succeeds in pushing boundaries as their collection of themes, not to mention their very existence, represents the kind of defiance that only stellar art can conjure up.
When it was decided that May’s Two Cents theme should honor the work of the late Gene Hackman, my instinct was to raise my hand for The Poseidon Adventure since that movie contains my favorite of his performances. After a friend of mine asked me why I didn’t throw in The Birdcage, I had no valid answer for him. The first selection of this June’s Two Cents corrects that as we kick off the month with one of the most groundbreaking comedies of the ’90s, which was not only a solid moneymaker but a classic with laughs that remains as potent as ever.
The Pick: The Birdcage
Based on the hit stage musical La Cage aux Follies, The Birdcage tells the story of drag club owner Armand (Robin Williams) and his star performer/romantic partner Albert (Nathan Lane) who must deal with the news that the former’s son (Dan Futterman) is getting married to the daughter (Calista Flockhart) of a conservative Senator and his wife (Hackman and Dianne Wiest).
Our Guests:
Few movies are as necessary Pride Month watches as The Birdcage, which is not just a perfect gay film, but a perfect film. Period. It’s a screamingly funny comedy that also has an undeniable amount of heart baked in, ultimately showing what it is to be a family – no coincidence that the Goldman Girls’ “We Are Family” is the cornerstone of the soundtrack. Admittedly, every facet of the production – both in front of and behind the camera – is executed flawlessly, but the joys of this film lie in the acting performances, so that’s where I’m choosing to focus. Of course, those performances are built on the sharp screenplay of Elaine May (which must average out to a zinger every thirty seconds) and the laudable direction of Mike Nichols, who proves, once again, that he is a master at guiding actors on film. Special mention must also be made of Emmanuel Lubeski’s cinematography. The opening tracking shot of South Beach is one for the books and kicks the movie off with a bang.
As stated above, the performances in The Birdcage are what cement it as a comedic masterpiece. Every performance is perfectly calibrated, down to the smaller featured roles like Christine Baranski’s wryly flirtatious birth mother. Point me to a more deserving winner of the SAG Award for Outstanding Performance by a Cast and I’ll happily explain to you why you’re wrong. In fact, for my money, all five of the actors below should have Oscar nominations for their work here.
Hank Azaria’s outlandish housekeeper, Agador, gives a virtuosic physical comedy performance. When he says he can’t wear shoes because they make him fall down, it in no way prepares you for how riotously funny it is to watch him try (and fail) to survive a night walking around in shoes. Gene Hackman and Dianne Wiest’s ultra-conservative parents are both absolutely hilarious. Hackman’s deadpan delivery, particularly in his stilted monologue about foliage, is a hoot, and Wiest’s unfailingly chipper demeanor just gets all the funnier as it starts to chip away during the dinner party sequence. Her delivery of, “Somebody has to like me best!” before breaking down in tears is one of my favorite moments in the entire movie. On top of all this, their eventual escape from the drag club is nothing short of perfection.
This entire article could be focused on Robin Williams and Nathan Lane, who are both giving career-best performances here. They bring such lived-in qualities to the relationship of Armand and Albert – the way they bicker, the way they walk together – it’s easy to see that these two have been doing this for 20 years. What’s most gratifying about their performances is how comfortable they are as themselves, which is the whole crux of the deception they’re asked to put on. These are two gay men fully at ease with themselves who are being tasked with dismantling that for one night.
Williams wisely decided against playing Albert, opting for the less flamboyant Armand. While his role is no less comic than the rest, he is a decided grounding force to most of the proceedings, and he does it so skillfully. Just thinking of his best moments shows the range he brings to the character – the entire choreographer directive (“Madonna! Madonna! Madonna! But you keep it all inside.”) compared to his exceptional dressing down of his son (“Yes, I’m a middle-aged fag. But I know who I am.”) It’s exquisite work.
Speaking of exquisite, there are not enough words to convey how stunning Nathan Lane is in this movie. Yes, Albert could easily be seen as strictly stereotypical, but not for one moment do you doubt that this is who Albert is and how secure he is in himself, even in his most overdramatic moments. Like Williams, Lane’s adept comic sensibilities are what make his performance sing – from his piercing of the toast to any number of his lines as he masquerades as Mother Coleman in front of the Keeleys (my personal favorite being the explanation of why they keep confusing their last name “Cole of the Isle of Man in France”). That these are balanced by moments of true heartbreak are what level it up to masterful. Lane does so little, just the lowering of his voice’s volume or a slight saddening of the eyes, but just that slight departure from his more vivacious persona makes dialogue like, “I’m not young, I’m not new and everyone laughs at me. I’m quite aware of how ridiculous I am,” land like a gut-punch. In a just world, Lane would have been winning every Best Actor award in existence that year.
If you’ve never seen The Birdcage, there’s never been a better time than Pride month to fix that (though, admittedly, this is a movie that I classify as an “anytime” watch). If you haven’t revisited it in a while, do so as soon as you can. It remains fresh and hysterical on every single rewatch. Between the constant laughs and the perfectly deployed slapstick – seriously, the entire dinner sequence is genius – there’s joy of a different kind to see too. A happily settled gay couple going above and beyond for their child’s happiness. If that’s not family, I don’t know what is. Happy Pride!
The Birdcage, like only the best Mike Nichols-directed films, is pretty flawless to a degree that its brilliance goes overlooked in favor of more visually risk-taking features from auteurs of Nichols’ generation. Featuring one of the greatest ensembles ever formed, each actor regardless of the size of their part, brings a necessary charisma to make this narrative so impactful. Whether it’s the genuine chemistry between Williams and Lane as lovers, the chaotic support of Hank Azaria, or the pleasant humor of Wiest and Hackman as the disapproving parents, each cast member brings their all to the comedic drama.
Nichols reuniting with Elaine May, who adapts the screenplay from the play La Cage aux Folles, imbues this production with such comforting moments of comedy. I could watch this film multiple times throughout my life and have done so since first discovering it decades ago.
The film earning its sole Academy Award nomination for Art Direction is absolutely deserved as the production values of this film are indeed stunning with so much character detail featured that lifts up the uniqueness of this narrative. The Birdcage for its brilliance is sadly a film of its kind no longer made by major film studios. Yet nearly three decades from its original release we must do our best to appreciate its greatness and yearn for the day when movies of its kind can be made again.
The Team:
This was my first time seeing The Birdcage and I’m grateful for the programming opportunity to both check out the film as the beginning of our Pride/Riot theme and as a final homage to Gene Hackman as well. While I enjoyed The Birdcage, I don’t think it hit profoundly for me either as a comedy or a drama. That said, the film totally works and clicks together and I understand the beloved status it has garnered. I’m just not necessarily much of a farce guy, all told. By that I mean, this is a farce that works, is filled with earnest performances, ratcheting tension and ridiculousness, all paced quite well. That kind of thing just isn’t necessarily what’s going to make me laugh out loud. In terms of pure comedy, I feel that Hank Azaria’s Agador steals this show if one is simply gauging how many times I actually did laugh out loud. The bit where he can’t wear shoes is just pure comedy gold.
But probably the biggest highlight of the film was the sincerity. The inherent tragedy of the entire premise of needing to hide a loving, committed, (if high maintenance), gay marriage to appease powerful outsiders really comes through due to the incredible chemistry and connection between Robin Williams’ Armand and Nathan Lane’s Albert. Sure, the film is flamboyant, over the top, and ludicrous at times. But the beating heart is there from the earliest moments and the genuine love and earnest sadness of having to hide comes through in ways I didn’t expect for a film with such a raucous reputation. I will say I’ll never unsee the horrifying visual of Gene Hackman in drag, but dammit, the man committed to the bit and the image is indelible.
Two words: Hank Azaria. HANK FUCKING AZARIA. I’ll never get over how much I love him in this film.
Ok, now that that’s out of the way. This is not only a great film, but a landmark. While not the first Hollywood film with LGBTQ+ lead characters, it celebrates these characters in a fun, comedic way that few films before it did and was the first queer film to achieve such levels of commercial success. The film is unapologetically queer, while also normalizing gay lifestyles in both big and casual ways. The mixed cast of actors of different sexualities and orientations, including a handful of actors who were at the top of the Hollywood food chain, and many playing roles different than their own, also helps to hit home the clear intent of the film to normalize lifestyles not considered normal at the time.
Thematically built on family, love, and facing the stigmas of its day, it’s proven a timeless tale. Watching children grow up, blending families together, and unconditional love… the themes of family and what we’re able and willing to put aside for family will always resonate. This is especially true when you have such a strong script and cast.
This all said, I cannot understate the cackle I cackled when Hackman’s Senator Kevin Keeley dismisses getting the wedding blessed by Billy Graham because he’s “too liberal”.
Comedy-wise, The Birdcage hasn’t aged a day. The pacing brilliantly serves both the farcical and romantic comedy sides to the movie, while the soundtrack and production design help to make the world that Armand and Albert share truly pop off the screen. Many comedic moments remain classics, including Agador (Hank Azaria’s) hopelessly failing at being a butler, Louise’s (Wiest) ongoing attempts to make the best of everything, Kevin’s (Hackman) description of trees and leaves, and all of Albert’s many surprised wails and cries. The movie’s dialogue only adds to the laughter. Lines such as Armand describing their current predicament by saying: “It’s like riding a psychotic horse toward a burning stable,” remain priceless. Every viewing is another chance to marvel at the very special rhythm throughout the near-impeccable script. Quips like: “’You look tired’ means ‘you look old’ and ‘you look rested’ means ‘you’ve had collagen,’” prove it rarely gets any better than this.
Seeing The Birdcage in theaters back in 1996, I wasn’t sure I was ready for all the jokes that were being thrown at me or the significance behind them. Truth be told, it took me a couple of minutes to realize that was Hackman dressed in drag in the finale. What I did know was that the movie’s brilliant use of physical comedy and zany energy made it a winner in my eyes.
Watching the movie in recent years, it’s hard to overstate just how incredibly revolutionary a feat it was. Even more incredible is the pedigree behind the project, which, besides its A-list cast, includes top-tier director Mike Nichols and legendary screenwriter Elaine May. Clashing political ideologies, a gay romance, ethnic divides, and drag queens are all key themes within The Birdcage, and each one manages to give a stellar look at the ‘90s relationship with those elements. If all that wasn’t enough, The Birdcage also brilliantly challenges the audience to ask themselves: What actually defines a family? In an age where drag shows are repeatedly under attack and the two parties have never been further apart, The Birdcage stands as a hilarious and poignant reminder of not only what’s changed, but what still needs to change.
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Two Cents Celebrates the month of June with Pride/Riot
Join us all month long for a collection of titles that spotlight the LGBTQ+ community with a mix of heart, edge, and defiance.
June 9 – The Death & Life of Marsha P. Johnston (Netflix)
June 16 – Velvet Goldmine (Internet Archive)
June 23 – Stranger By The Lake– (Criterion Channel, Kanopy)
June 30 – BPM (Kanopy, Pluto)
Billy Graham, BPM, Calista Flockhart, Christine Baranski, Comedy, Dan Futterman, Dianne Weist, Elaine May, Gay Cinema, Gene Hackman, Hank Azaria, La cage aux follies, LGBTQ, Madonna, Mike Nichols, Movies, Nathan Lane, Pride, Pride Month, Robin Williams, Stranger by the Lake, The Death & Life of Martha P. Johnston, Two Cents, Velvet Goldmine -
THE PHOENICIAN SCHEME: Wes Anderson Lets It All Burn
Wes Anderson lobs a gentle grenade at his wonderfully meticulous worlds
Stills courtesy of Focus Features. I’ve loved seeing Wes Anderson’s style evolve from the offbeat yet realistic charm of Rushmore and The Royal Tenenbaums to fully controlled, hyper-stylized worlds like The Grand Budapest Hotel and Fantastic Mr. Fox. But with Asteroid City, the fastidious auteur turned that control inward, crafting a self-aware story where characters and actors alike search for meaning beyond their carefully constructed confines. His composed whimsy collided with existential dread on levels moral and creative, exposing a raw tension between emotional truth and aesthetic precision.
The Phoenician Scheme pushes that tension further into remarkably explosive, morally charged territory. Anderson swaps petty squabbles for assassination plots and tenuous alliances between family and finance underscored by corporate greed, all amid his signature pastels. The film hums with a new, palpable anger, suggesting a director ready to blow up the world he so painstakingly built with a kindly tossed hand grenade. Yet even with its weighty themes and surreal detours painted with religion and regret, The Phoenician Scheme remains a wild, hilarious caper—playful, piercing, and unmistakably Wes Anderson.
After surviving yet another assassination attempt, global industry titan Anatole Zsa-Zsa Korda (Benicio Del Toro) yanks his estranged daughter Liesl (Mia Threapleton) from her remote convent, naming her his heir—on a “trial basis”—over her nine blood and adopted brothers. But the inheritance hinges on one condition: she must help him pull off his most audacious scheme yet—an ambitious infrastructure project in Modern Greater Independent Phoenicia, now at risk thanks to a market sabotage by Korda’s rivals and the U.S. government.
With awkward tutor Bjorn (Michael Cera) by their side, Liesl is thrown into a surreal crash course in Korda-style capitalism: shady deals, eccentric powerbrokers, and constant moral compromise. There’s just one problem: Liesl still believes her father murdered her mother. To earn her trust and secure his legacy, Korda must unearth the truth and expose the real killer—all by legal means only, of course.
Working with longtime collaborator Adam Stockhausen and legendary cinematographer Bruno Delbonnel, Wes Anderson crafts The Phoenician Scheme as a sun-baked spectacle caught between construction and decay. The film blends Casablanca-inspired cabarets, crumbling European estates, and lush jungle refuges for exiled revolutionaries into a world that’s both glamorous and gaudy. Like The Grand Budapest Hotel, its opulence masks a more profound desperation, where towering dams and gilded halls feel like monuments to tenuous power. Characters like Korda, nightclub kingpin Marseilles Bob (Mathieu Amalric), and idealistic builder Cousin Hilda (Scarlett Johansson) all share a need to conquer their environments, seeking validation or protection from forces as abstract as legacy, guilt, or the marching progress of time. Their answers are varied, yet the impulse is all the same–and despite having all the money in the world to throw at their intentions, things still risk springing a leak or falling apart.
Anderson and Delbonnel’s biggest visual flourish lies in Bunuelian religious tableaux as Korda flits between life and death thanks to his myriad would-be assassins. Anderson’s afterlife is fittingly stripped of color – placed on a surreal heavenly trial, Korda must answer for his earthly sins without his usual colorful moral relativism at his disposal. Every waking return to Earth then becomes another opportunity for Korda to find such mortal clarity in his repairing relationship with his estranged, pious daughter.
The film’s ensemble is another menagerie of single scene-stealing appearances by new faces among Anderson’s cast of regulars, with hilarious standouts from evil bearded Benedict Cumberbatch, bombastic basketball-wielding baron brothers Tom Hanks and Bryan Cranston, and a long-awaited turn by Cera as a gut-busting Andersonian equivalent of a bumbling, well-intentioned himbo. However, The Phoenician Scheme unmistakably belongs to Del Toro and Threapleton. Korda is a megalomaniacal evolution of Royal Tenenbaum, a blustering absent patriarch with the bravado and flair of Charles Foster Kane. Korda has the debonair air of Del Toro’s Collector from Guardians of the Galaxy, coupled with all the weasely grit of Javier from Traffic. Beneath the swagger lies a man rattled by mortality, watching his empire and legacy teeter on the brink. For Korda, family and finance blur: both are assets to manage, leverage, or lose. When the end looms, his true returns depend on where he invested his time, trust, and love as much as what he’s able to build and leave behind. In comparison, Liesl is a daughter whose refusal to compromise her deeper moral beliefs gives her confidence and agency that these older, seemingly wiser industry leaders can only adopt for show. Threapleton’s deadpan wit against Del Toro’s absurd declarations is a winning comedic combo, with both gleaning needed moral flexibility or renewed emotional resolve when forced into insane conflict with each other.
Amid The Phoenician Scheme’s sprawling moral desert, Anderson questions the value of scruples in a world run by emotionless billionaires who treat people as props—both in business and in his own painstakingly composed frames. The film confronts whether integrity can survive in a system where power trumps principle, and where even human connection is just another asset to exploit. Nothing speaks to this more than Korda’s hilarious hoarding of hand grenades, which he gives out to business partners like olive branches of mutually assured destruction, all of which are accepted with “you’re too kind.”
It’s fascinating to see a filmmaker like Wes Anderson, whose success hinges on such creative yet obsessive artistry, center a character like Zsa-Zsa Korda–who seems, at first, utterly indifferent to such refinement. Yet beneath the bravado, Korda yearns for connection beyond power. He hires tutors like Bjorn to teach him what he can’t buy, pores over books on collapsed empires and forgeries as an escape from the possibility of another plane crash, and collects masterpieces (only masterpieces)—perhaps hoping to understand their value beyond price tags. As The Phoenician Scheme unfolds, it becomes clear that for Korda, building dams and tunnels is how he sculpts or paints. But estranged from the emotional truths that real art both conveys and is necessary for creation, Korda’s unbothered when his medium includes slave labor or famine. Beauty, for him, is still just conquest in disguise, and leaving a legacy is just a way of conquering death one last time. The world is just another fastidious project.
That’s why The Phoenician Scheme feels like Anderson’s most self-indicting work yet. The creeping, fascistic indifference to art and beauty that lingered at the edges of The Grand Budapest Hotel has rotted into full decay in Korda’s world, while the existential despair of Asteroid City now stretches into cosmic judgment where values, not just actions, are on trial. Nowadays, Anderson seems consumed by the question: Why go on?
Why make art or hold faith in people when they both can be reduced to capital, or obliterated in an instant by corporate greed or a well-placed grenade?
Though Anderson’s films have always carried a bitter undercurrent, this is the first to let that bitterness literally bleed in copious quantities. The opening plane crash, staged with his signature precision and whimsy, is exhilarating in its absurdity yet truly shocking in its violence — a tricky emotional balancing act that only grows more complicated as the film progresses. People take bullets for each other as much as they self-explode. Chandeliers shatter for laughs, and bitter rivalries explode in scenic destruction. A bad contract is enough to stop someone from giving blood to someone else mid-transfusion. It’s so damn funny but so deeply sad, exposing the fragility of everything Anderson’s style tries to preserve.
The result is a film that’s riotously funny yet quietly devastating, one whose lovely humor struggles to offset the film’s sincere questions about its own worth. The Phoenician Scheme remains quite haunting and enigmatic, lingering as a reckoning more than a hilarious caper. There are still defiant glimmers of hope: a mid-credits declaration forbidding any usage of it to train AI serves as a necessary stand for creative agency, while the finale set in another picturesque Anderson setting strips away splendor to embrace chaotic simplicity.
That The Phoenician Scheme is polarizing compared to its director’s earlier films is no surprise. Hopefully, it marks the continuation of a bold new phase where Wes Anderson continues to blend joy with sorrow, artifice with sincere inquiry, and precision with profound unease.
The Phoenician Scheme opens in theaters on June 6th courtesy of Focus Features.
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THE PHOENICIAN SCHEME is a Cracking (but Lacking) Comedy Caper
Wes Anderson’s Latest delivers the quirks and charm you expect, but lacks the emotional hook of his earlier works
A new Wes Anderson film is to be celebrated. A chance to once again immerse ourselves in his singular blend of stylization and strangely moving storytelling. The Phoenician Scheme, his latest, unsurprisingly doesn’t fall outside his oeuvre. But it charts new terrain, specifically, the fictional Middle Eastern country of Modern Greater Independent Phoenicia, in what amounts to an international caper laced with assassination attempts, family drama, and the question of legacy.
Anatole “Zsa-Zsa” Korda (Benicio del Toro) is a weathered industrialist with a murky past and a complicated present. His latest scheme, a sprawling infrastructure project involving tunnels, waterways, and an ambiguously-defined “hydroelectric embankment”, is on the brink of collapse. Government forces led by Mr. Excalibur (Rupert Friend) aim to bankrupt him by manipulating the market for “bashable rivets and crushed gravel,” and Zsa-Zsa, facing financial and possibly spiritual ruin, turns to the one person he hopes can secure his legacy, his estranged daughter, Liesl (Mia Threapleton).
There are a few problems. One, Liesl is about to become a nun. Two, she believes Zsa-Zsa may have murdered her mother. And three, she’s not exactly impressed by the fact that her father, who has dismissed his nine other sons as unworthy heirs, is only now showing up.
A tenuous reconciliation in place, forged under the promise of uncovering the truth behind the murder, as well as some moral adjustments to the business plan (paying slaves for starters), the pair set off to try and salvage the scheme. Enlisted in this misadventure is Korda’s new tutor Professor Bjorn (Michael Cera), a man whose love for insects is in danger of being surpassed by his growing affections for Liesl.
After the sprawling structure, warmth, nostalgia, and ruminations on life and its meaning in Asteroid City, The Phoenician Scheme feels positively pared down in comparison. A more traditional structure befitting an international caper with an emphasis on more propulsive fun, with the emotional through-line of a broken father-daughter relationship. This heist-like affair sees them criss-crossing the region, making deals, dabbling in blackmail and lectures on insects, and reforging family ties, all while Zsa-Zsa continues to evade the many assassination attempts that have long plagued his life. Scenes and settings serve as playful set pieces, each allowing a series of Anderson regulars (notably a chance to make their mark, most notably as the key investors Marty (Jeffrey Wright), Cousin Hilda (Johansson), Marseille Bob (Mathieu Amalric) and Zsa-Zsa’s brother, Uncle Nubar (Benedict Cumberbatch in full Rasputin mode). There are also newcomers to the troupe, notably Riz Ahmed as a charming Phoenician prince with a gift for diplomacy and layups, and Michael Cera as the delightfully off-beat Swede Bjorn. How it took Anderson this long to work him into a film is beyond me.
Del Toro anchors the film as Zsa-Zsa with, playing him as this quick thinking swindler who is thrown for a loop by his reckoning with mortality and also the accountability served up by his daughter. who is all wounded charm and economic immorality, only starting to grasp the moral weight of his choices. His deadpan delivery and pitch perfect timing is matched by Mia Threapleton. Her Liesl is stoic, conflicted, empathetic, and drolly hilarious. It’s a breakout turn and one that is crucial to the success of this duo that really forms the core of the film.
Visually, the film is everything you expect and more. Adam Stockhausen’s production design and Bruno Delbonnel’s cinematography are intoxicating: arid desert palettes meet 50s/60s kitsch, with surreal afterlife sequences shot in black-and-white. Every frame is packed with detail, but the settings, from opulent-yet-leaking mansions to endless scaffolding, reflect a world quite literally crumbling beneath the weight of ambition.
Anderson’s distinct sense of style is all present, but there’s a slightly darker edge to this outing, one that is lacking in its development. The whimsy is tempered by a steady thread of unease: famine by design, slave labor as a line item, legacies built on suffering. There are sharp jabs at modern oligarchs and the commodification of human lives, as well as a subtle but clear meditation on religion, repentance, and the high cost of redemption. Not just concerning a man who places money over everything, but also the morals of a failed father. The film gestures toward a redemption arc for Zsa-Zsa, and while the final scenes offer a quiet emotional closure, it all feels a little neat given the atrocities committed, the shaky foundations of this father/daughter relationship, and even the castigations of God (Bill Murray) being made apparent during his journey.
Even with this shortfall in terms of emotional heft, The Phoenician Scheme remains a gorgeously constructed, gently absurdist odyssey. One that expansively (but not incisively) touches on legacy, morality, and the danger of building empires without building character. Even as a minor Wes Anderson film, it retains it’s ability to delight and disarm its audience.
The Phoenician Scheme opens on June 6th
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THE LIFE OF CHUCK is a Soothing Balm for the Soul
Mike Flanagan’s adaptation of this Stephen King novella is a life-affirming work
The tagline for The Life of Chuck reads, “Each life is a universe all its own”. It’s a beautiful encapsulation of the film. A poignant, curious, and quietly moving meditation on life, memory, and legacy that feels both deeply intimate and cosmic in scope.
Told in three acts presented in reverse, the story unfolds like a puzzle, slowly revealing the significance of Charles “Chuck” Krantz (a toe-tapping and tender performance from Tom Hiddleston, and) and why the entire world seems to be celebrating him as it falls apart. Act Three opens the film with billboards skywriting tributes, and radio and TV adverts proclaiming “Thanks for 39 Great Years, Chuck”. A strange campaign to wage given that the the end of days is approaching. The Earth is dying. Ravaged by global climate disasters and technological collapse. California has fallen into the sea, and the small American town we center in on, teeters on the brink. Here we meet Felicia (Karen Gillan), a doctor struggling to keep up with a surge of suicides, and Marty (Chiwetel Ejiofor), a schoolteacher and her ex, who clings to the belief that education still matters, even as parents and students give up. Their tender reunion as the chaos surges and the darkness closes in.
Act Two unfolds 9 months earlier, as Chuck indulges in a spontaneous street dance with a heartbroken stranger, sparked by a busking drummer (The Pocket Queen) on the street. This glimpse of a cherished moment gives way to to the final act, the final act, the film’s first, chronologically. Landing with devastating grace, we see the tragedy of Chuck’s childhood (wonderfully played now by Jacob Tremblay and later Benjamin Pajak), as well the the figures and family that informed who he becomes. Notably his grandmother Bubbe Sarah (Mia Sara), who opens up Chuck to the worlds of music and dance, and his grandfather Albie (Mark Hamill). An accountant and man who who loves his grandson, yet is plagued by emotional weight, prone to drink, and when he does so, opens up with the occasional tale about a mysterious locked room in their house, the contents of which has great bearing on all their futures.
A simple synopsis deliberately sidestepping details, hinting at the mystery of the tale, and frankly unable to capture the heart and soul of this film from Mike Flanagan (The Haunting of Hill House, Midnight Mass, Oculus). Adapted from Stephen King’s novella, it makes yet another phenomenal work that comes from their magical pairing after the critical success of Gerald’s Game and Doctor Sleep. Flanagan has proven an assured storyteller with an assured grasp of finding humanity within his preferred genre of horror.
This is achieved by deft scripting, as well as an embarassment of riches when it comes to the cast. Beyond the measured and moving work of the trio portraying Chuck, the anchoring work of Ejiofor and Gillan, and the rich and loving work of Sarah and Hamill, the Supporting cast packed with talent such as Rahul Kohli, Kate Siegel, David Dastmalchian, Matthew Lillard, Carl Lumby, and Harvey Guillén, Violet McGraw, Heather Langenkamp, and Samantha Sloyan. Many of them familiar faces from past Flanagan projects, each making the most to the role and time afforded them to make a lingering impact.
While the third (but first) act flits with reflections on where we’re going as a society, the encroachment of technology, and environmental issues, it all encircles this curious mystery about Chuck. The acts that delve into the past deepen this and offer up answers, with connective clues and elements straddling all three eras, resulting in a meaningful echo throughout Chuck’s life. His is a bittersweet tale, but one that is peppered with as much unexpected joy as doom and gloom. That’s how life typically is after all. The film wears its heart on its sleeve. Unabashedly sentimental, yes, but never manipulative. Like King’s The Green Mile or Stand By Me, it’s not about spectacle it’s about soul. And Flanagan, borrowing a line from Walt Whitman, gives us a lead character, and a worldview, that “contains multitudes”. It’s not just about Chuck’s potential as a kid, or the paths opened up to him, it’s about those we touch along the way and however far along we are, we always have the choice to change and to seek out joy in our own lives.
The Life of Chuck is one of those special life-affirming films that comes along every once in a while that leaves you thinking and feeling more deeply. A soothing balm for the soul. Just a perfectly poignant, elegantly uplifting, and wonderfully wrought work from Mike Flanagan.
The Life of Chuck hits select theaters on June 6th and opens wide on June 13th
