The team looks at the oft-forgotten 90s family comedy where Faye Dunaway, Jason Alexander and Rupert Everett all take second billing…to a monkey.
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 [email protected].
The Pick: Dunston Checks In
In honor of Kong’s return in Godzilla x Kong: The New Empire, this month the Two Cents Film Club is going ape for APE-RIL!! We’re looking at a lineup of ape-themed movies with some surprises in the mix. Our third entry is 1996’s Dunston Checks In. The movie boasts an all-star cast in a madcap adventure tale set in a Plaza-like hotel where a chimpanzee named Dunston finds his way in, befriends a young boy (Eric Lloyd), and hilariously wreaks havoc in one of New York’s most luxurious hotels.
To some degree, like with most “chimps on screen” films, Dunston Checks In derives a fair amount of laughter simply out of the primal human instinct to think “look at that funny monkey doing funny things”! No doubt I was not above that and indeed my daughter and I chuckled mightily throughout this film on that base level alone. But the film around the monkey on screen is surprisingly earnest and whimsical, boasting a cast of such quality as to astound someone who is experiencing this film for the first time here in 2024. The leads are a couple of child actors who acquit themselves just fine, but their father, who manages the 5 star hotel Dunston checks into and where the kids live and play, charmingly, is none other than Jason Alexander! Faye Dunaway is his cutthroat businesswoman boss, and Paul Reubens shows up as an animal catcher. I’m not here to say this is some kind of mid-90s family classic, but 5-star hotel antics, jewel thieving monkeys, endless slapstick gags, a monkey film that homages Planet Of The Apes and King Kong amidst our own Ape-ril journey, and a family coming together are enough to make me happy I sat down with my daughter and checked in on Dunston.
As others have pointed out, I was pleasantly surprised by Dunston Checks In. It certainly isn’t some hidden gem, and it certainly hits every expected “90s live-action comedy for kids” trope it can. Haggard father trying to balance being good at his job and also being a good day? Check, thanks to Jason Alexander. Outlandish antics, mostly to disrupt snooty adults? Check again. Liberating animals for abuse, a weirdly common theme of film from this era? You got it again.
What is more surprising is the madcap energy of the thing; I did not expect a moment where Alexander screams a perfectly timed and executed “Holy shit!” at his first viewing of Dunston. I did not expect multiple scenes depicting adults drinking and smoking. I didn’t expect innuendo-laden jokes throughout, including multiple gags about people being caught crawling under tables and the clear implication there. I didn’t expect to see Dunston’s blood. It all feels a bit more anarchic than similar fare of today, and like it was dipping its toe in dangerous waters by not talking down to its intended audience. Gore Verbinski’s incredible debut Mouse Hunt is probably the closest equivalent, and while Dunston never elevates to quite that level of forgotten treasure, there are enough surprising and actively amusing bits that it passes the bar of “better than you’d think” easily.
I’m not sure who ever thought that monkeys would make great movie stars, but someone clearly did as evidenced by the existence of titles both popular (Every Which Way But Loose) and obscure (Monkey Trouble). While the former made Clint Eastwood and Clive a winning onscreen duo, hardly anyone remembers the former, a 1994 comedy starring Thora Birch (in her “cute camera-ready kid” era) and a monkey who turns out to be a trained thief. The lack of success (or originality) of that movie didn’t stop 20th Century Fox from getting into the monkey movie business themselves with this comedy from 1996. Borrowing many of the same plot points from Monkey Trouble, the film pairs another cute kid (this time The Santa Clause‘s Eric Lloyd) with an orangutan (the titular Dunston) and places them smack dab in the middle of a 5-star hotel in the big apple.
There’s a tendency to go for cheap laughs in Dunston Checks In. Gags such as a continuous stream of raspberry sounds, or scenes like Dunston going crazy as he jumps over a wealthy hotel guest as she lays on her back while thinking she’s getting an invigorating massage are par for the course. Director Ken Kwapis is a capable enough filmmaker with a track record to back him up. But there’s a tendency on his part here to go for the obvious joke, believing that’s what kids find funny.
Kwapis and company do manage more right with Dunston Checks In than one might assume, however. For starters, the movie has the brilliant idea to take its wildly eclectic cast and place them in situations that are totally against type. Jason Alexander plays the straight man, Faye Dunaway does Lucille Ball-like slapstick, Rupert Everett revels in cartoon villainy, and Paul Reubens is delightfully unhinged. All seem to be having a ball and each are given their own comedy moments, no one more so than Glenn Shadix, whose every scene as a much-beleaguered hotel guest gets the movie’s most surefire laughs.
There’s also a slight, but undeniable “Eloise at the Plaza” storybook feeling about the whole affair thanks to its setting, which the filmmakers take real advantage of by placing Dunston in a variety of situations. But apart from the fun (both obvious and genuine), Dunston Checks In aims to be a tale about a boy and his unconventional friend, both largely ignored by the worlds they come from who form a bond. While the script doesn’t offer much in the way of nuance when it comes to this aspect, it more than makes up for it in both Lloyd’s natural ease in front of the camera and in the chemistry he shares with his furry, adorable co-star.
I’m not sure what possessed us to check out this 90s kid-flick with a 17% Rotten Tomatoes score, but despite its poor critical reputation it wasn’t half bad. On the contrary, it was light and fun – precisely the kind of mid-budget, live action, PG-rated family movie that used to be fairly ubiquitous in the 80s and 90s, but has for the most part been obsolesced by a modern landscape driven by algorithms and bankable IPs. In addition to its primary primate this slapstick adventure features a handful of terrific actors (Jason Alexander! Paul Reubens! Faye Dunaway!) hamming it up and, by the look of it, having a great time. In what may be the biggest surprise of Ape-ril, Dunston Checks In is worth checking out.
While its bite may be uneven, this monstrous thriller continues Radio Silence’s enviable streak of unpredictable horror-comedies
Stills courtesy of Universal Pictures.
A ragtag team of kidnappers descend upon a fortified mansion, each using their unique skillset to subdue and spirit away young ballerina Abigail (Alisha Weir). They hole up in a crumbling country house, awaiting further instructions–with “Joey” (Melissa Barrera) as the sole point of contact with their pre-teen victim for compartmentalization. They stick to their aliases and enjoy the easier part of their job, waiting out the clock until they get their money. However, the members of the team get picked off one by one in gruesome ways. The crew turns on one another, desperate to stay alive long enough to reap the rewards of their increasing shares of ransom money. But as much as they harbor their own secrets, little Abigail has the deadliest of them all…
Directing duo Radio Silence (Matt Bettinelli-Olpin & Tyler Gillett) have long since proven their bonafides at blending horror, comedy, and action with films like Ready or Not, Southbound, and the last two Scream films. However, the pair still show they have dozens of fiendishly clever tricks up their viscera-drenched sleeves with Abigail, a gory blast rich with blood, guts, and laughs in equal measure. While the film may have its shortcomings, Abigail joins films like Immaculate, Lisa Frankenstein, Late Night with the Devil, and The First Omen in making 2024 a fantastic year for horror in its first four months alone.
As with their previous films, the Radio Silence team effectively channels the strengths of their cast while granting them the freedom to get weird and wild with the material they’re given. Melissa Barrera joins the team for her first post-Scream outing and quickly solidifies her well-earned role as a modern horror icon. Much like Ready or Not’s Samara Weaving, Joey is a headstrong, capable force of nature, here tempered by years of carefully honed defense skills and bitter reservation. There’s a vulnerability to Barrera’s character that she’s careful to dial the audience into without showing too much to her other cast members–a tactic that pays quick dividends as the film progresses. Abigail is yet another welcome entry in the “Dan Stevens goes absolutely unhinged” canon, as his Tim Robinson-inspired team leader has his bombastic bravado progressively chopped to pieces alongside the rest of his crew. Alisha Weir is a delightful standout as the elusive turned venomous Abigail, quickly weaponizing the innocent traits of similar characters like Dakota Fanning in Man on Fire or Kristen Stewart in Panic Room before going on such an eye-popping rampage. Supporting players all have chances to shine amidst the grisly absurdity–including Kathryn Newton (a funny flip of the coin from this year’s Lisa Frankenstein), the dearly departed Angus Cloud, humorous heavy Kevin Durand, a courageously stoic William Catlett, and an ever-mysterious Giancarlo Esposito.
The strength of the ensemble allows the film to settle into its initial place as a trust-no-one self-contained thriller, playing up the cat-and-mouse game of aliases and shady backgrounds in a quickly engaging and satisfying way. Even without its pivot into horror, widely telegraphed in the film’s marketing as its main selling point, Abigail is a fun, tense film in this regard–and given just how much Radio Silence takes its time in sticking to this original thriller mode, one could wonder if this should have even been spoiled at all, a la From Dusk Till Dawn. Once Abigail as a film and character rip off the mask of pretense, both cast and crew have a ridiculously bloody time reveling in what Abigail really is. Bettinelli-Olpin, Gillett, and writers Stephen Shields and Guy Busick pack the runtime with inventive kills, tense shocks, and hilarious banter well worth the price of admission, skewering genre tropes and conventions on its characters’ hand-fashioned stakes along the way.
However, I can’t help but feel that for all of its clever reveals and subversions, none of Abigail’s tongue-in-cheek twists ever live up to the manic mayhem of its midpoint upending of the plot. There are clever side quests and wonderfully tense moments, to be sure, but the buckets of blood at points feel more like the grease that allows the film’s wheels to spin before we get to moments that strive for greater or more meaningful suspense or impact. After several bloody sequences, I’m relieved to say the film manages to pick up steam again–with major credit to Barrera, Stevens, and Weir in particular for what becomes a magnetic and brutal dynamic together. One can’t help but feel that for all of its gut-churning visuals and gut-busting banter that Abigail might have a bit more bite with a few more judicial trimmings.
These shortcomings, however, don’t stop Radio Silence from continuing to make the horror-comedy genre look so devilishly easy to pull off. Abigail is still a sinister and silly good time at the movies, anchored by a cast gone wild and a creative team that’s more than willing to let them run rampant.
Abigail hits theaters on April 19th courtesy of Universal Pictures.
Picnic at Hanging Rock wasn’t Australian director Peter Weir’s first feature film, but it was the one that put him on the spotlight and cemented him as the “Peter Weir” we know today.
Many Australian films, especially period pieces or films set in the Outback (Picnic is both), have a certain uniquely rustic and dangerous air which can’t be replicated. The Australian New Wave and closely-linked Ozploitation boom of the 1970s brought about an exciting time of new filmmakers and stars, with Peter Weir and Picnic at Hanging Rock among the most celebrated and influential (second only to the twin powers of George Miller and Mel Gibson in Mad Max and its even more influential post-apocalyptic sequel Mad Max 2: The Road Warrior).
Picnic at Hanging Rock is every bit as visceral, haunting, and vital as its exploitation brethren, but cloaked instead in ethereal beauty, frilly lace school dresses, pretty parasols, and tightly pulled corsets.
The tale concerns an English-style ladies boarding school, the characters its students, teachers, and surrounding community. On Valentine’s Day, 1900, the class of girls, accompanied by a teacher and some young men employed as their driver and escorts, visit the towering volcanic rock formation known as Hanging Rock (a real location in Victoria, Australia).
Exactly what happened on the rock is a mystery – but what is known is that a few of the girls, and their teacher, disappeared, leading to a massive and sustained hunt to find the girls – or their bodies.
It’s a fairly straightforward plot, but stylistically it’s anything but. Weir infuses the tale with a surreal, sinister, and suggestively supernatural sensation. Around the base of the rock where girls make their picnic and settle for a nap, as if under some enchantment, time seems to stand still. Indeed, even watches stop – a phenomenon of the magnetic rock, an unsatisfying explanation offers.
But high on the rock where a smaller group of the girls sneak off to explore, an exploratory intrigue, expressed in slow motion and long dissolves, gives way to a screaming wind, yawning caverns, and an enticement to progress further into the highest winding crags as if under some somnambulistic trance.
This haunting mystery and sinister power of suggestion is greatly enhanced by the panflute music of Gheorge Zamfir, whose uniquely earthy and evocative compositions are perhaps the most crucial ingredient in setting the film’s singular tone.
The sense of mystery only deepens as the search for the girls lingers on, despite the best efforts of distressed policemen and search parties, and especially the tenacious efforts of the young men who originally accompanied the girls, driven by a potent mix of guilt and affection. Developments and clues which might be expected to help explain the incident only serve to obscure it further instead.
The greatness of Picnic at Hanging Rock is a little hard to quantify, a film that’s as much about its deeply evocative bestirring and suggestions and implications teeming beneath-the-surface as the literal elements of its plot.
The film is both outstanding and visually rich, and deeply deserving of this new 4K UHD presentation.
The Package
Picnic at Hanging Rock has been previously released on by Criterion in various formats (an early entry, as indicated by its low spine number of 29), including Blu-ray releases beginning in 2014 as a deluxe Digibox package with the novel included, and later in a more standard standalone release.
Criterion’s new 4K UHD release of the film includes a 4K movie disc and Blu-ray with movie and extras, in the usual transparent “Criterion style” case and accompanying booklet (which has been revised to highlight the new UHD transfer). It’s described as new 4K digital restoration, supervised and approved by Peter Weir and director of photography Russell Boyd, with 5.1 surround DTS-HD Master Audio soundtrack.
One thing I’m not overly fond of is that Criterion 4K packages look virtually indistinguishable from their Blu-ray editions, with only a sticker on the wrap and a few small text signifiers to tell them apart. Certainly it’s no help when browsing discs at Barnes & Noble, especially by spines, and probably a source of great confusion to retail employees who might be tricked into price matching discs across different formats. I understand this is due to Criterion’s emphasis of the content over format, but some distinguishing designs would not be unwelcome.
Special Features and Extras
Most of the extras are in 1080i and have a prominent combing effect which may be noticeable on some equipment.
Interview with Peter Weir (25:00) – an interview with Weir is accompanied by clips from the film and assorted still images. My favorite part was Weir recalling meeting author Joan Lindsay and asking her the questions he had been explicitly instructed not to.
Everything Begins and Ends (30:24) – A more recent look back at the making of the film, featuring producers, cast, and crew members.
Introduction by David Thomson (9:30) – the author and historian shares a video essay introducing the film and its legacy
A Recollection… Hanging Rock 1900 – vintage documentary produced for television and hosted by executive producer Patricia Lovell, featuring interviews with cast and crew members as well as Joan Lindsay, author of the novel’s
Homesdale (1971), a black comedy by Weir
Trailer (4:35) – a vintage trailer, notably long and plot-structured by modern standards
English subtitles
Booklet with an essay by author Megan Abbott and an excerpt from Peter Weir: When Cultures Collide by Marek Haltof
A/V Out.
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Except where noted, all 16:9 screen images in this review are direct captures from the accompanying Blu-ray disc (not the 4K UHD) with no editing applied, but may have compression or resizing inherent to file formats and Medium’s image system.
Simply put, Caye Casas’ The Coffee Table is the most transgressive anxiety-inducing 90 minutes (!) you will endure in 2024, I guarantee it. While I caught the film at Fantastic Fest last year, it just hit DVD and VOD thanks to Cinephobia Releasing and I’ve been waiting with baited breath to spring it on unsuspecting viewers, after enduring it at the fest. The pitch black Spanish comedy is the story of Jesús (David Pareja) who while out furniture shopping with his wife Maria (Estefanía de los Santos) and newborn son happens upon an opulent and gaudy coffee table. In one of the most relatable scenes I’ve witnessed on film recently, we have a man that desperately wants this overpriced, ugly piece of furniture with 2 ornate golden nude women holding up a pane of glass, and his very sensible wife wanting nothing of it. That first scene does a remarkable job at grounding the film in reality, by making these characters so sympathetic and relatable.
Maria eventually relents and once they get it home she steps out of their apartment to grab some groceries while Jesús assembles the monstrosity, tasked with also keeping an eye on his son; allowing her the first break she’s had since giving birth. The problem is while putting together the table Jesús accidentally decapitates his infant son on the glass. The most unexpected part is just how he reacts, which is exactly how you expect a man who just accidentally cut his newborn son’s head off would, and I think that is where the film’s primary strength lies. There’s searing guilt, there’s anger, shame and then the shocking denial. When his wife comes home from shopping, Jesús, not wanting to confront the grim truth lies, simply says his son is sleeping. If that wasn’t enough, their next door neighbors tween daughter who is obsessed with Jesús, is threatening to lie to Maria, saying they had relations, to split the couple up, so she could have him for herself.
While The Coffee Table decimates you with pure grief and disbelief, which is played completely straight, director Caye Casas’ flawlessly plays against it with a pitch black humor. This manifests in how the director slowly ratchets up the pressure cooker around our poor protagonist in this heartbreaking situation. David Pareja makes Jesús’ grief and descent completely tangible on screen, making sure to never sever the audience’s connection. It’s a tightrope of a performance that is careful not to fall into the comedic trappings, and works better than any shocking gore or practical effect could. Opposite him, we have Estefanía de los Santos who is so sincere as his partner, that it just works to amplify the remorse that you’re feeling for David. The pair work together in a way, that levity aside, works to unnerve the viewer who is helpless to watch this all unfold.
The Coffee Table may no doubt be too much for some, either due to the inciting incident or its tense aftermath. That said, one thing you can’t argue is how truly effective every minute of it is. I haven’t felt this anxious watching a film since Uncut Gems, and that’s another film that locks you in with its characters, only to turn the screws on its audience throughout the runtime. Caye Casas does this downright masterfully in how he not only keeps the tension growing throughout the film, but how he chooses to end the story, which leaves the viewer both flabbergasted and oddly at ease. So while I can’t recommend The Coffee Table to everyone, for those on the hunt for your next transgressive treat you need look no further than a film that still haunts me to this day, and because of that I can’t recommend it enough.
Mike Cheslik’s Hundreds of Beavers which hit VOD today (AND they also just added an encore show at Philly’s own PhilaMOCA) is one of those films that defies the conventional elevator pitch, which is why it actually took me so long to sit down and check it out based on the available stills and synopsis. The film is like a 90 minute live-action black and white episode of Looney Toons, where a brewmaster’s hard apple cider bar is destroyed, and the destitute alcoholic is then forced to become a trapper for food and sustenance in the 1800s. He then falls in love with the merchant’s daughter and is challenged to collect “hundreds” of beaver pelts to win her hand from her father. The film’s plot is equal parts Wile E. Cyote and Legend of Zelda as our trapper is forced to first level up his clothing and hunting implements, before he can begin attempting to outsmart his prey who is more often than not, one step ahead of him.
Visually the film is ambitious and unlike anything you’ve seen, and if anything it feels like a distant cousin of the DIY masterwork The People’s Joker with its heavily digitized pixelmash collage visual style. The film’s monochromatic color palette and distressed look, feels like a budget necessity more than anything else. It’s a rather inventive way to not only give the film a retro look, but hide the rough edges of the film’s hundreds if not thousands of no-budget VFX shots that should be a commercial for Adobe. Not to take anything away from the piece who’s visuals only help to allow the viewer to descend into this whimsically hyper violent and juvenile world that works mostly because it never takes itself seriously and will definitely make you laugh, like that first time your heard a dirty joke.
Beavers is cribbing from everything from Charlie Chaplin to Tex Avery to create this world where cartoon physics are real, and animals are in fact grown-ass adults in suits, which adds a surreal and absurdist bent to the humor. The film also does a lot to soften the edges of the violence, not just with the humor that surprised me with just how funny it can be at times. This is all basically thanks to the film’s star Jean Kayak, who’s grasp on the physical humor needed to make this all work is downright impressive at times and reminiscent of a young Bruce Campbell. Hundreds of Beavers is proof that all you need is a great idea and the fearlessness to craft a feature from the digital void that can play not only festivals, but living rooms as well, where I am sure it’s going to be discovered and shared at so many parties for years to come.
Civil War the latest by Alex Garland is a dystopian action thriller that takes place in a “not too distant future” and chronicles the final days of the second American Civil War. This has the Western Front (Texas? and California), taking on the remainder of the United States, which is led by a president, just called “the president”, played here by Nick Offerman who has cocooned himself in a concrete encased White House. Like a lot of things in this film, his politics and what started this war is all pretty vague. The narrative follows a seasoned war photojournalist (Kirsten Dunst) and her writing partner as they make their way across our war torn nation, with an AR-15 around every corner, on their way to Washington, DC in an attempt to interview the president and photograph him before the capital falls and he is dispatched.
This urban hellscape as someone who lived right outside of Philadelphia during the riots a few years back really hit a little too close to home, along with some of the other imagery Garland chose to lift and present here in IMAX. For some people, these things in America at the time were very real things, along with the military presence in some major cities thanks to the national guard. While we have these very real scenarios, but with the how and the why carefully drained out of every situation, it robs them of their emotional weight. Garland is very careful not to play the events presented as a north or south thing, a race thing or even a conservative or liberal thing, which honestly makes no sense and will leave most with more questions than answers. The tension of these very real events is something Garland works hard to recapture and channel in the style of an action film and recreate on screen, and it is complemented with a sound mix that gives Dunkirk a run for its money.
That being said I don’t want to take anything from Dunst, who gives a career best performance playing the no-nonsense photojournalist, struggling with PTSD and as a fan makes this film worth the watch. Dunst commands every moment she’s on screen as she attempts to navigate this world as she is forced to take a younger inexperienced female photographer under her wing. While most seem to lock into the ant-war, ‘water is wet’ message since our protagonists are all press, they exist in this other area where they are able to skirt having any motivation linked to the overarching struggle around them. It may be enough for some that we just want to to see them make it out of this exercise alive, but short for a few conversations about where they’re from, the film doesn’t even dig too deep into our characters, which could reveal some other deeper motivation, other than them being a bunch of perverse voyeuristic adrenaline junkies.
This thread of the media’s role in these events, which is cemented by the film’s closing credits, paints even our protagonists with a rather sinister brush and it’s the only clear stand the film makes. We witness more than a few scenes where we watch 2 to 3 press standing over a dead body in an almost pornographic manner, fighting over the scraps of the carnage trying their best to get the goriest money shot. In fact this film’s media message is so poignant, it punishes Dunst’s character who shortly before the final act makes a gesture that shows that she possibly thinks she may have gone too far. It’s a clear moment of reflection, that along with that third act looks to offer up some form of redemption for her character, who begins to crumble under the weight of it all.
Civil War is a film that feels a lot like that guy at the office that likes to complain about politics, but doesn’t vote. The film brought to mind Gualtiero Jacopetti and Franco Prosperi’s GoodBye Uncle Tom, a film made by Italians about American slavery pre-Civil War. Tom is pure lurid exploitation, that never misses an opportunity to exploit its subjects for another loaded shock. I felt like Civil War is very much cut from the same cloth, a foreign filmmaker exploiting the violence, chaos and turmoil currently at the heart of America, who’s not concerned with really digging into how or why we as a country can pull itself out of this, or even if we should. The film instead leaves the viewer shell shocked and with more questions than answers, at least here in the US. Most international audiences will probably relish in its anti-American message that paints our country without hope and unworthy of salvation, which couldn’t be farther from the truth.
Or to be more precise, GREYSTOKE: THE LEGEND OF TARZAN, LORD OF THE APES…
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 [email protected].
The Pick: Greystoke: The Legend of Tarzan
In honor of Kong’s return in Godzilla x Kong: The New Empire, this month the Two Cents Film Club is going ape for APE-RIL!! We’re looking at a lineup of ape-themed movies with some surprises in the mix. Our second entry is 1984’s Greystoke: The Legend of Tarzan, Lord of the Apes. It’s a rewarding adaptation of the Edgar Rice Burrough’s character that tilts away from swashbuckling adventure towards a more meditative and naturalistic tale about trauma and tragedy.
I’m shocked to have found myself moved to tears by the improbably titled Greystoke: The Legend Of Tarzan, Lord Of The Apes. I’d seen the film ages ago, as a child, and I just don’t think I was ready for the emotional wallop that this ambitious film aims for. While it most certainly is ambitious, I’d argue that the ambition lies in how earnest and almost anti-serialized, anti-action it really is. Of course I’m a lover of action cinema, but I’m also an appreciator of wild swings and it feels that Robert Towne and Michael Austin (Oscar nominated for their adaptation of Edgar Rice Burroughs’ Tarzan) were extremely bold to tell a version of Tarzan that wasn’t about pulp adventure, but rather about the tragedy of loss, the meaning of home, and what makes a family. Composer John Scott’s swelling score brought an operatic feel to the human drama on display that I was quite moved by as well. With an opening act largely devoid of dialog, we see the origins of our hero being raised by apes after the tragic loss of his parents, and eventually we’re introduced to Christopher Lambert as John Clayton / Tarzan (though I’m not sure the word “Tarzan” is ever uttered in this film). I was absolutely engrossed by the grounded approach that was taken here – less about fantasy and more about what a man’s soul would really be like if he was formed by the jungle, learned to rule the jungle, and ultimately forced to reckon with the aristocracy of 1800s England to claim his birthright. The stark contrast of worlds and the tragic loss of family that John experiences is powerful and unlike any other Tarzan story I’ve ever seen. I just adored director Hugh Hudson’s (Chariots of Fire) take on Tarzan and I’ll hold it close to my heart for the rest of my days as a potent humanization of a timeless and mythic character.
This Tarzan adaptation was definitely the one that most felt like a true Epic. While latter versions have felt the need to amp up the pacing and add frequent comic relief, Greystoke felt so measured and patient, fascinated with the reality of a character like Tarzan and seriously reckoning on the emotional impact his return to human life would have. I really have to give it credit for opening with a stately beginning in Scotland, only to make the dramatic pivot into a near-wordless coming-of-age drama by way of Quest for Fire. I was so enamored with this section of the film that I was worried at how much Greystoke might lose me in its more “civilized” second half–but I was surprisingly engaged with how much the film’s fish-out-of-water story provided a demented mirror to young John’s experiences in the jungle. Christopher Lambert is fascinating to watch as he attempts to acclimate to British society–but it’s his wonderfully dynamic relationships with Belgian adventurer Philippe d’Arnot (Ian Holm) and his estranged Earl grandfather (Ralph Richardson) that provided a much-needed emotional core to this second half. I wasn’t expecting what I had previously seen as a rip-roaring action-adventure film to turn into a quite moving exploration of the roles and rules given to us at birth, and how they reinforce/narrow how we see the world. But as John says–learning what we are not is the only way to know where home truly is.
I first caught Greystoke back when I was around the age of 10. Familiar with the underlying story, I remember being rapt by the apes and practical effects (which sure, haven’t aged well) and the sense that this was something altogether bigger and more emotional than other versions I’d caught glimpse of. A fresh view of the film today and that still holds true. The grandeur is met with a real level of grit, stemming from a naturalistic depiction of this man’s journey, from orphaned child, through a childhood raised by apes, all the way to his discovery and reunion with a life he left behind long ago. There’s an inherent level of trauma and tragedy in all this, and it’s well fleshed out, largely through Tarzan’s (Christopher Lambert) relationships with friend/adventurer Philippe d’Arnot (a wonderful Ian Holm), his grandfather the Sixth Earl of Greystoke (the ever magnificent Ralph Richardson), and love interest Jane (Andie MacDowell).
The whole “white man in a savage land” trope has been milked to death over the years, even in a 2016 adaptation staring Alexander Skarsgård. Greystoke feels rather earnest about it, aided by a more misty, old school approach to filmmaking, as well as being less concerned with depictions of tribal culture or any white savior ideals. These apes are painted as more noble than some of the humans Tarzan encounters. Not difficult in this age of Imperialism and with the backdrop of the British upper-classes. An immersion in the jungle wonderfully balanced by the shock and awe of a shift into the West. Greystoke refocuses the Tarzan myth into an inward looking tale, showing a man’s soul forged in a sense of adventure, attuned to the call of the wild over civility and civilization.
I definitely caught Greystoke on TV as a kid – probably more than once – and was enraptured by it. But I hadn’t revisited it since childhood, and maybe never seen in its entirety. So it was with some excitement that I anticipated this Two Cents rewatch (and realized that for years I have incorrectly thought it called “Greystroke”).
The film has some striking images and moments that have always stuck with me, like Tarzan’s defeat of his gorilla nemesis and his reunion with his adoptive ape father Silverbeard, ending in the anguished cry of “he was my father”. Even as a kid I was awed by the film’s potent sense of tragedy and sudden violence. One thing that really struck a chord with me was the grandfather character sledding down the stairs to his death, trying to recreate his fondest childhood memory. Even as a kid, in that moment I completely understood his nostalgia (maybe the first time understanding this concept) and braced for the worst, rightly fearing for the kind old man’s life and the change his death would bring. But in the years since I had forgotten about that particular scene, and ironically seeing it again suddenly unlocked that memory and rushed the nostalgic part of my brain.
This was definitely a formative film for me – clearly even more so than I had remembered – and I’m thrilled to see that it holds up magnificently, an earnest and somewhat devastating approach to the Tarzan mythos. I think that earnest vision is precisely the reason I followed its story so well even as a child, and why it has stuck with me since then.
Laura Poitras and Nan Goldin collaborate on a portrait of the artist
Photo by Nan Goldin, as seen in All the Beauty and the Bloodshed.
Documentarian Laura Poitras (Citizenfour) collaborates with queer artist Nan Goldin in All the Beauty and the Bloodshed, the 2022 Oscar-nominated film recently released in a Blu-Ray package from Criterion Collection. A celebration of Goldin’s art and her activism, the documentary takes the viewer through the artist’s life, showing what led to her fight against the Sackler family (the powerful, wealthy folks behind the now bankrupt Purdue Pharma and opiate Oxycontin).
Goldin and her fellow members of PAIN – the organization she started – orchestrate their first protest at the New York Metropolitan Museum in 2018, against the “toxic philanthropy” (in Poitras’ words) of the Sacklers. There’s an arresting visual potency to their method of protest. Dozens of empty pill bottles float in the water of the Sackler wing of the museum as the activists stage a die-in. This stunning, memorable opening prepares the audience for the unique story and visual style in the work to follow.
Nan Goldin in All the Beauty and the Bloodshed.
Poitras joined the project after Goldin had been filming for 1.5 years. In one of the special features within this Criterion package, they speak in a panel about the plan for the original film centering on PAIN and recovery. Through Poitras’ interviews with the artist, illustrated with her photography and punctuated by excerpts from her slideshows, Goldin’s personal story unfolds.
The death of her sister as a teen, her own search for identity, her chosen family, and the diverse community of artists she surrounded herself with are all explored through Goldin’s dry, honest narration. The artist is frank about surviving abuse from a past partner and her later addiction to pain medication. The radical nature of her photography — or so it was seen at the time — is paralleled by the radical aspects of her work with PAIN.
The composition and editing of All the Beauty and the Bloodshed are detailed and considered. The form of the film is an art itself, as moments from Goldin’s early life inform the activist she is now. Goldin’s touch is audible in the songs she selected to punctuate the film. Soundwalk Collective also wrote original scoring for the film at her request.
The documentary is light on expert interviews, keeping the focus on Goldin’s own voice. Incredible archival video is incorporated into the work. There’s a timeless urgency to David Wojnarowicz’s response to the controversy surrounding the program he wrote for the 1989 Artist’s Space show Goldin curated, even though he and other artists from the show have been dead for decades.
Goldin and Poitras create a moving work that reflects the original voice of the artist at its heart. The broadened scope by Poitras gives All the Beauty and the Bloodshed more emotional heft, accompanied by haunting visuals from Goldin. The resulting film is as much an inspiring call to action as it is a remarkable portrait of the artist.
a Criterion interview with filmmaker Laura Poitras. She provides a retrospective on her early work, speaks about her collaboration with Goldin after a chance encounter in 2019, and confesses her affinity for the “drama of real time.” She talks about the level of detail in this film’s editing, and the overall goal for the work of removing stigma.
a post-screening conversation from NY Film Festival involving Goldin, Poitras, and a few members of PAIN. “I found my fight and it kept me sober,” Goldin says of her work with PAIN. Poitras comments, “my films are portraits.”
a panel from that same NYFF with Goldin on Art and Activism. She shares that Maggie Smith, her boss at Tin Pan Alley, was the first to point out how political her art was. She discusses PAIN as her art, and how the group’s protests were arranged according to the specific venue/space involved. “This film is an act of political action.”
There’s a moment in Housekeeping for Beginners, the third film from the Macedonian-born, Australian-based filmmaker Goran Stolevski (Of an Age, You Won’t Be Alone), where two women, Dita (Anamaria Marinca) and Suada (Alina Serban), wait impatiently for an oncologist to finish a phone call. The call falls on the wrong side of important, but it’s an early indication of the condescension, mistreatment, and neglect faced by the Romani population in current-day Northern Macedonia where Housekeeping for Beginners takes place.
Through a deliberate, clear-eyed accumulation of detail rather than delivering background information via awkward expository dumps, the audience learns that the Romani are outcasts, pariahs, perpetual outsiders freely discriminated against by the melanin-challenged population. Dita and Suada are also lovers, their relationship unrecognized by state authorities, making Suada the object of intersectional discrimination while Dita, privileged by the color of her skin, her Macedonian name, and government employment as a social welfare worker, Suada’s unofficial protector.
Their home, owned by Dita, but filled with seemingly permanent guests, including a lesbian trio, Elena (Sara Klimoska), Flora (Rozafa Celaj), and Teuta (Ajse Useini), Toni (Vladimir Tintor), Dita’s longtime friend who doubles as her straight cover in the outside world, his one-night stand turned something more, Ali (Samson Selim), and Suada’s two daughters, Vanesa (Mia Mustafi), a surly, unhappy teen, and Mia (Dżada Selim), a lively, rambunctious, preternaturally perceptive preteen.
While Dita’s home operates as a queer sanctuary in a country where being outed as queer can have any number of negative consequences, it’s to the multi-layered screenplay’s credit that it’s also refreshingly messy, filled with contradictions, complexities, and conflicts of mostly minor kinds. Personalities clash, insults fly freely and creatively, and doors slam in frustration, anger, or general annoyance as Dita, Suada, and the others try, sometimes more successfully than others, to live with each other under the same roof.
In short, they’re the kind of families that — to borrow a well-worn truism — like-minded, often marginalized people make for themselves, partly out of a general need for affection, companionship, and support, and partly as a bulwark against an intimidatingly hostile world outside the group home’s doors. It’s all the more important where queerness isn’t considered a matter of personal identity systematically protected by the rule of law but as a legitimate excuse for persecution by bigoted neighbors or associates and possible imprisonment by an intolerant government.
Housekeeping for Beginners hinges on exactly this dilemma: How can Dita, thrust unexpectedly into the role of substitute mother for Vanessa and Mia, navigate the obstacles and pitfalls of the Northern Macedonian legal system and, in effect, become their legal guardians? Add to that Vanessa and Mia’s status as Romani non-citizens and Dita faces the issue of finding workarounds, some less legal than others, to make their lives safer and more secure in a country that legally, socially, and politically rejects them.
Embracing the social realism of his second film, Of An Age, an overlooked queer romance set in Australia, Stolevski excels, sometimes brilliantly, in creating complex, frustratingly nuanced characters. In their biases, prejudices, and attitudes, they’re far from heroic or at times when they’re driven by petty, selfish desires, even relatable. Moments later, that selfishness can give way to compassion and altruism, a desire to preserve their fragile community. However, they are fully recognizable, human in their peculiarities and their universality.
Stolevski also excels in directing a cast filled with a mix of experienced and relatively inexperienced actors, eliciting grounded, naturalistic performances at practically every turn. As the semi-permanent houseguest desperate for a community to call his own, Samson Selim stands out as Ali while Mia Mustafi fearlessly leans into playing a teen character, Vanesa, who frequently borders on the unlikeable. Stolevski also deserves credit for directing the youngest performer in the cast, Dżada Selim in the pivotal role of Mia, into delivering a believably warm, tender performance.
Housekeeping for Beginners opens theatrically on Friday, April 5th, via Focus Features.
The first time Woody Allen ever captured Paris on film was in his 1996 musical comedy Everyone Says I Love You. It’s difficult to forget the magic felt at seeing Allen and Goldie Hawn (who played his ex-wife in the film) as they walked along the Seine while she sang “I’m Through with Love” in the most exquisite of ways. As soon as she finishes singing, the two begin dancing to the music before Hawn immediately starts to levitate in one of the most magical and cinematic sequences Allen ever put to film. It was an enchanting end to an enchanting film and for many (myself included), it was the first time seeing where Allen’s filmmaking sensibilities could go when he ventured outside his beloved New York. Nothing could eclipse the beauty Allen captured as Hawn flew over him with the deeply romantic song playing and the picturesque Seine serving as their background. Now, Allen has returned to the iconic city once more for a tale that is as far away from that film as can be but shows how inspired and alive Allen can be whenever he sets foot in one of the most romantic cities in the world.
In Coup de Chance, Allen’s 50th effort, a random meeting on the Paris streets between two former classmates, Fanny (Lou de Laage) and Alain (Niels Schneider), quickly develops into a passionate affair. While Fanny finds herself doing everything she can to try and keep the affair a secret, her husband Jean (Melvil Poupaud) starts to suspect something is amiss as their happy marriage starts to become a little shaky. Eventually, fate takes hold and sends these three people to places none of them see coming.
The Allen-ness of the entire film can be felt almost immediately. Always the economical filmmaker, Coup de Chance doesn’t waste any time getting going as the director eases into the story with that very specific Allen pace. The European background is the perfect landscape for some of the film’s dark humor, which Allen uses sparingly, having a sharp instinct for when it’s welcome and when it’s needed. Obviously, the most prominent area where the humor is at its most present is in the dialogue, which is an abundance of classic Allen quips like: “I feel like having children and all I have is anxiety.” But there’s a dry cleverness at play here as well, such as when a minor character comments: “Thank God for gossip. Otherwise, we’d be stuck with real facts.” The vintage American jazz musical cues are trademark Allen and remarkably work well in the French atmosphere as does the sumptuous cinematography by frequent Allen collaborator Vittorio Storaro, who is still at the top of his game. One shot, in particular, sees Jean (in full silhouette) make an ominous phone call while the long apartment hallway behind him is draped in an otherworldly blue glow. Finally, while the mechanics of the affair in the film and its aftermath are not fresh narrative territory for Allen, he manages to deliver the unexpected by honing in on the excitement, humanity, passion, and overall suspense that a person in that situation experiences to such a degree, we feel as if we’re participants ourselves. It soon becomes our affair as well.
It’s the way Allen plays with the emotional longing of his characters that makes Coup de Chance a far more intriguing film than its mere logline would suggest. At the start, it’s nostalgia and the dangerous power of the past that pulls Fanny towards Alain, essentially driving the first half of the story. Seeing Alain is almost like an out-of-body experience for her where the person she’s become is looking at the person she once was. The way Fanny suddenly finds herself drawn to Alain is very organic and in its own way, intoxicating as the past oftentimes can be. At the root of the affair, however, is Fanny trying to go back and live an alternate life, the one that was waiting for her down the road she didn’t take. The two sides of life that Fanny is caught between can be found in the two men in her life. One is a pragmatist, while the other is a romantic. Yet, in some ways, Alain may as well not even exist. He’s almost like a beautiful, dreamy catalyst for Fanny, the trigger that causes her to look at the life she has and question how much she actually wants it. It’s a questioning that’s only accentuated by a husband who comes across as superficial and compulsive. It feels far too easy to simply label Alain as possessive or jealous, but there’s no question he’s definitely consumed by Fanny to the point where his grip on sanity costs him more than he ever bargained for. What’s interesting to note is the change in the dynamics when Jean finds out about the guilt-ridden Fanny’s affair. Both adopt an existence where neither one is flat-out lying so much as they are pretending and deluding themselves as much as they are each other.
Coup de Chance belongs to de Laage. She’s easily one of the most magnetic and ethereal figures in modern French cinema who also carries with her a desperation that works in tandem with her radiant presence. De Laage makes the case for Fanny, allowing us to understand her, the decisions she’s made, and her struggle with all of it. Poupaud, meanwhile, does his best not to portray Jean as a conventional villain, instead giving him subtle layers to show a man who reacts the only way he knows how when faced with the life he created falling apart in front of him. The performance is a great contrast to Schneider’s, who injects Alain with the kind of dreamy air a person such as he would naturally carry with him wherever he went. Finally, Valerie Lemercier as Camille, Fanny’s mother adds just the right amount of electricity to the film’s third act, almost walking away with it in the process.
Extramarital affairs in cinema are nothing new, but there’s something about the way Allen gets into the intricacies and heart of the one he’s created here. He delves into the whirlwind of all the emotions that come with such an act in a way that makes the most standard of setups feel both incredibly passionate and suspenseful. The last time the writer/director experimented with the slightly philosophical, it was 2010’s underrated You Will Meet a Tall Dark Stranger, a comedy dealing with a group of Londoners and their differing beliefs in a higher power pulling the strings of their lives. While that film showed its participants engage in a farce of sorts, Coup de Chance looks at virtually the same elements in a darker, yet more romantic fashion. Besides the titular chance, there are dashes of luck and irony at play here, both of which Allen engages with in a keenly perceptive way. Coup de Chance manages to delicately put its characters’ ability to surrender to all of the above to the test by asking them to face the consequences and accept a force greater than them. In this case, Woody Allen.
