 Mikey Madison in Anora From Starlet and Tangerine to The Florida Project and Red Rocket, filmmaker Sean Baker has become one of the most insightful storytellers of America’s outskirts. Baker’s films give marginalized groups a voice without patronizing or exploiting their authentic experiences. Focused consistently on sex workers, he writes well-rounded characters with agency and individuality in their stories. He directs with humanistic sensibilities, which help to erase the stigma that adult work often faces.
Baker continues to meet the lives of sex workers with compassion in his latest, Anora. The film explores the American dream from a two-sided coin: a powerful family afforded everything at their disposal, and an independent young woman caught in the crossfires who rightfully pursues a better life. This dual narrative embeds a satisfying, energetic, often funny picture with reverberating melancholy. The fairytale of Anora unfolds through Baker’s authentic voice. He anchors a lively whirlwind fantasy in the aching reality of who gets to keep dreaming, and who gets left behind. Led by a magnificent Mikey Madison, whose performance should make her the brightest star, Anora embraces the independence and vulnerability of a young woman coming of age. The film introduces Anora (Madison) at a Manhattan nightclub called Headquarters, where she works nightly as an exotic dancer. Going by Ani, she effortlessly scans a floor full of men and leads them each into private rooms. Ani joins a micro-community of female dancers whose artistry is on full display; the opening montage of their various dances sets an energetic tone and immediately establishes a kinship towards them, Ani especially. From her astute observations of male clients' needs to her thoughtful interactions with them, she knows how to play the game. She also recognizes this livelihood as a hustle and will seize the opportunity for her Cinderella story. When an excitable rich Russian kid named Ivan (Mark Eidelshtein) walks into the club, Ani's Russian background gets her assigned to cater to his needs. She tells him she never speaks Russian but decides to do so in this case, letting her guard down. As the two form a connection, he whisks her away from Headquarters, and her life takes an enchanting turn. Ivan lives in a mansion (afforded by being the son of an oligarch) and enjoys a lavish lifestyle Ani could only dream of having. The more dates Ani and Ivan go on, the deeper she falls not for his money, but for the gratification that being with him means she can leave Headquarters behind. Ivan asks if they could be exclusive, and one impulse leads to another until they dash to a Vegas chapel. Ani always wanted a Cinderella honeymoon suite, and it comes at a depressing cost. As she works hard to reach what Ivan takes for granted, the carriage gradually transforms into a pumpkin. Baker draws out the facade for as long as possible, creating a destructive slow-burn drama. The film unravels into a chaotic spell of crushed dreams at the hands of a rich kid's tantrum. Baker's script deftly balances the two very different sides of Ani and Vanya's relationship: the former opens her heart and mind to the potential of a new reality, while the latter bleeds his entourage dry and runs from accountability. In Vanya's eyes, Ani is a token he can gamble. For Ani, Vanya represents a bigger and brighter future. When his truest colors show, the film morphs from a romanticized whirlwind romance to an estranged relationship drama about class divides and the poignant bonds formed through quiet solidarity. Baker finds an incredible anchor in Mikey Madison to convey the protagonist’s downward spiral. Ani is the viewer's way into a world of dashed dreams and harsh realities. Madison plays the character with such conviction and fearlessness, that one immediately feels excited by her ferociousness and concerned for her fate. She conveys a person's heart being broken in real time, trying so adamantly to hide how hurtful it is to lose each piece. Madison fills Ani with remarkable nuances and moments of small revelations, where one can sense she carries an emotional weight deep down. Her work gives the film's ending a reverberating impact and urges the viewer to reflect on Ani's journey. In addition to Madison's star-making turn, the supporting cast of Anora brings various compelling energies to the story. In a standout scene of Vanya's henchmen Garrick (Vache Tovmasyan) and Igor (Yura Borisov) "breaking in" to his house, the entertaining sequence plays out like a slow-motion thriller. Baker fleshes out Garrick and Igor's personalities; they are hesitant to keep acting on behalf of the Vanya family’s representative Toros (Karren Karagulian). All three actors bring fantastic comedic sensibilities to the film. Their interactions often unravel into a comedy of errors and shed light on the ridiculousness they have to put up with to cover Vanya's antics. With Anora, Baker approaches a larger scale of filmmaking with his same core sensibilities. His focus on under-explored communities and empathy for stigmatized individuals give this story tremendous heart. Ani might be whisked off her feet, but the film is planted firmly on the ground with tenderness. Electric and sorrowful, Anora paints an aching picture of the humanistic costs associated with the luxury of dreaming.
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 Kaniehtiio Horn in Seeds From starring in Vanessa Matsui’s endearing web series Ghost BFF to appearing on hit television shows Letterkenny and Reservation Dogs, Kaniehtiio Horn is an exciting talent in the Canadian scene and beyond. Horn continues to show intriguing range with her feature directorial debut Seeds, which premiered in the 2024 TIFF Discovery program. Incorporating the ingredients of a home invasion thriller, a dark comedy, and a twisted horror, Horn crafts a genre film about preserving Indigenous legacy. While the film falls short in balancing various tones, Seeds finds moments to bud in the layered groundwork. Horn shows a singular voice in her thoughtful commentary on seedy corporations and in a well-defined slice of contemporary reservation life. Her potential behind the camera makes for a worthwhile experience that leaves you with the glimmers of bigger and better things to come.
In Seeds, Horn plays a Kanien’kehaka (Mohawk) woman named Ziggy who aims to make it big as a social media influencer. Much to her excitement, she lands a job promoting Nature’s Oath, a seed and fertilizer company that checks off the boxes of an environmentally conscious venture. Showered with big cheques and branded swag, Ziggy spreads the seeds of Nature’s Oath to her growing subscribers. The opportunity feels too good to be true, but Ziggy presses on in the hope of making a decent income and progressing in an exciting new direction. Nature’s Oath becomes the driving force of Ziggy’s decision making. When her cousin (Dallas Goldtooth) calls her to house-sit for a relative in the middle of the woods, Ziggy reluctantly agrees on one condition: the place must have a stable Internet connection. She finds a hot spot that overlooks much of the community, just as her reliability on the company comes to a halt. When her cousin finds out about Nature’s Oath, he feverishly explains why she needs to stop. The company plants seeds in a corrupt avenue of industrial agriculture; they are the enemy, and with Ziggy’s endorsement, she is selling out to her community. What begins as a promising social media gig quickly becomes a contradiction of values, and a matter of life and death. The company breeds a violent stranger sent to follow Ziggy into her small Kanien’kehaka community and steal her family’s legacy for corporate gain. As Ziggy fights to protect the seeds on this reservation, she taps into the ancestral history of her people and the horrors that have threatened multi-generational land. Written and directed by Horn, Seeds has a consistent and clear voice throughout, though her narrative focus spreads very thin. The attempts to juggle multiple stories in one shot falls flat. The film jumps from a home invasion thriller, to a family drama, to a blood-soaked horror fest, without a strong through line to hold all the tonal shifts together. As a result, Seeds plays out as a collection of ideas rather than a cohesive narrative. The most effective layer — using the seeds as a metaphor for fertilizing a healthy environment or pollinating with toxicity — gets lost beneath stylized and generic genre choices. With an imbalance in the story and tone, the emotional stakes feel rushed, as does the spiral into twisted horror in the final act. While an interesting choice to visualize Ziggy’s moral stance and the significance of exacting her revenge, the decision arrives too late in the game to have a stronger impact. The film thrives more in how Horn populates a small community with unique detail and shared history. She strongly establishes the setting, and makes ancestral connections between characters who give voice to the legacy Ziggy fights for. The film also does a neat job visualizing the protagonist’s frame of mind and the crime culture that influences her. First Nations actor Graham Greene appears as a figment of her imagination, specifically in hosting mode. Many who grew up in Canada know Greene from the show Exhibit A: Secrets of Forensic Science, in which he hosted a series of cold cases through the 1980s and 90s. His iconic presence, used as a guiding voice for Ziggy’s conscience, brings out a nostalgic quality and adds personality to the film. While Seeds may not entirely work tonally or narratively, Kaniehtiio Horn sprinkles her feature directorial debut with enough vision to exist in a world of its own.  Ralph Fiennes in Conclave (2024) The process of electing a new Pope is usually hidden from the outside world. Like a covert operation, the most powerful Cardinal members of the Catholic Church gather behind closed Vatican doors to define a new era. As several frontrunners emerge, the cardinals face a growing volume of competing interests and conflicting beliefs. This centuries-old ritual is closely guarded by Cardinal Lawrence, who struggles between the lines of faith, doubt, and religious duty. He oversees a powerful game of politics from the clinical rooms of the Vatican. Author Robert Harris saw the literary potential and wrote the bestselling 2016 novel Conclave, a thriller with cinematic sensibilities as Edward Berger’s marvelous-looking film adaptation proves. In his follow up to the Oscar-winning All Quiet on the Western Front, Berger’s Conclave enlightens one of the most mysterious events through a riveting web of secrets and lies.
When the beloved Pope suddenly dies, Cardinal Lawrence (Ralph Fiennes) is tasked with managing the inner workings of voting for a new leader. The process requires that all cardinals be sequestered to avoid outside influence of world events. In the Sistine Chapel where voting takes place, cardinals from around the world secretly wield their overlapping views against each other in pursuit of power. On the surface, they work in quiet audacity. Behind the scenes, their true intentions are hidden between sacred walls, only coming to light when certain accusations and revelations spiral out of their control. The responsibility to keep this conclave in order falls on Lawrence, who listens carefully to the cardinals’ concerns and must ensure that the election unfolds in full transparency. As such, Lawrence goes head-to-head with quite a few ambitious figures willing to manipulate their way to the throne. Lawrence finds himself undertaking a duty he never thought he had to perform. He was ready to leave Rome altogether and reexamine his own deeply conflicted faith, but his request had been denied by the Pope. Lawrence walks a fine line between questioning his beliefs in the religious institution, and listening to the urges of those impassioned to fight for it. Cardinal Secretary of State Aldo Bellini (Stanley Tucci) stresses that liberals must unite to stop people like Cardinal Tedesco (Sergio Castellitto), whose antiquated views threaten to undo the progress made by Bellini’s supporters. Conservative Cardinal Tremblay (John Lithgow) is of particular interest; being the last person to have conversed with the Pope, Tremblay might be pulling strings on the late leader’s behalf. The arrival of Cardinal Benitez (Carlos Diehz) from Afghanistan also stirs conversation and leads to an intriguing development. The screenplay by Peter Straughan excels at highlighting all these characters not just by their power rankings, but by their human failings. Focusing on Lawrence at the center of potential controversies and schemes raise the stakes, as he himself is a contradictory character. His personal doubts cast a shadow of uncertainty across the Vatican, causing other cardinals to question his ambitions and whether his inquisitiveness is a ploy to support his own candidacy. “You need to pick a side,” Bellini demands to Lawrence. The future of the Catholic Church depends on it. Investigative interactions between cardinals helps to unveil a tense mystery at the film’s core. Berger’s superb direction creaks open the doors of an electoral system that had long been shrouded in secrecy. He makes use of multiple locations, from offices and staircases to theater rooms and courtyards. No stone is left unturned. No corner is without the whispers of corruption. Even the seals of the late Pope’s quarters are not enough protection, nor the beautifully painted walls of the Sistine Chapel. The deeper into this conclave the film goes, the less places there are to hide from an antiquated foundation that needs to be disrupted. Conclave has an astounding visual uniformity that adds to the story’s ritualistic nature. While the cardinals elect in a place of pristine historical beauty, they are sequestered in clinical-looking environments. The inner workings of the conclave are really a mundane series of human failings. Stéphane Fontaine’s cinematography illuminates cold interiors and basks in the sterile light. Suzie Davies’ detailed production design distinguishes between the many spaces cardinals occupy and gather in, the theater room being a tremendous highlight. We often see the cardinals move wherever they please, like using their phones in the courtyard. Whereas the group of sisters in the film, overseen by Sister Agnes (Isabella Rossellini), fade into shadows and backgrounds. Lisy Christl's costume design incorporates a uniform approach between the cardinals wearing red and the sisters wearing blue. The colors red and blue play a striking role in the film's color palette. In addition to the visuals, the sound and score of Conclave reverberate. Much like composer Volker Bertelmann’s Oscar-winning work for Berger’s All Quiet on the Western Front, here Bertelmann creates another distinctive score that utilizes a minimal variety of notes. The music intensifies increasingly tense narrative developments, as do an accomplished group of actors. With a cast like Conclave’s, to deem one actor best in show would be to compliment the work of another, as this ensemble finds an incredibly collaborative groove together. Part of the mystery and thrill of this story is watching the characters bounce off each other. Though it takes an actor of immense gravitas and control to set a consistent energy for the supporting players to orbit around. The film has its unwavering leader in Ralph Fiennes, whose towering talent reaches new heights as Cardinal Lawrence. Every close-up of Fiennes is a blessing to understanding not just the nuances of his character, but the complexities of the institution he wrestles with. Fiennes walks the line between faith and doubt in a compelling magnitude. The supporting players have brief moments to shine, and they do so with the reliability one comes to expect. Isabella Rossellini has a standout scene when her character unexpectedly breaks a vow of silence with damning truths. Carlos Diehz, making his feature film acting debut, stands out in a stunning scene where Cardinal Benitez questions what the other cardinals know about war. Benitez also personifies a bold and startling twist that leaves much to ruminate on, as this entire conclave procedural does. From the artistry behind the camera to the terrific actors in front of it, Conclave explores political tension in a fresh and fittingly disruptive manner.  Maziyar Khatam in The Sweater Simple stories about everyday life are given impactful personality and nuance by filmmaker Maziyar Khatam. From writing and directing his 2022 comedic short film Bump, to writing and starring in the 2023 dramatic short film Baba, both of which premiered at the Sundance Film Festival in their respective years, Khatam has a knack for conveying jewels of original ideas in the little things. Between Bump and Baba, he has exercised an impressive range inclusive of sketch comedy and tense family dynamics. Khatam’s latest, The Sweater, brings him back into the director’s chair for a delightfully short and sweet story. With echoes of Larry David’s Curb Your Enthusiasm and a finger on the pulse of situational humour, The Sweater blossoms into a resonating narrative about sentimentality and conflicted identity. Khatam packs layers into a 9-minute runtime and makes the most of every second on screen. In addition to directing and writing the film, he also stars as the endearing protagonist whose heart is torn on what he truly wants.
The film begins in a state of shambles with a couple's disagreement. Pressured by his girlfriend Anya (Chirkova) into giving away his clothes, Maz (Khatam) tries to reclaim a treasured mushroom sweater that is rightfully his before it disappears into the deep end of donations. He immediately longs for this piece of clothing that holds such great sentimental value for him. After speaking with a skeptical Oasis Clothing Bank employee, Maz makes his way to a sea of clothing racks in the hopes of finding his sweater. The idea of stealing from a thrift store after unintentionally donating an item feels like a page lifted from Larry David's book, wherein the humour derives from stumbling into scenarios almost spontaneously. The Sweater does have an impromptu energy, made pronounced by the grainy hand-held filming techniques and frequent close-ups of characters. Losing something of sentimental value, potentially forever, is such a specific feeling that, depending on the item lost, can eat away at you. Nothing can replace the cherished item, and the film taps into that paranoia of desperately grasping for what is yours. Khatam layers a simple premise with a protagonist who faces an internal dilemma of sorts. Swayed by his girlfriend's persuasion and his friends' peer pressure, Maz gives more weight to the opinions of others than to his own. As a result, he finds himself in an identity crisis. The one thing he is sure of at this particular point in his life is the importance of the mushroom sweater, and his determination drives the story forward. Khatam's largely unscripted, documentary-like approach to the material creates a strong observational tone. As a result, the film puts you into the eye of Maz's storm and captures his distressed frame of mind to palpable degrees. The whereabouts of his sweater genuinely feels like the weight of the world on his shoulders, which is deeply relatable for those who have had to unexpectedly part with an object that carries sentimental meaning. The film also captures how that level of attachment can be either misunderstood or dismissed by others. When Maz ultimately locates his sweater, and steals it from the thrift store, he later wears it to a social outing over drinks. After Maz excitedly shares the news of his beloved sweater, he is stunned into silence when his friends apathetically acknowledge it and swiftly move on. This moment exemplifies a great little thematic exploration around identity. Maz has nothing, and no one, to cheers this moment with. His supposed closest friends show no interest in celebrating the moment with him, which in turn makes the viewer question, how well do they really know him? The sweater is a fundamental part of who this character is, and watching that be dismissed in real-time feels like a very quiet gut punch to the heart. A deft choice of end credits music in Weezer's Undone (The Sweater Song) captures the scene's energy perfectly. Not only is the sweater's purpose coming undone, but so is the person proudly wearing it, whose pride is slipping away. The Sweater marks another authentic creative expression from Khatam, and an exciting continued collaboration with producer Anya Chirkova (who had previously directed Baba). The two operate on an incredibly compelling wavelength full of continued promise and a keen eye for what makes a simple story so special.  Cailee Spaeny and David Jonsson in Alien: Romulus Ridley Scott captured pure awe-inspiring shock with the 1979 science fiction classic, Alien. Audiences had never seen anything like it, and the film’s reverberating mystery kept them coming back for more. In response to the film’s success, naturally a franchise was born. Scott set a fully realized world in motion, a creepy crawly sandbox for more directors to play in. James Cameron pushed Aliens (1986) into an empathetic action spectacle. David Fincher went for medieval nihilism and upped the psychosexual tension for Alien³ (1992). Jean Pierre Jeunet took a bizarrely voyeuristic and silly swing with Alien: Resurrection (1997). Hollywood’s alien fixation spawned another franchise in the 2000s, Alien vs. Predator, before orbiting back to the original helmer for a fresh start. Scott’s prequels Prometheus (2012) and Alien: Covenant (2017) put a more cynical spin on this world, once again leaving the sandbox open for play. What more could be added to the extra-terrestrial lore at this point? A grungy emulation of what made the original special, interwoven into a haunted maze with some bold horror choices. Fede Alvarez’s Alien: Romulus plays it far too safe to push narrative boundaries, but the film still manages to bring excitement back into the franchise.
Having previously directed such films as Evil Dead (2013) and Don’t Breathe (2016), Alvarez has a strong appreciation for the horror genre that lends comfortably to the Alien universe. Starting with a nostalgic opening sequence, he dips Romulus in dread and feeds on the impending doom to create a slow-build. Set in between the 1979 and 1986 film events, Romulus follows a group of human colonizers on the planetoid where Ripley (Sigourney Weaver) and the Nostromo crew first encountered aliens. The location never sees the light of day, and paints a grim future in which inhabitants must mine their way out. Rain (Cailee Spaeny) is hoping that her dues are paid and she can leave the colony with her brother Andy (David Jonsson), an android programmed to take care of her. With the odds working against her, she joins a group of rebels who have a deep end escape plan. They want to board a deserted ship and use its resources for long-term travel, and they need Andy’s help for full clearance access. But the ship conceals a terrifying creature just waiting to unleash havoc, and the new crew must put up a fight for survival. However otherworldly the creatures, human emotion has always rooted the Alien films in a place that feels real and tangible. Conscience and morality are at odds with corporate interests. Romulus echoes this direction mainly through character arcs and plot devices, with a little too much exposition sprinkled on top. Character-wise, Rain and Andy’s relationship is placed at the forefront. She is constantly trying to keep Andy out of harm’s way, as Andy’s naivety and sensitivity make for a delicate combination. While their dynamic is not explored in great depth, the two still help to establish an empathetic anchor. Their characters add a much-needed sense of direction to a story that thematically feels lost in space. The more surfaced storytelling —from Alvarez’s artistry and intense action sequences, to the magnificent sound and scale — overpower all else. You feel enveloped in the visual language of an Alien film without the added resonance of a clear-cut plot. In theory, Romulus sticks with a tight-knit crew of characters and follows in the claustrophobic footsteps of the original Alien. However, in practice, this new crew consists of mostly undeveloped and unmemorable characters who act more as plot vessels. Ironically, they feel less human than the android, Andy. While the cast show some individual talent, they lack the chemistry as a unit to create lived-in history. There’s only so much they can do to elevate characters that feel like chess pieces. As the story progresses, their value in the story shifts and can become disposable at the drop of a hat. Whereas Rain and Andy are given more consistency. The cast being younger, fresh faces adds new energy to the Alien universe, but only one character makes enough impact to entice further exploration into the unknown. Reliable and engaging as Spaeny is for Romulus to evolve around, the real breakout of the film is David Jonsson as Andy. For a character who operates within extremely limited emotions, Jonsson’s performance feels incredibly expressive and fully realized. Andy’s arc affords the actor an exciting opportunity to walk an interesting tightrope of controlled chaos. His subtle distinctions between humbleness and imposition are simply brilliant to witness. The progression of Andy’s character is influenced by some extreme fanboy exposition. However, Jonsson still conveys an entirely unique personality and makes a lasting impact as a result. While Alvarez and co-writer Rodo Sayagues lack deftness on the overall character and story front, they find far more efficient fuel in the horror elements and entertainment value. Given the impossibility of ever surpassing the shock and awe of Scott’s Alien, the directors who followed (Cameron, Fincher, and Jeunet) had the right idea of wanting their signature aesthetics to shine in an already established universe. Alvarez continues in a similar vein by bringing his horror genre experience into play. Romulus works best when operating in the shadowy suspense of Xenomorph brutally hunting their prey. The end results are grungy, gooey, and edge-of-your-seat thrilling. Alvarez’s steady direction, combined with deftly crafted action and eerie moments of stillness, add to the strong atmosphere. The majority of practical effects and CGI make the film feel genuinely transporting. The influence of Tippett Studio’s stop-motion animation brings texture and palpability to the visuals. Excellent sound work heightens tension, especially in conveying the face huggers and creature movements. Benjamin Wallfisch’s terrific score pulsates throughout. Some neat imagery is also incorporated, from the use of zero gravity to the acid blood splashes. The overall experience plays out similarly to that of decently made horror, where a build-up of suspense leads to an eruptive final act that either makes or breaks the film. With Romulus, the twisted final act feels more reflective of Alvarez’s vision than any other segment in the film. He throws in a grotesque offspring narrative with jump scares that rattle you to the core. Alvarez takes a wildly gory turn with the subject’s recurring themes of motherhood and creation. Is this approach enough to make Romulus totally distinctive in a long-running franchise? Not entirely, as there are distracting moments where nostalgia overpowers horror-fueled originality. The nods to Scott’s original are usually effective when incorporated as visual cues, like the drinking bird toy, or the door opening mechanics. Where it becomes a problem is in the resurrection of a character from the ’79 film. It’s a head scratcher which element is worse: the CGI face imposed onto an animatronic, or the redundant exposition that came with the character’s inclusion. This resurrection throws off the flow and becomes increasingly distracting. Overtly nostalgic elements aside, Alien: Romulus is still an incredibly entertaining watch. The film prioritizes thrills and chills over an in-depth narrative, for better or worse. Alvarez combines elements of what made the ’79 and ’86 films flourish, from eerie atmospheric stillness to ambitious twists. The end result is a slightly missed opportunity not leaning fully into the director’s horror background, however, the visceral storytelling on display injects energy into the franchise overall. By Nadia Dalimonte  Susan Sarandon, Megan Mullally, Sheryl Lee Ralph, and Bette Midler in The Fabulous Four Some of the greatest female love stories in film are platonic. Close friendships between women are integral, and the subject of friends traveling together adds an insightful layer to the dynamic. A change in scenery can strengthen, rekindle, or challenge relationships for better or worse. Girls trip films have seen an uptick in recent years with 2017’s Girls Trip, 2023’s double whammy of Joy Ride and 80 for Brady, and now this year’s summer release, The Fabulous Four. Directed by Jocelyn Moorhouse, the film stars Bette Midler, Susan Sarandon, Sheryl Lee Ralph, and Megan Mullally as four lifelong friends who travel to Key West for a wedding celebration. The Fabulous Four is far from fabulous, with Midler and Sarandon having seen far more engaging trips with 1988’s Beaches and 1991’s Thelma & Louise respectively. Given the accomplished cast, one might expect an entertaining picture, but each faces an unfortunate challenge at nearly every turn. From the rough editing and odd direction to an undeveloped screenplay and forced sense of humor, The Fabulous Four sets up one roadblock after another without any improvement.
Marilyn (Midler), Lou (Sarandon), Kitty (Ralph), and Alice (Mullally) have known each other since college. The film’s opening montage gives a brief rundown of their characters. Marilyn is in her influencer era on TikTok, Lou is a cat-obsessed doctor, Kitty is a botanist who makes special weed gummies, and Alice works in the music industry. Their opposite personalities attract, presumably explaining why they still orbit around each other’s lives. The film fails to explore what exactly draws and holds them together. Instead, the story focuses on bad blood between two of the friends. Many years ago, Marilyn fell in love with and married the man Lou was seeing. Lou still holds a grudge for losing a potential romance and gaining a broken friendship. Marilyn hopes the two can reconnect and uses a wedding celebration in Key West as the perfect opportunity. A few months after losing her husband, Marilyn surprises everyone by getting engaged and wants the old college gang back together to be her bridesmaids. Kitty and Alice, knowing full well that Lou would never accept the invitation, coerce her into traveling. All hell breaks loose when Lou discovers the truth, making the girls’ trip a bumpy emotional ride ahead. Will she ever forgive Marilyn? Or is their friendship a lost cause? Jocelyn Moorhouse is no stranger to the non-sensical. Her previous feature, The Dressmaker, a camp dark comedy about a couture seamstress with a vengeance, works in mysterious ways. Moorehouse’s directorial sensibility is peculiar and experimental, which works against the familiar breezy narrative of The Fabulous Four. A simple story about lifelong friends putting their past grievances aside is made surreal to the absolute extreme. Each plot development feels overtly dramatized, especially the recurring nightmare of Marilyn betraying Lou. Plus, some characters (Marilyn and Alice in particular) are exaggerated to a near caricature degree. The Fabulous Four egregiously coasts on the shine of a star-studded cast. However, there is only so much charisma the actors can bring to make insubstantial material feel worthwhile. One can easily tell that Sarandon, Ralph, Mullally, and especially Midler, enjoyed each other’s company making this film, but their quality time comes at a cost, given such a middling outcome on-screen. Co-written by Ann Marie Allison and Jenna Milly, the screenplay flirts between intendedly heartfelt and mischievous, but struggles to excel at both tones. The result is a mess of different energies patched together. Attempts are made to explore the double standards of aging and how women are perceived as having less value as they grow older. Sarandon’s performance personifies this message to some extent. Lou is more cautious than her fun-loving friends, partly because of the hurt and disappointment harbored over the years. However, the potential for this thematic exploration is reduced mainly to one monologue in which Lou pleads that she still matters, regardless of how much time goes by. While Sarandon plays this moment with expected gravitas, the scene is a mere glimpse of a role (and a story) that could have been more interesting to engage with. The silver lining of the film is its embrace of older women’s stories, which are increasingly more difficult to get financed. Each character is identified as the lead of their own life, rather than as the mother/grandmother figure. Unfortunately, the screenplay fails to explore the characters beyond at a glance. Not only does the writing lack nuance, but also enthusiasm in keeping the viewer fully on board with this girls’ trip. Plus, the effort to engage with today’s culture through TikTok and fan cams has little resounding impact. Ultimately, the mismatched direction and writing make “The Fabulous Four” an oddly uninspiring and painfully flat experience. There is a sorely missed opportunity here in not pushing the unique talents of Midler, Sarandon, Ralph, and Mullally to their full potential, especially given the more mischievous elements of the story. The Fabulous Four is now playing in select theaters.  Daisy Ridley in Young Woman and the Sea In August 1926, 20-year-old Olympic champion Trudy Ederle made history as the first woman to swim across the English Channel. Ederle swam from Calais, France to Kent, England in just over 14 hours. Not only did she set a world record, she also shattered the widespread doubt that a woman could ever be capable of achieving such a thing. Her awe-inspiring story is brought gracefully to the screen in Joachim Rønning’s film Young Woman and the Sea, a heartfelt gem anchored by a compelling Daisy Ridley performance. The screenwriters occasionally swim into the deep end of cliched, formulaic waters. However, the sheer determination of the story’s protagonist carries this film to shore. Young Woman and the Sea tells an extraordinary tale of refusing to accept “the way things are” and fighting to make everlasting change for a new generation.
The film is a refreshing entry into the ever-growing sub genre of sports dramas. The screenplay from Glenn Stout and Jeff Nathanson relies on a tried-and-true narrative formula that proves to work despite its shortcomings. The story charts Trudy’s legacy from her humble beginnings and formative teenage years, to her life-changing ambitions that would pave the way for future young female swimmers. Trudy’s passion started at a very young age. Growing up with her sister Meg (Tilda Cobham-Hervey) in a strict household run by their father Henry (Killing Eve’s Kim Bodnia), thankfully they had nurturing support from their mother Gertrude (Jeanette Hain). She wanted both of her daughters to learn how to swim, which was no easily acceptable feat in the early 1900s. With training from her coach Charlotte (Sian Clifford), Trudy quickly became a force of nature in the water and already a world-record breaking champion in her teenage years. Trudy’s accomplishments eventually led her to the 1924 Olympics, where a few bronze medal wins in place of gold discouraged her from the sport altogether. She returned home and reluctantly settled into the more socially acceptable role as the butcher’s daughter, but her ambition never disappeared. A chance encounter with a group of young girls, who look up to her as a beacon of what’s possible, reignites the fire within her to keep pushing forward. Trudy seizes the opportunity not only to continue swimming professionally, but to swim the English Channel. Much to the chagrin of her father, who hesitates to believe in her aquatic skill, she embarks on a staggering journey of physical and mental strength. Trudy’s perseverant spirit is wonderfully conveyed by Daisy Ridley, who continues to shine following her blockbuster breakout role as Rey in Star Wars: Episode VII - The Force Awakens (2015) and its subsequent celestial sequels. Ridley has gone the intriguing route of choosing more subdued fare including her career-best performance in Sometimes I Think About Dying (2023). Young Woman and the Sea adds a new layer to Ridley’s repertoire. She leads the story with incredible tenacity and charm, making the viewer feel emotionally invested every step of the way. Ridley brings enough intrigue to evoke some mystery as to why the English Channel in particular is so meaningful for her, along with a commitment to the level of physicality this role entails. The strenuous nature of Trudy's abilities are written across Ridley's face, especially in the character's final swim to the English shore, where an enthusiastic crowd of people await. The film also touches on the various degrees of sexism Trudy is subjected to every step of the way. It’s emboldening to watch her continuously excel in her profession, prove doubters wrong, and challenge relentlessly patriarchal standards for a more equitable future in the sport and for women generally. Joachim Rønning’s straightforward, subdued direction gives ample room for the inspiring true story to stand out on its own accord. While not necessarily an inventive choice, Rønning brings a steady hand to the material. The film sheds an entertaining, heartfelt light on a special moment in history for those discovering Trudy's journey or walking in her footsteps. Young Woman and the Sea is now streaming on Disney+ Canada.  Rachel Sennott in I Used to Be Funny From 2020’s TIFF breakout Shiva Baby and 2022’s Gen Z horror Bodies Bodies Bodies, to 2023’s queer high-school comedy Bottoms, Rachel Sennott has made an exciting name for herself on the big screen in just a few short years. Her charisma is a magnet for the camera. Through deadpan observational humor and a grounded persona, she captures deeply relatable social commentary on the millennial experience. In the transition from stand-up comedy to film acting, she has maintained her comedic sensibilities. Though even in humorous roles, whether playing Danielle in Shiva Baby or PJ in Bottoms (a brilliant one-two punch from writer-director Emma Seligman), Sennott shows a terrific knack for the serious bits. She knows when to play a scene for convincing dramatic effect just as well as she can draw dark humor from moments of sadness. Sennott conveys this balance terrifically in writer/director Ally Pankiw’s impressive feature debut, I Used to Be Funny, a smart character study that unpacks trauma through day-to-day female relationships.
The Toronto-based story follows Sam (Sennott), an aspiring stand-up comedian with PTSD who learns that Brooke (Olga Petsa), the teenaged girl she used to nanny, has gone missing. Hearing the news becomes nearly paralyzing for Sam. She ruminates on whether she should join the search, but that would mean leaving her apartment, an act that has become incredibly difficult for her to do. When we first meet Sam, she has trouble eating, sleeping, and socializing. It seems as though performing comedy has been put on the back burner of her life, and the unfolding story reveals why. The dichotomy between Sam’s concern for Brooke’s wellbeing, and own lack of energy towards an attempt to locate her, drives the central conflict of I Used to Be Funny. Pankiw’s sensitive direction and screenplay unearth painful memories from the past that haunt the protagonist’s journey to recovery. The first act mirrors Sam’s frame of mind, and operates in a state of non-linear ambiguity. As she finds herself in the thick of slow progress, faces and objects trigger fleeting memories that pull her back to what feels like another lifetime ago. Sam’s piecing together of the past helps contextualize the present and why her relationship with Brooke is so complicated. Through one of the visual triggers, the film cuts to a few years ago, when the two characters meet at a mansion. Sam is brought in as Brooke’s nanny during an emotional time for the family. Brooke’s mother is ill in the hospital, and father Cameron (Jason Jones) needs help to alleviate responsibilities. Initially, Brooke vehemently opposes the idea of a nanny, but eventually lets her guard down once she and Sam start to form a sisterly bond. But that bond crumbles against the disdain and misogyny of Cameron, who undermines Sam at every point of their communication. His presence carries a terrible uneasiness that takes a turn for the worst. The film takes time to reveal its methods, and sometimes the ambiguity can feel a little out of reach. But once the flashbacks and present-day scenes become more clearly distinguished, Pankiw finds a stronger groove between the narratives. She brings a thoughtful approach to heavy subject matter, and the non-linear structure of her film reflects a very true-to-life movement of healing. The story slowly peels back layers of the protagonist to reveal which truths she has been harboring. This level of storytelling offers a resonating way to build tension around Sam’s perspective. What sets I Used to Be Funny apart from many films that use humor as a framework for tragedy is how both Pankiw and Sennott make this story their own. The writing covers an array of heavy subject matter including sexual assault, trauma, and grief, all explored through the ups and downs of formative female relationships. By focusing on the bond between Sam and Brooke, Pankiw establishes a clear direction of the formative dynamic she wants to capture. Sam becomes a guiding figure for Brooke, and when that sense of guidance becomes lost, the aftermath can be incredibly harmful. The film smartly examines how Sam’s traumatic experience impacts the relationships in her life, from “little sister” Brooke to best friends Paige (Sabrina Jalees) and Philip (Caleb Hearon). In certain scenes, you can feel how Sam’s negative view of herself influences how she believes others ought to treat her. The cycle of trauma and the road to recovery are not a straight line. Pankiw does a beautiful job of showing those ups and downs, and how funny some of those directions can be. In the way that humor can pull you from a hurtful frame of mind in real life, dark comedy carries Sam’s spirit along in the film. I Used to Be Funny conveys a powerful sense of community and togetherness that exists when one have friendships in the comedy world. As well, Pankiw explores the specificity of being a woman in stand-up, which comes with its own set of complications as straight white men have dominated the space far too long. Sennott, having started her career in stand-up comedy, has an acute awareness of this environment. While each show takes tremendous effort and the confidence of putting one’s self out there, Sennott still makes it all look effortless. As well, she adeptly handles the film’s tone and navigates all the subtle changes in her character’s expressions. The film rests on the heights of Sennott’s talent, and her ability to find the humor and poignancy of day-to-day life. Humor is often used as a means of coping. Sam does not see herself as funny anymore; in her mind, how can she be funny after experiencing something so traumatic? The story gently explores how Sam rediscovers her talents and uses that humor to get through a dark point in her life. In addition to Sennott’s performance, the ensemble of I Used to Be Funny combine a great sense of humor with layers of bittersweetness. Casting real comedians Sabrina Jalees and Caleb Hearon) adds a natural energy to the comedy bar scenes, as well as a communal understanding of the emotions Sam goes through of not considering herself suitable for stand-up comedy anymore. As well, Olga Petsa gives a breakthrough dramatic performance as the missing teen girl Brooke. Her character navigates a raw space in which her mother is ill, and she finds a new sense of female guidance in Sam. When their sisterhood becomes compromised, you can feel the heartache of her loss so deeply. Petsa's chemistry with Sennott adds endearing layers to their characters' dynamic. Using humor as a framework, Pankiw tells a poignant story of reconciliation and how relationships can either pull you through or fall apart. While the editing and pacing can be a little too ambiguous, the performances and core themes of the story are unwavering. I Used to Be Funny shows the promise and confidence of a thoughtful feature debut with plenty to say.  A still from Gasoline Rainbow (2024) One of MUBI’s latest and greatest releases now streaming on the platform is the Ross Brothers’s Gasoline Rainbow, a spirited contemporary portrait of young adults. The film follows teenagers from a small town who go on one last adventure before “having to be someone” in the real world. Directed and written with a refreshing openness, the story embraces Gen Z characters who are on the cusp of facing societal pressures. From restlessness and independence, to exuberance and isolation, each character conveys many of the attitudes that come naturally from teenaged perspectives. They have a wide-eyed energy to explore the world beyond what rural Oregon has to offer. As one of the characters muses, “When there’s nothing to do, you just venture. You’re always trying to find something.” The film captures that spirit of roaming through life at its most present, breathing in the natural elements around us that many take for granted. Gasoline Rainbow embarks on the open road with a raw coming-of-age journey into the Gen Z wild.
Set in Wiley, Oregon, five teenagers crowd into a van en route to a location over five hundred miles away: the Pacific coast. The purpose of their trip is to enjoy purely uninhibited quality time together. They traverse through the American west seemingly without a care in the world, but as the film’s narration unfolds, they each harbor some level of burden about their experiences thus far and what the future will hold. The film navigates in a space where home is everywhere but also nowhere, which realistically encapsulates the young adult experience. With adulthood in the rearview, the world is their oyster, filled with pearls of possibilities. The story moves at a leisurely pace to capture how responsibilities feel miles away. The lack of narrative structure also strips the film of typical coming-of-age plot points, allowing feelings and vibes to paint a picture. Self-exploration takes a front seat and drives where the story is headed. Gasoline Rainbow has a roaming, up-close and personal direction that meets characters without judgment or predisposition. Much of this film operates on the energy that the cast bring to their roles. The performances feel so naturalistic and mirroring that it’s a wonder whether the actors are playing themselves or totally adopting a character. Blurred lines between reality and fiction give the film a documentary-like feeling. Adding to that sensation, the characters are introduced through their Wiley high school IDs. It’s a neat way of conveying how identities and expectations are formed through social systems. The film beautifully juxtaposes their school identities with who they are, and who they want to be, beyond such constructs. With a freewheeling approach, the Ross Brothers show a great deal of endearment towards letting the youth speak for themselves. Part of the conflict that arises in coming-of-age films is teenagers not being listened to. Those feelings of being unseen and unheard are combatted by a keen observation of Gen Z dynamics. From dialogue and articulation, to ways of relating with one another, the film admirably sets out to capture authentic generational experiences. In a standout scene, a skateboarder who meets the central teen group empathizes with their desire to get out of their town. He couldn’t stand his town either, and his parents couldn’t hold him back from doing what he loves. This moment intersects with a recurring theme of the film: new beginnings. As soon as the teenagers hit the open road, their possibilities feel endless and vast. With a film of this nature, the needle constantly moves in its narrative focus. The meandering pace can sometimes lose your attention, but that wandering eye also works as the film’s strength. The story focuses on characters less individualistically and more as a collective. They are a spirited burst of feelings, moments, and experiences that flow freely into one another. The film occasionally uses narration to personalize some characters; for instance, one of the teens speaks on growing up quickly and caring for his younger siblings without the help of their parents. Hearing of the formative responsibility he carries makes his search for identity all the more profound. The youth of Gasoline Rainbow figuratively and literally get the open space to roam free and discover themselves, a refreshing change of pace in modern social media-driven terrain. The handheld direction encourages an unfiltered environment for them to absorb real settings and engage in spontaneous interactions. The use of setting and location help to establish a candid tone and atmosphere. Vast landscapes of pink-orange skies capture a far-reaching horizon and the feeling that anything is possible. The Ross Brothers’s cinematography finds a stunning cinematic angle to everyday settings, from a cafe parking lot to a stranded van on the open road. As well, the film’s soundscape is an eclectic absorption of what the teens are listening to, and which pieces of music can elicit a specific mood. From asking Siri to play Howard Shore’s “The Shire” from The Lord of the Rings, to the use of Debussy’s “Clair de Lune” as they finally reach the Pacific shore, music plays a reflective role in capturing the various sounds of a generation. While Gasoline Rainbow loses some focus with a meandering structure and slow pacing, the film has a poignant conclusion once the teens reach their destination and are faced with the reality of what to do next. Will they traverse back to Wylie and get “real jobs”? Or will they find a course off-route and divert from what everyone back home expects from them? The film strikes an impressive balance between how the teens interact with expectations, and how they navigate the independent thoughts swirling in their minds. Gasoline Rainbow finds a spirited adventure in its timeless homage to being young, wanting to discover the world at your feet and determine your place in it.  Daniel Craig in Glass Onion: A Knives Out Mystery (2022) Calling all hungry detectives! In collaboration with Netflix, Secret City Adventures is bringing a Knives Out-inspired dinner to Toronto for the first time, and you can have an exclusive bite. Set in Rian Johnson’s mysterious Knives Out universe, The Perfect Bite promises and delivers on an evening full of delicious meals, with an interactive whodunit twist. From acclaimed Chef Maribelle Moore comes a 4-course set menu carefully dedicated to the untold story of her dearest friend, Noah Johnson. The menu contains secrets about Noah and the Salty Six, a culinary group formed by Maribelle and fellow chefs while they were all students. Each dish has a hidden message for dinner guests and their table mates to solve, bringing them one step closer to unlocking the mystery of The Perfect Bite. As the guests are wined and dined, key players from the Salty Six emerge to make everyone feel part of the story. The moment you arrive on the scene, tucked away in Toronto’s mainstay Peter Pan Bistro, enthusiastic actors whisk you into their world of the culinary elite. Committed performances are just a few of the ingredients that make The Perfect Bite a satisfying experience. Guests are sat in groups of four and work together to decipher the clues in each dish. The mystery elements are incorporated into the food so creatively. Cutting into the Amuse Bouche — a sweet pea risotto — reveals cheesy layers of truth. This sampler gets the ball rolling for more intricate dishes; a mushroom mousse appetizer, a duck confit entree with a twist of seasoning, a fluffy palate cleanser, and a “berry” delicious sous vide cheesecake to finish.  Photos by Nadia Dalimonte The mix of delicious food and whodunit puzzles is a truly sensory experience, one that works your brain and satisfies your taste buds at the same time. The puzzles are easy to grasp, fun to decipher, and have enough twists and turns to keep you guessing. The dinner service is well-timed and adds to the flow of a smooth evening. Some of the plating is a playful nod to the murder mystery genre, in particular the pastry cigar filled with mushroom mousse, a dish fit for a detective. The menu also accommodates vegan, vegetarian, dairy free, and gluten free dinners. From the delectable food and inviting ambience, to the immersive mystery elements, The Perfect Bite is a stimulating night out that leaves a lasting impression, down to every last bite. Whether you’re planning a creative date with your significant other, or a gathering with family and friends, Secret City Adventures has you covered. But not for long…tickets are selling in hot flashes. Savour the moment and get ready for a dinner like no other. Your mystery table awaits! The Perfect Bite opens at Peter Pan Bistro in Toronto on May 16 and has been extended to run until July 28. Visit www.knivesoutdinner.com for tickets.  Photo by Nadia Dalimonte
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