 Cate Blanchett and Michael Fassbender in Black Bag (2025) Sex, lies, and espionage. Count on the great Steven Soderbergh to deliver deliciously on all three. He infuses his panache into the familiar spy genre with Black Bag, an intensely romantic thriller that makes no compromises on trusting the audience. With echoes of James Bond, Mission: Impossible, and Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, Soderbergh and three-time collaborator David Koepp find an alluring marital drama in the throes of a British intelligence crisis. The elegant married couple at the center of Black Bag would kill for each other, and that makes for an alluring story, especially in the context of top secret professions forcing them to withhold intelligence. Soderbergh’s exacting style, Koepp’s clever script, and a brilliant ensemble of actors play into the ambiguity and tension. A bewitching puzzle box of style and substance, Black Bag shines as one of the year’s most fun psychological studies. Everything’s ambiguous in a world of cloaks and daggers. Thanks to the sensibilities of Soderbergh and Koepp, everyone and everything in Black Bag glides with the utmost precision. Intention can be felt reverberating behind each frame, whether tensely capturing a character on the move or pursuing an atmospheric angle. The story doesn’t lean too far into vagueness, nor does it overcompensate with bursts of action-packed fillers. It falls into the Goldilocks principle of “just right.” It’s a compelling story of outsiders and the games they play whilst in a state of constant paranoia. The idea of a married couple who happen to be spies offers just as compelling a narrative, since betrayal doesn’t impact them in the way that it would for ordinary people. The espionage of it all gives the marriage a level of protection where anything can be hidden under the guile that it’s confidential. The film follows George Woodhouse (Michael Fassbender), an elite intelligence officer at London’s National Cyber Security Centre (NCSC). George faces the ultimate loyalty test when a security breach forces him to find a mole in the agency before they can activate Severus, a destructive software that has the power to destabilize a nuclear facility. Five names make the suspect list of being a traitor. Four are friends and colleagues: Freddie (Tom Burke), Clarissa (Marisa Abela), Zoe (Naomie Harris), James (Regé-Jean Page). The fifth is George’s wife Kathryn (Cate Blanchett), one of the organization’s most powerful and valuable agents. Who has the knowledge and clearance to reach Severus? A carefully spun web of secrets and lies casts doubt on George’s loyalty, leading him down a path of potentially risky devotion. Black Bag poses the question, “When you can lie about everything, how do you tell the truth about anything?” David Koepp’s script takes this idea and glides with it, particularly through exploring the devotion between George and Kathryn. The couple’s professional loyalty calls upon them to mask the political turbulence that surrounds them. They are experts at not letting their emotions leave a facial trace. George and Kathryn’s achingly cool exterior raises envious eyebrows from their surroundings: how can two people in this line of espionage possibly operate on a romantic wavelength? How can they sustain a real relationship built on trust and communication? The trick lies in the “black bag,” their code for where to put information they can’t share. Koepp achieves the marvelous feat of centering the story using this portrait of a marriage, while also keeping ambiguity between the couple. More often than not, the film teases out details about George and Kathryn respectfully through other characters and/or scenarios. The couple’s fabulous-looking home doesn’t reveal a lot of personal secrets about them in particular, but does invite the lives of others onto an exquisitely lit table. The film features not one, but two absolutely riveting dinner sequences, feasting with layered narratives and visual treats. The mind games Kathryn and especially George play with their guests echo bits of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?. It’s a serious game of truth and dare, where characters chew up and spit out information about each other, secretly hoping they can dare certain crucial truths to come out. These sequences are tons of fun to watch unravel. The biting dialogue keeps you hooked on every word, as do the brilliant cast, who keep you guessing on what the characters’ intentions are. Whilst everyone at the table has a clear job of pulling intelligence from technology, they reveal themselves as much more concerned with pulling from each other’s humanity. The character of Clarissa (Abela) brings forth an intriguing observation. She pushes George (Fassbender) on his emotionality, questioning why he can’t have a normal conversation or express his feelings in a way that doesn’t sound so…operative. Clarissa’s self-awareness (played with great charisma by Abela) breaks up some of the tension, and speaks to a through-line of sophisticated humor in the film. The stakes are high, but so is the playfulness, and one can feel the satisfaction everyone’s having in devouring their characters. Michael Fassbender in particular brings magnificent control to George’s interior conflict, whether it’s his calm demeanor or minimalistic line deliveries. He has an alluring counterpart in his wife Kathryn, played with a delicious mix of vulnerability and expressiveness by Cate Blanchett. Blanchett brings a hypnotic old-school glamour to her role that aligns with Fassbender’s classic portrayal of George, making them a perfect match. Fassbender and Blanchett are also joined by a tremendous ensemble, from Naomie Harris and Regé-Jean Page to a small yet impactful appearance by Pierce Brosnan. The ensemble of gorgeous spies, and the particular casting of Brosnan and Harris, sprinkles a bit of James Bond energy to the story. Additinally, the themes built on espionage, technology, and loyalty echo some quintessential Bond storytelling. These echoes enhance the cinematic feeling Black Bag carries, and Steven Soderbergh makes it all look so easy. Through lean and exacting direction, Soderbergh shows the beauty of efficient filmmaking. He strives to make one lean picture after another, and in the last few years alone, continued to prove his remarkable range; from 2017’s Logan Lucky and 2018’s Unsane, to 2022’s Kimi and 2024’s Presence. Black Bag is by no means a “welcome back” for Soderbergh, but rather a testament to the consistency he’s demonstrated throughout his career. He is simply one of the greats, with an envious ability to visualize such captivating stories in swift runtimes. Throughout Black Bag, Soderbergh draws tension and mystery from achingly beautiful and precise angles, full of narrative intention. The film’s exquisite crafts also speak to the strength of Soderbergh’s vision. From the director’s own cinematography (the fog on George’s glasses while cooking!) and Ellen Mirojnick’s costume design, to David Holmes’s score and Philip Messina’s production design (George and Kathryn’s house!), the visual language beams with 1970s London glam. The characters’ luxurious, sophisticated costumes are never compromised. There is a consistent level of detail to each one, whether Kathryn’s sleek fabrics she can easily slip in and out of, or George’s perfectly tailored suits and matching glasses. All the locations feel fully realized and evoke the feeling of watching a 60s or 70s film in a contemporary vein, which can also be said for how the characters operate. Fassbender’s George in particular reminds me of Michael Caine in Sleuth and Richard Burton in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, especially in the sophisticated mental gymnastics and controlled playfulness of those characters. Some settings can be described as having “a quietly noisy relaxed intensity,” to quote Burton in Virginia Woolf?. Black Bag operates in that vein of intensity from beginning to end. A sleek and precise surface masks a whole lot of messy turbulence. What can’t be masked, no matter how much expertise these spies have in cloaking their intentions, is how sexy intelligence and romantic loyalty are. This story works just as much magic as a relationship drama than it does as a spy thriller. Black Bag arrives in theaters on March 14.
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The film toys with tragedy through a disturbingly sarcastic tone, a drum-banging allegory of trauma, and a self-aware protagonist who becomes increasingly less bewildered by the gruesomeness of an ‘Itchy and Scratchy’ kind of world. Beyond the exploding bodies, there is an intriguing redemptive story about accepting the finality of death, finding levity in loss, and choosing to move forward with the itch of trauma on your back. No matter how deep you bury trauma, it will resurface sooner or later. Twin brothers Hal and Bill learn this lesson the hard way. As children (both played by Christian Convery), they find their absent father’s old toy monkey in the attic. Despite its ominous supernatural energy, something about it calls out to the twins. The toy is a secret their father kept from them, and perhaps by winding it up, it will conjure some level of family reconciliation. Instead, the monkey causes sudden death and destruction. In the heat of the moment, this cursed toy simply wreaks morbidly entertaining havoc. In the bigger picture, it’s a blunt visual of life and death. The monkey observes as life does, and strikes as death does, without rhyme or reason. Those on the receiving end of the toy’s deadly drumroll have no choice but to face the music, and no amount of running can stop it. For the cursed childhood toy reemerges years later, forcing the estranged twins (both played by Theo James) to reexamine the way they process immeasurable tragedy. What “The Monkey” conveys quite well is how members of the same family household can share the same loss, but fall down a totally different rabbit hole of grief over time. Hal shuffles through life as a haunted everyman who avoids spending time with his son Petey (Colin O’Brien), fearing the repeat of generational trauma. Bill hides maniacally in pitfalls of shame and blame, waiting for the precise moment to execute personal revenge. The villainy of Bill’s character gives Theo James an opportunity to chew the scenery, which he excels at. But because he is depicted through a zany lens, it’s a little tiring to take him seriously when the film frames him as a threatening presence. As a result, the story starts to fall apart in the film’s second half when Bill guides most of the action, and when the intense sarcasm starts to feel too repetitive. One of the few things we know about life is that the end is inevitable. As the film’s rookie priest (Nicco Del Rio) says during one of several funerals, “It is what it is, the word to the Lord.” Perkins leans into this sentiment thematically and visually. He processes the immovability of grief with dark comedy, and uses blunt force to drive home the message of “It is what it is” with insane imagery. The supernatural power of the toy monkey is never explained. It doesn’t move around, or speak, or stab characters with drum sticks. It appears out of thin air. It simply exists. Wind up the toy, choose to control its presence, and the most intensely gory deaths will follow. No amount of explaining can make sense of it, which is why the monkey works as an allegory of loss. People die around us, and we can spend the rest of our lives wrestling with the question of why. Why this person, at this particular time? The lack of control feels akin to a curse that follows you through life, “A monkey on your back.” Perkins wisely embraces the uncertainty, the relentlessness, the absurdity, adding fun tension to the monkey’s presence. As well, Disney’s ownership of the monkey with cymbals (as seen in the “Toy Story” franchise) gives Perkins a more fitting accessory of drums. The film literally drums up anticipation for the next ridiculous kill, moving to an unsettling rhythm. The monkey’s design also speaks to the creepiness of old toys, or even toy commercials, that often carry a sinister tone whether intentional or not. Beyond the concept of the toy itself, the world-building also fits neatly into Perkins’ vision. And whether intended or not, some of the film’s set design echoes faint slices of “Psycho.” Some comparisons have been drawn between “The Monkey” and the “Final Destination” franchise, as both follow a morbid death pattern. Both utilize the act of ominously showing us what’s going to kill the characters before they die. While both feature extremely gory sequences, “Final Destination” instills more fear around the subject of death, evoking nerves around everyday objects and even causing one to avoid certain things (tanning beds, personally). “The Monkey” plays in the vein of pure absurdity, quite literally adopting the message of “Everybody dies, and it is what it is,” which creates more thematic resonance around the subject. The ridiculously brutal sequence of the motel swimmer, as an intense phone call transpires between adult Hal and Bill, best exemplifies the tone Perkins goes for. He excels at establishing this tone, and crafting a buildup in the first half, but lacks the power of consistency. While a lot of the freak accidents are fun to watch, the pointing and laughing at death eventually becomes redundant and lapses in tension. Despite the inconsistent tonal effect, the film has a formidable star in Theo James, who balances the sardonic personality of Hal with the maniacal desperation of Bill. Between the two characters, James conveys more layers of his talent and charisma. He also conveys an impactful wink and nudge to the audience, as Hal gets progressively more accepting of the messed up scenarios happening around him. James locks into the absurd tone and believably carries the redemptive character arcs of both twins. While the film lends James a decent showcase, the same cannot be said for Tatiana Maslany and especially Elijah Wood, whose talents feel wasted and far too fleeting in the overall story. As Hal and Bill’s mother Lois, Maslany shows an incredibly acute understanding of the film’s tone; she balances the sarcastic, silly, and ominous elements of Perkins’ strangely crafted world. Sadly her character leaves a lot to be desired, and her presence is under-utilized. Meanwhile, the buildup to Wood as Petey’s holier-than-thou stepdad Ted amounts to a glorified cameo. Rounding out the supporting cast, Osgood Perkins makes a humorous appearance as Hal and Bill’s uncle Chip, the first to admit he probably wouldn’t do a good job at raising the twins. Sarah Levy (a standout on “Schitt’s Creek”) shows a new side to her talent as the twins’ aunt Ida, who gets nothing to do other than follow the ride and exemplify how gory the film can get. While not without its faults, the idea of characters dying around a toy monkey in ridiculous ways is met with fitting sardonic absurdity in “The Monkey.” Perkins’ cartoonish, Looney Tunes-style of storytelling draws out the nonsensical side of mortality and grief. Does it all make sense? Not quite, but there is something refreshing about a film of this genre that avoids explaining the whys and hows of an evil presence or entity. In "The Monkey," it carries enough weight simply by existing. "The Monkey" is now playing in theaters across Canada.  Fernanda Torres in "I'm Still Here" In order to understand the generational impact of tragedies, and to prevent history from repeating itself, we must confront the past. We must give voice to the lost, the erased, the vulnerable, the forcibly disappeared. Art holds the power to reflect the times. Many of us go to the cinema not only for an escape into someplace new, but for a mirror-effect of what’s happening on the ground. Many of us approach the medium of film with a yearning to see ourselves and learn about each other’s experiences. Walter Salles’ “I’m Still Here,” his first Brazilian feature film in 16 years, is both a time capsule and a transient experience. It will have remarkable staying power in the retelling of a very personal story born from a dark past. Salles, known for 1998’s “Central Station” and 2004’s “The Motorcycle Diaries,” brings to the screen an urgent reminder of a country’s disturbing history. Thousands of families were torn apart by Brazil’s military dictatorship between 1964 and 1985. In 1971, engineer and former congressman Rubens Paiva was arrested and forcibly disappeared. His wife, Eunice Paiva, and their five children suddenly had the ground pulled from beneath them. From that moment onwards, Eunice made it a point to keep the family resilient, whether taking her children out to ice cream or asking them to smile in press photos (despite being told to act more serious and sad, given the circumstances). Eunice, who became an activist and human rights lawyer, led a decades-long fight for justice. Without her courage and strength, without her memories, we wouldn’t have her son’s 2015 memoir “Ainda Estou Aqui” (“I’m Still Here”), which he wrote in light of her Alzheimer’s diagnosis. Without the Paiva family, we wouldn’t have Salles’ film adaptation of the memoir. “I’m Still Here,” and an absolutely extraordinary performance by Fernanda Torres as Eunice, is a moving reminder not to allow the past to be forgotten. It’s not only about holding onto faded memories, but actively sharing them so that they can continue to live, as Salles’ film powerfully does. The film’s opening song, “É Preciso Dar Um Jeito, Meu Amigo” (We Must Find a Way, My Friend) by Erasmo Carlos, sets a fitting tone as it accompanies footage of an idyllic family life. Ipanema beach in early 1970’s Rio de Janeiro looks serene, but Brazil’s military police presence in the background is anything but. Convoys and helicopters interrupt simple everyday joys, such as the Paiva family’s beach outing. Eunice (Fernanda Torres) looks beyond the shore to the harsh realities that unfold in broad daylight. However, Eunice and her husband Rubens (Selton Mello) make life feel relatively normal for their children — Veroca (Valentina Herszage), Eliana (Luiza Kosovski), Nalu (Barbara Luz), Marcelo (Guilherme Silveira), and Maria Beatriz Facciolla (Cora Mora). They fill the family home with warmth and togetherness. Eunice’s put-together demeanor is helped by Rubens, who assures her that the military tension will pass. Any conversations having to do with political unrest are held in hushed tones, behind closed doors, so as not to disrupt the children’s sense of safety. But it’s gotten too dangerous in Rio de Janeiro, and one day, that danger arrives at the family’s doorstep. A group of men arrest Rubens for his suspected associations with resistance groups, and Rubens disappears from the family picture, never to be seen or heard from again. Eunice, who faces further injustice when she is taken in for questioning and kept in a cell for several days, fights back. She spends years investigating for proof of Rubens’ arrest, detainment, and disappearance. Through unwavering resilience, speaking out to her friends in power, and taking matters into her own hands, she will not rest until the Brazilian government are held accountable for cruel acts of the regime. In conventional political thrillers, narrative focus often gets placed onto the investigation itself, drawing action from the threats behind enemy lines. In “I’m Still Here,” history is reconstructed through a familial and deeply personal lens. With Marcelo Rubens Paiva's book as an incredibly moving guideline, Salles’ film stresses how every day is a fight for Eunice to keep her family together. The smallest moments carry emotional resonance, especially when Eunice sees reminders of loss in her lively surroundings. One of the most quietly devastating scenes in the film is when she takes her children out to ice cream, shortly after their father is arrested. As she sits in her own familial disruption, she observes happy families around her, several reminders of uninterrupted love. The devastation rests on Eunice’s face, a composed and silent cry out, which Torres plays brilliantly. As the story unfolds, primarily through Eunice's perspective, the film rests on Torres’ shoulders to communicate the character’s internal conflict. Eunice puts on an incredibly disciplined front. While experiencing loss, she reinvents herself and rebuilds hope for her children’s futures. Torres commands the screen with tremendous control. She builds onto tension, anger, fear, and resilience with subtle observations. Her remarkable performance not only heightens the intensity of her character’s surroundings, but also reinforces how life goes on in the midst of such turmoil. Whether it’s convoys passing while she swims in the ocean, or an ominous car parked across the street of her home, these threats are gradual, and she pushes through them to continue living. Torres finds strength in fleeting moments, where Eunice recognizes her waves of sadness, and chooses to internalize each crashing impact. It is in such fleeting moments, such as Eunice taking her children out for ice cream (an exquisite scene), that serve as reminders of what was lost. By immersing the audience into the Paiva family's home from the beginning, Salles immerses you into lived-in dynamics. We observe joyous environments and safe spaces, open for family and friends at any time. When these spaces are disrupted, often without any hint or warning at all, the tension feels even more palpable. Salles makes a point to incorporate home video footage throughout the film, stressing not only personal connections to this story but also calms before the storm, pieces of history that have been washed away. Art can hold a mirror to the times we live in, and shed light on largely forgotten parts of history. “I’m Still Here” does both tremendously well. Salles creates a piece of film history that says, all those affected are still here. They live on through generations of families that come after them. For this particular reason, the film’s time jump to 2014 reverberates. 85-year-old Eunice (played by Fernanda Torres’ mother, Fernanda Montenegro) reflects as best she can on the past. Even though she lives with Alzheimer’s, Eunice still recognizes history, however fleeting the memory. “I’m Still Here” feels like an ode to Eunice, and to the thousands of people who faced the cruelties and injustices of Brazil’s dictatorship, who continued to live in the shadows of horror and must never be forgotten. “I’m Still Here” is now playing at TIFF Lightbox.  A still from Wallace & Gromit: Vengeance Most Fowl Aardman Animation never disappoints with the beloved claymation duo Wallace & Gromit. The pair’s latest adventure, Wallace & Gromit: Vengeance Most Fowl, boasts another great day of inventing, complete with modern thematic urgency and a film noir twist. That Vengeance Most Fowl slides perfectly into a fun double feature with 2023’s Mission: Impossible Dead Reckoning — Part One speaks to how widespread the dangers of artificial intelligence are, both in life and the art it inspires. Co-directors Nick Park and Merlin Crossingham find sweet spots in a genre-hopping story that remind audiences of Wallace and Gromit’s endearing charm. The cheese-loving inventor and his gently devoted dog are given a fresh spin in a masterful balance of tension and British humor. The astounding puppetry, lovable characters, and villainous return of a fan favorite make Vengeance Most Fowl a most comforting ode to imagination. Gnomes have always been interwoven into the fabric of Wallace and Gromit’s world, whether as lawn ornaments or extensions of Gromit’s love for gardening. Four-time Oscar winning filmmaker Nick Park, the co-director and co-writer of 2005’s Wallace & Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit, returns with a clever gnome-centric tale that plops Wallace and Gromit on a much grander scale. Though, the advancements in technology since Wallace and Gromit’s first feature are met with the upmost caution. Anne King’s puppet design and Matt Perry’s production design help retain the crafty, thumbprint charm of what makes the characters so distinctive. Whether it’s the flawed ambition of Wallace, or the quiet heroism and gentle impatience of Gromit, their classic personalities shine in an exploration of modern themes. The use of gnomes is a neat vehicle for the dangers of artificial intelligence and over-reliance on technology. In Vengeance Most Fowl, Wallace (Ben Whitehead) introduces his latest cheery invention: Norbot (Reece Shearsmith). This nifty voice-activated “smart” gnome is pre-programmed to do all the gardening and various “tedious” maintenance jobs. Norbot’s completion of tasks in neat and tidy fashion attracts Wallace and Gromit’s neighbors, prompting the cheesed inventor to create “Gnome Improvements” from his West Wallaby Street home. But when the robot’s fixed smile is hacked by a masterminding force, Gromit must swoop in to save the day as an army of Norbots wreak havoc. The core failing of Wallace’s new invention is that he considers Norbot progressive; the “smart” gnome is the inventor’s proof of how embracing technology makes life easier, because it allows him to sit back and let machines do all the work. This mentality extends even to the tiniest of actions in Wallace and Gromit’s household. Much to Gromit’s chagrin, the old teapot hasn’t been used in ages. Wallace even has an invention for giving Gromit a good ole pat on the head. But technology could never match a cozy hot cup of tea from a whistling kettle, or the warmth of a loving embrace. We live in an age where technological innovations have gone too far, and as Mark Burton’s screenplay so deftly captures, such advancements can be catastrophic when fallen in the wrong hands. With fun echoes of Tom Cruise’s Ethan Hunt confronting an enemy of artificial intelligence in Dead Reckoning, Vengeance Most Fowl shines in its savvy script, which makes way for some smashing action sequences. The hacked gnome plot also provides a terrific opportunity for Aardman to bring back the mysterious Feathers McGraw, famously a silent menace of previous Wallace and Gromit adventures. With his red rubber glove hat and beady little eyes, his character serves as the motivation behind Norbot going rogue. Feathers McGraw proves to be one of the most effective cinematic villains, animated or not. You constantly anticipate his next conniving move, each one adding irresistible layers to the character’s capabilities and under-the-surface personality. Feathers’s scenes bring elements of Hitchcockain suspense, film noir, and the prison heist sub-genre to Vengeance Most Fowl. His vengeance is clear as crystal and not to be underestimated, which adds real stakes to the story. It’s incredible how the simplicity of Feathers’s subtle animation style speaks volumes. The tiniest of details expose his intentions. As is the case with every Aardman Animation production, the beauty is in the details. Beady eyes catching the light in a particular way can make a character appear evil inside. Silent shrugs and raised eyebrows can convey a world of frustration. Billboards and books are the perfect backdrops for cheeky local gags and cheesy literary puns. Most impressive about the visual language of Vengeance Most Fowl is that, while it looks slightly more elevated than previous Wallace & Gromit works, the animation never appears glossy. The action sequences and intricate villainous lairs call for bigger scopes, but the intimacy of the characters never get lost. The film still has that textured, rough-around-the-edges charm, which puts the animation team’s work on full display and keeps the makeup of this endearing world intact. The film’s spectacular voice-work and music also play an integral part in retaining Wallace & Gromit’s DNA. Following the legendary original voice of Wallace, Peter Sallis, who passed away in 2017, Ben Whitehead proves worthy of maintaining the musicality in Wallace's voice. His performance is both an incredible mimic and a moving ode to the character fans fell in love with. Additional cast standouts include returning talent Peter Kay as Chief Inspector Mackintosh (who first appeared as a police constable in The Curse of the Were-Rabbit), and new talent Lauren Patel as P.C Mukherjee, an instinctive recruit determined to prove herself on her first day. Plus, the super cheerful Reece Shearsmith brings Norbot the “smart” gnome to life with lovable energy, successfully avoiding what could have been a monotone robotic voice. Adding more music to the ears is Lorne Balfe and Julian Nott’s original score. Before we get the classic Wallace & Gromit theme, we get a taste of the suspenseful notes that convey Feathers McGraw’s villainy. Balfe and Nott keep up this musical range throughout. They heighten the dramatic stakes, enhance the humor, and maintain the whimsical eccentricity of Wallace and Gromit’s world. In listening to the evolution of each track, it feels like being guided on a journey of several genres packed seamlessly into one film. With the many creatively told Wallace & Gromit stories out there, from The Curse of the Were-Rabbit to the delightful short films (the first being 1989’s A Grand Day Out), Vengeance Most Fowl might not top everyone’s list. Regardless, it’s an absolutely charming adventure, a memorable addition to this beloved world of a good-natured inventor and his intelligent dog. Catch Wallace & Gromit: Vengeance Most Fowl on Netflix on January 3, 2025.  A still from Mufasa: The Lion King When Disney churned out the soulless, lifeless photorealistic remake of The Lion King in 2019, all hope for the inevitable prequel was lost. The remake took beloved characters from the original Oscar-winning 1994 film and drained them of their personality. Director Jon Favreau and screenwriter Jeff Nathanson stuck closely to the visual language and narrative structure of the original, often recreating scenes shot-for-shot. Making matters worse, the film’s photorealistic art form created an impersonal experience in which the lions looked lifelike, but evoked absolutely no emotion at all. When a colorful classic such as 1994’s The Lion King exists, why embark on the endeavor to remake it, if not to push the creative boundaries and offer something new?
Working with the property of an enormous money-making franchise comes with its own set of expectations, and reinventing the wheel isn’t one of them. But a creative voice should still have a firm place in this circle of life. The misguided, glassy-eyed spectacle of 2019’s The Lion King sunk so low into unimaginative territory, it left no room for creativity to grow and thrive. So, when the prequel was announced, the idea of another director stepping into this world felt depressing, even more so because that director was the visionary Barry Jenkins. One of the most passionate storytellers of our time working in the hollow space of photorealism seemed limiting. Luckily, with Jenkins’ bright talent, Mufasa: The Lion King has enough direction to evoke real emotion from a somewhat engaging story. While the director’s vision doesn’t get a full embrace, as his voice feels consistently at odds with corporate meddling, he manages to make this prequel at least worth watching. Mufasa: The Lion King tells the origin story of how Mufasa found his destiny and became King of the Pride Lands. The journey follows him as a young cub (Braelyn Rankins) who gets separated from his father Simba (Donald Glover) and mother Nala (Beyoncé Knowles Carter) due to a flooding. Mufasa finds himself in uncharted waters when he encounters Taka (Theo Somolu), a young lion cub from a different pride. The two cubs get a mixed welcome from Taka’s compassionate mother Eshe (Thandiwe Newton) and intolerant father Obasi (Lennie James). Obasi views Mufasa as a stray, an outsider who must earn a place in this pride. He pits Mufasa against Taka in a life-or-death race, but Taka has a secret: he’s always wanted a brother. By letting Mufasa win, Taka gives the fellow cub a sense of belonging. But Mufasa has a heightened sense of feeling things from far away, which makes him destined for something greater. When a grown Mufasa (Aaron Pierre) saves the pride from a group of white lions, led by the relentlessly spiteful Kiros (Mads Mikkelsen), Obasi orders Mufasa to flee with Taka for safety. While on the run, the brotherly lions meet princess Sarabi (Tiffany Boone), her flighty protector Zazu (Preston Nyman), and young Rafiki (Kagiso Lediga). The group heads for Milele, the lush grasslands Mufasa’s parents promised him they would visit, while Kiros’ vengeful pack trail close behind. Audiences familiar with Mufasa will anticipate certain character developments, specifically in his relationship with Taka, which the film smartly focuses on. While the writing of their individual motivations fall flat, the lions’ bond gives the film a somewhat engaging emotional core. Since the film isn’t a direct remake, Jenkins has more flexibility to explore these characters beyond what we’ve already seen. He and screenwriter Jeff Nathanson specifically draw upon how Mufasa and Taka’s upbringings shape two different meanings of leadership; one marked by selflessness, the other by betrayal. Mufasa finds a chosen family both in Eshe, who encourages him to hone his sensory talents, and in Obasi, who gains respect for his heroic act of saving the pride from Kiros. The family seems to accept him more than they do Taka, who inherits toxic values from Obasi and is taught to use deceit as a leadership tool. While Mufasa seamlessly steps into the role he was born to play, Taka wrestles with desires and false destiny. The voice acting by Aaron Pierre and especially Kelvin Harrison Jr. bring energy to these roles that elevate the material. Their performances stand out in a collection of mostly forgettable voice acting, despite the talented cast. Though, of the supporting characters, Mads Mikkelsen makes a distinctive mark as the villainous Kiros. Through the brothers’ journey towards Milele, the film engages in some compelling messages of standing strong together and making room for every vulnerable being in the circle of life. Not to mention, themes of inherited family values, wrestling with where you belong, and navigating manipulative rulers in a broken system. It’s understandable that Jenkins would be drawn to the material, and there are moments where his direction does pull you in and feel some of the stakes. However, his vision gets undermined at several turns, whether it’s the constricting photorealism or the narrative framing. The story of Mufasa gets passed down from a grown Rafiki (John Kani) to Mufasa’s granddaughter Kiara (Blue Ivy Carter) as a distraction from Nala going into labour. For some reason, the presence of Timon (Billy Eichner) and Pumbaa (Seth Rogen) in this narrative framing was considered a good idea. The pair’s comedy stylings fall completely flat and disrupt the momentum. Their misguided winks and nods about knowing what happens to the characters are clear examples of Jenkins' voice feeling at odds with higher-up obligations to make a broad appeal. Plus, the recurring Timon and Pumbaa scenes leave little room for Kiara’s character to stand out in any way. The biggest emotional disconnect of the film comes from one of the most passionate filmmakers working in the very limiting playground of photorealism. The attempts to replicate real emotion, without actually emoting, makes for a jarring experience. While the visuals of Mufasa: The Lion King technically look lifelike, and the characters show more emotion in comparison to the 2019 film, this art form still creates a barrier to authenticity. There is less room for imagination and liveliness, which also impacts the use of visuals for the film’s soundtrack. The original songs written by Lin-Manuel Miranda range from underwhelming (“Brother Betrayed”; “Milele”) to catchy (“I Always Wanted A Brother”; “Bye Bye”), but even the catchy songs are let down by forgettable choreography in the film. As well, Dave Metzger’s original score gets lost in the shadows of a far more iconic one that lingers to this day. The brief use of “Under the Stars” and “King of Pride Rock,” two tracks from Hans Zimmer’s score for the 1994 animation, still manage to reverberate over Metzger’s score. Mufasa: The Lion King tumbles in its narrative framing, rushed pacing, and underwhelming visuals. While disappointing that it doesn’t fully work on an emotional and visual level, Barry Jenkins deserves credit for adding some personality to this prequel. Certain scenes evoke Jenkins’ distinctive visual style, such as the shots of characters looking almost directly into the camera. He puts the viewer into the animals’ perspectives quite well, and captures the epic scope of the first half to push Mufasa and Taka into their journey of brotherhood. The end result lacks staying power, but hopefully the closing of this big-budget chapter will lead to more personal, intimate films from Jenkins where his voice can be embraced fully.  Vic Carmen Sonne in The Girl with the Needle Expressionist horror and realism collide to eerie effect in Magnus von Horn’s The Girl with the Needle, a devastating gothic tale that looks into the faces of pain. The chilling distorted images in the film’s first few minutes set a bleak tone for the moral darkness we’re about to be immersed into. While based on Danish criminal activity from the 1910s and 20s, the story does not play out as a biopic by any means. Magnus von Horn follows the disintegrating threads of an unemployed, pregnant woman abandoned by patriarchal upholding in post-WWI Copenhagen. Isolated and left to her own devices, her hope fades in the shadows of unrelenting desperation. She finds herself under the wing of someone who will do anything not to believe the world is a horrible place, even if it means creating a distorted reality of buried morals. From the immersive setting to the haunting characters, the film confronts narrow paths of survival for women living on society’s fringes. The central story follows Karoline (Vic Carmen Sonne), a young seamstress navigating loneliness and isolation as her husband Peter (Besir Zeciri) has been declared missing on the frontlines. She finds a spark of relief in Jørgen (Joachim Fjelstrup), a wealthy gentleman who owns the textiles factory she works at. As this new relationship unfolds, Peter returns from the war with a severely disfigured face. Despite not answering any of her letters, he expects his marriage to Karoline is still intact. But she rejects him, an act made even colder by the knowledge that society too will reject him. “Look at what the war spat out.” He’ll be reduced to a freak show in a carnival act, faded in the hands of a cruel world. When Karoline becomes pregnant, she and Jørgen plan to marry. They pay a visit to his mother, who completely disapproves of the relationship due to their disparity in social class. The cowardly Jørgen obeys, and to make matters worse, Karoline is fired from the factory. In a matter of minutes, the gentle protection Karoline once felt in Jørgen’s arms is disillusioned. The heartbreaking misfortune leaves her in a harsh reality: she has a baby on the way, and does not have a home nor a job to speak of. She barely has enough money to afford rent. Evil preys on vulnerability such as this. What sorts of atrocities are human beings capable of when they succumb to desperation? How far will the innocent fall to escape poverty? Karoline’s bleak future leads her to a bathhouse, where she attempts to terminate the pregnancy. This puts her in the path of Dagmar (Trine Dyrholm) and her daughter Erena (Avo Knox Martin). Dagmar is a candy shop owner who uses the storefront to run a secret adoption agency, offering foster homes for mothers’ unwanted infants. To make ends meet, Karoline gives up her baby and becomes a wet nurse for Dagmar. A seemingly innocent arrangement grows sinister as Karoline becomes privy to disturbing acts of violence. The once-empowering bond between two women fighting for survival collapses before our very eyes. Their characters depict two different explorations of self-determination and independence in a patriarchal world. Set in the horrific aftermath of war, the film unfolds around uncomfortable everyday decisions women make out of necessity. They believe they are doing the right thing, not just for themselves but for their children’s futures. To watch the diminishing of such futures in this film is an unsettling experience that haunts you and shakes you to the core. Magnus von Horn has made a true-crime nightmare. While set decades into the past, his layered gothic vision echoes with modern resonance. With bold and empathetic direction, he confronts themes of morality, survival, and reproductive rights from the perspective of a woman essentially left to die. Karoline represents the plight of so many women whose unjust communities continuously fail them, and who are then punished for taking matters drastically into their own hands. The character’s hardship becomes our anchor into the mind of a serial killer, which adds powerful layers of guilt and innocence to the storytelling. Karoline personifies the women Dagmar believes she is saving. The restrained direction by von Horn makes time for you to really grasp how the characters’ moralities twist out of shape. In this shadowy blend of horror and realism, the tremendous performances by Vic Carmen Sonne and Trine Dyrholm shine. Sonne’s bold facial expressions and vulnerability hypnotize you into her character’s inner turmoil. She balances the harshness with glimmers of hope, which the film masterfully maps out and ends on for her. Dyrholm has a more ambiguous role to play in the narrative, as her intentions are not clearly laid out but rather stumbled upon. To convey the despicable, the unthinkable, the unfathomable, on screen and still retain some semblance of humanity is a tall order. Dyrholm’s commanding presence instills you with security and solidarity before turning her back on both of those safety blankets, conveying disturbing motivations underneath. The visuals also play an integral part in creating a sense of perpetual moral doom. Cinematographer Michal Dymek shoots distorted expressionist faces and isolated figures cloaked in shadows. He excels at framing interiors and capturing stark lighting through a black-and-white lens. The black-and-white imagery is an effective choice that makes the story feel all the more bleak, contrasting the disturbing grey areas of humanity. Each and every frame of The Girl with the Needle builds dread, as do the reverberating notes of Frederikke Hoffmeier’s score, the stark details of Jagna Dobesz’s production design, and the measured patience of Agnieszka Glinska’s editing. From the eerie atmosphere and haunting performances to the thematic resonance and subjective perspective, The Girl with the Needle has the hallmarks of both a gothic fable and a true-crime story. With such unforgettable subject matter and artistic expression, it would be a surprise not to see Denmark’s Oscar selection in the race for Best International Feature. Each and every element of this film looks unflinchingly into the face of pain and questions its origins, while remembering that even in the face of cruelty from a ground level, there is still hope in this world. The Girl with the Needle is a MUBI release and will be in select theaters on December 6.  Shameik Moore and D'Arcy Carden in The Gutter One would be hard pressed to find a sports film this year sillier than The Gutter. Directed by brothers Isaiah Lester and Yassir Lester, the film tells the story of an unlikely hero who saves a bowling alley from closing its doors forever. It’s easy to root for the underdog, and The Gutter finds strength in that inclination. With absurd energy, bizarre humor, and a committed group of actors, the film stands out as an oddball in the sports sub-genre. Not all of the silly swings lead to a strike, but the shamelessness of The Gutter is something to be admired.
The film follows unlikely hero Walt (Shameik Moore), an underachiever whose resume leaves a lot to be desired. He has a hard time holding onto basic jobs, and has no shame in explaining the reasons behind each termination, as shown in amusing flashbacks. Walt’s upfront behavior perplexes Mozell (Jackée Harry), who runs the deserted bowling alley called AlleyCatz, where he hopes to land his new job at. While Mozell deems him unqualified to run the alley bar, she desperately hires him anyway. She needs someone, and he’s willing. Walt soon meets Skunk (D’Arcy Carden), a former bowling pro turned has-been who drinks her sorrows away at AlleyCatz. One random conversation leads to another until Walt accidentally discovers a newfound talent for bowling at an intermediate level. Skunk clocks an opportunity to get him into the professional bowling league. She thinks he can beat the record-breaking statistics held by legendary player Linda “The Crusher” Curson (Susan Sarandon). If Walt strikes big and wins enough cash, he can help save Mozell’s bowling alley from foreclosure. With a genre-bending story that spans from slapstick to satire, The Gutter has a unique and eccentric tone. Whether it’s exaggerated emotional stakes, or ridiculous characterizations (such as Walt’s refusal to wear a shirt whenever possible), Yassir Lester’s screenplay unapologetically stretches the silliness as far as it can go. Additionally, Lester sprinkles in some familiar beats of the sports sub-genre. Underdogs are pulled from the gutter and given a chance to reach their potential. At this film’s core is the relationship between Walt and Skunk; they meet each other at a crossroads where the only way forward is through. As their quirky personalities quickly align, they play an integral role helping each other overcome personal obstacles. Skunk in particular lives in the shadows of a legend, and the film prolongs her dynamic with Linda Curson's character to throw a fun curveball. The sense of humor in The Gutter can be incredibly tedious, and the awkward jokes don’t always land. In not taking the execution so seriously, the film struggles to make a lasting impact once the credits roll. However, there is plenty to admire in what the entertaining ensemble of actors bring to their roles. Shameik Moore has an endearing energy, and while his character is over-the-top, Moore still manages to make him feel believable in this absurd world. The same sentiment extends to D’Arcy Carden, whose wholehearted commitment to playing a character called Skunk elevates everyone around her. She has the comedic talent and sharp timing to make the most ridiculous line deliveries work. Adding to the fun and games, Susan Sarandon relishes as a nonchalant bowling legend who oozes confidence and style at every turn. Repetitive in comedy and storytelling as The Gutter may be, the underdog narrative of Isaiah and Yassir Lester’s feature directorial debut has a lot to root for. The oddball characters, satirical lens, and singular energy make for a breezy escape into an absurdist world where bowling saves the day. The Gutter opens on VOD December 6.  Angelina Jolie in Maria From exploring the myth of Jackie Kennedy with Natalie Portman in Jackie (2016) to experimenting with Kristen Stewart on surrealism for Princess Diana in Spencer (2021), Chilean filmmaker Pablo Larraín has been building towards an unofficial trilogy about iconic twentieth century women during specific moments in history. He completes the trifecta this year with a sumptuous glimpse into the life of Maria Callas in Maria. Told with immense curiosity and a dreamlike sensibility, Maria follows the legendary opera singer as she rediscovers her voice during a fragile moment in time. Larraín’s introspective storytelling is a poetic fit for the transcendent journey of his subject. He finds a remarkable leading lady in Angelina Jolie, whose movie star charisma adds dimension to this operatic tale of a woman’s phenomenal legacy. Soon to be released by MUBI, Maria brings Larraín’s trilogy to an achingly beautiful close. Continuing in the vein of Jackie and Spencer, Maria plays in the orchestra of rewriting an icon’s history. All three of these legendary women shared the unique experience in which people lived vicariously through them, defined them, spoke on their behalf, to the extent that they became larger than life representations of something much bigger than them. The public, not to mention the media, felt that they were owed something. There’s a powerful scene in Maria in which Maria encounters a bothered fan who had paid for tickets to a concert she cancelled due to an illness. His intonation suggests the illness was an excuse taken to wriggle out of the show. She gives him a fierce and rightful reality check: he has no idea what performing takes out of her. Maria starts in a dreamy haze, but in time Larraín’s mysterious direction becomes clearer. The fan encounter scene is a small but mighty cue of humanity. The film calls attention to the haunting dichotomy between public and private personas. Ever since Maria was a young girl living in Greece, she had been singing for everyone but herself. Fast-forward to 1970s Paris, where Maria lives out her final act discreetly in her apartment, having spent years in the public eye. Behind closed doors, she finds herself in a perpetual state of reckoning. Her talent feels out of reach. Her identity feels faded into unrecognizable territory. Her apartment is full of reminders; pieces of music, glamorous wardrobe, a grand piano. But the piano never seems to be in the right spot. For a place called home, Maria’s apartment resembles more of a waiting room, in which she can’t fully be free. There’s a disconnect between the soprano and her work, which gives the film dramatic tension. By spending time with the character in such close proximity, enhanced with several stunning close-ups, Larraín gives a window into Maria’s humanity beyond her “Las Callas” stage presence. The film defines her not by a chronicle of greatest hits, but by the memories that left a lasting impression on her, moments that she will carry inside forever. For Jackie and Spencer, the focus on specific moments in history helped shaped the narrative structures of those films. Maria sings to a much more fluid and arbitrary tune. Screenwriter Steven Knight navigates the days leading up to Maria’s death. The dialogue can be heavy-handed at times, which creates moments of stagy character interactions and overdrawn impositions. A prime example is the inclusion of Mandrax (Kodi Smit-McPhee), a journalist who follows Maria around Paris with a television crew. While clear in its hallucinatory effect, the dynamic lacks emotional impact. Thankfully, these moments are sporadic as the film prioritizes other supporting characters, who evoke a more compelling reaction. One of the most powerful scenes in the film features a conversation between Maria and her sister Yakinthi (Valeria Golino). Yakinthi essentially encourages Maria to leave the past behind and move forward, but it’s not that simple. This moment gives us a glimpse of the sisters’ emotionally charged past, and conveys the weight of Maria’s life experiences on her shoulders. Larraín takes empathetic creative liberties to shape the narrative of Maria around her close proximity to death. The character transcends time and space, as though yearning for freedom outside of herself. In her apartment, she hides pills and avoids doctor visits. Her voice carries through the grand, exquisitely lit halls only for her butler Ferruccio (Pierfrancesco Favino), maid Bruna (Alba Rohrwacher), and poodles to hear. Spells of loneliness and misunderstanding reach her in open spaces, too; whether sitting in a cafe that assumedly plays her music (she does not listen to herself), or warming up her vocals in an empty opera house (she struggles to channel the Las Callas voice her pianist wants). Autumnal walks in the park turn into theatrical hallucinations of big vocal performances. Maria’s life is a stage, and the film guides her from the shadows to the spotlight through gorgeous visual interpretation. Angelina Jolie personifies Maria Callas’s vulnerable, messy, mysterious journey with a soul-stirring performance. Simply put, the film would not work without her. The elegant hallways of Maria’s apartment would be cold and empty without Jolie’s astonishing commitment to getting under the character’s skin. Not only does she embody the physicality and stage presence of Callas in her prime, but Jolie also captures the fragmented mind of a woman on the verge of losing her voice years later. Maria’s glory days are conveyed through stunning black-and-white imagery and the use of Callas’ real voice. Jolie herself has an incredibly alluring presence, and she channels that energy into portraying Callas at the top of her game. These flashback scenes add context to the Maria we meet in 1970s Parisian isolation; we come to know from her relationship with admirer Aristotle Onassis (Haluk Bilginer) that she had so long been singing for the pleasure of others. In Paris, Jolie channels a more fragile energy as she floats across rooms, yet she also possesses a fierce inner power. While the flashbacks present Maria through the lens of an outsider, the Paris timeline gets up close and personal into the character's soul, and Jolie excels at drawing out these layers. In addition to Jolie’s tremendous work, cinematographer Edward Lachman deserves some time in the spotlight for crafting one of the most beautiful-looking films of the year. Known for his frequent collaborations with Todd Haynes on such films as Carol (2015) and Far From Heaven (2002), Lachman may have found another dream pairing in Larraín. The two worked together previously on El Conde (2023), which earned Lachman his third Oscar nomination. Each and every frame of Maria looks sumptuous and comes alive like a moving painting. Lachman aligns with Larraín’s evocative, dreamlike sensibilities as a director. The warm color palettes and textures of Callas’ apartment convey a world within a world, a life outside the limelight. The striking black-and-white images only amplify the impressive level of detail, from the production design to the costume design. The film has a disciplined visual language, much like an opera itself which combines so many different art forms and training techniques to convey emotion. The opening montage, in which Maria sings directly into the camera, sets the tone for how much discipline goes into creating such transformative art. One could never truly know what went on inside Maria Callas’ apartment, or inside her head, except La Callas herself. While the dialogue of Maria can be heavy-handed in attempting to fill in her history, Larraín and Jolie operate in the same melodic rhythm to capture an essence of what made this woman so iconic. By the end of the film, the subject remains a mystery, and her impact reverberates nonetheless. Maria arrives in theatres on November 27 and on MUBI's streaming platform on December 11.  Cynthia Erivo and Ariana Grande in Wicked There’s no place like the movies. Victor Fleming’s The Wizard of Oz was one of the earliest films to capture such a feeling. Watching Dorothy and her little dog Toto embark on a brave journey, and collect unexpected friends along the way, radiated a timeless story of togetherness and hope. Over 80 years since its theatrical release, this 1939 technicolor masterpiece still shimmers over the rainbow and continues to make dreams come true. The film inspired audiences to follow their own yellow brick roads towards becoming artists, some of whom continued to explore the land of Oz with gravity-defying stories of their own.
The dreams built in Emerald City eventually found their way to the stage with the beloved Broadway musical Wicked. Sung from the perspectives of witches Elphaba and Galinda, before and after Dorothy’s stormy arrival in Oz, Wicked sparked countless passions for musical theatre. The original 2003 production, starring Idina Menzel as Elphaba and Kristin Chenoweth as Glinda, shattered box office records and won the hearts of millions. Menzel and Chenoweth’s powerhouse voices told a story of female friendship and the capacity for goodness to conquer evil, which rest at the heartfelt core of Wicked. It’s a love story, and it’s always been political, as Jon M. Chu’s impressively acted Part I adaptation conveys. With soulful musical numbers, fantastically detailed production design, and a whole lot of heart running through the characters, Wicked shines as one of the most joyous theatre experiences. Plus, there’s the added layer of hearing reactions to the film from people who hold this story near and dear. For my Wicked screening companion, the stage production changed her life from a young age. It gave her hope and light during a time of darkness. This optimism soars through Wicked and lights a fire that cannot be contained, especially from the perspective of Elphaba, who defies a system designed to silence anyone who speaks out against it. The green image of Elphaba recalls the familiar Wicked Witch of the West from The Wizard of Oz. With an iconic cackle and all-black attire, Margaret Hamilton’s witch loomed over Oz and melted at the hands of lovable characters. Only her pointed black hat was left behind, leaving us without knowing the whole story of how she came to be an evil witch. Wicked begins with a re-telling of history that hints at how green-skinned witch Elphaba (Cynthia Erivo) became the Wicked Witch of the West. The cinematically grand “No One Mourns the Wicked” celebrates the witch’s death and casts a spell of relief over Oz. While all of Munchkinland rejoice, Glinda the Good (Ariana Grande) sings with notes of somberness as she ponders, are people born wicked? Or do they have wickedness thrust upon them? After all, the Wicked Witch of the West had a childhood. She had a mother and father. She had hopes and dreams. And after all, she had a friend in Glinda the Good, before Glinda became the Good Witch of the North. The film takes us back to Shiz University, where Elphaba and Galinda first meet. Elphaba initially arrives not as a student, but to support a smooth transition for her younger sister Nessarose (Marissa Bode). The moment Elphaba steps foot on campus, she is immediately ostracized and feared for the color of her skin. A slight commotion involving Nessarose and a professor ignite a power in Elphaba that takes over without control, causing damage to the university property. The incident catches the eye of Madame Morrible (Michelle Yeoh), who sees a potential yet to be harnessed and a possibility to impress the Wonderful Wizard of Oz (Jeff Goldblum). All the while, Galinda is clearly pampered and adored as the most popular girl in school. From her dreamy bubblegum pink arrival on campus, to her comical hair tosses and excitable energy, she stands out in a sea of students. She’s used to getting whatever her heart desires, but finds a roadblock in Madame Morrible not taking notice of her. The classmates’s eyes may all be on Galinda, as they soon will be on charming new student Fiyero (Jonathan Bailey), but the headmistress focuses on Elphaba’s “unlimited” future. As higher powers convene, Elphaba and Galinda are forced to bond. The two witches go from loathing each other to loving each other. The film flies high on the exquisite powerhouse talents of Cynthia Erivo and Ariana Grande. With keys to the Emerald City, Erivo and Grande unlock the bewitching potential for their characters to soar from stage to screen. Elphaba and Glinda’s moving relationship arc, not to mention their respective interior conflicts, is absolutely integral to the film’s emotional weight. You feel the world crushing on Elphaba’s shoulders as she navigates life as an “outsider” and breaks from conformity. From the optimism of “The Wizard and I” and the realism of “I’m Not That Girl” to the reverberating rebellion of “Defying Gravity,” Erivo hits every single note with incredible vocal range. Additionally, she shines in the quieter moments with subtle shifts in physicality; the Ozdust ballroom dance sequence is a definitive example of how far facial expressions can carry. It's an absolutely pivotal moment for Elphaba that Erivo plays gracefully, wearing emotions on her sleeve. You also feel the lonely complicity in Galinda’s eyes as she aches for popularity and ponders her best friend’s future. Grande’s sparkling humor — whether in her excitable line deliveries or her physical comedic timing — bounces across the screen. Galinda feels like the role Grande was born to play, and she embodies the essence of Wicked with a thorough understanding of how Galinda performs goodness. When the performative nature of her character reaches a pivotal crossroads, Grande charts that emotional arc with great subtlety. The film is a beautiful showcase for her operatic vocal range as well, from the somber “No One Mourns the Wicked” to the bounciness of "What Is This Feeling?” and the shimmering personality of “Popular.” Together, Erivo and Grande compliment each other at a pitch perfect rate. Your heart glows when the two truly see each other, and dampens when their paths reluctantly divert at a crossroads. With the characters in such good hands, Wicked can only go up from there, and it mostly does. The idea of splitting Wicked into two films admittedly caused some skepticism, but Jon M. Chu justifies the extra time with his elaborate storytelling. He stays faithful to the source material, sets up the character arcs for Part II, and gives all the musical numbers plenty of room to shine. The film has impressively wicked pacing; not once does the runtime feel too long or too crowded. The visualization of each song also feels fully realized as it builds on character development and moves the story along. From the ticking functionality of “Dancing Through Life” to the sheer bubblegum pink energy of “Popular,” the songs are given eye-popping looks to match. Much has already been said about the cinematography of Wicked. In particular, the use of backlighting as an approach to create a more “realistic” look. This choice feels at odds with conveying the film’s bold colors and textures. While it can be distracting at times, the overall impact on the end result feels inconsequential when you have talent such as Erivo and Grande operating at the highest levels to bring their characters to life. Plus, neat clues along the way indicate the heavy research that went into Nathan Crowley’s production design and Paul Tazewell’s costume design, not to mention the entire hair and makeup department. From the tornado shaped heels on Nessarose’s crystal shoes, and the beaded spiraled on Glinda’s bubble dress, to the textured fabrics of Elphaba’s black silhouette worn at the end of the film, the magical designs of a reimagined Oz come alive. A lot of these details are quite subtle and blend into the world-building, fully part of the fabric of Chu's storytelling. Filled with so much goodness across the board, Wicked soars as one of the most impactful and delightful musical adaptations. In the hands of Erivo and Grande, Elphaba and Galinda are brought to the big screen in unique and soul stirring ways. With emotionally engaged writing and patient direction, the film echoes the significance and timeliness of fighting for voices to be heard. Given how much care and attention to detail went into this production, one can only anticipate Part II to end on a high note. |
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