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Authors Posts by Jeffrey Sanzel

Jeffrey Sanzel

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From left, Ben Yang, Jackie Chan and Ralph Macchio in a scene from 'Karate Kid: Legends.' Photo courtesy of Columbia Pictures

Reviewed by Jeffrey Sanzel

The Karate Kid was the sleeper hit of 1984, grossing $100 million in the United States and Canada. The film received mostly good reviews, was deemed a “feel-good” movie and made the film’s star, twenty-two-year-old Ralph Macchio, into an international teen idol. 

A scene from ‘Karate Kid: Legends’. Photo courtesy of Columbia Pictures

The Karate Kid  spawned multiple sequels: The Karate Kid Part II (1986), The Karate Kid Part III (1989), The New Karate Kid (1994), and The Karate Kid (2010), a remake of the original. An animated series, action figures, video games, comic books, a board game, and even an unproduced Broadway musical (in the works in 2020) are just part of the Karate Kid’s descendants. The most interesting addition is Cobra Kai (2018-2025), a streaming series of sixty-five episodes that included original stars Macchio and William Zabka. The exceptional show picked up thirty-four years after the first film. Cobra Kai was a worthy successor and addition to the franchise legacy.

Unfortunately, Karate Kid: Legends, the sixth big-screen entry, is, at best, on the level of direct-to-video. The basic, well-worn plot concerns Li Fong (Ben Wang) moving from Beijing to the United States when his mother (Ming-Na Wen), a doctor, lands a position in a New York City hospital. Dr. Fong does not approve of martial arts due to the death of her older son, who was stabbed to death by thugs led by his defeated rival. Li has studied kung fu with Mr. Han (Jackie Chan) and now must abandon his training in the wuguan (dojo).

On his first day in the City, Li “meets cute” Mia Lipani (Sadie Stanley), daughter of Victory Pizza owner Victor (Joshua Jackson), who is in debt to loan sharks. Quickly, Li runs afoul of Conor Day (Aramis Knight), a karate champion who also happens to be Sadie’s ex. What follows is a simplistic yet somehow convoluted plot whereby Mr. Han arrives to prepare Li for a major tournament with a $50,000 prize. Mr. Han also recruits California-based Daniel LaRusso (Macchio) to co-train Li in a blend of kung fu and karate. The connection between kung fu and karate is part of a refrain of “two branches/one tree” from the prologue—a clip with Macchio and his teacher, Mr. Miyagi (Pat Morita), snagged from The Karate Kid II. 

Director Jonathan Entwistle does little with Rob Lieber’s by-the-numbers screenplay. Events are presented, but with little conflict, as the film meanders toward its predictable conclusion. The film relies on sitcom jokes and obvious montages, saccharine encounters, and often trite, strained dialogue. Peripheral elements of Chinese culture are given short shrift. Themes of guilt and responsibility barely register and then are quickly dismissed. 

The most delightful moment is the brief tag in the final minutes—a tease of what the entire outing could have been. Legacy only manages to achieve a level of “fine” because of the assembled actors. The cast is pleasant, and the performances are uniformly more than acceptable. Wang channels a Michael J. Fox vibe, making him charismatic and easy to root for. His chemistry with the likable Stanley is believable. Jackson plays her father like a low-rent George Clooney, but not without a certain appeal. 

Wen tries to find dimension in the grieving mother but is given few colors to play with and saddled with pedestrian lines: “You practice violence; you get violence in return.” The screenplay gives Knight’s sadistic bad boy zero background and no definition, flattening any possible wrinkle to the story: He is a stock psychopath, set up to be knocked over like a villainous bowling pin. Wyatt Oleff’s geeky tutor, Alan, seems like an afterthought.

Macchio, as always, owns Daniel and tries to bring both depth and lightness to the flabby proceedings. Chan is absolutely charming as the kung fu school’s shifu (master), and he and Macchio have an easy give-and-take that is the film’s highlight. Chan’s comic timing and smooth delivery enhance the underwhelming film.

It would be unfair to say the franchise is tired. Cobra Kai reinvented The Karate Kid surprisingly and engagingly, elevating and even surpassing the original films in many ways. Sadly, the Legends experience is cotton candy—but not in the festive carnival of memory and nostalgia. Instead, Karate Kid: Legends is muted and overly sweet, lacking substance and, ultimately, unmemorable.

Rated PG-13, the film is now playing in local theaters.

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From left, Lorraine Bracco, Talia Shire, Brenda Vaccaro and Vince Vaughn in a scene from 'Nonnas'. Photo by Jeong Park/Netflix

Reviewed by Jeffrey Sanzel

At Enoteca Maria we celebrate cultural diversity by serving cuisines from around the world, but we do it in the most uniquely authentic way possible. Real grandmothers from every country across the globe are invited and hired as chefs to cook the recipes handed down to them that they cook at home for their families, that make up the fabric of the culture they were born and raised in. We aspire to build cultural connections through the universal language of cooking […].

Culture is a resource worth preserving. After all a tree can’t grow and change without its roots. 

— from the Enoteca Maria website

In Nonnas, Netflix offers a highly fictionalized but loving celebration of Joe Scravella’s Staten Island restaurant, Enoteca Maria. Novelist-turned filmmaker Stephen Chboksy leaves his edge behind in directing Liz Maccie’s by-the-numbers screenplay and presents a heartfelt but wholly predictable salute to family and food.

The film opens with young Joe (Theodore Helm) and a Sunday dinner in Brooklyn, watching his mother and grandmother in the kitchen, while the extended clan eats, sings, and dances in the living room. Observing his grandmother add ingredients to the sauce pot, the boy asks, “How do you know how much to use?” His grandmother responds: “You feel it in your heart. You put in your heart.” The rest of Nonnas’ two hours fall along the same line in simplicity and intent.

The story fast forwards several decades. The grown Joe (Vince Vaughn) has lost his mother to cancer. Saddened and more than a little broken, he stares into the emptiness stretching before him. After some emotional struggle, he uses the two hundred thousand dollars inherited from his mother’s insurance policy to open a restaurant to honor her memory. His concept is simple: he will hire “nonnas” (Italian grandmothers) as chefs.

He first recruits his mother’s best friend, the irascible Roberta (Lorraine Bracco). He then runs an ad in Craig’s List, garnering a “retired” nun, Teresa (Talia Shire), and Antonella (Brenda Vaccaro), the neighbor of Joe’s high school prom date, Olivia (Linda Cardellini). His mother’s hairdresser, Gia (Susan Sarandon), rounds out the staff, serving as pastry chef. His childhood friend, Bruno, with a touch of strong-arming from Bruno’s wife, Stella (Drea de Matteo), reluctantly serves as contractor. 

Nonnas follows this rag-tag crew as they benignly bicker and quickly join forces to open the restaurant. They face predictable challenges—code issues, building violations, a kitchen fire (from an incinerated sheep’s head used for Capuzzelle), opening in a thunderstorm to no business, a snobbish food critic (Campbell Scott), etc. The problem is that the hurdles feel artificial; therefore, nothing plays on two levels—whether grief or goals. No point is allowed to simmer; everything must come to an immediate boil, then taken off the stove. There is a brief food fight, a makeover montage, and a vague drinking scene with personal revelations, but no surprises.

The dialogue is a string of clichés and aphorisms: “The tomato is the heart of your dish. If you don’t have heart, you don’t have nothin’.” “You make the food. People eat the food. You make people happy.” “Food is love.” “Age is not a disease.” And, stated more than once, “One does not grow old at the table.” 

Vince Vaughn is not plumbing any depths; his performance falls into his long line of likable everymen. But his wide-eyed charm and easy earnestness hold center. The same is true of the entire cast. The quartet of kitchen cooks play to type but are delightful as they do so. Cardellini’s widow is just the right romance-light that Joe—and the story—needs. Everyone seems to be in on the celebration and having a terrific time. 

While Nonnas could easily be accused of overly sentimental (tipping occasionally into saccharine), its genuine sincerity comes through. The combination of food-porn-with-a-point and making the family you need synthesize in this Italian Valentine. Borrowing from another culture’s cuisine, Nonnas is pure schmaltz.

Enoteca Maria opened in 2007 and, unlike as portrayed in its cinematic counterpart, was an immediate success and continues to thrive. If Nonnas is not quite art, it cannot help being a boon for the restaurant and its mission.

Rated PG, the film is now streaming on Netflix.

See trailer here.

 

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The cast of 'Miss Austen'. Photo courtesy of PBS

Reviewed by Jeffrey Sanzel

The following is based on viewing Part One of Masterpiece’s presentation of ‘Miss Austen.’

Jane Austen’s correspondence was vast, with an estimation of her penning thousands of letters: Only 160 remain. For reasons unknown, years after Austen’s death, her sister, Cassandra, burned the bulk of Jane’s letters.

Gill Hornby’s intriguing and entertaining Miss Austen: A Novel of the Austen Sisters (2020) speculates why. Hornby’s fictional explanation captures Jane Austen’s style, tone, and diction, with Hornby remarkably echoing Austen’s sly wit and keen observations. Hornby’s book could be seen as a seventh novel in Austen’s sadly small canon. 

A scene from ‘Miss Austen.’ Photo courtesy of PBS

Played in two timelines, the story follows the older Cassandra, in 1830, traveling to Kintbury on the pretext of helping Isabella Fowle, who is mourning her father’s death. However, Cassandra’s true motivation is retrieving the letters written by Jane and herself to Eliza Fowle, Isabella’s mother. Hornby uses Cassandra’s discovery and reading of the cache to flashback to the late 18th and early 19th century. 

In the teleplay, Andrea Gibb puts Isabella’s father, Reverend Fowle, on his deathbed (flickering candles and soft focus), imparting Cassandra a dying wish for Isabella. In this moment, the series sets itself at odds with the source—darker and leaning into the drama (or even melodrama)—rather than the edgier, droller, but more inspired world of the novel. Both touch on the themes of women in society, family obligations, and the pressure for marriage and children. But the approaches are distinctly different, with Gibb’s version trodding heavily, highlighting the romantic elements. The teleplay’s tone (and Aisling Walsh’s direction) departs from Hornby, and in essence, Austen: the author’s brilliance was balancing heartbreak with humor, satire with a sense of humanity. Lacking these vital elements, the filmed version seems bleached and untextured. 

Keeley Hawes is particularly effective as the older Cassandra, conveying thought with subtlety and presenting the older Austen sister as a woman missing nothing but keeping her own counsel. Synnøve Karlsen easily matches her as the young Cassandra, giving an equally rich performance. Patsy Ferran makes Jane quirky and likable and easily drops the few bon mots expected of the witty writer. However, along with Madeline Walker’s pleasant Eliza Fowle, the relationships feel more Little Women than Mansfield Park. 

Rose Leslie’s Isabella is lovely if reinvented as a more traditional heroine. Jessica Hynes’ waspish sister-in-law, Mary, is more ominous than necessary due less to her choice than the approach to her plotline. The same is true of the always wonderful Phyllis Logan, who plays matriarch Mrs. Austen. The book’s Mrs. Austen possesses more than a few shades of Mrs. Bennett; instead, she is given a less colorful portrait to create. Mirren Mack, in her brief appearance, manages the right blend of “respectful impudence” as the Fowles’ maid, Dinah. As for the men, they do little but respond or spout platitudes. 

Ultimately, the major point is legacy. When clergyman Mr. Dundas (Thomas Coombes, in a delightfully wicked cameo suggesting Pride and Prejudice’s unctuous Mr. Collins) suggests to Cassandra that the world is lacking a definitive biography so the public could know the real Jane Austen, she rebukes him. “Everything one needs to know about Jane Austen is to be found in the pages of her novels. There is nothing more.” In essence, this is the thesis. Jane’s life should be defined only by what she offered the public, and her private life and thoughts should remain just that—private. 

Miss Austen offers an interesting—if fictional—glimpse into one of the great literary figures of all time. That said, it is clearly the old saw: “The book was better.” 

The four-part series streams Sundays on PBS.org through May 18.

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Reviewed by Jeffrey Sanzel

The prolific Ellen Meister’s tenth novel, Joyride, offers a fascinating portrait of the (almost) unflagging optimist Joybird Martin, whose desire to help leads her to create a hybrid of Uber and life coaching. The unique premise—and Joybird’s dream—is more than a gimmick. Her genuine drive to heal is a passion rooted in her history. 

Author Ellen Meister

Joybird’s parents divorced when she was a child. Her father, Sid, moved to Los Angeles to pursue a career as a television writer, and she remained in Brooklyn with her mother. When she was eight, her mother died, and Joybird spent a short time living with Sid on the West Coast. After the cancellation of his television show, he and Joybird relocated to his family home in Connecticut. With a career turnaround, he moved back to L.A., leaving her with her maternal grandparents in Queens, where she remained until she left for college. After his third marriage collapsed, he failed to keep in touch.

When Joyride opens, Joybird is thirty-one and living alone in Brooklyn. Due to an implied #MeToo incident, Sid shows up jobless and homeless. Simultaneously abrasive and hyper-sensitive, Sid devolved into a perpetual victim, incapable of self-care. He has moments of acerbic reflection—“like most barbarians, I have strong opinions”—but remains a work in progress.

Like her pale-blue Honda Accord, Joybird is “earnest and dependable.” She is easily judged by her perpetually upbeat outlook. “People underestimate[ed] her because of her cheerfulness. But it was her philosophy that you don’t have to be stupid to be happy.” Her father lives in direct contrast. “Sid Marcus had been quick to feel victimized, insisting that life dealt him a crappy hand, skimming the best cards for someone else.” His long-rooted cynicism dates to his earliest days in Hollywood: privileged Connecticut-born John Martin changed his name to Sid Marcus because he felt it was the only way he could get ahead in the entertainment industry.

Equity analyst Devon Cato, an Uber rider, inspires Joybird to embark on a mobile office. He quickly becomes smitten with her, creating a romantic triangle with a Bohemian poet, Noah Pearlman. The contrast between Cato and Pearlman is not as simple as it initially appears, and Meister wisely lets the dueling relationships unfold throughout the narrative.

Among her clients are the catfished Althea and the fifteen-year-old Riley, the latter struggling with indifferent parents and teenage angst. Again, Meister chooses not to shy away from easy roads or facile solutions. Guiding Joybird as a voice of reason is the upstairs neighbor, the youthful septuagenarian Betty, whose perfume “was an old-fashioned scent that made Joybird think of movies from the 1970s and big hoop earrings.” Betty functions as a friend and mother figure, advising the impossibility of always making people happy: “That’s a burden no one should have to carry.” The simple statement resonates deeply as Joybird’s newfound career presents unexpected landmines.

Meister weaves Joybird’s efforts to reunite Sid with his high school crush and her own romantic challenges, along with the trials of her clients. She writes with the ease and brightness of Armistead Maupin, giving her New York and its boroughs a vibrant energy. Her characters are not standard “quirky” but richly detailed and fully realized. 

Like with her protagonist in Take My Husband (who settles her nerves with an initials word game), Meister fleshes out Joyride’s ensemble with textured, believable personalities. Whether describing the dress of one of Sid’s wealthy clients—“indigo jeans with cognac-colored loafers and no socks”—or the fragrance of a dissipated cologne that leaves Joybird with a “lingering undertone of regret”—Meister possesses an evocative, visceral sense of detail. 

Just as in her outstanding Farewell, Dorothy Parker, Meister writes with wit and warmth, creating complex characters whose ability to change is through a combination of adversity, choice, and personal reflection.  

Ultimately, Joyride addresses a world where one must navigate between support and exploitation. 

“Joybird knew exactly why she hadn’t seen it — her sunny faith in people sometimes blinded her to bad behavior. But she shrugged it off as a small price to pay for the privilege of living her life in the bright, white light of optimism.” Ellen Meister’s Joyride is an engaging, brisk, humorous, and satisfying journey of a person who genuinely believes “we all deserve a chance to become our best selves.” 

Pick up a copy of Joyride at your local bookseller or online at www.amazon.com or www.barnesandnoble.com. For more information, visit ellenmeister.com.

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Actor Laura Dern, center, with 'Common Ground' directors Rebecca Harrell Tickell and Josh Tickell.

Reviewed by Jeffrey Sanzel

According to the Chesapeake Bay Foundation, regenerative agriculture “describes holistic farming systems that, among other benefits, improve water and air quality, enhance ecosystem biodiversity, produce nutrient-dense food, and store carbon to help mitigate the effects of climate change. These farm systems are designed to work in harmony with nature, while also maintaining and improving economic viability.” Regenerative agriculture includes practices like no-tillage, planting cover crops, reducing chemical use, and planned grazing. 

In 2017, Josh Tickell published Kiss the Ground: How the Food You Eat Can Reverse Climate Change, Heal Your Body, & Ultimately Save Our World. The book purports that climate change is reversible through changing diets based on harvests from soil-nourishing, regenerative agriculture. 

Tickell (along with Rebecca Harrell Tickell) produced and directed the documentary Kiss the Ground (2020), which explored the issues raised in the book. The film shares interviews with farmers, scientists, and environmentalists. The focus is the power of healthy soil and its healing powers for humanity and the earth as a whole. Narrated by Woody Harrelson, the film features the well-known {model/ U.N. Good Will Ambassador Gisele Bünchden, NFL quarterback Tom Brady, etc.) along with authors and environmentalists. Kiss the Ground was lauded for its good intentions but received criticism for an often simplistic approach to the solution, especially concerning climate change. 

The follow-up, Common Ground, which launched globally on Amazon Prime on April 22 in honor of Earth Day, covers some of the same territory, with a spotlight on preservation of the soil. Again, central is the importance of properly cultivating the soil through regenerative agriculture. 

Common Ground opens with a letter “written” by various celebrities. Each is presented with a sonorous voiceover steeped in gravitas. The letter ends with, “It’s a matter of life and death.” If the information presented in Common Ground is even twenty percent accurate, this dark statement is harbinger of long-term and perhaps irrevocable damage. The film begins with a detailed explanation of regenerative agriculture, comparing it to the other less environmentally-friendly approaches. 

The film is most interesting and effective when it addresses agribusiness issues driving the market. Following the money trail exposes the private sector’s influences on government and education, with money filtered through land grant universities. Larger corporations have suppressed scientists and pressured the USDA, influencing the Farm Bill and driving subsidies into soy, wheat, and corn—all commodity crops. Agribusiness possesses the largest lobbying industry with twenty-three registered lobbyists for every member of Congress.

An exploration of the rise of industrial farming in post-World War II highlights the uses of chemicals in the forms of pesticides and toxic herbicides, labeled “the Green Revolution.” Most notably, Monsanto Company’s glyphosate product, Roundup, led to the 1980s genetically engineered crops—“ready grains”—that could resist Roundup. Gradually, revelations held Roundup responsible for damaging the health of thousands, leading to multiple successful lawsuits. (Monsanto sold the company to the German Bayer AG for sixty-three billion dollars.)

Common Ground gives a bleak picture of the small farmer who lives in hundreds of thousands of dollars of debt. The Farm Bill Cycle of Debt is a cyclical trap of the system dictating what (and how) to grow, boosting corporate profits, consumer illness, and farmers’ debt. Suicide rates among farmers are five times higher than the general population. Additionally, Common Ground touches on the racial disparity in farming, with the system showing an overwhelmingly biased preference towards white people. The discriminatory nature of the industry has only increased over the years.

While the film emphasizes much of the negative, it celebrates those who have succeeded in abandoning industrial farming. The alternatives are shown to have health and economic benefits—all linked back to regenerative agriculture.

The tone and style—and much of the documentary—shift from dark shadows to pastoral sunshine to peripatetic imagery. At times, Common Ground feels like clumsy public service announcements; at other points, it plays with the jarring cuts of a music video, with blaring, on-the-nose lyrics. The “behind the scenes” look at the stars — Laura Dern, Jason Momoa, Woody Harrelson, Ian Somerhalder, Donald Glover, Rosario Dawson, and many others recording their narratives is oddly and ineffectively “meta.” But Common Ground is well-paced and presents a clear path to transformation. 

Documentaries habitually select their focus as the greatest existential threat. Whether AI, plastics, water pollution, corporate manipulation, or conspicuous consumption, each sees its topic as the direst and the most important to be solved. Many point to the destruction of the environment, but each selects a different “demon” as the most dangerous. Common Ground is no different in this respect, and therefore, even in its specificity, it lands as a generic call-to-arms (or farms, as the case may be).

“The quality of what you eat determines the quality of your health. And a living soil is where it all begins.” While it might not convert the doubters, Common Ground is another reminder that through commitment and collaboration, environmental change is possible. 

The documentary is now streaming on Amazon Prime.

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Charles Hller (Rami Malek) takes revenge after his wife (Rachel Brosnahan) is murdered. Photo courtesy of 20th Century Studios

Reviewed by Jeffrey Sanzel

Revenge is a favored plot devices of the thriller genre. Studios release dozens, if not hundreds, of films each year, drawing from this seemingly endless well. Cinema is populated with tales of the average (usually) man retaliating for the abduction or death of a loved one (spouse/parent/child). The hero, discovering new-found or dormant resources, overcomes evil, destroys their opponents, and allows the audience a vicarious sense of justice. 

Robert Littell worked for many years as a Newsweek journalist during the Cold War, serving as the magazine’s foreign correspondent from 1965 to 1970. Beginning with The Defection of A.J. Lewinter (1973), the award-winning Littell wrote over twenty spy novels, many concerning the CIA and the Soviet Union, the most recent A Plague on Both Your Houses: A Novel in the Shadow of the Russian Mafia (2024). 

Rami Malek in a scene from ‘The Amateur’. Photo courtesy of 20th Century Studios

With Diana Maddox, Littell co-adapted The Amateur (1981) for the screen, starring John Savage and Christopher Plummer. Director James Hawes helms the current remake, with a screenplay by Ken Nolan and Gary Spinelli. Taking the novel’s basic story but eschewing many of the more interesting details, they have fashioned a by-the-numbers thriller that, for all its drive, never builds momentum. 

Low-key (almost somnambulic) Charles Heller (Rami Malek) works as a CIA cryptographer. His wife, professional photographer Sarah Horowitz (Rachel Brosnahan), travels to London on business. She is taken hostage and murdered during an illegal arms deal gone wrong. 

Grief-stricken, Heller decides to kill the four terrorists. Leveraging information he uncovered about a drone strike cover-up, he blackmails Special Activities Center Director Alex Moore (Holt McCallany) for information. Furious but cornered, Moore buys time by sending Heller for training with Colonel Robert Henderson (Laurence Fishburne). Once in Europe, Heller methodically hunts down his wife’s killers. He teams up briefly with an anonymous source, Inquiline (Caitriona Balfe), but most of his work is done solo, with Heller harnessing his genius rather than his limited physical skills.

The film travels from Paris to Marseilles, Istanbul to Madrid, and finally Constanta (Romania) to the Baltic Sea, where the climax is a low-grade confrontation between Heller and the mastermind, Horst Schiller (Michael Stuhlbarg).

While The Amateur contains little original, the novel touched on a few insightful pieces, particularly connections to the Holocaust. With the story updated to the present, these aspects and one of the most interesting characters, a shadowy figure known as the Professor, have been eliminated. Even Heller’s fascination with the identity of the author of Shakespeare’s plays is absent, leaving Heller a one-note character.

If anything, the film highlights technological change, with a world run by computers and monitored in every corner by thousands of cameras. However, these devices have become central rather than tools for telling the story.

Rami Malek in a scene from ‘The Amateur’. Photo courtesy of 20th Century Studios

Rami Malek rose to prominence with the USA Network’s Mr. Robot, for which he received an Emmy for Lead Actor in a Drama Series. His big-screen work included the Night at the Museum trilogy, Larry Crowne, The Master, and Need for Speed. But his breakout came with his Oscar-winning performance as Queen’s singer-songwriter, Freddie Mercury, in the biopic Bohemian Rhapsody. 

Malek is unquestionably an unusual and gifted actor, capable of complexity, variety, and style. But his performance as Heller is so subdued as not to register. Except for one beautiful moment when he opens Sarah’s suitcase, he seems to play Heller without a heartbeat. For Malek, The Amateur will be remembered as an in-between film, a bland undertaking contrasting with better and more textured work. 

Brosnahan is relegated to two short scenes, a handful of flashbacks, and a couple of “visions” that do little to show her range or talent. The always watchable Fishburne barely appears; there is a sense that he was shot for expediency, getting his scenes filmed in as few days as possible. 

Balfe is fine as Inquiline but saddled with sharing her history rather than revealing character through action (and the screenplay does her no favors, ignoring the more complicated background introduced in the book). McCallany does the best he can with a stock political villain. It is left to Jon Bernthal, as an operative known as “The Bear,” to provide an off-beat glimmer. 

Unfortunately, The Amateur offers no growth and certainly no catharsis. The resolution lacks a final of energy or surprising revelations. 

The final ten minutes wrap up the big picture, followed by a vaguely uncomfortable exchange meant to be humorous, ending with a simplistic final image unsubtly telegraphed earlier. 

For two hours, everything happens, and nothing happens. The constant movement possesses motivation but no sense of internal purpose. The film is both literally and figuratively bloodless. In the end, The Amateur provides a generic espionage drama with perpetual action but little intrigue.

Rated PG-13, the film is now playing in local theaters.

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Naomi Watts as Iris and Bing the Great Dane as Apollo in a scene from the film. Photo courtesy of Bleeker Street

Reviewed by Jeffrey Sanzel

“What will happen to the dog?” That question is the inciting force of The Friend, Scott McGehee and David Siegel’s meditative adaptation of Sigrid Nunez’s 2018 novel, winner of the National Book Award for Fiction.

Canine cinema is its own subgenre. From Old Yeller to As Good as It Gets, Marley & Me to The Art of Racing in the Rain, the four-legged companions have threaded through dozens, if not hundreds, of stories. The films (Cujo excepted) focus on the transformative power for and of the love of dogs. From tear-jerkers to family farces, man’s best friend has often provided a mirror of their companions’ hearts, minds, and souls. 

Naomi Watts as Iris and Bing the Great Dane as Apollo in a scene from the film. Photo courtesy of Bleeker Street

The Friend lives in the intersecting worlds of literature and academia. Writer-former professor Walter (Bill Murray) takes his own life, and his third wife, Barbara (Noma Dumezweni), asks his former graduate student, colleague, and friend, Iris (Naomi Watts), to adopt his dog, a Great Dane named Apollo (Bing). Reluctantly, Iris agrees to temporarily house the dog in her rent-controlled New York apartment, where Hektor (Felix Solis), the superintendent, reminds her that pets are forbidden in the building. The film follows the usual path of distance to acceptance to bonding. 

While the description might indicate a by-the-numbers tale, The Friend rises above the basic. Iris and the denizens of her narrow, mostly intellectual world dwell in inner emptiness. Even Walter’s death leaves them numb, struggling to find meaning or even feeling. (It is no coincidence that Walter’s hero was the existential and almost perpetual bleak writer Samuel Beckett.) 

Iris, a self-proclaimed cat person, lives without a cat. Though the claim could be because of the apartment rules, it is more likely about her disconnection from connection. She collaborates with Walter’s illegitimate daughter, Val (Sarah Pidgeon), editing a book of Walter’s correspondence. But the undertaking is sluggish, frustrating, and unsatisfying. The publisher, Jerry (Josh Pais), pressures them to finish as there is “more interest in a dead Walter.” 

Iris’s mixed views about Walter (a serial philanderer) seep into every moment of Watts’ strikingly understated performance. Her Iris dwells in a sort of twilight void; the conflict and eventual acceptance of Apollo awakens her spirit, giving her life and giving that life meaning. Watts creates a powerfully subtle, multi-dimensional Iris. Watts is not so much slow as methodical, breathing the struggle of daily life. She is nothing less than riveting.

Naomi Watts as Iris and Bill Murray as Walter in a scene from the film. Photo courtesy of Bleeker Street

Watts is surrounded by equally restrained and effective performances. The always reliable Dumezweni grounds Barbara; Pidgeon makes the daughter simultaneously free-spirited and haunted; Constance Wu brings the right touch of narcissism to Tuesday, the insufferable second wife. Solis and Ann Dowd, as neighbor and friend, Marjorie, offer some of the brighter, warmer colors. 

Murray appears in a brief prologue, a few short flashbacks, and a fascinating speculative scene in which Iris attempts to work out her relationship with the dead man through the process of writing. Murray finds sweetness and restraint adding to Walter’s contradictory behaviors.

The only one who seems to truly mourn Walter is Apollo. From the drive from the kennel with Apollo gazing sadly out the taxi window to his coopting of Iris’s bed where he lays woefully inert, Bing brings a heart-breaking “humanity” to the Great Dane. (World-famous Bill Berloni is the supervisory animal trainer.)

The Friend can be summed up simply: Dogs are good. Dogs heal. Dogs provide hope. Dogs change lives. It still comes down to “What will happen to the dog?” But, with McGehee and Siegel’s mutely elegant screenplay and fluid, sensitive direction, Watts’ cathartic Iris, and a first-rate supporting cast, The Friend transcends expectations and delivers a memorable, occasionally painful, but ultimately hopeful film.  

Rated R, the film is now playing in local theaters.

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'The Warbler'

Reviewed by Jeffrey Sanzel

“My mother is a willow. She stands by a stream that burbles like a toddler’s kisses, and her leaves dip into the water whenever the wind blows …” So opens the gifted Sarah Beth Durst’s latest novel, The Warbler. 

Author Sarah Beth Durst with a copy of her latest novel.

“If I stay, then one day, beneath the watchful blue sky, I too will grow roots, my skin will harden to bark, and the strands of my hair will blossom.” Elisa’s curse—what her mother called “our family inheritance”—condemns the family’s women to become trees if they remain in any place for too long.

“I’m packed before I’m ready to leave.” This statement embodies the nomadic Elisa, The Warbler’s central figure. She is never going to but “coming from.” Living under different names, she has taken on Beatrix, Wanda, Gitana, and Barbara, all of which mean “traveler” or “stranger.” Elisa’s quest is threefold: find her familial origins, understand her inability never to remain, and how to break the curse. The sole clue is the location must possess enough “unexplained oddities.” 

Until her mother Lori’s passing two years before, mother and daughter crisscrossed the United States, visiting strange and out-of-the-way towns.

As the book opens, Elisa leaves Tyler, with whom she has lived for ten months. She lived in the “now, now, now.” But her life is governed by strong tenets: “Don’t form ties. Don’t take mementos. Don’t keep in touch.” Elisa must always run. A particularly poignant memory is Elisa reflecting on a gift to her mother: a novelty pillow. But the simple offering was left behind because it tied them to that place. Elisa desires something as simple as a junk drawer or a jar of peanut butter “that I don’t have to ration.”

Elisa lands in Greenborough, Massachusetts (The verdant name hints at the possibility of answers to a nature-based enchantment.) Drawn by a cat in the window, her first stop is The Book Cellar, “overflowing with books, exactly as a bookstore should be. Every shelf is stuffed, with volumes wedged horizontally on top of vertical rows and crammed between the top shelf and the ceiling, so many that they look as if they have been quietly breeding for years.” 

Elisa is drawn to books because “they’re portable and replaceable.” Owen, the shop’s proprietor, befriends her. She immediately applies and is given a job in the store. But quickly, the town’s nature reveals itself when she witnesses a strange accident and its peculiar aftermath. 

‘The Warbler’

The town’s charming surface belies a roiling strangeness beneath its seemingly bucolic surface. Greenborough’s inhabitants include a musician who plays a stringless guitar, a writer whose fingers never touch the keys, a waiter who is perpetually wiping a dessert carousel, and a woman who keeps dozens of birds caged in her yard. Even the most benign statement can be ominous: “You know, I’ve lost track of when I came here. Guess time flies when you’re having fun.” The driving force of the peculiar but well-drawn cast of characters is a nameless trio of elderly sisters who suggest the fates in their many forms. 

Ultimately, The Warbler chronicles three generations: grandmother Rose, daughter Lori, and granddaughter Elisa. The book’s chapters alternate in three timelines, exploring the women’s lives and challenges. What seems, at first, a traditional fantasy grows into a complex and emotional narrative. Durst addresses the power of choice and the spirit (and danger) of wishing. Of her many works, Durst’s The Warbler is probably her most visceral and raw, compelling in Elisa’s passion to find truth but also a sense of self. 

Having been condemned to wander, the idea of home burns deeply. Elisa is one of Durst’s finest creations, an individual struggling with loneliness and looking for a sense of the whole. “I love music. It’s something that’s actually supposed to be ephemeral. You experience it, then move on, carrying it only as an imperfect memory of how it made you feel. It’s one of the few things that I can experience exactly like everyone else.” Glimpses of her various “lives” help create a wholeness as Elisa puts the pieces together.

Once again, Durst celebrates nature in its beauty and mystery. The metaphor of roots plays as a grounding but equally as a trap. Each woman yearned for a different life, but their choices or those around them failed to complete them. The novel’s resolution shows depth and insight into the fragility of human nature.

In previous novels, Durst demonstrated her skill as a world-builder with fantastical and wholly original universes. She inverts this idea with The Warbler, constructing her story in the very real, recognizable here-and-now. While no less effective, the immediacy becomes a driving force. Durst addresses the idea of home, the struggle between living free and being caged. 

In turns sinister and heartfelt, The Warbler is a tale of bravery in facing supernatural and wholly human adversity, looking beyond the shadow of danger, and embracing the healing power of self-reflection and understanding.

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Sarah Beth Durst is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of over twenty-five books for adults, teens, and kids. She lives in Stony Brook with her husband, her children, and her ill-mannered cat. Pick up a copy of The Warbler at your local bookseller or online at www.amazon.com or www.barnesandnoble.com. For more information, visit sarahbethdurst.com.

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Nicole Kidman as Nancy Vandergroot in a scene from the film. Photo courtesy of Amazon Prime

Reviewed by Jeffrey Sanzel

“Sometimes I wonder. Is it even real?” This notion heralds an interesting premise, but the idea fails to manifest in Amazon Prime’s limp psychological thriller Holland. 

Holland, Michigan, is a midwestern idyll—a Dutch Stepford, complete with tulips and windmills. Rooted in Americana values, one expects the town to be composed of theme park facades. 

Nicole Kidman as Nancy Vandergroot in a scene from the film.
Photo courtesy of Amazon Prime

Life Management (Home Economics) teacher Nancy Vandergroot (Nicole Kidman) lives a seemingly picture-perfect existence with her devoted optometrist husband, Fred (Matthew Macfadyen), and a well-behaved thirteen-year-old son, Harry (Jude Hill). Her world is a softly padded suburban prison, with a church deacon husband who is a community pillar. When asked if she did something different with the dinner recipe, she replies: “Brown mustard instead of yellow. I felt like doing something crazy.” 

Nancy’s hunt for a missing earring reveals a stash of Polaroid film and a suspicious parking ticket. The discoveries suggest Fred is having an affair. Admitting that she likes to “play detective,” Nancy enlists the attentive shop teacher, Dave Delgado (Gael Garcia Bernal), to help uncover Fred’s double life. 

Nicole Kidman and Gael Garcia Bernal in a scene from ‘Holland.’ Photo from Amazon Prime

“He goes to a lot of conferences for an optometrist,” she shares. The pair embark on a search for answers. “Sometimes in life, you know, you’ve got to follow the clues wherever they take you.” About one hundred minutes in, the story turns dark. A climactic confrontation leads to a complication and a less-than-satisfactory second climax/conclusion. 

With the right treatment, the predictable setup can make for an engaging story. Alfred Hitchcock often elevated modest plots with unusual twists, interesting points of view, and an ability to elicit fully realized characters. Hitchcock knew film was less the telling of the story but how the story is told. Unfortunately, Andrew Sodroski’s cluttered screenplay and Mimi Cave’s jumbled direction fail to commit to a tone or style. 

Mixing horror tropes (including nightmare visions), caper standards (almost being caught while searching for evidence), and off-beat humor (a kiss interrupted by a car hitting another car), the genres are not blended but rather randomly stacked. 

Much of the dialogue feels like it is being delivered in quotation marks and italics as if everything is simultaneously important but not what it seems. “We have to stay through Tulip Time.” Is this meant to be humorous? Foreboding? Quirky? Ultimately, the statement feels awkward, as does most of the film.

Matthew Macfadyen and Jude Hill in a scene from ‘Holland.’ Photo from Amazon Prime

The most effective piece is the model train hobby shared by father and son in the orderly garage: “You get to make a story about someone you’ve never met before and direct their whole lives … you get to control everything.” The toy railway’s real purpose is much deeper and the film’s most chilling element. 

Kidman is a gifted actor. With Nancy, she channels some of the more benign shades of To Die For’s Suzanne Stone. Nancy is naïve, frayed, and sometimes a little loopy. Kidman manages to carve some dimension in the homemaker’s struggle, finding balance and understanding in the gathering darkness of Nancy’s crumbling reality. The fact that her internal imbalance is not fleshed out (or resolved) lies squarely with Sodroski and Cave. 

Macfadyen (so strong as Mr. Darcy in the 2005 Pride and Prejudice) makes Fred charming, easy, and plausible, veering away from the ominous. Bernal is slightly over-earnest as a man of great conscience who is clearly in love with Nancy. Some racial issues imposed on the narrative ultimately go nowhere, but Bernal uses those to give his character a sense of other in an almost solely white community. Hill makes Harry believable—both likable and subtle. 

Holland attempts to cover self-knowledge, infidelity, guilt, racism, psychological abuse, societal expectations, and a host of other concepts. By trying to say and do so many things, the film fails to unify as one. In the end, Holland is a simplistic suspenser mired in assorted clichés.

Rated R, the film is now streaming on Amazon Prime.

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A scene from 'Snow White.' Photo courtesy of Walt Disney Studios Motion Pictures
Rachel Zegler as Snow White in a scene from the film.Photo courtesy of Walt Disney Studios Motion Pictures
Andrew Burnap as Jonathan and Rachel Zegler as Snow White in a scene from the film. Photo courtesy of Walt Disney Studios Motion Pictures
Gal Gadot as the evil stepmother in a scene from the film. Photo courtesy of Walt Disney Studios Motion Pictures
'Snow White' is now playing in local theaters. Photo courtesy of Walt Disney Studios Motion Pictures

Reviewed by Jeffrey Sanzel

Disney’s Snow White arrives in theaters on a wave of bad publicity. The casting of a non-traditional Snow White and that actor’s criticism of the original animated version, the approach to the seven diminutive cohorts, and the friction between its two stars have caused the House of Mouse to take a cautious approach to the live-action release.

The 1937 feature was part of Disney’s Golden Age of Animation. While a progressive sensibility can find fault with its outdated views, it remains unmatched for pure art and craft. Over the years, dozens of Snow Whites have graced the big and small screens. Beginning with the 1902 silent, adaptations include Mirror, Mirror; Snow White and the Huntsman; Snow White: A Tale of Terror; and Snow White and the Three Stooges.

Putting this aside, Disney’s Snow White is a by-the-numbers remake with some modern additions. The plot connects the usual dots. Snow White’s mother dies, and her father, the king, remarries a beautiful but vain woman. The sorceress queen’s magic mirror informs her she is no longer “the fairest of them all”—that honor now bestowed on her stepdaughter, Snow White.

Enraged, the queen orders her huntsman to take the princess into the forest, kill her, and bring back the girl’s heart. The huntsman takes pity on the girl and lets her escape. Snow White seeks refuge in the cottage of seven dwarfs. When the queen discovers the girl is still alive, she turns herself into a crone, giving her a poisoned apple. Snow White eats the apple and “falls dead.” True love’s kiss—in the form of a prince—wakes her from her death-like slumber, and they live happily ever after.

The new Snow White follows the essentials with a few variations. Snow White is named for the snowstorm during which she was born. The king disappeared, but no proof of death added to Snow White’s quest. The young woman displays a strong independent streak and speaks up for the mistreated citizens. The biggest departure is the absence of a prince. In his place is the generic “guy,” Jonathan, and his seven out-of-work actors. Snow White and the low-rent Robin Hood “meet cute” when she catches him stealing potatoes from the royal kitchen. While she lets him go, he is arrested and tied to the palace’s front gate. She sets him free. Later, they meet in the forest and reconnect. 

None of the changes are terribly original. While nodding towards political correctness, they could have enhanced this Snow White had they been well-handled. However, they are not, and they do not. The leaden film’s muted and desaturated colors create a joyless landscape. The production is oddly cheap, with costumes evoking dollar-store cosplay. (The exception is the queen’s wardrobe.) The new songs—by Benj Pasek, Justin Paul, and Jack Feldman—barely register. From the lifeless and oddly brief opening number, “Good Things Grow,” and Snow White’s generic I Want song, “Waiting on a Wish,” to the queen’s bizarrely wrong-headed “All is Fair,” not one is memorable. The incongruous “Princess Problems” might be a Meet Me in St. Louis cast-off.

Rachel Zegler (wonderful in West Side Story) is a fine, charming Snow White, understanding the decisive, strong character. She moves with elegant determination and sings with heart and purpose. She just deserved a better script and a modicum of direction. 

Gal Gadot is the most wooden villain on record (including the talking trees in The Wizard of Oz). Her stiff line readings compete with the worst community theatre divas. She looks great; unfortunately, she speaks as though she learned her lines phonetically. 

Andrew Burnap is saddled with Jonathan, a hero so dull that he seems like he is going to fall asleep mid-sentence. (The vibe is a fast-food counter worker on his third consecutive shift.) A distinct lack of chemistry separates Zegler and Burnap; whether this is an absence of spark between the actors or the failure of the screenplay is hard to judge. 

The always reliable Patrick Page voices the Magic Mirror and ably channels the 1937 film. Ansu Kabia’s huntsman barely receives two dimensions. One suspects with the right opportunity, he could have made more of the role. The entire cast appears under-rehearsed as if the cameras rolled days before they found any comfort with the material. Snow White is indifferent Renaissance Faire meets second-rate theme park.

And then there are the dwarfs. (Oh, those dwarfs.) Regardless of the public relations problems, this choice was not the solution. The seven CGI-ed figures attempt to capture the charm of their animated counterparts. They do not—not even a little. Living in a Thomas Kinkade-inspired cottage, their images are simultaneously generic and disturbingly hideous. (The equally CGI-ed forest creatures are a little better, in their kinda weird-kinda cute way.)

Disney misfired, trying to please everyone by twisting itself into a knot of contemporary sensitivity. With lackluster design, an underwritten but overthought screenplay, and an insignificant score, this Disney canon entry will be remembered for its muddled controversies rather than its less-than-bland enchantment. In the end, Snow White is not so much about staying woke but staying awake. 

Rated PG, the film is now playing in local theaters.

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