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Jeffrey Sanzel

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'The Whale's Daughter'

Reviewed by Jeffrey Sanzel

There is a long tradition of Man vs. Nature in young adult literature. The Island of the Blue Dolphins, Hatchet, and even Call of the Wild (which straddles the world of adult and young adult fiction) are examples of the genre. These novels reflect how the individual changes when interacting with greater forces. Jerry Mikorenda’s The Whaler’s Daughter (Regal House Publishing) smartly explores the world of whaling in a 1910 New South Whales community.

Author Jerry Mikorenda signs a book for a fan.

In a small Australian station, the whalers have joined forces with orcas to hunt whales. Savannah Dawson, a twelve-year-old living with her widowed father, dreams of working alongside him on the boats, joining the family’s long whaling history. Her gender strongly impedes her desire. In addition, she believes that the orcas caused the death of her two brothers, Eli and Asa.

The book seamlessly weaves Savannah’s two journeys. First, her realization that the orcas were not responsible for her sibling’s death. Second, her struggle for acceptance as a crew member. The author addresses both issues throughout, using detailed research to infuse the book with a vivid portrait of life on ship and shore, the challenges of the sea, and the camaraderie of the men themselves. He touches on superstitions and familial connections. In addition, he contextually integrates both regional dialect and nautical/whaling vocabulary. (There is also a helpful appendix of terms.)

Mikorenda sets the tone and pace with Savannah’s declaration: “I began my day as I always did, lugging those dreaded pots to the fire pit to make a bushman’s stew. Their big iron bellies slogged through the sand as if they were drunken sailors being dragged to Sunday service.” He presents a life of physical toil with a heroine who has a wry sense of observation. She begins as a cook and ends on the boat. 

Savannah’s palpable frustration seats in her knowledge of being a Dawson and the weight the name carries. But being female has relegated her to a second-class citizen. Apart from an unwanted suitor, she is almost unseen. So driven to claim her birthright, she boldly chops off her hair: “If Papa needed a boy for the boats, I’d meet him halfway.” The portrait is a girl coming to terms with maturity. She questions the father-daughter relationship. “How could things go so wrong between us when all I did was grow into who I am?” More telling is her realization that “Having your dreams trampled by someone who could help you realize them is worse than not having them at all.”

Savannah’s father, both distant and damaged, shows sensitivity in a revelation centering around a letter. His opening to Savannah is one of the most touching moments in the book. In addition, Mikorenda has populated the station with a blend of interesting and colorful sailors and their families. The locale is vibrant, with special note of the wonderfully eccentric Old Whalers and Seafarer’s Home, dubbed the Pelican House. 

Certainly, the hyper-articulate Calagun is the book’s unique character. Nicknamed “Figgie,” the aboriginal boy’s eloquence is a marvel: “Your perceptions of my intentions are somewhat askew.” A new oarsman in the Dawson crew, he becomes Savannah’s companion and champion. He serves as the gateway in her shift in perception. Through him, she sees the orcas anew and, subsequently, the world. Their interactions root in genuine respect and affection. “Some people are like empty bowls we can pour all our problems into, and Figgie was that way for me,” muses Savannah. 

There is remarkable enculturation as Savannah learns from Figgie’s life experiences. Their burgeoning closeness hews tightly to the book’s heart. Figgie’s spirituality, acquired from his people, confirms man’s connection to the world: “We don’t own the earth, the earth owns us … This is where we began; this is where our spirits return to be reborn as a rock, bird, or fig tree.” 

Figgie’s explanation of the balance of nature tempers Savannah’s anger with the orcas. Her newfound comprehension leads to an encounter with an orca bringing her to shore. Confusion leads to frustration, to awareness, to acceptance. Later, they witness the birth of an orca, furthering her understanding of the pod’s dynamic.

The novel offers a sense of the hard life in New Wales. It also gives a rich glimpse into aboriginal culture and beliefs. The blend matures Savannah in ways that life solely under her father would not give her.

The Whaler’s Daughter is an engaging novel. The plot is intense and eventful, and the language vivid and resonant. But the true strength lies in the growth of Savannah Dawson, a complex girl with challenging aspirations and the drive to see them fulfilled

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: 

A resident of Northport, Jerry Mikorenda’s work has appeared in The New York Times, The Boston Herald, The Gotham Center History Blog, and the 2010 Encyclopedia of New York City. His short stories have appeared in the San Francisco Chronicle, BULL, Cowboy Jamboree, and Gravel Magazine as well as other journals. His biography America’s First Freedom Rider: Elizabeth Jennings, Chester A. Arthur, and the Early Fight for Civil Rights was published in 2020. His latest, the coming-of-age historical fiction novel The Whaler’s Daughter, is perfect for middle-grade readers and is available online at Amazon and Barnes and Noble.

For more information, visit www.jerrymikorenda.com. 

 

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A scene from 'Dear Evan Hansen'. Photo courtesy of Universal Pictures
Film adaptation celebrates the essence of an unforgettable musical

By Jeffrey Sanzel

Lillian Hellman’s The Children’s Hour was touted as a play exploring “the power of a lie.” The same could be said of Dear Evan Hansen, the Broadway musical that opened in 2016 and had played over 1,300 performances before the shutdown. It returns to its home at the Music Box on December 11.

Evan Hansen is a high school senior with social anxiety. His therapist has assigned him to write self-encouraging letters (thus the title). The school outcast, Connor Murphy, steals one. When Connor commits suicide, the letter is found in his pocket. The boy’s family finds solace in the idea that he had a close friend in Evan. Instead of explaining the mistake, out of a mix of sympathy, sensitivity, and fear, Evan goes along with the misunderstanding. However, the situation becomes a bigger issue when Connor’s memory becomes a cause. And while his intentions are initially good, the lie ultimately becomes destructive.

Ben Platt and Julianne Moore in a scene from ‘Dear Evan Hansen’. Photo courtesy of Universal Pictures

Benj Pasek, who wrote the score with Justin Paul, based the idea on an incident that occurred in his Philadelphia high school. Collaborating with book writer Steven Levenson, they created a smash hit that received critical accolades and garnered dozens of awards. Its six Tony’s included Best Musical, Best Book of a Musical, Best Original Score, and Best Actor in a Musical for Ben Platt’s star turn as the titular character. 

Platt is the sole member of the stage company to recreate a role in the screen version. Much has been said (predominantly online) about Platt being too old to play Evan, but this is unfounded carping. His portrayal of the tormented teen is nothing short of devastating. He has skillfully adapted his stage persona for the screen, finding depth and subtlety, with his voice soaring from first to last. Platt’s Hansen is a gift, and a reminder of the countless stage performances lost to Hollywood productions featuring bigger names of far lesser skill.

Levenson has fashioned a smart and effective screenplay, opening it up just enough but maintaining the stage version’s intimacy and integrity. Steven Chbosky’s direction ably captures Evan’s isolation, especially in the opening “Waving Through a Window,” but there is a sense of repetition in the endless panning shots. In addition, Chbosky and Levenson rely a bit too heavily on quickly inserted fantasy shots that don’t quite land. But, overall, they have transformed the musical into a satisfying cinematic experience, and the expanded ending is richer and more fulfilling than the original.

The driving force in the musical was the score, a unique and melodious contemporary Broadway sound. Four songs have been cut for the film, so Platt now carries about eighty percent of the music. The elimination of “Does Anybody Have a Map?” clearly emphasizes Evan’s journey, which somehow marginalizes the families (or at least the adult singers). And while there is logic to the change, the choice is a loss of a perfect song and establishing the story’s larger world.

Ben Platt and Amandla Stenberg in a scene from ‘Dear Evan Hansen’. Photo courtesy of Universal Pictures

One of the early highlights is the cleverly realized “Sincerely Me.” Evan recruits a family friend, Jared (the hilariously deadpan Nik Dodani), to create fake backdated emails to show Evan’s friendship with Connor (Colton Ryan, who shows great range and dimension). Platt makes every song work, but none as indelibly as his confession to Connor’s family in the devastating “Word’s Fail.”

Amy Adams and Danny Pino are honest and raw as Connor’s parents. Kaitlyn Dever is both believable and heartbreaking as Connor’s sister, Zoe, the object of Evan’s affections. The family’s “Requiem” trio shows their distance and struggle. Dever and Platt’s duet “Only Us” genuinely captures their unlikely burgeoning romance. Julianne Moore is fully present as Evan’s mostly absent mother. But her vocal skills are limited, and while there is an adjustment in her one number (“So Big/So Small”), the tentative vocal quality doesn’t fully suit the strength of the character.

The creators have expanded and softened the role of Alana Beck (Amandla Stenberg), the overachiever who heads up the Connor Project. In the play, there is a mercenary quality to Alana. Here, she is given a revelation of her issues with anxiety and depression, somehow diluting Evan’s isolation. Stenberg stunningly presents a new number—“The Anonymous Ones”—but there is something generic about both its sound and sentiment.

There is a general underplaying of the social media aspect that was hyper-present in the stage production. Film is an opportunity to explore cyberspace in a big (or even bigger) way. Instead, the creators opted for two brilliant, pivotal moments: the beautifully realized anthem “You Will Be Found” and later the online posting of the “Dear Evan Hansen” letter. However, there is a strange—and inaccurate—absence of cell phone use among the students.

But in the end, all are minor cavils. Dear Evan Hansen is a powerful, emotional, and, ultimately, important adaptation, celebrating the essence of a unique and unforgettable musical.

Rated PG-13, ‘Dear Evan Hansen’ is now playing in local theaters.

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Simu Liu in a scene from 'Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings.' Photo from ©Marvel Studios
A scene from 'Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings.' Photo from ©Marvel Studios
Simu Liu in a scene from 'Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings.' Photo from ©Marvel Studios by Jasin Boland. All Rights Reserved.
Simu Liu in a scene from 'Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings.' Photo from ©Marvel Studios

By Jeffrey Sanzel

Summer has long been the mainstay of cinematic superhero releases. Joining this season’s Black Widow and The Suicide Squad is Marvel Studio’s Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings, an enjoyable, if not wholly inspired, two hours.

In the wake of the hit television show Kung Fu, the Shang-Chi character debuted in Special Marvel Edition #15 (December 1973) and starred in a solo title through 1983. Spun-off from author Sax Rohmer’s work, Shang-Chi was the unknown son of Rohmer’s arch-villain, Dr. Fu Manchu. Writer Steve Englehart stated that Shang-Chi’s name came from the study of I-Ching, with “sheng” meaning “ascending” and “chi” vital energy. After Marvel lost the rights to Rohmer’s rogue, the company renamed Shang-Chi’s father, Zheng Zu.

After a nearly five-decade history, and several attempts dating back as early as 1980, Shang-Chi has now made it to the big screen in a colorful, predictable action-adventure.

The film opens over a thousand years ago, with Xu Wenwu (Tony Leung) wielding the ten rings, bands that give extraordinary power to their holder. With his organization, the Ten Rings, behind him, he becomes a warrior-conqueror throughout hundreds of years of history. 

In 1996, he becomes obsessed with locating Ta Lo, a village said to be the home of mythical beasts. He journeys through a magical forest, where the Ta Lo village guardian, Ying Li (Fala Chen), thwarts him. The two fall in love and leave the village, living in peace with their two children. Wenwu’s enemies, the Iron Gang, murder Li, causing Wenwu to resurrect the Ten Rings. He trains his son, Shang-Chi, in martial arts. When Shang-Chi is fourteen years old, his father sends him to avenge his mother’s murder.

The film jumps to present-day San Francisco. Shang-Chi (Simu Liu), now mild-mannered parking valet “Sean,” lives a quiet, unimpressive life, palling around with his best friend, the thrill-seeking Katy (Awkwafina). After an attack by the Ten Rings, Shang-Chi shares his past with Katy, and they journey to Macau in search of Shang-Chi’s sister, Xu Xialing (Meng’er Zhang).

The intersection of legend and legacy, fantasy and family, and the all-important good versus evil follows. Thematically, the writers emphasize the idea that we are all “a product of what came before,” intersecting with the more violent “a blood debt must be paid by blood.” Shang-Chi confronts that he must “face who [he is].” Much of this works because of Simu Liu’s “Who me?” charm growing into a more self-actualized and self-aware individual. With his inherent “watchability” and appealing warmth, he easily carries the film. 

While the supporting roles are underdeveloped, the cast is more than capable. Awkafina makes for an affable sidekick who comes into her own. Leung brings the gravitas with a touch of underlying pain to the patriarch. One wishes that Zhang’s Xialing had been given a bit more dimension as there is a wealth of potential. Her struggle with a sense of childhood abandonment is touched upon but not fully realized. Ben Kingsley reprises Trevor Slattery, a character introduced in the Marvel One Shot short film All Hail the King. Without previous knowledge, this inclusion is a bit off. Kingsley is amusing, especially interacting with the mythical beast, whom he calls “Morris,” but lacking the background, the result is an unfulfilling cameo.

But the true raison d’être of the film is the many action sequences, which range from extraordinary pairings to epic battles. There are enough fights to satisfy the cravings of even the most eager fans. There are battles on a bus, in a fight club, a parking garage, a bar, a field, etc. There is a point where it almost feels like a demented Green Eggs and Ham—“Would you, could you in a …”—and insert a location. But they are all beautifully staged, the more pastoral echoing the landmark Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. 

The CGI is neatly integrated, with a range of hybrid animals and fantastical creations. While, of course, created on a vastly higher level, there are nostalgic shades in the monster encounters, reminiscent of the stop-motion animation of Ray Harryhausen or even the earlier Godzilla movies.

Director Destin Daniel Cretton collaborated on the screenplay with Dave Callaham and Andrew Lanham. And while the dialogue is often stiff and declarative (with a handful of shoehorned wisecracks), the film is busy enough to keep propelling forward. With enough plot and lots of action, Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings epitomizes summer fare. And, like the majority of the genre, it will most likely be the first of many in the series.

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

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The cast of 'Cinderella'. Photo from Amazon Prime
Camila Cabello and Billy Porter in a scene from 'Cinderella' Photo: Kerry Brown/Amazon Prime
A scene from 'Cinderella'. Photo from Amazon Prime
Camilla Cabello stars in 'Cinderella'. Photo from Amazon Prime

By Jeffrey Sanzel

Cinderella has long been a cinematic staple, with various versions on the large and small screens. The story traces its roots to both Charles Perrault (1697) and the Brothers Grimm (1812), though the former gave us the glass slipper.

America’s sweetheart, Mary Pickford, appeared in the earliest known adaptation, the 1914 silent film. None is more beloved than the 1950 Disney cartoon, loosely remade as a live-action version in 2015, with a luminous Lily James. The Rodgers and Hammerstein musical has gone through three television incarnations, with Cinderella portrayed by Julie Andrews (1957), Lesley Ann Warren (1965), and Brandy (1997). Add to these the many appearances of the character in modernizations, sequels, spoofs, and revisionist fair. 

In addition, Cinderella has appeared in operas, ballets, and stage productions, including the 2013 Broadway production and Andrew Lloyd Webber’s current West End vision, replete with a Goth heroine. 

Kay Cannon, best known for the Pitch Perfect series, has written and directed the latest incarnation. The musical follows the basic plot: With the aid of a fairy godmother, an orphaned waif (put-upon by her stepmother and stepsisters) catches the eye of a prince and lives happily ever after. 

Utilizing pop hits, Cannon has created a peripatetic world in Candy Land colors and clashing patterns. The opening number, a mashup of Janet Jackson’s “Rhythm Nation” and Desirée Weekes’ “You Gotta Be,” plays like Beauty and the Beast’s “Belle” on speed. It is explosive and joyfully aggressive, setting the tone, more The Greatest Showman and less Disney. (Both pieces share the athletic and often delightful work of choreographer Ashley Warren.) Other numbers include “Somebody to Love,” “Material Girl,” and “Perfect,” all fairly well integrated.

Where this Cinderella departs is in its feminist viewpoint. Cinderella’s greatest desire is to design dresses for her own shop. Forbidden to pursue her dream by her stepmother, she also faces the town’s prohibition on women owning businesses. Cinderella’s quest is not for a man; it is for independence and a sense of self. Much of this is presented on the nose and succeeds because of a charismatic star. 

Singer Camila Cabello holds center as a strong, funny, and intelligent Cinderella in her acting debut. She also composed the movie’s (oft-repeated) “Million to One,” a predictable if tuneful number. Nicholas Galitzine’s Prince Robert has almost as much screentime. In line to be king, Galitzine alternates between traditional Crown Prince and frat boy. He is “charming,” if a bit bland, due to his ambivalence to his eventual succession. Unfortunately, his passivity makes him less engaging and no match for Cabello’s feisty, forward-looking Cinderella.

The rest of the all-star cast mostly triumphs over uneven material. The marvelous Idina Menzel, who has the film’s strongest voice, struggles with finding Cinderella’s stepmother Vivian’s center. She ranges from comic villainy to severely cruel, with peaking glimpses of humanity. Instead of creating dimension, the character feels unfinished. Maddie Ballio and Charlotte Spencer are hilarious and a pure delight as stepsisters Malvolia and Narissa. They deserved more screen time and a number to themselves as they become sidelined. 

The royal family features Pierce Brosnan as a king who is more bluff than gruff, Minnie Driver as his better half, and Tallulah Greive as the mildly scheming princess who aspires to rule. There is so much going on and yet very little result. Like with the stepsisters, Greive warranted a bigger presence. All three performances are good if incomplete.

Billy Porter is the Fabulous Godmother, and Fabulous he is. Porter should appear in every new movie, if not by his choice, then by Act of Congress. He brings hilarity, sensitivity, and depth to his five minutes of screen time.

The ensemble is composed of wonderful dancers who land the handful of lines peppered throughout the larger scenes. Cannon has corralled the company nicely — though she failed to mine a very funny piece of business with a royal choir. 

Ultimately, the entire movie is entertaining if unfulfilled potential, with the scales tipping back and forth. Five-note range generic pop songs follow clever lines. Spectacular dance numbers spell stretches of declarative dialogue telling us the ideas of equality rather than showing them. Cannon struggles to find a consistent writing style. Some moments swipe at a period quality. Other scenes aim for a tough, clear reality (a particularly awkward exchange between the monarchs that borders on embarrassing). But mostly, the dialogue is contemporary “sass,” which is what serves its cast best. It aims for “poppin’” (as one character states) but often tries a bit too hard.

While this Cinderella will never achieve status as even a semi-classic, it reflects its time. And, with a message of self-actualization, the solid cast is up to the telling. Like its prince, this Cinderella might not be Mr. Right — but it’s Mr. Right Now.

Rated PG, Cinderella is playing in select theaters and on Amazon Prime.

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Jennifer Hudson pays homage to the Queen of Soul in 'Respect'. Photo from MGM

Reviewed by Jeffrey Sanzel

Aretha Louise Franklin began her career as a child singing in her father’s Baptist Church. She would go on to be one of the most important and influential vocalists of all time. Beloved as a musician as well as civil rights activist, “the Queen of Soul” would touch millions.

Tony-Award nominated Liesl Tommy makes her featured film debut with Respect, a biopic of Franklin’s early life and rise to fame. Beginning in her Detroit home in 1952 and traveling forward twenty years, Tracey Scott Wilson’s screenplay is a mostly straightforward look at one of the most iconic figures of the music industry. 

The film begins with ten-year-old Aretha (a marvelous Skye Dakota Turner) being woken by her father, Baptist minister C.L. Franklin (Forest Whitaker), to entertain his guests. The opening sequences show his pride in her vocal prowess and his manipulative nature, themes that will carry through their entire relationship. During one party, a friend of her father’s rapes the preadolescent Franklin. The film is a bit hazy about the rape and the birth of her first two children, sidestepping a murky part of Franklin’s past. (There have been multiple articles written about both the liberties and inaccuracies of Respect.)

Jennifer Hudson and Marlon Wayans in a scene from ‘Respect’. Photo courtesy of MGM

The story continues with her breaking from her father’s supervision and connecting with Ted White (Marlon Wayans), who becomes her manager and husband. Unfortunately, White is abusive, with Franklin trading one controlling man for another. Along the way, she signs with Atlantic Records producer Jerry Wexler (Marc Maron), who becomes an impetus in her career shift. 

One senses a list of items that the creators wanted to cover and checked them off as they went, manifesting in a mechanical progression. In addition, the dialogue often states the characters’ thoughts and feelings rather than revealing them in action. As a result, the subtext—the underlying humanity—is often lost as the plot moves forward. 

Tommy and Wilson have managed to make recording fascinating and engaging. The breakthrough recording in Muscle Shoals, Alabama, runs the gamut from tense to exhilarating. Throughout, the scenes focusing on Franklin’s art and craft shine. Recreation of interviews is cleverly juxtaposed with the “reality” of the moment. But more could have—and should have—been made of her civil rights work.

Jennifer Hudson and Forest Whitaker in a scene from Respect. Photo by Quantrell D. Colbert/MGM

Whitaker makes the most of Franklin’s father, but because Wilson has avoided many of the more unsavory aspects of C.L. Franklin (alluded to but unconfirmed), the character never feels fully realized. Marlon Wayans fairs a bit better, finding the edge and danger in White. 

Marc Maron is a joy as Wexler, both caring and quirky. Kimberly Scott shines as the family matriarch. Audra McDonald makes the best of what is little more than a cameo as Franklin’s mother. Tituss Burgess embodies kindness as James Cleveland, a man who arcs through her entire life. Mary J. Blige brings the right blend of imperious ego and genuine no-nonsense to Dinah Washington (though her major scene is an incident most likely connected to Etta James).

At the center of the film is Jennifer Hudson, delivering a knockout performance. Hudson first encountered Franklin when she sang “Share Your Love With Me” in her American Idol audition. Then, following Hudson’s Academy Award win for Dreamgirls, Hudson visited Franklin in New York. According to Hudson, “… one of the first things she said to me was, ‘You’re gonna win another Oscar for playing me, right?’”.

Hudson brings warmth and intelligence to her Franklin, navigating the entire range of innocence and hope to the constant struggle with her inner demons. She allows the pain to swell and recede, some moments turning in and others lashing out. Her growth to stardom and the price that she paid remain in precarious balance. Hudson owns every song, honoring Franklin but bringing her own power to the interpretations. She celebrates the entire range of Franklin’s work, from the church music to early jazz standards to finally those that became her signature songs. Whether taking on the traditional “Ac-Cent-Tchu-Ate the Positive,” finding the depths in “I Never Loved a Man (The Way I Love You),” soaring with “Amazing Grace,” or exploding with “Respect,” Hudson delivers in the dozen-plus songs.

There is an odd misstep in the closing of the film. Franklin’s Kennedy Center Honors performance of “Natural Woman” is shown in its entirety, a spectacular reminder of Franklin’s unique, extraordinary presence. Hudson follows this singing “Here I Am (Singing My Way Home,” a new song composed for the film. This pleasant if unspectacular song highlights the exceptional Franklin songbook and comes across as a clumsy attempt for a Best Song Oscar nomination. It seems a step-down and superfluous.

Respect touches on many of the highs and lows of Aretha Franklin’s rise to fame. Franklin had a complicated life, and while Respect is sincere, Franklin deserved a more complex approach to telling her story. But, in the end, Jennifer Hudson’s star performance shines through.

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

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A scene from 'The Suicide Squad'. Photo courtesy of Warner Bros.

Reviewed by Jeffrey Sanzel

Superhero movies don’t aim for high art. The goal is big box office sales. For the most part, they have never been awards fodder and rarely make best film lists. However, that doesn’t preclude examples of great craft, skill, and even insight. They are not revisionist art descending into the mire of pretension (yes, you, Green Knight) or thrillers aspiring to greater depth (don’t look away when I’m talking to you, Old). Historically, superhero movies strive for entertainment. And there is nothing wrong with that.

The Suicide Squad is the follow-up to Suicide Squad (2016), differentiated by losing its definite article. A sequel? A spinoff? A reboot? A relaunch? There are carryovers from the previous film, so it’s not a completely new entity. But, for whatever reasons, the recent incarnation is a vast improvement—funnier and smarter and far better paced. It is also R-rated, as opposed to the previous PG-13, which means this is a more violent, gorier outing. 

A scene from ‘The Suicide Squad’. Photo courtesy of Warner Bros.

There is plenty of plot centering around a group of villains given the opportunity to reduce their prison sentences by running covert missions for the United States government. Task Force X lands on a Southern American island nation, Coro Maltese, after a military insurrection puts the country in the hands of an anti-American faction. Task Force X—the titular Suicide Squad—is sent to destroy Project Starfish, a laboratory housed in a Nazi-era fortress, Jötunheim. The experiment is a giant alien starfish that the new regime will use against its enemies, most notably America.

The Task Force splits into two squads, with one unit almost completely eradicated in an ambush. Only its leader, Col. Rick Flag, and the mercurial Harley Quinn evade death. Bloodsport leads the surviving, joined by Peacemaker, King Shark, Polka-Dot Man, and Ratcatcher 2. They unite with rebel forces, led by Sol Soria, who agree to assist them. Added to the mix is the Thinker, the eccentric scientist who is running Project Starfish. Most of the action is the Suicide Squad invading the capital and laying siege to Jötunheim. Along the way, there is massive carnage, with bodies being shot, blown up, torn apart, and even eaten. This is not a Disney movie.

Perhaps not quite as irreverent as Deadpool, The Suicide Squad consistently amuses. While the humor is, for the most part, sophomoric, the jokes usually land. The writing is smart(ish) and the direction is brisk—both due to James Gunn’s clear vision. And he has assembled a first-rate cast that somehow makes it all worthwhile.

Idris Elba is terrific as Bloodsport, who reluctantly heads his team to help his daughter. His dry wit, spot-on delivery, and underlying humanity give dimension without losing the danger. John Cena’s Peacemaker is equal parts flag-waving psychotic and macho frat boy. The contrast of Elba’s self-aware Bloodsport and Cena’s almost oblivious Peacemaker create a wonderful contrast. Joel Kinnaman’s Rick Flag is less showy but brings both an aww-shucks integrity and wide-eyed understanding.

Sylvester Stallone voices the bizarre hybrid, man-eating King Shark, with just the right monosyllabic innocence. David Dastmalchian shows depth in the melancholy Polka-Dot Man, one of the more eccentric characters, and has the best line in the film. Daniela Melchior is the perfect millennial slacker-with-a-heart-of gold, Ratcatcher 2 (with an adorable CGI sidekick rodent, Sebastian). Peter Capaldi’s Thinker is an appropriately underplayed mad scientist, with just enough danger to avoid caricature. 

And, of course, Margot Robbie’s third time as Harley Quinn is just as impulsive, amoral, and insane; it is a psychotic tour-de-force. But in this rogue’s gallery, Viola Davis’s Amanda Waller is the most cold-blooded. Davis, an exceptional chameleon of an actor, is chillingly methodical as the program leader.

What separates the focus on villains rather than superheroes is often the angst. Few characters are more brooding than Batman, and even Superman has found a darker side. What works so well in The Suicide Squad is that there is little indulgence or over-sentimentality. Genuine moments of compassion flash throughout, and they enrich the experience, but Gunn never dwells as he moves on to the next fight, explosion, and decapitation. He creates hyper-real environments. 

Waller rules over the agency with an iron fist, but that doesn’t stop her subordinates from making side bets on who will survive the mission, a nod towards office pools. A screaming match between Bloodsport and his daughter is both over-the-top and recognizably domestic. Gunn’s world is the intersection of the extreme with honest threads of reality.

If you’re looking for art, look elsewhere. But if you’re looking for easy laughs, first-rate special effects, and a good—if extremely violent—escape, you could do worse than The Suicide Squad. 

The film is now playing in local theaters and streaming on HBO Max.

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A scene from 'The Green Knight'. Photo courtesy of A24
A scene from 'The Green Knight'. Photo courtesy of A24
A scene from 'The Green Knight'. Photo courtesy of A24
A scene from 'The Green Knight'. Photo courtesy of A24
A scene from 'The Green Knight'. Photo courtesy of A24

Reviewed by Jeffrey Sanzel

The tales of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table have always been fair game for adaptation. Whether it is Mark Twain’s A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court (1889), Lerner and Loewe’s Broadway musical Camelot (1960), or the gritty but entertaining film Excalibur (1981), the story has embraced (or at least stood up to) revisionism. As a result, the legends have endured over seven centuries, from The Sword in the Stone (1963) to Spamalot (2005).

The Green Knight loosely draws on the fourteenth-century poem Sir Gawain and the Green Knight and other sources. Knowledge of the story and history is not necessary to view the film. Clearly. David Lowery has written, directed, edited, and produced the film. So, he can be considered the responsible party.

Gawain (Dev Patel) awakes on Christmas morning in a brothel, having spent the night with Essel (Alicia Vikander). His mother, sorceress Morgan le Fay (Sarita Choudhury), sends him on his way to celebrate Christmas with King Arthur (Sean Harris) and Queen Guinevere (Katie Dickie). 

Unbeknownst to Gawain, his mother performs a ritual, raising and sending the Green Knight to the feast where the tree-like titular lord issues a challenge: If anyone can land a blow on him, he will win his green axe. However, in exchange, the victor must meet the Green Knight on the following Christmas to receive a reciprocal hit. For some reason, Gawain, a bit of a slacker, volunteers. He decapitates the Green Knight, who then picks up his head and leaves. Sort of a hah-hah-see-you-next-Christmas.

Fast-forward a year. Gawain has become something of a celebrity; he is even featured in a puppet show. He sets off to the Green Chapel, and throughout, he encounters a handful of challenges, mostly unsatisfying blips. He also meets a fox who joins his journey. “The Quest” is a well-known, often-trod trope and can be exciting, engaging, and enthralling. Unfortunately, it can also be an epic slog into scenery, mumbled dialogue, and symbols. Oh, so many symbols. The Green Knight is full of meaning and “meaning” and meaning and MEANING. 

One suspects that Lowery’s goal was a rumination on the nature of heroism and honor, with a few nods to the dangers of celebrity. But this is all lost in a meandering and pretentious narrative. There are a few dramatic strokes, but these do not add up to a film.

In the theatre across the hall, the sounds of The Suicide Squad could clearly be heard. Sitting at The Green Knight was like attending a lecture that you suspect might be good for you, but next door, there’s a barnburner where everyone is having a good time. “I’ll bet it’s fun over there,” you think. “But, no, this is going to make me a better and smarter person.” You have plenty of time to think these thoughts because, in The Green Knight, the pauses are longer than the dialogue. There are pauses and scenery. Lots of pauses. Lots of scenery. Then a monologue. Please note the singular: monologue. While there are multiple long speeches by various characters, they all sound like the same monologue. Followed by some pauses. And then some scenery.

The filming itself is impressive, highlighting the vast expanses of wilderness as Gawain travels towards his destiny. Cinematographer Andrew Droz Palermo has done beautiful work capturing the natural/supernatural world. But landscape only goes so far. In this case, it seems to go really, really far.

Dev Patel is a fine actor, and he does what he can. But he is offered the emotional range of dissipated to slightly less dissipated. The script’s Gawain is painfully passive; Patel ultimately struggles to show the character’s evolution. The rest of the talented cast is saddled with dialogue that is spoken in harsh whispers with a great deal of meaning and “meaning and … (One suspects the CGI-ed fox called his agent mid-filming to see if he could get out of his contract.)

The ending—one of the only brisk moments in the film—has been much discussed on the internet. Suffice it to say, the denouement owes not a little to t, the well-crafted story by Ambrose Pierce later made into a memorable short film.

As a public service and attempt to salvage the reader’s time, the balance of this review is given over to something of value. Here is the beginning of a recipe for a good vegan pound cake: Preheat the oven to 350 F. Grease a 9 x 5-inch loaf pan.

Rated R, The Green Knight is now playing in local theaters.

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Reviewed by Jeffrey Sanzel

“Good friends, a hot summer day, on their way to the beach, and not a care in the world.”

Author Robert Lorenzo

It’s never too late for an engaging summer read. Sunday Gravy by Robert Lorenzo is a sincere, brisk novel that is just the right blend of naivete and coming-of-age. Dealing with the day-to-day heartaches of adolescence and greater issues, the book is a page-turning adventure exploring the chasm between childhood and maturity and the burgeoning self-awareness.

Set in the fictional Heatherwood, in the very real Setauket of 1974, the streets sit on what were once potato fields. The setting is Suffolk County, post-pastoral but prior to the siege of condos and developments. 

The story depicts the highs and lows of summer in the height of a heatwave, viscerally painted throughout. Here, boys gather in a fort made from abandoned crates, ride their bicycles to get ice cream, and dream of girls. Lorenzo shares the universal yet is always specific. While the boys’ experiences are easily recognizable, they are uniquely detailed. 

Eastern Long Island is a world of fathers who work in Brooklyn, Manhattan, and Queens and mothers who stay home: 

“Their long days of chugging to work on the train and fulfilling their forty-hour work weeks kept them away from home for too many hours […] Up before dawn and home after dark, the task of disciplining the kids fell onto the sturdy shoulders of their loyal wives. Tired from running their households every day and raising their kids virtually on their own, a lot slid by the moms, who were very willing to ignore minor infractions.”

At the center of the story is thirteen-year-old Eddie Ragusa, who idolizes his brother, Tommy, two years his senior. Good looking and self-assured, Tommy has his first girlfriend, the beautiful and slightly older Maria. “Maria was another puzzle piece, but more like a silky one he’d found unexpectedly on the floor that didn’t quite fit anywhere in the current puzzle. She was unexpected, but welcome. The way he felt about her was new and exciting. This was his first real relationship, and he had real feelings for her.” 

Tommy and Maria are Our Town’s George and Emily for a savvier time. While they are actively intimate, there is still innocence and awakening. Tommy is in the rush and flush of first love, where every moment means something: hours of phone calls, of anticipation. Lorenzo writes with accuracy, of hormones and hope, but also with kindness. His young people wade through their own truths and struggle with hypocrisies. There is sex and drugs, but there is also a genuine connection.

Joining the brothers in the narrative are Eddie’s buddies Darren O’Leary, Michael Dorazio, and K.K. Krause, a ragtag crew of mixed ethnic backgrounds, enjoying the freedom of being young in the suburbs. Whether fantasizing about the divorcée on the corner or sharing an illicitly “borrowed” magazine, their bond is genuine.

Lorenzo introduces a range of characters into the mix, creating a landscape of family and community. The recluse Anne Clarkson is notable in the roster. Dubbed “Old Lady Annie” by the kids, she is a smart blend of bogeyman and tragic figure. Her introduction to the narrative bears interesting fruit.

There are plenty of local references —Smith Point County Park, Carvel’s, the Port Jefferson Firemen’s Carnival, West Meadow Beach, The Dining Car 1890, Mario’s restaurant, Ward Melville High School, Comsewogue High School, etc. — that ground it in its Long Island locale. 

The fort, central to the story, is cleverly shown through three different perspectives: the adolescents who embrace it as a refuge; the young adults as a haven to cut loose; and the adults who regard it warily. Best of all, Lorenzo understands the fine line and great divide between ages thirteen and fifteen.

Ultimately, the Ragusas are the driving force and center. Lorenzo insightfully explores both functional and dysfunctional domestic dynamics with a revelation that separates and reunites the clan. Finally, in the wake of a terrible accident, there is a portrait of the power of neighborhood, where disparate people set aside their differences and come together to help their children recover.

With Sunday Gravy, Robert Lorenzo has fashioned an honest, entertaining tale of the joys and heartaches of youth. He celebrates the untidiness of life and what it means to hurt and heal, to live and forgive.

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Author Robert Lorenzo was born in Queens and grew up in East Setauket.  He spent his childhood playing outside, riding bikes, exploring the woods in and around his home, and visiting the beautiful beaches all over the region. He began his first career in the advertising industry in New York City and now teaches high school English in Palm Beach Gardens, Florida. Lorenzo is currently working on his second novel, inspired by the recent worldwide pandemic. 

Visit his website at www.robertlorenzobooks.com and pick up a copy of Sunday Gravy online at Amazon.com.

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Reviewed by Jeffrey Sanzel

Author Bruce Stasiuk

Everything you need to know is on the copyright page: “Maybe some of the names have been changed to protect the identities of certain characters. Maybe not.” The “Non-Dedication” follows.

This book defies categorization. It almost—but not quite—defies description. 

With Something to Remember Me. BYE, Bruce Stasiuk has created a work that is edgy, raw, and darkly comic. There is not a word wasted; the writing produces chills because it is, quite simply, brilliant. 

Subtitled “Short Stories about a Long Life,” the over three dozen interconnected pieces find extraordinary depth in even the most everyday topics. His stark prose captures a deeper essence. The stories could be read individually—or perhaps randomly—but the underlying structure gives strength to the whole. And while they are not chronological, the order possesses an indescribable logic.

The book is a memoir—of a sort. It is also a collage, a reflection, and many more things all at once. As a young man, Stasiuk was a first-rate athlete: stickball, baseball, diving, and basketball. He covers them with a keen eye. Girls are discussed in almost pastoral terms. And yet, Stasiuk makes everything “other” and somehow “more than.”

At age seventeen, a devastating trampoline accident changed his life’s trajectory. A long recovery set him on a different path, eventually becoming a teacher. Yet, he is never self-pitying, whether describing the hospital, the rehab, and the many losses that ensued. He has not overcome challenges; he has transformed them. Somehow, his struggles manage to be simultaneously germane and tangential. It is never less than personal and self-revelatory, and yet there is unique and contradictory objectivity that only enriches his account.

“The war ended and new customers were marching home, toting duffle bags over their shoulders, and the Spanish flu in their lungs.” Few authors possess the art and the skill to be both simple and unnerving in the same sentence. Stasiuk possesses a remarkable elegance: “Marie buried her daughter and took her grandchild in.” The synthesis of the rhythmically poetic and the prosaic reality weaves throughout the slender volume.

Succinctness is not just a strength but a gift. In “The Apology,” a picturesque father-son venture to a baseball game builds to a coda, both sad and inspiring. Stasiuk’s family exists within the pages as painted shadows, hovering around the edges, peeking in, sometimes coming into bright focus, but then receding.

One of the finest pieces is “Uncle Jack”:

He spoke fast, compressing conversations, rarely offering the courtesy of a comma. As he flooded the air with words, his eyes scanned the room like an oscillating fan, hunting for a larger audience. Uncle Jack was always trolling to see who wasn’t listening. Since the adults weren’t, he aimed for us, his nieces and nephews; little pairs of ears to be filled.

In a trip to Provincetown, his ruminations on seemingly absolute truths of childhood are revealed to be anything but. He offers nostalgia laced with tension. In “Knuckles,” whimsy and death go hand-in-hand in astonishing ways. The book is rich in dark humor. The final sentences of “Consanguinity” are hilarious and epiphanous. He refers to his colonoscopy as “the age of the medical scavenger hunt.”

In describing his second career, he states: “Nothing spectacular. Nothing extraordinary. No heroics.” The self-effacing statement resonates throughout the entire book. He never touts his accomplishments; he presents them.

He poses the rare direct messages with eloquence and subtlety. The thoughts, ideas, and musings sneak up, land, and then quickly retreat. His one nod towards commentary references the assistance he received: “Sometimes, if the government invests in a person, especially one trapped in a difficult spot, it might be the best investment the government could ever make.”

The report of a close friend, remembered on his death, is not a hagiography but a detailed and heartfelt portrait. A celebrity encounter. An autopsy. Nothing is arbitrary, with seemingly candid narratives turned into almost twisted parables. The piece titled “The Happy Ending” is subtitled, “This is a true story up to the point where it is not.” In some ways, this is the perfect bookend to the copyright page.

Sometimes a piece of writing defies description. Something to Remember Me. BYE does not ask or beg to be read. Instead, it demands to be experienced. And shared. Such is the case with Bruce Stasiuk’s book. Purchase. Read. Repeat.

A resident of Setauket, author Bruce Stasiuk presently teaches a workshop at Stony Brook University’s OLLI  program. Something to Remember Me. BYE: Short Stories about a Long Life is available through the publisher, bookbaby.com, Book Revue in Huntington, Barnes and Noble and Amazon.

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A scene from 'Old'. Photo courtesy of Universal Pictures
A scene from 'Old'. Photo courtesy of Universal Pictures
A scene from 'Old'. Photo courtesy of Universal Pictures

Reviewed by Jeffrey Sanzel

Will we be intrigued? Engaged? Frustrated? Homicidal? These are the questions that revolve around any M. Night Shyamalan release. The Sixth Sense made an indelible mark on twisty cinematic thrillers. The Lady in the Water made us appreciate the high level of integrity in reality television. 

In his newest offering, Old, Shyamalan has used Pierre Oscar Lévy and Frederik Peeters’ graphic novel Sandcastle as his source. The premise is intriguing. A group of people staying at an exclusive tropical resort are given access to a private beach. Beautiful sand, clear (and notably fish-less) water make up this idyllic cove. 

The first problem is that there are not actual people but more the idea of people. It is as if Shyamalan jotted down quick notes and called it a day. “Let’s see … we’ll have a doctor who is struggling with paranoia. Let’s give him a vain wife, and let’s throw in a daughter and his mother.” Like in a teen slasher movie, they are less human and more cannon fodder.

The focus is on a couple with marital problems (Gael García Bernal and Vicky Krieps) and their precocious children (Nolan River and Alexa Swinton). They are joined by the aforementioned doctor (Rufus Sewell), his almost skeletal wife (Abbey Lee), his mother (Kathleen Chalfant, one of the great actors of the American theatre, given about six lines), and their gifted daughter (Mikaya Fisher). Added to this is another couple (Ken Leung and Nikki Amuka-Bird), a nurse and a psychologist, respectively; the latter saddled with some of the most cringeworthy lines. Finally, a mysterious rapper named Mid-Sized Sedan (Aaron Pierre) is there when they arrive. 

Also, there is Shyamalan himself as the driver who drops them off. The meta-beyond-meta is both annoying and unnecessary. (One assumes he fancies himself Hitchcock. He is wrong.)

There is a potential for a range of dynamics, genuine psychological interaction, personal growth in the face of challenges, tension, plot development, and insight into the human condition when facing challenges. The operative word is “potential.” 

Revealed is that one person in each of the groups has a physical or mental illness. (Not so much revealed as proclaimed.) And very quickly they realize that they are aging rapidly—at the rate of two years an hour.

So, by this calculation, the movie is just shy of four years long.

Spoiler Alert. This is not a good movie.

There are a few (very few) clever twists. The children’s maturation is more noticeable, with them hitting hormonal teenage years rather quickly, resulting in a serious problem that is dealt with and dispatched rather quickly. There are a few scares and a few gross-out moments. But for the most part, they talk, they attempt to leave, and then they pass out. And then they die.

Maybe this would all be fine if the ending were satisfying. Things are explained (sort of). And resolved (kind of). But, by that point, we don’t care (nope).

The film includes accomplished, and even some gifted actors, and they do their best. But it is a struggle that they are not going to win. The dialogue is so wooden that they could have used it to build a raft and float away.

The blame lies squarely with Shyamalan as director, screenwriter/adaptor, and producer. His work seemed to have been wedging every cliché about time and aging, jamming them into the first ten minutes, and then panning the camera in circles on the beach for the next hour and forty minutes. As a result, the “surprises” are few. Old gets old … really, really fast. Or, in this case … over four years.

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

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