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Authors Posts by Jeffrey Sanzel

Jeffrey Sanzel

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Marisa Tomei and Pete Davidson in a scene from the film. Photo courtesy of Universal Pictures

Reviewed By Jeffrey Sanzel

Director-writer Judd Apatow’s work has been a string of off-beat films, including The 40-Year-Old Virgin, Knocked Up, Pineapple Express, and This Is 40. Some of these have been broader than others, with the majority being over-the-top comedies with heart-felt centers. His newest outing is The King of Staten Island, and it has a distinctly indie-vibe to it. Apatow has collaborated with Pete Davidson (who stars) and Dave Sirus to create the pensive, often funny, and frequently cringeworthy story of Scott Carlin (Davidson). 

Scott is a twenty-four year-old whose life is going nowhere and not very quickly at that. Scott’s great dream is to open up a restaurant-tattoo parlor, an idea as off-kilter as he is. He spends his days getting high with a ragtag group of friends (Moisés Arias, Ricky Velez, and Lou Wilson — all three wonderful in their complete commitment to each other as well as their clear obliviousness to the world) and having sex with his not-quite girlfriend, Kelsey, who loves him but is frustrated by his inability to communicate. 

As Kelsey, Bel Powley eschews caricature, bringing dimension to the devoted Staten Island girl, who is rough around the edges but with a charming inner clarity.  

Pete Davidson stars in ‘The King of Staten Island’

Scott’s sister Claire (delightful and no-nonsense Maude Apatow) heads off for college, leaving Scott alone in the house with their hard-working, widowed mother, Margie (Marisa Tomei). Margie’s husband was a fireman who died on the job seventeen years before, leaving her a single mother with two young children.  She is a nurse working two jobs — school and emergency room — and has devoted her entire life to bringing up the two children: she has never dated let alone entertained a serious relationship, with a living room shrine to her late husband as the home’s focal point. 

Tomei avoids cliché and shows Margie’s dawning realization that, with Claire gone, it is her chance to have her life back. While the focus of the film is Scott, Tomei draws us to Margie, who learns that while she is bruised she is not damaged. In the film’s turning point, she shows that she is nobody’s victim.

When Scott unwisely attempts to tattoo a nine-year-old boy, it brings the boy’s father, fireman Ray Bishop (Bill Burr, in a performance that grows throughout), into their lives. The abrasive Ray is at first appropriately enraged by Scott’s stupidity, but he trades ire for a softer approach as he is clearly drawn to Margie. They began secretly dating before eventually telling Scott, whose reaction is both childish and self-absorbed but unsurprisingly predictable. 

It is here that the film and Scott begin to find their focus. The ensuing path follows struggles and revelations, both past and present, that allow Scott to slowly grow.

Steve Buscemi, as the fire chief, gives one his best and most unmannered portrayals in years; it is a subtle jewel of a performance, showing kindness and warmth underneath a slightly brash exterior. Pamela Adlon hits all the right sour notes as Ray’s bitter ex-wife. The supporting cast — especially the firefighters — are uniformly excellent. 

This is a strange, awkward coming of age story, with Davidson’s sad sack accidentally finding the beginning of his road to adulthood in a not so much unlikely place but in an improbable way. His shift from his go-nowhere friends to the firefighters in Ray’s company might not be the most subtle narrative choice but it works. 

The story is semi-autobiographical as Saturday Night Live veteran Davidson lost his father during the September 11th attacks.  He has drawn on his own demons to create a memorable if marred version of himself. It is both raw and hilarious, often painful, and always honest. As an actor, Davidson makes every look and pause count. 

Scott’s impulsive and awful decisions are made with wide-eyed recklessness, making this character both endearing and infuriating as he veers from one mistake directly into another. It is not until he looks beyond himself that he is able to open up to possibility. The final moments of the film are a gentle catharsis that speak volumes to the glimmer of change.  

At almost two hours and twenty minutes, this is a film that is not in a rush to get to the end. It meanders, glancing around doorways and down streets, stopping to see what is happening, then strolling on. It hesitates and then briefly rushes forward before returning to its leisurely pace. This perfectly reflects the irregular course of Scott’s life. It is not a film of grand gestures but small movements. The King of Staten Island is a journey that takes its time but it is a journey worth taking.  

Rated R, The King of Staten Island is available On Demand.

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Dakota Johnson and Tracee Ellis Ross in a scene from the film. Photo courtesy of Focus Features

Reviewed By Jeffrey Sanzel

The High Note is an entertaining if softened look at the high end domain of the music business. It has a sweet center and skirts many of the bigger issues that seem to peek around the corners. It is fortunate that it contains strong performances from many of its players, resulting in an enjoyable rom-com/behind-the-music hybrid.

The film features a vibrant Tracee Ellis Ross as Grace Davis, a star of grand proportions on the threshold of middle age. Ross is the daughter of Diana Ross — but the film is in no way about that legendary icon. Instead, it is actually a much smaller movie about a transitional moment in an epic career.  

Davis’s personal assistant is the earnest and overwhelmed Maggie Sherwoode (played with just the right eagerness by Dakota Johnson). She has been Grace’s assistant for three years but her dream is to be a record producer; this drives the simple through-line. 

After a misstep with Grace, she meets and befriends a gifted musician, David Cliff (charismatic Kelvin Harrison, Jr.), who is both self-effacing and unexplainably rich. Much to Maggie’s confusion, David plays supermarket openings and bar mitzvahs and doesn’t seem to want to move beyond these comfortable gigs. Maggie sees great potential and makes a move that ends up both bold and dishonest, temporarily fracturing their budding relationship, and causing damage she did not anticipate.  

The best scenes are those that focus on Grace and her frustration with being told who she is. Following a scene in which she faces off with executives who basically explain to her what her brand should be, she has a powerful scene with Maggie venting that this is the world she has had to face her entire career. 

Ross (best known for her portrayal of Rainbow Johnson on ABC’s sitcom Blackish) is able to navigate the humor that surrounds the over-the-top and extravagant life of a diva with the inner core of someone who has faced incredibly challenging hurdles and obstacles. 

Grace is not The Devil Wears Prada; played by Ross, she is a human being who has made difficult decisions because of both her race and gender. As she weighs the option of a Vegas residency, we see her question her own judgment as a creative artist. A revelation later in the film (that is not a huge surprise) speaks volumes to the course of Grace’s life.

Kelvin Harrison, Jr., is pure charm and ease. Even in stillness, there is a warmth and openness that makes us hope for him to get his professional due. Dakota Johnson is an actor who is easy to like. She is always watchable and makes Maggie’s growth understandable if unsurprising. 

Ice Cube plays Jack Robertson, Grace’s longtime manager, who has been with her since the beginning. He takes a role that could slide into predictability and caricature and infuses it with genuine mind and heart.  While he mines all of the laughs, it is his understanding of the business that show both fire and passion. His commitment to Grace is real and goes beyond their fiscal connection.  

Bill Pullman appears briefly Maggie’s supportive father. He isn’t given much to do but he has a pleasant, uncomplicated presence. Eddie Izzard has a cameo as a musician from whom Maggie asks a large favor. The scene takes place in a sauna and is as strange as one would expect with the off-beat Izzard.

One of the film’s strongest elements is the exceptional soundtrack. Both Ross and Harrison provide their own terrific vocals.  It should be noted that this is the first time Ross has sung publicly, and it as a powerhouse debut. “Stop for a Moment” is nothing short of glorious.  

There are not a great deal of fireworks in Flora Gleeson’s screenplay nor in Nisha Ganatra’s direction; the film eschews melodrama for real interactions. Together, with a first-rate cast, they have made The High Note tell a hopeful story in an engaging way.  

Rated PG-13, The High Note is available On Demand.

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Steve Carell takes another spin in the boss's chair as Gen. Mark R. Naird in the new Netflix series. Photo by Aaron Epstein/Netflix

Reviewed by Jeffrey Sanzel

Steve Carell and Greg Daniels, creators of the landmark American version of The Office, have reteamed for the Netflix series Space Force. The ten episodes follow General Mark Naird (Carell) as he is appointed head of the newly minted U.S. military branch Space Force. Naird (yes, to sound almost — but not quite — like “nerd”) moves his family to White Horse, Colorado. The action jumps forward a year with a plot driven by the unseen and unnamed United States president’s desire to have “boots on the moon.”

It is revealed that Naird’s wife (Lisa Kudrow, giving a strangely middle-of-the-road performance) is in prison, serving forty years.  The reason is never revealed; this is just one of many threads that are introduced and then abandoned. Naird is now fully responsible for his teenage daughter Erin. Dianna Silvers plays the girl in a constant state of petulance; the actor, at twenty-two, does not pass for a high school junior.

Naird’s foil is John Malkovich’s scientist Adrian Mallory, a voice of reason. Malkovich gives a wry and restrained performance which generates contrast with the parade of over-the-top military and government figures. However, his relationship with Naird doesn’t so much progress as it shifts when it is convenient to the plot. Sometimes, it seems that Carell and Malkovich are in a rather strained astral buddy comedy. The inconsistency in the writing for Malkovich/Mallory only gets by because of the actor’s ability to make eccentrics accessible.  

Much of the topical humor is given to Ben Schwartz as F. Tony Scarapiducci (who has an unprintable nickname) as the social media director. Schwartz is channeling his intentionally insufferable Jean-Ralphio from Parks and Recreation.  

Naird’s nemesis is Air Force General Kick Grabaston. Noah Emmerich plays him like every bullying university president trying to shut down the partying fraternity.  

Tawny Newsome does her best with Captain Ali. Initially, she seems peripheral but eventually becomes more central to the story. Her growing romance with likable Jimmy O. Yang’s Dr. Kaifang is sweet but either predictably clumsy or clumsily predictable.

It seems that Carell and Daniels did not establish a unifying style and tone. It wants to be satire but tips towards spoof. There are thin political jokes that are low hanging fruit, with easy jabs at current politics. There is a less than thinly veiled congressional hearing that climaxes with Naird giving a touching speech about the importance of humanity in the space race. This is juxtaposed with characters that are poorly concealed imitations of contemporary legislators.  

Political satire can be done outrageously and hilariously without losing its edge; Veep showed this. Here, the creators seem to be hedging their bets. Is it Michael G. Scott Goes to the Moon? Or Airplane III: Team Lunar? Does it aspire to be Dr. Strangelove Redux? Yes, it is all of these — sort of. There are shades of sentimental dramedy exploring the difficulty of being a single parent. It is a send-up of all things media. Basically, Space Force is a watered down version of a whole range of tropes and genres.  The result is light beer and water — all the same and less.

By not committing to a style, it becomes a string of set-ups for either ridiculous jokes (uniforms designed by the First Lady) or instants of great introspection, capped off by earnest speeches. Instead of character development, there is “The Monkey Episode,” “The Washington Episode,” “The Lunar Habitat Episode,” etc. It all feels vaguely sitcom. Eventually, the stakes are raised but, by then, it is too late.

There are many well-known television actors filling out the ensemble. Don Lake plays the one-star general who serves as Naird’s dogsbody; it’s the same bumbling, amusing performance that he has given in the Christopher Guest movies. Patrick Warburton, Jane Lynch, Diedrich Bader, and Dan Bakkedahl are various members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff: They’re gifted actor/comedians saddled with toothless caricatures of all that is wrong in government. Kaitlin Olson (It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia) appears in one episode as phony Edison Jaymes, a character suggested by Elon Musk. This was Fred Willard’s final appearance; he plays Naird’s confused father in his usual whimsical style; it is a bit hard to swallow as it is really a dementia joke.

Carell is the creator and star and obviously driving force behind Space Force. He is an actor who is long on charm and has done both exceptional comedic and dramatic work.  However, it seems that he is trying to draw equally from both wells. 

What made The Office’s Michael Scott work was that he was a buffoon but consistent onto himself. He made excruciating decisions but they came from a lack of true self-awareness.  Scott was wholly human in a mundane world.  Here, Carell seems to have taken elements of Scott and grafted them onto the gravel-voiced Naird, but they haven’t fully taken. Is he a buffoon? Are the monkeys running the circus? Too many questions and very few answers.

By the end, he seems to have “grown” but it seems strained. The final episode is a horrifying and ugly mismatch of tones — when is attempted self-immolation ever funny? — and ends annoyingly, ridiculously incomplete.  

There is a moment in episode three where, with great exasperation, John Malkovich labors up and down staircases; he moves quickly but jerkily. In essence, that is the entire Space Force series: it moves forward with purpose but not without a great deal of frustration. 

 

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Reviewed by Jeffrey Sanzel

Anthony Sciarratta’s The Letter (Post Hill Press) is a romance that examines both the power of faith and the strength of love. 

Author Anthony Sciarratta

Victor Esposito is a novelist who came to success in this thirties with each work featuring a very distinct female protagonist. His readers are unaware that she is not solely (or wholly) a creation of fiction: She is based on Eva Abrams, a vibrant and quirky individual he met by chance at concert just over a decade before. Eva, married with three children, was as drawn to Victor as he is to her. The two embarked on an intense but painfully platonic affair that lasted about year. “How could you see someone you know is perfect for you and never act on your feelings?”

After meeting two and three times a week, Eva broke it off with no explanation. During the ensuing years, the two had no contact. But she continued to be his muse, fueling his creative process: “To write a book about someone, to capture every groove of their face, curve of their body, and thought in their head, takes a great deal of studying … It was a special bond they shared that no person would ever come to understand.”  

Now in his forties, Victor is a successful writer living in a luxurious Manhattan apartment. One night, he is shot during a bodega hold-up while saving a mother and child, resulting in his ending up in a coma. When Eva learns of this, she immediately leaves her Long Island home to be at his bedside. His mother, Barbara, immediately recognizes who this woman must be: “Victor has no children, no wife. You’re the only mark he left on this world. His life’s work is because of you.”

While sitting vigil, Eva examines the choices that have brought her to this juncture. Coming from an abusive and unstable childhood, Eva gave up her dreams of being a musician for the constancy of domestic life, married to the steady but disconnected Stanley. While being a mother gave her great joy, the marriage was never fulfilling resulting in a gnawing sense of loss.  

Meanwhile, Victor does not regain consciousness. He is transported to a limbo where he, too, examines his life choices, in particular his brief relationship with Eva that motivated the change in his career from carpenter to writer. In this netherworld, he is guided by the enigmatic Benedict, who turns out to be someone from Victor’s earlier life.  This half-world becomes populated with important figures of his and Eva’s histories.

Throughout, the characters are revealed in all their humanity, wearing their scars just below the surface. Sciarratta is not afraid to show confrontation or petty jealousies. These moments lend further dimension and texture.  

The cover of ‘The Letter’

Also present is the shadowy figure of Louis, who appears just before the bodega incident, and then returns in the book’s final chapters. He is the dark angel that lurks in the mind’s shadows: “I bet you have a lot of regrets now. You had everything: Money, health, and a great career. Being a good guy isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, huh, buddy?” He is a chilling figure that offers temptation and relief. This emissary of worst fears adds further conflict to the final road in Victor’s journey.  

While the book is primarily a romance, it has elements of mystery as Sciarratta unravels his lead characters narratives.  

His lovers’ consummation is unusual — if not unique — in its setting. It is both ardent and detailed.  However, this does not in any way obscure the romantic force of the novel. Eva is his “North Star, guiding him through a depression by showing him what unconditional love feels like. She had looked past his sadness, despair, and anger to find a man with a beautiful soul …” A pair of socks given at a candlelit lunch in the park become a particularly compelling totem, representing a deeper caring than even the most fervid caress can show.

The story also nods to the solace drawn from belief: “Eva protected those she loved with a shroud of prayer, hoping that God would bless the lives that meant so much to her.” It is this mix of the spiritual and the visceral that are the foundations of both the story and the relationship. Whether drawn from religion or from nature, they find their way. In a touching episode, Victor sees himself in a wounded bird that he gently cradles in his hands; knowing that it wants to live but also accepting that death is part of the plane of human existence.  

Ultimately, The Letter addresses the issue of soul mates. This is seeded at the outset and blooms in its epilogue. It is about the alchemy of love and its power to heal wounds, whether psychological or physical. It is a bold statement in a book that tells its story with straightforward passion and wide-eyed honesty.  

The Letter is available at bookrevue.com, barnesandnoble.com and amazon.com.

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Reviewed by Jeffrey Sanzel

Author Talia Carner

Talia Carner’s The Third Daughter (William-Morrow and Company) is one of the most intriguing and riveting books published in the last year. Batya is the third of poor Russian milkman Koppel’s four daughters. The Third Daughter begins in 1889 as the family flee their ravaged shtetel of Komarinoe. If this seems a nod towards Sholom Aleichim’s Tevye, it is not unintentional.  In essence, Carner is using the end of those stories as a place to begin her narrative but in no way does it attempt to be a sequel. The Third Daughter is wholly original. In the prologue, with a few simple strokes of place and time, she is able to evoke the horror of the pogrom. This sets the tone and style for the rest of Batya’s grim  journey. It is told vividly but with never a wasted word or thought.  

The family’s goal is to travel to America.  “God wasn’t here [in Europe], where His Jews were being tortured and exiled, if not murdered.  Maybe he was in the Holy Land — but more likely He was in America, where everyone prospered and ate chicken every day.” Koppel’s brother — with whom he has had no contact for many years — lives in Pittsburgh; this becomes the golden dream. 

With no money or way to travel to the United States, they are forced to live in conditions worse than they endured in Komarinoe. There is a shabbat meal with a cobbler’s family that distills the grueling and grinding poverty of eastern Europe. Unlike many portrayals of these small villages, Carner never glamourizes. This is a hallmark of the entire book.

Enter Yitizk Moskowitz, a prosperous businessman, who takes a shine to the fourteen year-old Batya. He makes a deal with Koppel for Batya’s hand in marriage.  Initially, he agrees that he will come back for Batya in two years but then changes his mind, saying that he will take her now, and she will live with his sister until she is sixteen and of age. Koppel readily agrees.  

This begins the dark heart of the book. Moskowitz is not the businessman he claims but, instead, a procurer. (Another nod towards Aleichem, this time his short story The Man from Buenos Aires.)  Later, Moskowitz describes himself:  “‘My hands never get dirty in menial work,’ he liked to say when he delegated the beatings and cigarette burnings to others.” He assaults Batya; her violation in essence brands her. “‘You are mine now,’ said Reb Moskowitz.  ‘Forever.’” He then turns her over to a thug who transports her to a ship where she is further abused. Finally, she lands in Buenos Aires.  

Batya enters a realm of torture and debasement, a world devoid of humanity: the legal brothels of this Argentinian city. There, she is sent to Freda, Moskowitz’s equally pitiless sister, who runs the house for him.  

Carner has done her research and her depiction of Zwi Migdal, the far-reaching union of pimps, is as ugly as it is accurate. This ruthless organization rules through physical violence, bribes, and corruption. Buenos Aires is shown as a community that is just as poor as the one Batya escaped with the difference that this South American hell is a glimpse of Sodom and Gomorrah. 

The anti-Semitism of the Old Country is replaced by an equally appalling existence in the New World. Carner’s ability to make the reader feel Batya’s shame and fear is extraordinary; even among her own people, Batya is an outcast, as shown by a scene in which her humiliation is furthered as she is driven from the synagogue. Carner never lets us forget that Bayta is a child, an innocent thrust into a nightmare. There is one heart-rending moment where the girl creates a doll out of a pillowcase, attempting to give herself a moment of solace. Batya, whose name means “daughter of God,” is paradoxically given the name Esperanza, which translates as “hope.”

There are occasional odd acts of kindness.  Freda allows Batya to sit shiva (the ritual seven day period of mourning) for her mother. The prostitutes form a quick female minion, the group of ten that is the sole province of men, to pray with her in her loss. The laying to rest of a prostitute who has committed slow suicide shows a kindness underneath the day-to-day suffering.  Another time, Batya is taken to a café where she encounters girls from another house: “She caught the eyes of a sister across the table and smiled.  She didn’t know the woman’s name, and they couldn’t chat over the men’s conversation, but the bond of shared tragic history was a fine spiderweb that tied them together.”

Carner never allows sentimentality to overtake the reality. Batya’s wondrous visit to an opera house is rightly juxtaposed with the hideous persecution of an abducted girl who refused to become a prostitute. Her subsequent descent into insanity and the knowledge of her eventual fate cuts through any joy.  

Batya is introduced to the tango, which becomes both thematic and pivotal to what ensues. She is given context by Nettie, another prostitute: “This is what happens to sadness once it reaches Argentina. We can either cry about the past or laugh about the future. So we drown out the old pain in dance.” This is particularly germane to the final quarter of the book which involves Batya’s attempts to both bring her family over and to free herself from her bondage. It is as page-turning and tense as any thriller, with many complications that build the relentless suspense. Batya is forced to make life-altering choices, each with possibly calamitous repercussions.  

Talia Carner’s The Third Daughter is an epic work that is rooted in a deep sense of truth. While it deals with a cruel and terrifying chapter of history, the novel is also a celebration of the ability of great writing to transport and enlighten. It is a work of art, of craft, but, above all, humanity.  

The Third Daughter is available at bookrevue.com, barnesandnoble.com and amazon.com.

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New documentary examines the future of artificial intelligence               and the impact it will have on our world.

Reviewed By Jeffrey Sanzel

We Need to Talk About AI is an intriguing and occasionally alarmist documentary that explores the historical and current developments in Artificial Intelligence. It raises far more questions than it even attempts to answer and that, most likely, is its point.  The title’s urgency is appropriate to this peripatetically engaging ninety minutes.

Director Leanne Pooley has conducted extensive interviews with scientists, engineers, philosophers, filmmaker James Cameron, and a whole range of experts, along with dozens of clips from news broadcasts and nearly one hundred years of science fiction movies. The film plays at a breakneck pace, fervently bouncing from one opinion to an alternate point-of-view.

Currently streaming On Demand, the documentary is appropriately hosted by Keir Dullea, who gives a dry menace to the narration and occasionally appears walking through crowded streets like a being from an alternate universe. Dullea is best known as astronaut Dave Bowman in Stanley Kubrick’s landmark 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968).  Pooley uses the film’s HAL (Heuristically Programmed ALgorithmic Computer) as the example of man’s greatest fear in the world of AI: a computer that becomes sentient and will no longer obey its human creators.

The early days of AI work seems almost quaint in comparison to latter-day capabilities.  Much of this can be traced to the advancement in the computer technology and the rise of the internet. The internet’s considerable expansion in the last two decades has been the greatest gamechanger. 

A constant refrain is that the dialogue surrounding AI has been “hijacked” by Hollywood: the majority of the populace associate AI in negative terms. It is about the rebellion of manmade machines (e.g., The Terminator). The scientists are in agreement that this is a misrepresentation. That is, they are for the most part. As the film progresses, the views on the dangers of AI diverge.

It all comes down to the question of conscience and autonomy. There is a dissection of the issues behind self-driving cars and how to embed ethics into the machine. The Trolley Problem — how do you decide who to save —  is used to demonstrate the challenge. To make the decision, the machine would have to be a conscious being. 

Furthermore, can a machine be conscious or have a conscience? The idea of conscious and conscience becomes central.  As it is almost impossible to define what “conscious” is, it creates additional conflicts in the narrative. This leads to conversations on emotion and whether machines will ever be able to feel and react to social cues.  

The film poses many hypotheses and explores the predicament from all sides. There is rarely uniform agreement. Can a machine make itself smarter by programming itself? Will the evolution be gradual or exponential?

Even now, robot surgery, agriculture, and even Facebook’s suicide awareness algorithms are examples given of the recent uses of AI. Computers can now beat the world’s greatest chess players. Not that many years ago, these were considered impossible outside of speculative fiction.

Throughout, Pooley returns to the teaching of Baby X, an intelligent toddler simulation that is both fascinating and chilling. Baby X almost seems human and appears to be learning. It is a strange and exciting phenomenon.

Already, the argument is made that we carry less in our brains because we carry parts of them in our pockets in the form of cell phones. In essence, they are the merging of minds with computers. They are an augmentation and a symbiotic integration. 

Ultimately, it comes down to not so much how we build AI but what we do with it. The unifying position of the interviewed is the fear that this power will be used for evil — or at least negative purposes. (Pooley unsubtly does a quick montage of the world’s foremost demagogues.) 

The consensus is that it should not be about who arrives first but who gets there safely. They hope but doubt for regulation. If it is corporations or business (Google, Microsoft, etc.) that get primary control, it will be driven by greed. If it is the military, it will be about killing. They say we only have one chance to get it right, and the leader in the field must, in essence, be the good parent. AI will dominate the economy and, therefore, the world. 

There are myriad questions raised: What it means to be human? If machines become more, will we be become less? Is AI going to do something for you or to you? Is science fiction the canary in the coal mine? That is, do we face the apocalypse if AI doesn’t play out the positive scenarios?

And then there are the moral questions. Can machines be made accountable? Does a machine have rights? If so, is this a form of slavery, where conscious beings are created and then dehumanized? There is a brief section about the rise of sex robots that is twinned with a clip from the 1927 silent film Metropolis. Can a machine say, “No?”

Perhaps we have come a long way from the science fiction movies of our past. Maybe we will never face the voice of HAL saying, “I’m sorry, Dave. I can’t do that.”

Or perhaps we will.  

The final line sums up the entire journey:  “What do we want the role of humans to be?” We Need to Talk About AI is a great place to start.

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From left, Ramona Edith-Williams and Kelly O'Sullivan in a scene from Saint Frances. Photo courtesy of Oscilloscope Labs

By Jeffrey Sanzel

Saint Frances begins with Bridget (Kelly O’Sullivan) listening passively to a man drone on about a dream he had and how life is about purpose. This indulgent harangue only ends when he discovers that she is not in her twenties but a 34-year-old server; upon hearing this, he unceremoniously moves on. 

This sets the tone for a story of someone who exists but does not actually live in her own life but drifts from moment to moment. Bridget seems unphased and unaffected by his rudeness and remains impassive. 

She is then engaged by a younger man, Jace (sweetly earnest Max Lipchitz). That night, they fall into bed. It is clear that Jace wants more than just the hook-ups that seem to populate Bridget’s life. But this is not Bridget. The self-described feminist-atheist doesn’t know who she is or, more importantly, what she feels. 

In short, she is a mess.

Gradually, details of her life are teased out.  As a server, she has no affinity for the job, shown as soul-crushing drudgery. She then interviews for a nannying position, clearly ambivalent about the actual work but just wanting to escape the restaurant. The situation is to take care of six year-old Frances (Ramona Edith-Williams). Frances’ mothers, pregnant Maya (Charin Alvarez, heartbreaking in her struggle, triumphant in her resolution) and lawyer Annie (layered and dimensional Lily Mojekwu) are dubious and pass on her.

In the meantime, Bridget discovers she is pregnant and Jace willingly offers to support her in any way. Almost immediately, Bridget decides to terminate the pregnancy. It is not so much a cavalier choice as it is, like all of her actions, done almost at a distance. Bridget is someone who lives apart from herself.

Two months later, after the original nanny is let go, Bridget is offered the position. She readily accepts even though she seems to have no affinity for children. Maya is now struggling with postpartum depression, and Annie is now back at work full-time and seemingly unavailable.  

Initially, Bridget is emotionally absent as a caretaker. She makes a series both benign and what could be (but do not result in) calamitous mistakes. However, she  gradually awakens to her responsibility, and not just to Frances, but to herself. Her journey is both darkly funny and achingly melancholy. Much of the film is excruciating as she perpetually teeters on and often goes over the edge of poor judgment. But, through her commitment to her charge, she grows. 

In the tumult of the chaos that is Bridget, there are many astute and charming scenes.  A hike with her parents who are humorous but caring eschews the usual clichés. Following the baptism of Maya and Annie’s baby, Frances gives confession to Bridget.  A sleepover shows that there is joy in the simplest moments.

At the center of the film is Kelly O’Sullivan’s riveting and nuanced performance, letting the light ever so gradually shine into Bridget’s life, building up to several wonderfully cathartic moments. She is matched by Ramona Edith Williams, an honest and endearing child actor. Whether dismissing Bridget with a “We’re done” or subtlety crumbling under the fear of being replaced by her new sibling, she is unmannered and, most importantly, real.  Together, they make the film beat as one.

Director Alex Thompson allows Kelly O’Sullivan’s insightful screenplay to breathe, never giving away what will happen next, but drawing us further and deeper into Bridget’s tumultuous wake. It is all beautifully filmed by cinematographer Nate Hurtsellers. Together, they have created a film that dissects and yet celebrates the fact that family given or chosen are equal parts love and dysfunction.

Ultimately, Saint Frances’ heart lies in purpose. Prior to Frances, Bridget is wandering ambivalently through her own story. Even her mother asks her if is she was happy she was born, even with her life “the way it is.” But with responsibility, Bridget becomes awakened, aware, and empowered. By actively involving herself in this family — by finding her purpose — she not only finds herself but her sense of value. Saint Frances leaves Bridget — and us — in a better place.

Not rated, Saint Frances is now streaming on-demand.

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Carl Safina with his buddies, from left, Cady and Chula. Photo by Patricia Paladines

Reviewed by Jeffrey Sanzel

“A sperm whale learns who she will be journeying with, a macaw casts a covetous eye on a beautiful neighbor, a chimpanzee learns to pay to play. Culture creates vast stores of unprogrammed, unplanned knowledge. The whole world speaks, sings, and shares the codes.”

Carl Safina’s latest book, Becoming Wild: How Animal Cultures Raise Families, Create Beauty and Achieve Peace (Henry Holt and Co.), is a fascinating look at the world of animal culture. It is an analysis of what is passed down (inherited) and what is learned (culture). 

Much of the study focuses on communication within the species and how animals form their own societies. “A lot of learning travels socially from parents to offspring or from a group’s elders.”  the author doesn’t so much redefine the term culture but, instead, encourages us not to be quite so human-centric in our perceptions.  

Safina divides the book into the study of sperm whales (families); scarlet macaws (beauty); and chimpanzees (peace). Each of the three sections is rich, detailed and engaging enough to be a book onto itself. He has brought them together under the umbrella of his exploration of culture. 

Each is given a detailed history of the species; description of their habitats; personal characteristics; intersection with the human world; and many fascinating details in both macro and microcosm. This is expertly mixed with his first-hand accounts of his experiences among them as well as the people with whom he takes the journey.  It is both objective and wholly personal.

His observations are enlightening:  “Chimps horrify and delight us because we recognize in them parts of ourselves. We see in them aspects of our own passions, and so they hold us in fascination.  We cannot look away. So much of what is uncomfortable for us in watching chimps is their excruciating similarity to us.” The book is rife with these epiphanies that are presented so simply and yet with such acumen.

One point that Safina makes is the debate over nature vs. nurture. His belief is that it is impossible to separate them as they interact. “Humans,” he writes, “are genetically enabled to acquire any human language. But we must still learn a language. Genes facilitate the learning, but they do not determine whether we will speak Russian.” Applying this to the terms of his overall thesis: “Genes determine what can be learned, what we might do. Culture determines what is learned, how we do things.”  

Safina has exceptional clarity and explains his ideas with focus and an underlying hint of humor that bring the reader further into his universe. There are a handful of black-and-white sketches but there are eight pages of glorious color plates. These should be studied prior to reading each section as they will give the ideal visual compliment to the descriptions.

Safina writes in engaging prose, rich in detail, vivid in his descriptions.  The depictions of these beings in their habitats truly give a sense of place in a thrilling and absorbing way. 

The fact that he is out there, in the midst of it, gives a sense of his joy and wonderment and his unceasing desire to understand. He never loses his awe of the depth and breadth of the natural world. 

He is a teacher, a student, and a tour guide. “I seek encounters that will enable me not just to see … not just to observe … but to penetrate past the labels and feel the beings as selves, living with their families, sharing the air where our two worlds meet.” Safina succeeds in his goal —and shares with grace, passion, and honesty.  

An ecologist and a MacArthur Fellow, Carl Safina is the author of numerous books on the human relationship with the rest of the living world. He holds the Endowed Chair for Nature and Humanity at Stony Brook University and is founder of the not-for-profit Safina Center. 

“Becoming Wild” is available online at bookrevue.com, barnesandnoble.com and Amazon.com. Learn more at CarlSafina.org.

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Jane Goodall. Photo courtesy of National Geographic

By Jeffrey Sanzel

From scientist to activist: Dr. Jane Goodall addresses an audience in a scene from the film. Photo courtesy of National Geographic

It could not be more appropriate that the new documentary Jane Goodall: The Hope premiered globally on Earth Day, April 22, in 172 countries and 43 languages on National Geographic, Nat Geo WILD and Nat Geo MUNDO channels. At the heart of Goodall’s work is more than just the wonder of nature but the need to respect and honor our coexistence with other species of the planet. Her passionate yet gentle character is iconically associated with this message.

The two-hour film continues where Jane (2017) left off. Jane Goodall:  The Hope is an exploration of the work she has done since 1986, when she transitioned from scientist to scientist-advocate. It is a beautiful film, powerful and simple, with no narration. Instead, it is told through interviews juxtaposed with recent and archival footage spanning over six decades.  

There are a few nods to her earlier life.  One of the first scenes, Goodall shows her childhood copy of The Story of Doctor Dolittle, the book that first opened her eyes to a world of possibilities. There are occasional glimpses into her person life — some time spent with her grandchildren or having a glass of whiskey with friends. But the heart of the film is Jane Goodall as conservationist and messenger.  

A scene from the film. Photo by Michael Christopher Brown/Magnum Photos

At 86, Goodall still maintains a grueling schedule of three hundred days on the road, traveling and speaking across the entire globe. In one sequence, she is shown shuttling from airport to hotel room (where she makes toast on an iron) to traveling again.  

It would be a difficult schedule for someone a third her age, but Goodall sees it as both quest and responsibility. When told she should slow down, her response is that she must speed up as time is running out. Between tours she lives in the English home that her family has had since 1940, sharing with her younger sister, Judy.  We are treated to just a few rare moments of rest, accentuating her constant and unflagging work.

Goodall never sought fame but has reluctantly accepted it to further her cause. She readily admits that she would have preferred to stay in the forests of Gombe, living with and studying chimpanzees, but realized she was in a position to speak out where people would listen.

Whether addressing a crowd of several thousand or interacting with a handful of elementary students, her unique spirit comes through. Her goal is to always reach people through their hearts. She is a guide and a messenger, not a preacher. One boy describes her as “Mother Theresa for the environment.”

Her outreach has included the Jane Goodall Institute as well as the Zanzibar-based Roots and Shoots program. The latter engages young people on issues of conservation and gets them directly involved. She is particularly inspiring to young girls, several of whom give impassioned paeans  to Goodall as a role model.  In fact, the latter third of the documentary concentrates on her legacy and the myriad results of the seeds she has planted.

A scene from the film. Photo courtesy of National Geographic

The film highlights her ability to connect with people and not divide them. James Baker, former White House Chief of Staff, was an avid hunter. Yet, she was able to find common ground in a belief in clean water. He readily gave her introductions to countries across the world. She developed a long-time relationship with Rodney Macalister, manager for Conoco.  Throughout, he is interviewed and marvels at how she managed to get a huge oil company to build a chimpanzee sanctuary. He states simply, “She commands respect in the softest of ways.”  

Goodall went into labs that used primates for experimentation so that she could report firsthand. Often questioned by more radical activists, she makes clear that she would rather work with people “to do it better” then to be constantly adversarial. Ultimately, with years of considerable yet considerate pressure, she got the National Institute of Health to reduce its use of animals for the testing of drugs and other experiments. She has the ability to bridge the gap between the most unlikely individuals.

It should be noted that there is disturbing footage of the torture and mistreatment of chimpanzees. The filmmakers have wisely not overused these important images but they are as devastating as they are essential in their depiction of cruelty and neglect.  

The documentary clearly shows Goodall’s inner focus: “I believe only that when head and heart can work in harmony we can achieve our true potential.” Her message is shared with everyone from the youngest children to the most educated of academics, from politicians to Prince Harry. And her affect on them is clear.  

She is hope attached to action. She understands that to make conservation work you have to engage with the local people and make their lives better. Conservation must help through community, remembering that there are basic needs that will come first (e.g., health, water, education).

Ultimately, it is Jane Goodall’s optimism that shines through. Her belief that the young people can and will make the world a better place. One of the final moments of the film is her speaking to a sold-out crowd.  She raises her hand and says: “Together we can —together we will save the world.” And because she believes, it makes us believe it too. Jane Goodall: The Hope is an important film in the truest of ways. It is not just to be seen; it is to be shared.  

Jane Goodall: The Hope is now streaming free on demand.

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Mackenzie Davis in a scene from 'The Turning'.

By Jeffrey Sanzel

One of the definitions of “turn the screw” is “an action that makes a bad situation worse, especially one that forces someone to do something.”  

Henry James’ 1898 novella The Turn of the Screw was a landmark milestone of the Gothic genre. Unlike many of the thrillers that had come before and after, its power is rooted in the horror of uncertainty. Eschewing traditional ghost story tropes, the question of sanity versus reality gives the narrative a unique slant.  James’ tale is psychological rather than overt (such as Bram Stoker’s Dracula, published a year earlier).  

The first film adaptation, The Innocents (1961), was taken from the Broadway play.  Over the years, there have been various incarnations inspired by both the plot and the driving concept.

Now Floria Sigismondi (whose early career is in music videos) has directed a modern adaptation from a screenplay by Carey W. Hayes and Chad Hayes. In this update, set in Maine 1994 (most likely to assure there are no cell phones), Mackenzie Davis takes on the role of Kate Mandell, the new governess at the Fairchild Estate. Kate is replacing Miss Jessel who mysteriously disappeared.  

Finn Wolfhard and Brooklynn Prince in a scene from ‘The Turning’

There isn’t much detail given to how Kate gets the job. Then again, there aren’t many details given to anything. Kate tells her best friend Rose, (Kim Adis doing her best “stock best friend”) “I’m going from 25 screaming kids to one little girl. How hard can it be?” Isn’t this the question asked by every nanny, babysitter, and tutor in the history of horror movies? 

After visiting her delusional and institutionalized mother (Joely Richardson, whose three minutes of screen time hardly warrant the “and” billing), Kate arrives at Fairchild, with its lush grounds, Gothic architecture, and creepy statuary. Lest we forget, there’s the requisite overgrown pool where someone will be pulled in and pulled down.  

Kate’s charge is the precocious Flora (an able Brooklynn Prince), a hyper-articulate seven-year-old who makes very adult observations. Flora never leaves the property. This turns out to be connected to a genuine fear as she witnessed her parents dying in a car accident outside the house’s gate. 

Flora is quickly joined by her teenage brother, Miles (Finn Wolfhard), hip and happy, but dead-eyed, a Damien for the millennium. Miles has been expelled from boarding school where he brutally attacked another student. He plays electric guitar and likes spiders. Subtlety is not the film’s strong suit. There is another issue here: Whether his violent and sadistic tendencies are nature or nurture. But like any opportunity to find depth or dimension, the filmmakers choose neither.  

Brooklynn Prince in a scene from ‘The Turning’

The final addition to this genial band is Mrs. Grose, the briskly efficient housekeeper and family retainer. Barbara Marten does her best but the result is a cross between a hellish Mary Poppins and grinning Mrs. Danvers.  With silver hair and gray crepe skin, she is given to knowing looks and proclamations like “The children are very special … they are thoroughbreds” and “They were born into privilege.”  

The plot is driven by the possibility that Miss Jessel was murdered by Peter Quint, the brutish and drunken riding instructor, who was a bad influence on Miles. Quint also died under questionable circumstances. Kate begins to be haunted by images of both Jessel and Quint.  She begins to suspect that the children, who have taken to playing vicious pranks, can see them as well. Whether the visitations are real or in her mind is at the core.

It is and has always been a serviceable plot. The issue is one of style and character development. 

For the former — style — it could be any horror movie in the most generic sense. The opening shots are of a woman running away from a house. The mansion is vast, with rows of blank windows and a mysterious and dangerous east wing. Don’t forget the well-timed thunder claps, banging shutters, slamming doors, a menacing maze, obscured mirror and window reflections, and a whole bunch of scary dolls. There are some nice jump-out scares but they are of the “gimme” variety. That is, nothing new: a mannequin head that turns on its own, a sewing machine that comes to life, disembodied foot prints, etc.  It doesn’t help that if the film were any darker, it would be a radio play.

The real problem is in the latter: character development. There isn’t any. Kate honors her commitment to Flora that she won’t abandon her. But why would she agree to play flashlight tag? And with Miles, who threatens her and comes into her bedroom uninvited? 

The history of her mother’s mental illness and how that has affected her is skated by with comments about “not having parents.” It’s the ultimate kinda-sorta-let’s-address-this. We don’t know who these people are and, pretty quickly, we don’t care. And the questions still remain: Are they dreams? Are they visions? Is it over yet? No. She still has to run up and down the stairs and through the fog for another twenty minutes.

Perhaps this could all be forgiven if it had built towards a satisfying conclusion. Often, the final moments of a horror film have a shocking twist or a cathartic explanation. There can be that wonderful “ah-hah” moment.  Instead, there was an “oh, no” — as in “oh, no, I just wasted 90 minutes of my life for a film without an ending.” In any case, don’t “turn the screw” by watching this. That would just make a bad situation worse.

Rated PG-13, The Turning is now streaming On Demand.

Photos courtesy of Universal Pictures

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