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Movie Review

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

Reviewed by Jeffrey Sanzel

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reviewed by Jeffrey Sanzel

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reviewed by Jeffrey Sanzel

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Robert Pattinson as Mickey 18 and Mickey 17 in a scene from the film. Photo courtesy of Warner Bros. Pictures

Reviewed by Jeffrey Sanzel

“Have a nice death. See you tomorrow.” This single line captures the plot, theme, and tone of Mickey 17, writer-director Bong Joon Ho’s follow-up to his award-winning film Parasite.

Edward Ashton’s novel Mickey7 was among NPR’s Best Sci-Fi Books of 2022 and was nominated for Best Science Fiction Book by Goodreads. Now, Bong Joon Ho brings  the novel to the big screen in an epic adaptation titled Mickey 17. The  first-rate cast features Robert Pattinson, Naomi Ackie, Steven Yeun, Toni Collette, and Mark Ruffalo.

Robert Pattinson in a scene from the film. Photo courtesy of Warner Bros. Pictures

In the year 2054, sad sack Mickey Barnes (Pattinson) and his friend, the opportunist Timo (Yeun), are pursued by a vicious loan shark. The pair decide to escape Earth, signing up for a four-and-a-half-year voyage to Niflheim, a planet colonizing under the rule of the failed multi-millionaire politician Kenneth Marshall (Ruffalo). The unskilled Timo finagles a position as a shuttle pilot. Conversely, the doubt-plagued Mickey signs on as an “Expendable.” 

Using a cloning technique banned on Earth, Mickey is subjected to experiments and fatal assignments to make the new planet habitable. After he dies, he is literally reprinted, including uploading his memories and personality traits. (The visual printing is one of the film’s most memorable visuals.) Along the way, Mickey develops a relationship with Nasha Barridge (Ackie), a strong-willed, free-spirited security agent.

The complications come when Timo erroneously reports Mickey 17’s death, unaware that the planet’s indigenous lifeforms, Creepers, rescued Mickey 17. Unknowingly, the scientists generate Mickey 18, the brashest and most aggressive Mickey. This mistake generates the forbidden “Multiples” situation. The dual Mickeys introduce an element of farce into this hybrid of dark comedy, science fiction, horror, and satire.

Robert Pattinson departs from his usual leading man persona for Mickey 17. The fatally passive titular clone is the definition of the little man lost in society, almost blithely accepting his fate. He is a man who signed away his life without reading the contract. Mickey 18 is closer to Pattinson’s usual undertakings, the curled, lipped, sexually charged bad boy. Pattinson adeptly creates two visually identical but wholly contrasting characters.

Robert Pattinson as Mickey 18 and Mickey 17 in a scene from the film. Photo courtesy of Warner Bros. Pictures

At the center of the film is the buffoonish but appallingly dangerous leader, the egomaniacal and photo-op-obsessed Marshall. Easily manipulated by his underlings and his diabolical wife (Collette), Ruffalo embodies the danger and idiocy of an oligarchical politician with too much power and money and very little brain power. The performance is a hilarious horror, as the fascist clown spews white supremacist hate speech aimed specifically at Niflheim’s resident Creepers. Collette matches Ruffalo, all blazing eyes and sharpened talons, whispering in his ear like a demented Lady MacB.

The entire cast is effective, alternating the comedic with the callous. Ackie exudes a rough charm as the daring and audacious Barridge. Yeun brings an off-handed charm to the morally bankrupt Timo. Even Patsy Ferran, as scientist Dorothy, creates dimension in one of the few caring team members. 

Cinematographer Darius Khondji and production designer Fiona Crombie perfectly complement each other, capturing the overdeveloped Earth, the dark, cramped spaceship and colony quarters, and the bleak tundra of Niflheim. Bong and his frequent collaborator, Jang Hee-chul, designed the Creepers, which are simultaneously adorable and repellent. 

Bong makes clear commentary with Marshall’s pejorative orations on a white master race, the eradication of the native Creepers, and acceptable scientific experimentation on people who are “expendable.” The presence of Marshall’s followers in their red baseball caps is a pointed statement; depending on one’s leanings, this is either the film’s strength or flaw. Mickey 17’s lack of subtlety often pushes the film from social satire into spoof. 

Like with Parasite, Bong proves he is a master of bold cinematic strokes and unusual and exceptional focus. However, unlike its Academy Award-winning predecessor, Mickey 17 has excess in both grotesquerie and running time. If Bong did not surpass his masterpiece, Mickey 17 offers a bleak, often brutally funny, and ultimately engaging film.

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

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Willem Dafoe and Lily-Rose Depp in a scene from the film. Photo courtesy of Focus Features

Reviewed by Jeffrey Sanzel

Bram Stoker’s 1897 Dracula remains the definitive vampire novel. Written through letters, diary entries, and newspaper articles, the book is a landmark that transcended horror to be accepted as literature.

F.W. Murnau’s silent film Nosferatu: A Symphony of Horror (1922) was the story’s premiere screen incarnation. Attempting to avoid copyright infringement (or pay royalties), the names and location were changed: Dracula was renamed Orlok. However, Stoker’s widow successfully sued, and a court ordered all prints destroyed. However, several copies survived, and the film became a classic with a lasting influence over cinematic history. The image of Max Schreck’s rat-like visage is century-old iconagraphic image.

Lily-Rose Depp in a scene from the film.
Photo courtesy of Focus Features

In 1979, Werner Herzog’s remake, Nosferatu the Vampyre, restored the original character names, with Klaus Kinski as Dracula. Many scenes were filmed twice, once in German and once in English. The meditative take was well-received by critics and audiences. Shadow of the Vampire (2000) fictionalized the making of the original film, with the premise that actor Schreck (Willem Dafoe) was an actual vampire.

Vampirism is a celluloid favorite and the most popular in the creature feature world. There are over two hundred Dracula movies. Dracula has ranged from the elegance of Bela Lugosi’s indelible, tailcoated count to John Carradine’s melancholy interpretation. In nine outings, Christopher Lee emphasized the character’s raw animal nature. A higher level of charm and sensuality came with Louis Jordan, Frank Langella, and Gary Oldman.

Writer-director Robert Eggers, whose previous films include The Witch, The Lighthouse, and The Northman, now offers his vision. He follows most of Stoker’s initial plot (changing the names) but relies on the monstrously hideous Count Orlok of the 20s. The word “vampire” is never uttered. The title roughly translates from the Romanian as “the offensive one” or “the insufferable one.” 

Orlok is a demonic embodiment of all that is evil and foul. He represents the pestilence of city and soul. Eschewing the traditional romantic elements, Eggers’ Orlok not only dwells in the darkest corners but is the shadow itself. Under layers of prosthetics, Bill Skarsgård’s Orlok is a diabolic combination of vermin and reptile sent from the lowest circle of hell. He exists to consume all life: he is death itself. “I am appetite,” he states. “Nothing more.”

The world of Nosferatu is one of disease. Orlok brings a plague of rats, decimating the city. But he is also a destroyer of souls, seeding denial and doubt. Even the heroic Prof. Albin Eberhart Von Franz lives in disgrace for his belief in the occult. Based on Dracula’s Van Helsing, Willem Dafoe lends an eerie twinkle to the brilliant eccentric (if only Dafoe did not seem so uncomfortable in the costumes). Orlok’s minion, Herr Knock (Simon McBurney), is as vile a Renfield ever depicted, chewing the words (and living animals) with a cackle and a quip. Nosferatu is a universe of sweat, blood, and unending pain.

Lily-Rose Depp in a scene from the film.
Photo courtesy of Focus Features

Several elements make Nosferatu worthwhile. Eggers’ literate script honors Stoker’s novel and Henrik Galeen’s 1922 screenplay. While sometimes overly declarative (a common trap in the horror genre), the dialogue is rich and varied, letting the characters speak in individual voices. He finds moments of grim humor and edgy wordplay. He strongly succeeds in addressing issues of Victorian repression and the accusations of female hysteria. He captures the ominous with what is absent: the driverless carriage with the door slowly swinging open, demanding the Jonathan Harker stand-in, Thomas Hutter (Nicholas Hoult), to journey to the count’s castle. Slow pans and sharp cuts bring an equal shock. Eggers pulls no punches: the sight of two small coffins, taller than they are long, resonates with unfathomable loss.

Jarin Blaschke’s moody, cold cinematography complements the constant atmosphere of dread. Craig Lathrop’s production design evokes the cold vastness of the Carpathian Mountains and the congested and later infested Wisburg. Costume designers Linda Muir and David Schwed capture the rustic Transylvania Romani, the doomed sailors, and the lush formality of the wealthy. (While set in Germany, the overall effect feels like Stoker’s Victorian London.)

At the film’s heart is not Robert Eggers’ Orlok but Lily-Rose Depp’s exceptional portrayal of the tormented Ellen, called by dark forces, destiny, and a pull towards death going back to her childhood. In turns terrified and possessed, she easily alternates between fear and ferocity, torn between two realms. “Does evil come from within us or from beyond?” she questions. She owns the disturbing physicality and balances the character’s knowing eroticism with a well of innocence. 

A scene late in the film between Ellen and her husband, Thomas, is raw, unflinching, and brutal. Depp’s performance is layered and nuanced, elevating the usual “Scream Queen” trope. Ultimately, she manifests the film’s darkness and moral core.

Nosferatu does not reinvent the vampire movie but offers strong visuals, a shifted perspective, and a central performance that transcends previous Dracula films.

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

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Bryan Johnson in a scene from 'Don't Die: The Man Who Wants to Live Forever.' Photo courtesy of Netflix

Reviewed by Jeffrey Sanzel

Netflix is streaming Don’t Die: The Man Who Wants to Live Forever, focusing on Bryan Johnson, the entrepreneur who is “determine[d] to live forever—or die trying.” Johnson, now forty-seven, believes death’s inevitability should not be accepted and embarked on an extreme anti-aging protocol.

Johnson founded and was CEO of Braintree, a company specializing in web payments for e-commerce. In 2012, Braintree acquired Venom for over $26 million. One year later, PayPal (then part of eBay) bought the company for $800 million; estimates put Johnson’s profit at $300 million. In October 2021, Johnson announced Project Blueprint, his anti-aging endeavor. Don’t Die focuses on this mission, turning his life into a longevity experiment. 

The much-lauded director Chris Smith (Jim & Andy: The Great Beyond, Fyre, 100 Foot Wave, etc.) created a documentary alternating between Johnson’s daily regimen and his more extreme activities. Each morning, Johnson exercises for an hour, takes a massive number of medications and supplements, eats several pounds of vegetables (he is vegan), and undertakes a range of therapies (light therapy, a hair growth cap, and others). He has a medical-grade clinical operation in his home worth $2.5 million.

Every vital sign is measured and tracked. At the time of the filming, he was in the optimal 99th percentile for both muscle and fat. He claims to have reversed his biological age by 5.1 years in two years. His speed of aging is .69, which means that he ages eight months every twelve months.  

In addition to the more commonplace, Johnson ventured into the world of plasma exchange with his son, Talmadge (as well as giving his own to his father), organ transplant medication suppressing the immune system, and gene replacement therapy (performed on the island of Roatán, off the coast of Honduras).

Much of the film displays his relationship with his son, Talmadge, who came to live with him for his senior year of high school. The divorced Johnson became estranged from his ex-wife and three children when he left the Mormon church. Talmadge, struggling with his own beliefs, chose to join Johnson, who quickly brought him into his world of exercise, diet, and some of the more extreme endeavors. The uncomfortable scenes between them feel forced. Whether they share genuine affection is hard to parse with the mostly unexpressive Johnson. 

While shopping with Talmadge for towels in a Chicago Target, Johnson breaks down at the thought of his son entering the University of Chicago. Is he crying for his son or the cameras? Even Johnson’s statement, “I wish I had Talmadge’s legs. He’s the perfect specimen,” resonates less complimentary and more disturbing.

Johnson claims relationships are important but admits he is not good at them. (Don’t Die briefly mentions the ugly lawsuit surrounding his breakup with Taryn Southern following her breast cancer diagnosis.)

Don’t Die’s tone varies, alternating between pedestrian day-in-the-life and darker moments that suggest an episode of Black Mirror. In its most extreme, the film offers shades of Jurassic Park and, in one particularly uncomfortable sequence about surgical experiments with mice, The Human Centipede.

For over half the film, Johnson is shirtless in his kitchen, swallowing pills or eating the same meal (2,000 calories a day of the same food). He works closely with Kate Tolo, his Chief Marketing Officer, who seems a combination of companion and majordomo. While his initial online presence was not huge, an article by Ashlee Vance (who co-produced Don’t Die) turned Johnson into a viral sensation, generating both positive interest and hate. In this shift, Johnson rose as an almost cult figure. 

People bought many products Johnson consumes with direct links from his website to Amazon. Eventually, he produced and promoted Brian Johnson’s Blueprint Extra Virgin Olive Oil, resulting in accusations of Johnson as a grifter. The undertaking led to “Don’t Die” events, including hikes and dances. Held around the world, Johnson has gathered many followers. 

The talking heads range from medical professionals (doctors, scientists, etc.), some of whom support the work, and others who see it as a waste of money and resources. These contrast with social media pundits, the majority of whom are pointedly negative. Vance’s strong presence alternates between marveling at Johnson’s audacity and questioning his actions. Johnson’s parents are prominently featured but add little insight into who he really is.

At just under an hour and a half, the film seems overlong and repetitive. The unending stream of medium shots and generic footage of weightlifting, pill-taking, and laboratory visits would be more engaging if only Johnson possessed a modicum of charisma. But something is lacking at his core. Even his comments about the greater good can be reduced to a bizarre trickle-down theory. 

Perhaps his entire gestalt is summed up with his bold but problematic statement: “Our minds, which we think are our primary tool of problem-solving, are actually the source of self-destructive behaviors. I would argue the mind is dead.” 

At best, Don’t Die documents one man’s quest for immortality. At worst, it is a portrait of the power of excessive narcissism fueled by vast wealth. Or, as one scientist states: “It’s not science. It’s just attention.”

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Reviewed by Jeffrey Sanzel

In the wake of Black Friday and sliding headlong into the Buying Season, Netflix is streaming Buy Now: The Shopping Conspiracy. Written and directed by Nic Stacey, the 84-minute documentary reminds us that corporations are for profit, not for humanity. 

The voice of Sasha, a computerized personal assistant, guides the viewer through five rules of profit maximization: Sell More, Waste More, Lie More, Hide More, and Control More. Presented as a video tutorial, Sasha promises success to those who follow the guidelines. (The Sasha gimmick is effective but might grate on some. Her voice is reminiscent of 2001: A Space Odyssey’s HAL smoothly saying, “I’m sorry, Dave. I’m afraid I can’t do that.”) 

A scene from ‘Buy Now’. Photo courtesy of Netflix

Under attack are the usual suspects. Amazon, Apple, Adidas, and the clothing industry at large (Gap, H&M, Shein, etc.) represent the major culprits. Marketing products that are single-use or have built-in obsolescence drive profits. Worse, companies rarely consider the end-of-life of objects. The film puts a great deal of focus on the environmental carnage of landfills and burnings. It is not litter. It is hazardous waste. 

Statistics are a large part of Buy Now’s attack: 68,733 phones produced per hour, 190,000 garments produced each minute, and 12 tons of plastic produced each second. According to the Or Foundation, a not-for-profit trying to reduce textile waste, more than 15 million unwanted clothes are sent to Ghana—one of the world’s largest importers of used clothes each week. Globally, approximately 13 million phones are tossed out daily. An anecdote about the lightbulb cartel of 1925 introduces the established cornerstone of industry: planned obsolescence. In the present day, products are sealed and seamless. Laptops, printers, and phones are replaced, not repaired. And the sooner, the better. 

The film calls out the fallacy of recycling, noting that barely ten percent of claimed recycling is accomplished. The markings on plastics range from half-truths to outright lies. Companies contend that recycling fixes the problem. “Truth is very different.” As packaging rules are lax, “You can say whatever the hell you want.” The symbols are largely meaningless. Most will be buried or burned. The sole solution is manufacturing less plastic. 

The talking heads are mostly reformed staff members of the big companies, many of them openly paying penance for their part in the destruction. As one states, “I think I definitely have some sins to make up for.”

Buy Now’s tone blends horror with tongue-in-cheek commentary. The film only rests in the interviews and, even then, cuts to different angles. The peripatetic nature leans into a non-stop modern lifestyle as well as the problem’s urgency. The avalanche of shoes, laptops, and phones cascades, oozes, stampedes out of buildings and garbage cans, falls from the sky, and rolls down the streets. Clothing even vomits out of dryers. 

A scene from ‘Buy Now’. Photo courtesy of Netflix

The science-fiction essence harkens to films like The Blob, where cities are overrun, here played against the unknowing citizens in An Invasion of the Body Snatchers oblivion. The visuals have a mordant wit, and the techno music raises the future-of-the-damned tone. (A nice touch is the underscoring of the Adidas section with Saint-Saëns’s “Danse Macabre.”) Clips from Wall-E show the future of the planet. However, something is disconcerting about the presence of Disney/Pixar when it is probably responsible for more plastic toys and disposable souvenirs than any other company in the world.

Buy Now represents waste in myriad ways. These include shores clogged with plastic and shoveled into hell-like infernos. But the most startling image is the most common. Boxes upon boxes stacked in front halls and on kitchen floors; teetering piles spilling open. We buy everything we think we need—and more of it—often at one a.m. Amazon is the thing that occurs to you. “If the system is magic, what would it do? There is just a conveyor belt that goes straight from wherever the item is to your door as quickly and frictionless as possible.” With the internet, the next shoppable moment is always now. Buying new stuff feels great. But the flip side is where does it go?

The massive destruction of merchandise that prevents food and even healthcare products from being salvaged is equally horrifying. A United Kingdom Amazon warehouse destroys 130,000 pieces a week. There are five billion pounds of landfill waste in destroyed products. (More images, more statistics.)

Buy Now is an unequivocal indictment of the way we live. Enhanced by Brendan McGinty’s cinematography, Samuel R. Santana’s sharp editing, and engaging VFX and animation by Colin Thornton and Neil Wilson, the film is a bold statement about consumption and responsibility. You will look at your daily take-out cups of coffee, each plastic water bottle, and every item of clothing with a different eye. 

The final line goes to Kyle Wiens, the CEO and co-founder of iFixit: “That’s it. Just buy less. It will be fine. Life is about experiences and the people that we’re with, and the stuff that we have supports it. But it’s not the end. It’s not the objective. Whoever dies with the most stuff does not win.” 

The film is now streaming on Netflix.

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Cynthia Erivo and Ariana Grande-Butera in a scene from the film. Photo courtesy of Universal Pictures

Reviewed by Jeffrey Sanzel

Few books attain the iconography of L. Frank Baum’s The Wonderful Wizard of Oz (1900). Perhaps better known is the MGM classic, released in 1939. Starring Judy Garland as the tornado-transplanted Dorothy Gale, the image of her joined by the Scarecrow, the Tin Man, and the Lion (and, of course, her dog, Toto) dwells in our collective conscience.

Cynthia Erivo and Ariana Grande-Butera in a scene from the film. Photo courtesy of Universal Pictures

While not the first novel to explore the source for an alternate view, Gregory Maguire’s Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West (1995) became a phenomenon, selling over five million copies; three sequels followed.

In 2003, composer/lyricist Stephen Schwartz (Godspell, Pippin) and Winnie Holzman (My So-Called Life, Thirtysomething) adapted the novel for Broadway. While the reviews were mixed, the musical proved an audience hit. The Broadway Wicked has passed 8,000 performances, becoming the fourth longest-running musical in Broadway history. Tours, as well as worldwide productions, keep the show in the public’s eye.

Universal Pictures (who co-produced the Broadway production) present the film Wicked, the first of a two-part adaptation. Winnie Holzman and Dana Fox crafted a first-rate screenplay, returning to the book for details and creating additional backstories and an expansion of the narrative. Jon M. Chu (Crazy Rich Asians, In the Heights) brilliantly directs with a deep and honest understanding. From start to finish, Wicked is a triumph. In the truest example of the whole being greater than the sum of its parts, the film is an alchemical fusion of material, cast, and design, unifying in a single vision.

Wicked opens on the stone floor of the Wicked Witch of the West’s castle after her liquidation. The film cuts to a longshot of the friends with her broom traveling the Yellow Brick toward the Emerald City. The next shot is Glinda’s Munchkinland arrival in the signature pink bubble and her affirmation, “It’s good to see me.” Over the next two and a half hours, the story of the unlikely friendship of Glinda and Elphaba unfolds with dazzling visuals, first-rate vocals, and heart-felt, connected performances. It is not just the tale but how it is told: The movie opens the story to its “unlimited” vistas.

The film shows Elphaba’s birth and family, emphasizing her cuckolded father’s intensive dislike for the green baby. Additionally, he blames the verdant girl for the death of her mother and the damage to the second daughter, Nessarose. A script change creates greater tension: Elphaba did not intend to enroll at Shiz University; she was there to see Nessarose settled. Elphaba’s magic—like many outcasts (think Carrie)—manifests in moments of anger. After a display of violent but impressive power, Madame Morrible, the Dean of Sorcery, recruits Elphaba for the college. Morrible makes Galinda (she has yet to drop the “a”) share her spacious living quarters. Thus begins a fractious relationship that blooms into a deep friendship that is Wicked’s core.

The film squarely addresses the fascist issues examined in the book. The expulsion of Professor Dillamond, the goat who teaches history, is frighteningly effective and affecting. Unlike the hybrid in the Broadway production, Dillamond is a full-fledged goat—played with a genuine and sensitive core. A harrowing scene in which a group of animals meet covertly to discuss their impending fate resonates as a 1940s Germany. The filmmakers make bold statements regarding oppression and the stripping of rights, further emphasized in the presentation of the Wizard.

Cynthia Erivo and Ariana Grande-Butera in a scene from the film. Photo courtesy of Universal Pictures

Christopher Scott found the perfect vocabulary for the choreography, making each number and every movement count in the dozen numbers. The designs work towards flawless unity. Paul Tazewell’s jaw-droppingly elaborate costumes play perfectly against Nathan Crowley’s genius of a production design, perfectly filmed by cinematographer Alice Brooks. Glinda’s myriad shades of pink contrast with Elphaba’s textured blacks. The school uniforms play smartly against the Disney-esque Shiz University. The clockwork library allows for a “Marion the Librarian”—on-steroids “Dancing Through Life.”

At the film’s center are the exceptional performances. Cynthia Erivo embodies Elphaba in her struggles and frustrations but also her hope and humanity. She finds a wry humor that never fully masks her complicated outsider’s pain. Ariana Grande-Butera’s hair-flicking G(a)linda is the enchanting counterpart, an Elle Woods on steroids. But like Erivo, she allows the character’s inner life—and, most importantly, growth—to shine through. Both demonstrate a ferocious understanding of the throughline and deliver excellent vocals. 

Jonathan Bailey’s Fiyero raises the clichéd bad-boy and embodies his self-reflective declaration, “I don’t cause commotions. I am one.” Michelle Yeoh brings dangerous elegance to Madame Morrible, the ideal contrast to Jeff Goldblum’s bumbling but seemingly charming Wizard. In the latter, we see the true banality of evil, with his throwaway “to bring folks together, give them a real good enemy.” 

The supporting cast is first-rate: Ethan Slater sweet as the gentle but eager Boq, Marissa Bode strong as Nessarose, Peter Dinklage giving a gentle gravitas to the voice of Dr. Dillamond, Bowen Yang and Bronwyn Jones hilarious as Galinda’s sidekicks Pfannee and ShenShen, and Keala Settle’s upright but corruptible headmistress, Miss Coddle. The film contains two special appearances and a cameo that will delight fans. 

With Wicked, we finally have a musical adaptation to join the ranks of The Sound of Music and Chicago. With its high-octane energy, celebratory score, extraordinary imagery, and glorious cast, Wicked does not just fly—it soars. Rated PG, the film is now playing in local theaters.

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Lacey Chabert in a scene from 'Hot Frosty.' Photo courtesy of Netflix

Reviewed by Jeffrey Sanzel

Christmas is a time of giving: gifts, good cheer, and kind wishes. Christmas is also the time for an endless parade of holiday movies launched by every channel and streaming service. And, like a handful of coal, Netflix stuffed our stockings with the one-note, no-joke Hot Frosty. 

Writer Russell Hainline’s premise is simple. Depressed widow Kathy Barrett (Lacey Chabert), owner of Kathy’s Kafé, lives in the town of Hope Springs (subtle). Still grieving over the death of her husband to cancer, her life is falling apart: the roof leaks, the heat does not work, and she no longer cooks for herself, represented by a counter of empty takeout containers. However, other than that, she seems to be doing okay. Let’s call it grief light. 

Lacey Chabert in a scene from ‘Hot Frosty’ with Dustin Milligan. Photo courtesy of Netflix

Her friend, Mel (Sherry Miller), runs Reclaimed Rags, a second-hand clothing store across from the café. Mel gives Kathy a scarf with the “wise” advice: “You’ll never find the warmth unless you venture out into the cold.” Kathy graciously accepts the scarf but then notices that between two scarved snowmen is an Adonis-like ice sculpture without one. Feeling generous(?), she wraps the scarf around the sculpture, bringing it/him (Dustin Milligan) to life. (Don’t worry—the scarf covers the naughty bits.)

On the plus side, the adult fairy tale kicks into gear very quickly, without much backstory or exposition (or explanation). On the negative side, the adult fairy tale kicks into gear very quickly, without much backstory or exposition (or explanation). The writing is puerile, and Jerry Ciccoritti’s direction club fisted.

The animated sculpture crashes into Reclaimed Rags and steals some clothing, including a vest with the name “Jack.” Thus, he is called “Jack.” The next morning, Kathy finds Jack standing in front of the diner. Thinking he might need help—given his strange behavior—she brings him inside … because that is what one does with psychotics who say, “I was made of snow, now I’m made of not snow.” (Scintillating dialogue.) When he claims, “I’ve never had food before,” one questions why she does not call for help or simply runs screaming into the street. Instead, she takes him to the local doctor, Dottie (Katy Mixon Greer), who concludes that he might be the snowman he claims to be (for this, she went to medical school?). They agree not to take him to the police because the sheriff tends to overreact. 

Kathy moves him into her house, and the newly sentient Jack immediately falls for her. The rest of the interminable film focuses on their growing relationship and his ability to learn anything by watching television. (This includes the discovery that vampires are afraid of crosses. Very Christmasy.)

An unpleasant and fairly ugly encounter with a snow-banked cougar, Jane (Lauren Holly), concludes with Jack’s innocent punchline, “Do you want me to get behind you and push?” Fortunately, this thread goes nowhere besides landing Jack a maintenance job at the middle school. The majority of his work is decorating the gym for the winter dance.

The film is a mix of styles—like a Christmas gift bag of assorted pointy objects. (Each is different, but all are painful in their own ways.) The occasional joke that lands is a holiday miracle. (Though a Mean Girls reference is pretty smart.) There are two montages because one is not nauseatingly enough. 

A grating subplot focuses on the sheriff hunting for the person who smashed the clothing store’s glass. The officer is a parody of a spoof of a send-up of a take-off on small-town law enforcement. In a film of mostly poor moments, the usually hilarious Craig Robinson is saddled with some of the most eggnog-curdling dialogue in this (or any) film: “You can’t buy me breakfast. It might influence the investigation.” (Hilarious.) Joe Lo Truglio’s deputy sheriff makes Barney Fife look like Hamlet’s Horatio. The café/ice cube scene might rank as the unfunniest bit in holiday history.

Chabert and Milligan work well together, play it straight enough, and do not lack charm. But the material is so painfully underdeveloped and wrong-headed that they cannot mine a moment of tension in the ninety minutes. His declarations like “I still don’t understand how all of this is happening, but I am so glad you were the one who found me” are only matched by his constant statement of “I love you.” Will she say it back? Can she? Is she ready? (Spoiler alert. Yes.)

Corralling the underdeveloped townspeople, the film builds to a lazy finale—a Frosty the Snowman/E.T./It’s a Wonderful Life rip-off. (Yes, they can claim homage to the last one, but it is not.) A strong cast fails to shovel this slushy mess. (Even the outtake bloopers are not funny.)

Perhaps the film has created a new sub-genre: the Frenetically Lugubrious Christmas Fantasy Rom-Uncom. (Ho-Ho-No, Thank you.) Next year, instead of holiday fare like Hot Frosty, Netflix, please just give us the cheese-of-the month club.

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Tom Hanks and Robin Wright in a scene from 'Here'. Photo courtesy of Sony Pictures Entertainment

Reviewed by Jeffrey Sanzel

In 1989, Raw published Richard McGuire’s six-page comic strip, Here. The thirty-five panels followed a single location but spanned 500,957,406,073 B.C. to 2033 A.D. Often, the panels contained other images within, depicting multiple time frames simultaneously. In 2014, Pantheon Books published McGuire’s full-length graphic novel. The 304 pages traced the same space from 3,000,500,000 B.C. to A.D. 22,175, concentrating on the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, predominantly focusing on the living room of a house built in 1907.

As a senior thesis project in 1991, students from Rochester Institute of Technology’s Department of Film and Video created a six-minute film of the original comic. An immersive V.R. film based on the full-length novel was designed and produced by British Fifty Nine Productions, under the direction of Lysander Ashton, with music by Anna Meredith.  

Now, director Robert Zemeckis brings his adaptation to the big screen. The prolific Zemeckis broke out with the 1978 I Wanna Hold Your Hand. His work includes Romancing the Stone, the Back to the Future trilogy, Who Framed Roger Rabbit, Death Becomes Her, and Contact, among others. His 1994 Forest Gump won six Academy Awards, including Best Picture, Best Director, and Best Actor (for Tom Hanks). Over the years, Zemeckis has teamed with Hanks on Pinocchio, The Polar Express, and Cast Away. Here reunites Hanks with his Gump co-star, Robin Wright. 

Zemeckis (who co-wrote the screenplay with Eric Roth) uses the basic idea and framework of the novel but instead chooses to highlight on the twentieth-century Young family that occupies the house. While still weaving back and forth through time, it eventually settles into a more chronological telling of the one family.

The first eight minutes progress through thousands of years of history (dinosaurs, volcanic eruption or asteroids, Ice Age), but then Here slows down to offer a handful of earlier years, including a native American couple and their tribe, as well as a view of the house across the street where Benjamin Franklin’s son, the loyalist William, lived. Of the former, the indigenous people seem cast from a 1960s history museum diorama. The late eighteenth-century Revolutionary War moments feel like a community theatre production of 1776. 

The earliest inhabitants of the house, the Harters (Michelle Dockery and Gwilym Lee), serve little function except establishing occupancy and a nod to the Influenza Epidemic of 1918 (with a parallel later with the COVID pandemic). A slight subplot about aviation grates. The Beekmans follow—Stella (Ophelia Lovibond) and her inventor husband, Leo (David Fynn), who provide a humorous and interesting diversion.

Zemeckis trades the book’s panoramic and epic nature to emphasize the Young family’s day-to-day struggles. Recently discharged from the service, World War II veteran Al Young (Paul Bettany) purchases the house for his wife, Rose (Kelly Reilly). Here, they raise their family—two boys and a girl. The oldest, Richard (Hanks), impregnates his girlfriend Margaret (Wright) on the living room sofa. The couple weds, taking up residence in the house. What follows is years of joys and sorrows, trials and tribulations—marriage and children, illness and death. 

Throughout their story, flashes of the earlier inhabitants recur, as well as the Harris family (Nikki Amuka-Bird and Nicholas Pinnock), who take the house when Richard sells it. Perhaps Zemeckis is trying to draw parallels between these disparate worlds—but, unlike McGuire—he does not succeed.  

Here veers towards the saccharine when it is trying to be its most sincere. The Hallmark (card, not network) feel hovers around most of the stiff dialogue. Instead of simple, the exchanges feel simplistic. The messages about love, family, dreams, art, and loss seem predictable and lack anything bordering on revelatory. The best-landing moments can be attributed to the Young quartet and the inherent honesty in their performances, even when saddled with two- and even one-dimensional material.

From a visual standpoint, Here is almost a one-camera set-up. We view the living room straight on as it evolves and shifts, often picture-in-picture(-in picture). The effect alternates between clever and precious. Sometimes, the entire experience feels like Disney’s Carousel of Time. And speaking of Disney, the A.I. intelligence Metaphysic Life, used for face-swapping and de-aging the actors in real-time (instead of post-production), presents a young Tom Hanks looking more like the puppet Pinocchio than his real boy counterpart. 

In the end, the film works and doesn’t work. For some audiences, they will embrace a concept taken to its fullest and a sometimes touching family saga. For others, Here is a gimmick with a center that is human, but not inspiring, tapping into soap opera plots that overstay the hundred-minute running time. Gertrude Stein said of her hometown, Oakland, “There is no there there.” Ultimately, with Zemeckis’s film, there is no Here there either.

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

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