I watched a dozen movies last week:
- The Mastermind is, I suppose, a deconstruction of the heist movie, in that the heist, and even the motives for it, are of less interest to writer/director Kelly Reichardt than the quiet collapse of the inevitable aftermath. It’s not necessarily my favorite of Reichardt’s films, but only because she’s made so many good ones.
- I’m not overly familiar with Vanity Fair, the novel or film adaptations, or the character of Becky Sharp first portrayed there. She threatens to be a little one-note here, were it not for the very winning (and Oscar-nominated) performance by Miriam Hopkins.
- Ball of Fire is dated and corny as all get out, but it’s also a charmingly goofy riff on Snow White and the Seven Dwarves.
- Jennifer Lawrence’s descent into madness in Lynne Ramsay’s Die My Love is never entirely explained, but that’s precisely why the film works so well. It’s raw and emotional and seen through Lawrence’s genuinely bravura performance.
- I’ve seen worse movies than Mission: Impossible – The Final Reckoning. I’ve maybe even seen worse movies in the same series. But this was such a remarkably weak note to end everything on. The film is full of silly exposition, clips from the rest of the franchise, and a not very successful attempt to tie the series together in neat cinematic-universe bow—all while being surprisingly light on fun action set-pieces.
- The considerable charms of its cast—particularly Grace Kelly—notwithstanding, High Society is surprisingly bad. It lacks the sharp screwball comedy dialogue of The Philadelphia Story, on which it’s ostensibly based, its plot is overly confused and convoluted, and the one new thing it’s supposed to be bringing to the table, namely the musical numbers, aren’t particularly good.
- Sentimental Value is such a beautiful and human story of family and depression, of art’s ability (and failure) to combat it, and it’s full of wonderful performances.
- I’m starting to worry, because with The Running Man, the number of Edgar Wright movies I don’t like is starting to approach the number of his films that I genuinely love. I didn’t particularly enjoy his last movie, Last Night in Soho, but at least that was still stylish and distinctive, whereas this one is so anonymously directed, full of plot holes and poorly conceived set-pieces, and it’s hard to understand what anyone involved was bringing to the table.
- Joy House is more than a little odd, and on paper its plot would likely seem ridiculous, but it benefits enormously from Alain Delon and Jane Fonda, and a decent sense of style.
- There’s a moment near the end, an admirably big swing, in Bugonia that maybe lost me a little, and that possibly undermines everything else the movie up until then seemed to be doing, but it’s an interesting ride all the way.
- Although it’s Hitchcock’s (and maybe England’s) first talkie, Blackmail behaves much more like a silent film, and fully is one for long stretches. That’s not infrequently to the movie’s benefit, since Anny Ondra has a remarkably expressive face perhaps better at conveying strong emotion than delivering the film’s dialogue, and there are many expertly framed shots that don’t really require any sound.
- For a movie about such heady topics as assault and depression, Sorry, Baby is a wonderfully warm and funny film, and a remarkably self-assured debut from writer/director/star Eva Victor.
I also rewatched the delightful A Matter of Life and Death. It’s maybe not my favorite of Powell and Pressburger’s movies, but it’s easily in the top five.
