When you think of the films of Ridley Scott, it’s most likely his early sci-fi classics “Alien” (1979) and “Blade Runner” (1982), but the prolific filmmaker’s first effort, “The Duelists” (1977), was a period piece set in France during the Napoleonic wars. In that film (not to be confused with “The Last Duel” from 2021, which Scott made with local guys Ben and Matt), the French emperor’s presence was felt constantly, but Napoleon himself never steps into the frame; it’s with a daub of poetic justice that Scott, nearly 50 years later and with a budget almost 200 times bigger, gets to deliver a biopic epic centered on the historically notorious icon known as much for his hubris and the self-esteem complex named after his alleged diminutive stature and inflammable ego as for his military gamesmanship.
As Napoleon, the usually reliable Joaquin Phoenix (“Beau is Afraid,”“You Were Never Really Here”) feels somewhat subdued. That said, it is intriguing to see him reunite with Scott some 22 years after “Gladiator,” in which Phoenix also played a self-absorbed ruler – a deliciously sniveling fop of a Roman emperor. What’s missing is some of the entitled, mercurial and Oscar-winning zing baked into his mirthless Gotham ghoul in “Joker” (2019).
The film opens with Napoleon witnessing the beheading of Marie Antoinette. The French Revolution is in full swing, and the British are looking to gain a bigger foothold across the channel. To prove his worth to the new republic, Napoleon leads the fierce and tactically astute Siege of Toulon, where underpowered French forces take out a well-ensconced British fort under the cloak of night. It doesn’t help that the Brits are in the midst of sweeping, drunken merriment and caught with their pants down, literally.
Thus begins Napoleon’s ascent from military marksman to iron-fisted ruler as one part of the French Consulate triumvirate and later emperor, and efforts to expand the French empire into Africa and Eastern Europe take hold as well as the long-simmering desire to crush the hated English and their hold on the seas (see “Master and Commander”). The main threads of Scott’s film, penned by David Scarpa (“Man in the High Castle” and Scott’s “All the Money in the World”) focus on Bonaparte’s obsession with besting Russian Tsar Alexander I (Édouard Philipponnat), a handsome man-boy that Napoleon seems to hold in deference, and his capricious relationship with Josephine (Vanessa Kirby). Scott’s orchestration of the Battle of Austerlitz, where Napoleon takes it to Russian and Austrian forces (also called the Battle of Three Emperors), as well as the infamous, post-Elba exile grudge match, Waterloo, are stunning in scope, choreography and gritty grandeur. Kirby, who plays the White Widow in the “Mission: Impossible” films, is no stranger to strong women and fills those shoes well here, yet the relationship and the tempo of its tears and folds is wildly uneven – which is not on Kirby, to say the least. Kirby portrays a woman whose confidence and sensuality are more than worthy of holding the gaze of a man with limitless power and, as a result, after their marriage implodes because of heir matters, remains a regularly sought confidant, counsel and simmering longing. The sex scenes have a cheeky silliness, not too far off from some of Scott’s work with Cameron Diaz and a racy sports coupe in “The Counselor” (2013) and most recently Lady Gaga and Adam Driver in “The House of Gucci” (2021).
Beyond the major battles – epic with a capital “E” – and sticking to the historic record, Scott and Scarpa don’t let Bonaparte off the hook for his actions. His Ahab-esque quests cost needless lives, something the film registers as clearly and coldly as the hoar of the harsh Russian winter. As far as the size thing goes, the record shows Napoleon at just north of 5-foot-6; it’s rumored that the Corsican (a lesser, looked-down-upon ilk to most French noblemen at the time) was surrounded intentionally by taller, statuesque guardsmen. Scott and Scarpa wisely choose not to delve into the matter, but Scott often shoots down on Bonaparte, or up from his POV, lending to the effect.
The picture, which holds one’s eye throughout the 157-minute running time, is opulent but bears the jerky unevenness of Scott’s “Gucci.” Perhaps a Thanksgiving Day viewing will leave visual feasters of all things Napoleonic hungry and searching the streaming universe for the timeless 1927 treasure of the same name crafted by Abel Gance. Seek it out and enjoy the treat. It’s not an either-or, mind you, as Gance’s tale tells of a young Napoleon in school and his early days in the military, dovetailing nicely in time to where Scott’s vision starts.
The latest from Alexander Payne, set at an all-boy, New England prep school in the early 1970s, bears the distinct tang of J.D. Salinger, not to mention Wes Anderson’s “Rushmore” (1998) as it homes in on the loneliness of the disenfranchised among the entitled elite. It marks a nice rebound for Payne after his 2017 misfire, the dystopian sci-fi satire “Downsizing.” and a pleasant reunion with Paul Giamatti, who with his work here and the infectiously uproarious “Sideways” (2004), proves to be something of the director’s go-to alter ego as Leonardo DiCaprio and Robert De Niro have for Martin Scorsese.
The setup’s fairly straightforward: Paul Hunham (Giamatti), a gruff, unapologetic Western Civ. professor, is the faculty member who’s drawn the short-straw assignment of looking after the “holdovers” for Christmas break at a fictional New England preparatory called Barton. These students have no place to go because Korea’s too far and expensive to fly home to, the house is being remodeled and there’s nowhere to sleep, or mom’s newly remarried and wants to have some honeymoon time. The latter is the bad-news phone call that Angus Tully (Dominic Sessa) gets. He’s also struggling in Hunham’s class, and Hunham’s not the most popular figure on campus; even the faculty and headmaster are none too smitten with him – for one thing, he failed the son of a U.S. senator and major benefactor of the school at the tail-end of the progeny’s senior year, his unwavering strictness costing the kid a golden ticket to an Ivy League institution.
Joining Hunham and the five boys is school cook Mary Lamb (Da’Vine Joy Randolph, divine and scene-stealing; you can also catch her in “Rustin,” out this week) a Black woman who spends much of her time – even when cooking – drinking and smoking to hold down the grief of having just lost her only child, a Barton grad (the only non-caucasian we know to attend the school besides that Korean boy) killed in the Vietnam War.
Early in the staycation, one of the boys’ fathers drops in via helicopter and offers to whisk the five off for a week of skiing. Not a bad reprieve for the cooped-up and bored, but parental consent is needed; all but Tully get it. What ensues is a slow grinding of nerves between Tully and Hunham with occasional explosions and slow reveals of underlying traumas that are the real root of their sniping and doubling down. Newcomer Sessa, who at times looks a bit too old for the part, holds his own with Giamatti as he effectively expresses restrained rage. Fans of Giamatti’s acerbic naysayer in wine-imbibing comedy “Sideways” and his quirky delve into comic book artist Harvey Pekar in “American Splendor” (2003), will delight in this nuanced turn. His Hunham is a self-loathing introvert who maintains his balance in the world with an outrigger of arrogant self righteousness, but also a lonely soul seeking human connection and totally unaware of how to get it.
The most vulnerable we witness the stranded three is at a Christmas Eve party hosted at the home of a bubbly Barton administrator (Carrie Preston, wonderfully perky, near “Fargo”-esque in the part) who takes shifts at the local watering hole to make ends meet. Tully and Hunham catch romantic flirtations that hit dead-ends for widely different reasons and Lamb, in the middle of the party, decides to confront her grief in a very public and all-consuming way. It’s a poignant, mood-shifting scene that should make many take notice of the emerging Randolph, who, like Giamatti, attended the Yale School of Drama. Later, the three find themselves in Hunham’s rickety car en route to Boston – Lamb on her way to visit her pregnant sister in Roxbury and Tully and Hunham taking an “academic excursion” that at one juncture lands them at the Somerville Theatre to take in a screening of Dustin Hoffman in Arthur Penn’s “Little Big Man.”
Poetically, the sojourn, initiated by Tully with a hidden agenda, ends in a meeting with Hunham on Boston Common. The two are forced to confront their pasts with a baring of their souls evocative of the joyous dread imbued into Hal Ashby’s “The Last Detail” (1973), in which Boston also served as a port of reckoning.
If you’re curious about that boarding school, it’s a composite of institutions in and around Massachusetts, but mostly scenes there were shot on the Deerfield Academy campus (one of the oldest prep schools in America) in Central Massachusetts.
Justine Triet’s “Anatomy of a Fall,” winner of the Palme d’Or at Cannes, dissects the slow, vicious implosion of a marriage. The reasons why are the usual suspects: grief, blame and jealousy. But there’s little else usual about Triet’s emotionally eviscerating narrative, which begins with the death of one spouse and, in carefully curated frames, rewinds as the survivor is put on trial for murder.
As the film opens, a writer (Sandra Hüller) sips wine in a rustic chalet amid the snowy white backdrop of the French Alps and attempts to answer the questions of an adoring grad student (Camille Rutherford) who has come to the cozy high to perform an interview. What cuts the Q&A short is the regular blasting of an instrumental version of “P.I.M.P.” by 50 Cent from somewhere above. The intrusive ruckus comes from the writer’s husband, Samuel (Samuel Theis), whom we learn is also a writer. Hüller‘s Sandra sees her interviewer dutifully to her car and instead of going upstairs to confront Samuel, decides to take a nap. It’s interrupted shortly by the screams of her eyesight-impaired 11-year-old son, Daniel (Milo Machado Graner), who went for a walk with the family dog along a ravine during the interview and returned to find a lifeless Samuel, head cracked and with considerable blood splatter, on the packed snow where the interviewer’s car had been parked. Did he fall, did he jump or was he pushed? Police seek answers, tossing dummy after dummy out the window to reconstruct events. Their findings don’t point to an accident or suicide, so Sandra – the only other one in the house – gets tagged with the murder.
What ensues is a courtroom trial in which the grad student, the son and Samuel, though recorded conversations Sandra was unaware of, are the key witnesses. Things that bubble up are the German-born Sandra’s resentment of being shoehorned into French culture (many times she wants to speak English, but the court, investigators and others insist on French) the result of the French-born Samuel’s reasoning that his ancestral lodge will serve as an Edenic inspiration for their words to flow. The reality is – and Triet uses obvious devices with surprising inventiveness to take us back in time to these moments – prose does not flow, and Samuel resents Sandra for being the more successful writer. Then there’s the matter of who was the more negligent during the accident that greatly dimmed Daniel’s vision, and the trailing fact that Sandra has a favoring for younger women of a certain intellect. The facts of the union, the fall and familial life are told with a guarded hand; “Rashomon”-like reinterpretations roll out as Samuel’s recordings are used by the prosecution to reframe that opening interview as a seduction. Daniel’s allegiances seems to waver and shift as the trial becomes more steeped in the unpleasant details of domestic decay.
Beyond Triet’s masterful orchestration, it’s Hüller and her fellow cast members who take the provocative who-did-it to viscerally resonating highs. Much is asked of Hüller, as the camera regularly hangs close on her emotive face and its high, creased forehead and distinctively pronounced nose. She delivers, scene in and scene out. It’s a film-defining performance, and her conspirators are up to the task too, especially the young Graner, who portrays Daniel as vulnerable and unsettled; Theis, who delivers a seething husband looking to pin his anger and frustration on another; and Swann Arlaud, beguiling and David Byrne-impish as Sandra’s patient and sympathetic defense attorney. The culmination is a slow burn, with many muffled explosions along the way that pull you into the trapped souls – who has more self-esteem issues than writers? – looking for a release, creative, sexual or otherwise.
Martin Scorsese’s latest period epic after such works as “Gangs of New York,” (2002), “Age of Innocence” (1993) and “The Aviator” (2004) should serve not only as a history lesson to many, but more importantly as a bloody smear of shame and, hopefully, an uneasy point of reflection. For those who were here first, “Killers of the Flower Moon” will likely be a sad reminder of what was and continues to be.
Working from journalist David Grann’s 2017 real-life account with the additional tag “The Osage Murders and the Birth of the FBI, ” there’s much in the film that leverages Scorsese’s mean-streets, gangland roots and much that unfurls that, if not stated as nonfiction, would be hard to believe. Set on an Osage reservation post-World War I, “Killers of the Flower Moon” has the grand, neo-western feel of Michael Cimino’s “Heaven’s Gate” (1980) and even Sergio Leone’s “Once Upon a Time in the West” (1968) as Leonardo DiCaprio’s Ernest Burkhart, returning from the war (a cook, not a soldier, because he has a weak stomach) steps off a train in Fairfax, Oklahoma, and is picked up by a dapper member of the Osage tribe by the name of Charlie Whitehorn. Charlie has better duds than Ernest, and a shiny new car. As they drive up lush prairie hills lined with prime-specimen cattle and oil derricks, Ernest asks: “Whose land is this?” “Mine,” Charlie beams. From there, newsreel footage explain how the Osage, part of the forced Indian relocations of the mid-late 1800s, became the richest per capita community in the world because under a scrubby landscape once deemed of little value lay a limitless bounty of oil. Happy riches this is not; by government decree the Osage were deemed not capable to manage their money and were given guardians – white attorneys, bankers, trustees and the like – to look after and allocate their riches. You can only imagine how well that worked out.
Grann’s focus isn’t so much the oil money but the associated Reign of Terror, several years in the 1920s when some 60 Osage were outright murdered, died under suspicious circumstances or went missing, with local law enforcement doing little more than nodding their head. (That number is considered conservative.) Indifference to the plight of native peoples ripples onward: according to the FBI, the number of missing and murdered indigenous women now is nearly three times higher than the next demographic segment, a stark point underscored in Taylor Sheridan’s “Wind River” (2017).
What goes on in Scorsese’s “Killers of the Flower Moon” (the name taken from the Osage expression for the wildflowers that bloom across the prairie under a full moon) is a slow unraveling – the movie is more than three and a half hours – of an insidious, systematic plot to bilk and bleed the Osage. Ernest, a lazy idealist at best and not the sharpest of young men, has come to Fairfax under the prospect of prosperity that he expects to find in the employment of his rich uncle William “King” Hale (Robert De Niro), a cattle baron and, as we first meet him, a self-proclaimed great friend of the Osage. That couldn’t be further from the truth.
One of Hale’s early maneuverings is to employ Ernest as chauffeur to a young Osage woman named Mollie (Lily Gladstone), coincidentally next in line to inherit the family’s oil-rights share as the health of her mother, the matriarch of the clan (Tantoo Cardinal) is on the wane. They don’t live past 50, Hale remarks, implying that diabetes is a plague among the Osage (the “wasting disease,” he calls it). That initial sentiment seems to be one of genuine concern and pity, but scenes later, it’s revealed that modern medicine is employed as a ruse; insulin laced with poison is being administered to the Osage. The town’s doctors are among those in on the scheme; even the wide-eyed, simple-minded Ernest clearly knows something’s askew as he injects an ailing Mollie, now his wife, with the solution.
Hale’s long game is to marry, leech and inherit; when that doesn’t work quickly enough, a bullet to the head’s just as good, because without an eyewitness – and there never is one – the case is put atop of pile of similar unsolved deaths to gather dust.
It’s a hard emotional watch, the parasitic gutting of a community from the inside out. Even more deviously treacherous is Hale attending meetings of the Osage elders in an advisory capacity as they assemble in an effort to suss out who is behind the deaths, not knowing the devil is in the room. Hale and Ernest, along with Ernest’s brother, Byron (Scott Shepherd), married to Mollie’s sister Anna (Cara Jade Myers, excellent as the boozy flapper who speaks her mind freely and pays for it), aren’t anything like Henry Hill (Ray Liotta) in “Goodfellas” (1990) or even Jordan Belfort in “The Wolf of Wall Street” (2013). Those guys were wolves who bared their fangs publicly and bit into the necks of other wolves; here, Hale and his crew cloak themselves in wool and go after the ewes and lambs while acting the bull ram that keeps the non-existent wolf at bay.
To Scorsese’s credit, he doesn’t render the Osage as victims. Mollie is at her most capable when at her most physically weakened; Gladstone plays her with a wry, knowing and deep internal resolve, not only holding her own with the two Oscar winners but wresting several scenes from them. Several efforts to elicit outside aid get snuffed violently by Hale, though ultimately, entreaties to President Harding by Mollie result in the arrival of a team of undercover investigators led by a gentlemanly former Texas Ranger (Jesse Plemons, perfect in the part) from the Bureau of Investigation, soon to be the FBI and newly overseen by a young J. Edgar Hoover (once played by DiCaprio in a Clint Eastwood biopic). Even then, Hale’s teflon armor and ability to spin and control the narrative feels uncrackable. How it all plays out is noted by history and Scorsese and his co-writer Eric Roth (“Dune,” “Munich”), inventively playing fast and loose with the fourth wall and formal law proceedings. It’s an inspired wrap-up that sees Brendan Fraser channeling his room-commanding heavy in “No Sudden Move” (2021), an ageless John Lithgow and rocker Jack White in sharp small turns.
De Niro, who seems minted for the unenviable role, hasn’t been this good in years and DiCaprio, with something of a Brando-esque mouthpiece, manages to make Ernest understandable, if not marginally sympathetic in a Greek tragedy of avarice-and-wrongs-realized sort of way. The other apt, emotionally evocative accent is the era-embracing score by rocker Robbie Robertson, peppered with Native American influences and southern slide-guitar twangs reminiscent of Ry Cooder’s work in “Southern Comfort” (1981). Robertson, the former guitarist of the Woodstock-era folk band The Band, is no stranger to Scorsese; the group’s farewell concert was the subject of Scorsese’s great 1978 rock-doc “The Last Waltz”; more to the point, Robertson, whose father is Mohawk, grew up on the Six Nations Reservation in Canada. His contribution are the heart and soul embers that burn within each frame.
Tense couples make for riveting drama. Within such, it’s amazing how a small event can trigger a rapid downward slide: A lascivious sext from a lover discovered by a previously unaware spouse or the covert depletion of the family nest egg are surefire detonations of trust and passion, but how about the promotion of one partner over the other or, even more out there, one who gets selected for a multiyear post on an idyllic space station while the other has to remain in the barren dust bowl of the Midwest? That’s what happens in “Fair Play” and “Foe,” films that despite their vast scope come off as boxed stage plays centered around the fracturing of two souls.
“Foe” boasts Oscar timber with Saoirse Ronan (“Lady Bird”) and Paul Mescal (“Aftersun”) as Hen and Junior, a couple trying to live off the grid in 2065. Much of the Americas are the dying, dust-choked, wasteland-in-waiting that we witnessed in Christopher Nolan’s “Interstellar” (2014). Because of climate change and human avarice, folks are in dire need of a place to breathe clean air, which in this case means humanmade colonies floating in the dark beyond. Hen and Junior are definitely not simpatico when we meet them: She regularly sends him to the guest room to sleep. One night, a dapper stranger (Aaron Pierre), well-composed and all business, comes knocking. Turns out he’s from the agency that runs the colonies and informs the two that Junior has been selected for an outer world stint to help boot up a station. To make things whole and fair in the interim, they will deliver a replicant-like (yes, “Blade Runner”) facsimile of Junior to keep Hen company. The process of cloning Junior’s persona is arguably more intense – blood, sweat and tears are literally shed – than simply mapping the memories of Tyrell’s niece.
The edgy emotional play between Hen and Junior rivets, and Pierre’s interloper (he’s staying with them for the cloning process) adds fuel to the fire with pronounced notes of sexual and racial tension. The rendering of a dying earth and industrial chicken harvesting plant that Junior works at – a sterile, cavernous maze of conveyers issuing an endless supply of plucked fowl – are wonderments of grim revelation well done by director Garth Davis (the acclaimed “Lion,” which paired Nicole Kidman with Dev Patel), cinematog Mátyás Erdély (“The Nest”) and the set design team. That said, one has to wonder: If Junior remains so apprehensive about the mission, why not send the clone? It’s one of many such questions that nearly submerge the film, but the visuals, moody, immersive score and Ronan and Mescal’s clear talents hold the fragile, end-of-the-world bait-and-switch together, just barely.
More in the now, nestled in the male-dominated hedge fund biz, Chloe Domont‘s “Fair Play” tackles issues of gender and class in devious, piquant ways. Emily (Phoebe Dynevor) and Luke (Alden Ehrenreich) are a secretly engaged couple who work at One Crest Capital, a big Manhattan investment firm that forbids employees to date. Each morning they take separate routes to the office to keep suspicious minds at bay. Luke got his gig through connections, while Emily comes from the other side of the tracks and is just happy to be there. Luke’s expects to be promoted to the newly open VP slot, but guess what: Em gets the nod, and Luke has to report to his betrothed. That bump up in rank shuffles a lot of dynamics in their cozy Midtown flat, and not for the best. Em now stays out until 2 a.m. with head honcho Campbell (Eddie Marsan, so good in “Happy Go Lucky” and intimidating here, with a calm, tacit aloofness) in which conversations about Luke’s value to the company oft come up – never pleasant, as Luke recently got Campbell to bite on a $50 million hunch that imploded wildly.
Despite that, and in the name of love, Em goes above and beyond to put in a good word for Luke, but it doesn’t ease the tension at home. You could call “Fair Play” an erotic psycho-thriller of sorts, but don’t think Michael Douglas and Glenn Close in “Fatal Attraction” (1987); it’s much racier than that, without the bloodletting but with an early scene in which the act of oral sex results in a broad, bloody smile. What Domont puts under the scope here is the fragile white male ego. The performances by Ehrenreich (“Solo: A Star Wars Story”) and Dynevor, a slap-in-the-face discovery, are paramount to pushing the shill into reasonable credibility as it ebbs into its less-than-credible final act. Domont clearly has her finger on something, but just can’t quite close, and you can’t ignore that these two (and all in their sphere) are doing quite well by comparison to most, and in an industry known for its greed. Still, there’s Dynevor, and she rings the bell in every scene she’s in with resounding tintinnabulation.
Hard to believe it’s been 40 years since “Stop Making Sense” came out and took its place as one of the best rock-docs ever made. The collaboration between late filmmaker Jonathan Demme (“Silence of the Lambs,” “Something Wild”) and the ’80s punk-art band Talking Heads registers the same immersive lightning-in-a-bottle effect today as it did back when the band was on tour to promote its fifth album, “Speaking in Tongues,” and near the apex of its success. Shot for a mere $800,000 (put up by the band and Demme) over three nights at the Pantages Theater in Hollywood, the need-to-see-that-again (and again) effect is the fusion of tight, judicious editing, visceral camera work and the band’s nonstop, infectiously energetic performance.
David Byrne, the band’s lean, tragically handsome frontman, proves to be something of a conductor of controlled chaos as he spasms rhythmically across the stage and bobs his head with the strange, alluring grace of an ostrich. Then there’s that big, boxy suit that feels stolen from the set of a David Lynch film. As captured, Byrne casts a suave, seductive magnetism akin to contemporary Brian Ferry (whose frenemy and former Roxy Music bandmate, Brian Eno, co-wrote and produced several Heads songs, including the seminal “Once in a Lifetime,” which gets a standout performance in the film) with a shot of Johnny Rotten’s spit-in-your-face punk defiance. Byrne’s own bandmates (they all met at the Rhode Island School of Design in the ’70s) are bassist Tina Weymouth, drummer Chris Frantz (married to Weymouth for 46 years, seven of them before the making of the film), and guitarist-keyboardist Jerry Harrison, all bearing gleeful smiles as they take in Byrne’s intoxicating mania like proud parents beaming over a child’s impish playground idiosyncrasies. Those who find their way into Byrne’s aura of quirk do so with a seamless, natural glide. Most adept are Heads accompanists Alex Weir, a high-kicking blues guitarist, and the killer backup tandem of Lynn Mabry and Ednah Holt, who make the cinematic “Take Me to the Water” – borrowed from the great Al Green – the soulful anthem that it is.
The film’s arc is crafted with care and purpose. The opening sequence renders a drab, open stage, something of an art studio without easels. There’s no risers, amps or instrument setups in sight, and Byrne, in Sperry Top-Siders and a mod suit, ambles out with a boombox and guitar to perform an acoustic version of “Psycho Killer,” the band’s big first album hit. “Have we been sold a bill of goods?” audiences in 1984 must have thought, but then come those snaky, goose-neck jerks that hold you rapt as this dressed-down alternative seeps into the bones. Stage pieces slowly – and furtively – roll out, band members sprinkle in and the lights go down, creating a minimalist, noir ambiance. From frame one, there’s no ebb. Sweat drips and the players achieve a synchronicity notched by the rare few: The Who at the Isle of Wight, or Santana doing “Soul Sacrifice” at Woodstock. One of the great gifts of the film comes when Byrne leaves the stage and Weymouth and Franz’s side project, Tom Tom Club, takes over for “Genius of Love,” a hippity-hop, bluesy rap ditty led by Weymouth, Mabry and Holt. The universally acknowledged highlight is that Eno-produced “Once in a Lifetime” number (though my fave is “Swamp”), in which Byrne, wearing that notoriously boxy suit, chops at his arm and smacks his head back, performing a limbo move that would make the lithest of yogis turn green. The side angle showing Mabry and Holt mirroring him is an aesthetic wonderment, ghostly in composition and ingenious in orchestration.
Among the other all-time best rock-docs, two similarly are collaborations between a celebrated filmmaker and iconic artists: “The Last Waltz” (1978), directed by Martin Scorsese capturing The Band’s farewell concert, and “Gimme Shelter” (1970), in which The Rolling Stones confront the stabbing at their Altamont Speedway concert (meant to be a Woodstock west) under the guidance of the legendary Maysles brothers (“Grey Gardens”). The top five also includes the concert-of-all-concerts, “Woodstock” (1970), which had a young Scorsese aboard as an editor, and “Dig!” (2004), the train wreck rock ’n’ roll parable driven by the mercurially self-destructive behavior of Brian Jonestown Massacre (speaking of the Stones) frontman Anton Newcombe and the band’s feud with The Dandy Warhols.
The sign message Sunday at Dragon Pizza in Somerville’s Davis Square.
The week’s viral video kerfuffle in Davis Square between Barstool Sports media CEO and social media personality David Portnoy and Dragon Pizza owner Charlie Redd raises the question: What makes for a fair restaurant review? There isn’t one way, but varying approaches generate different levels of trust in a conclusion.
For those who missed it, Portnoy, who runs Barstool Sports out of New York City, was back in Somerville – he grew up in Massachusetts and after college lived in the square, branded the American Paris of the 1990s – to brings his “One Bite Pizza Review” to Pinocchio’s, Avenue kitchen + bar, Mortadella Head, Mike’s and Dragon. (Several of these have been featured in the Day’s What We’re Having column).
The “protocol,” as Portnoy calls it, is the same: Pick up a pre-ordered pie, come out on the sidewalk where a crew has a camera rolling, take a bite and issue a one-to-10 scale rating. It’s not really one bite, as Portnoy takes a good chomp of the tip, mumbles an initial reaction, takes a bite of the crust and unceremoniously dumps the slice back into the box, further addressing the camera with his conclusions. In some cases – Mike’s and Mortadella – it was apparent they knew Portnoy was coming, revealed by a flyer of his face on the box or extra free food. Most of the videos are to two to four minutes, but the Dragon video turned into an eff-bomb shouting match between Portnoy and Redd and went on for nearly 10 minutes. If it wasn’t for a four-girl smackdown in a Philadelphia port-a-potty, it would have won the Web last week after being posted Thursday.
To be fair, Portnoy, who’s been called out for racism, misogyny and sexual objectification of women (Barstool rose on its frat boy spins on pop culture and sports and scantily clad “hot girls” section) and controversial gambling ventures, does seem to have reasonable pizza acumen (his likening of Avenue’s Detroit-style pizza to an offensive lineman was on target, though I disagree with his one-bite conclusion). And I appreciate that he samples the crust.
But in this food sampler’s opinion, one bite, especially from a cold pie – Portnoy admits the Dragon pie had been sitting – is a tough swallow as far as fair assessment methodology goes. Granted, pizza-tasting needn’t be as nuanced as, say, assessing the flakiness of a halibut fillet with a verde sauce or the consistency of the shallots in a coq au vin wine reduction. At Cambridge Day, What We’re Having maintains a do-no-harm policy, something cooked up during Covid when the industry was struggling, and something we continue to adhere to. What that means is that if What We’re Having comes to your eatery, tries your food and feels it’s not up to par, we write nothing. We’ll also try to come back a few times to make sure it wasn’t just an off night, which happens; changes in the kitchen also can result in wide quality swings. Few in the industry can hold onto total consistency over time.
Portnoy in theory abides by the general food review playbook, coming in to sample as the general public does and experience a chef’s creations like the next person in line or across the room. But clearly, the nature of Portnoy’s reviews and his notoriety has an impact. Most food reviewers, especially those for major outlets such as The New York Times or Boston Globe, book reservations or order takeout under pseudonyms. When I was at the Boston Phoenix, the lead food critic published under a pen name to avoid being outed while dining out and potentially receive preferential service.
Portnoy’s national news-making – which many have wondered was fully or partially staged – exploded on the day of announced cuts of more than 25 percent of the Barstool workforce. If that’s not an apt distraction (look at the hand waving here, not over there) or a perfect time to be away from the mothership as it takes on water, then color me contaminated greens. Even more opportunistically, it serves as a nuclearized advertisement for Portnoy’s upcoming One Bite pizza fest this month in Brooklyn, which the event site bills as “90 percent sold out.”
Redd, who has been a critic of the Portnoy one-bite review because of the negative impact on small businesses, may be onto something. A barrage of one-star reviews of Dragon Pizza on Yelp have followed that essentially echo Portnoy’s assessment verbatim, as if the troops were lined up and sent in. Yelp stopped posting new reviews. Redd told Shira Laucharoen at Boston.com that he’d received death threats.
To better understand the effect, I walked by Dragon Pizza midafternoon on Sunday – not the busiest time of the day, but nearly every seat in the pizza parlor side (the Dragon’s Lair, where you can play bar games and imbibe adult beverages, wasn’t open) was occupied, and there were eight to 10 folks in line to order pie or milling about waiting for their food to come out. Perhaps the sidewalk scuffle is a win-win? By then, Dragon Pizza wasn’t responding to requests for comment. On the door was a sign: “We Are Not Talking About It; Orders Only.”
And while Portnoy gave Dragon Pizza a 6.4, Mike’s – which Portnoy said he loved when he was a resident, fared worse. His highest rating was for Mortadella and was in the mid-range 7s. Coming soon, the Day’s one-bite pie assessment of the cheesy and yeasty in Davis Square? For those awaiting neck-craning sidewalk shenanigans, sorry.
With “Bottoms,” writer-director Emma Seligman turns up the dial a few notches from her darkly comedic first feature, “Shiva Baby” (2021), about a young, financially insecure Jewish woman (Rachel Sennott) trying to make it in New York City with the help of a poorly chosen sugar daddy. “Bottoms” is something of a rimshot off the raucous, sometimes sex-crazed high school hijinks of “Heathers” (1988), “Porky’s” (1981), “American Pie” (1999) and more recently, “Booksmart” (2019), topped with a dousing of social commentary.
This is told with a queer, feminist eye, though – and a wicked, nod-and-wink one at that. Lesbian besties PJ (Sennott) and Josie (Ayo Edebiri) stumble into a confrontation between prom-king/QB stud Jeff (Nicholas Galitzine, just seen in “Red, White & Royal Blue”) and his prom queen Isabel (Havana Rose Liu), who thinks he’s cheating on her again (he is, in a Mrs. Robinson/Stifler’s mom kinda way). The power duo form a firewall around Isabel and, in the aftermath, when they are accused of vehicular assault on a cherished local hero, form a fight club for women to empower and defend themselves. The sweet, semi-ironic twist is that the club is overseen by Mr. G., played convincingly by former NFL bad boy Marshawn Lynch in a casting choice that pays off nicely.
That said, a bigger budget doesn’t make for a better film. “Shiva Baby” was so intimate, subtly dark and lived in that you felt you were in every frame. That smaller film allegedly cost less than a half-mil to make, “Bottoms” has a cited budget of twenty-two times more ($11 million). Plenty of blood gets let between the under-the-radar girls, including ultimately pretty popular ones who join, ushered in by Isabel. Under the banner of self-defense, mantras of “just let loose” and “come at me” get issued within the fight circle, and there’s camaraderie as one scrapes the other off the floor. But it doesn’t make sense the way the psycho madness of David Fincher’s “Fight Club” did back in 1999, and it somehow doesn’t quite feel earned (I mean it’s funny, but a faculty member sanctioning such a thing?). Further, the skewers regarding racism, anti-LGBTQ+ and misogyny – all fair and necessary – just prick the surface, and feel platitudinal in the same way Greta Gerwig and Noah Baumbach articulated things in “Barbie.” It feels raw and edge-pushing as you sit through it, but afterward there’s a want for something more from folks who have shown they can hold us further out on the edge.
But then there’s the ability to make people laugh. The fight club lasses, gay, bi, straight and in between, popular, nerdy and arty, unite to, well, save the resident asshole in a “West Side Story” kinda showdown. It’s grim, hilarious, over the top and ephemeral, but a blessedly gonzo crescendo that you could see gender-pushing visionary John Waters smiling at in smug approval.
Director William Friedkin on the set. (Photo: William Friedkin via Facebook)
Cinema lost a defining voice when William Friedkin died Aug. 7 from heart failure. Friedkin, 87, was vital to what is considered the greatest era of American cinema, the American New Wave (loosely the late 1960s to early 1980s and also called “New Hollywood”), in which directors shot on location and were able to craft their visions without studio interference. The movement produced instant classics including Coppola’s “Godfather ” films, Scorsese’s “Taxi Driver ” (1976), Polanski’s “Chinatown ” (1974) and Friedkin’s hardboiled crime drama, “The French Connection” (1971).
Born in Chicago, Friedkin, like other era directors Sidney Lumet (“Dog Day Afternoon, ” “Serpico”) and John Frankenheimer (“The Manchurian Candidate, ” “Ronin”) cut his teeth in TV (“The Alfred Hitchcock Hour”). His first feature-length work was “The Thin Blue Line (1966), a documentary that chronicled the difficulties confronting police at a time crime and violent public protests were on the rise; it proved to be prep work for “Connection,” an on-the-street magnum opus based on the true account of a cat-and-mouse heroin sting by Boston-born Robin Moore, who also wrote “The Green Berets.” In between, Friedkin made the poorly received Sonny and Cher hodgepodge “Good Times” (1967), adapted Harold Pinter’s play “The Birthday Party” (1968) starring Robert Shaw, and helmed the light comedy “The Night They Raided Minsky’s” (1960) about a naive young Amish woman (Britt Ekland) who arrives in New York City to perform in a religious production that turns out to be a burlesque show. Friedkin next pushed boundaries with the 1970 adaptation of Mart Crowley’s play “The Boys in the Band, ” a claustrophobic house party where gay and bisexual young males divulge travails largely caused or triggered by unaccepting families and society. The film (recently remade by Netflix for the play’s 50th anniversary) was semi-controversial in part because of the material, but also because Friedkin had claimed he had been “cruised ” while researching the film. His controversies with the gay community and mainstream would rise to another level in 1980 with “Cruising,” the sexually graphic S&M thriller based on Gerald Walker’s novel about a serial killer stalking New York City’s underground gay clubs.
There’s little question that Friedkin’s career will be defined by “The French Connection” and “The Exorcist” (1973), which not only captivated filmgoers but redefined the boundaries of what was possible with onscreen car chases and the horror genre. When on his game, Friedkin was a master of mood, vision and pacing. He also possessed deep admiration and love for his characters, especially the flawed and those living on the edge or under life-smothering pressure. The prime example is Gene Hackman’s Popeye Doyle in “Connection,” a cocksure cop seeking redemption for failures but who is imbued with an avuncular twinkle in his eye, a hair-trigger temper and a barroom manner that screams old-school Boston. (Speaking of which, Friedkin did make a movie here – “The Brink’s Job, ” another true-crime drama about an infamous 1950 North End heist; it’d make the perfect double bill with Ben Affleck’s “The Town.”) Even more emotionally visceral was Ellen Burstyn’s imperiled mother in “The Exorcist,” desperate and unnerved by not knowing of what is wrong with her demon-possessed daughter (Linda Blair, forever locked into genre due to the role) and hapless in her efforts to help. Her harrowing performance took a battle ax to nurturing parental nerve. Burstyn was nominated for her struggling single mom; Hackman won Best Actor for his gruff, gritty portrayal of Doyle.
In the cinematic universe of multiverses, CGI and green screens, it’s refreshing to see how well “The Exorcist ” and “Connection” have held up. Their timelessness is notched in part because they’re both deeply character-driven films, but also because of Friedkin’s shrewd, put-you-in-the-scene filmmaking. With “The Exorcist,” the paralyzing chill was psychological, achieved by grafting a gravelly, sinister male baritone onto a 12-year-old girl, some ingenious (and grotesque) makeup, a few cinematic sleights of hand (levitation, 180-degree neck rotation) and that devilish spewing of split pea soup. There was essentially no bloodletting to make you wince, yet you did, and the deft sound editing and use of Michael Oldfield’s soul-rattling “Tubular Bells ” only served to deepen the film’s immersive eeriness.
With “Connection,” Friedkin not only made one of the greatest car chase sequences ever put on screen, but perhaps the perfect film. It was nominated for eight Academy Awards and won five, including Best Picture and Director (Friedkin beat out Kubrick, who was up for “A Clockwork Orange”) – feats that seem even more monumental when you consider the city-sprawling film was made for less than $2 million, or $15.4 million in today’s dollars, and featured a cast of relative unknowns. It also won Best Editing and should have won for sound editing, as those elements are so essential to that jaw-dropping chase scene in which Doyle, in a commandeered Pontiac LeMans, races after an aboveground subway train taken over at gunpoint by a ruthless French hitman (Marcel Bozzuffi). It’s a gorgeously choreographed sequence that begins at Doyle’s apartment complex (where the hitman tries to take out Doyle with a sniper rifle) and becomes something of a bravura brutalist ballet of action as it rifles through the twisted steel girders of an erected subway structure and litter-strewn streets of Brooklyn. When in that careening Pontiac, the sound and film editing are so tight that everything feels like it’s happening in the moment and at 80 mph as Doyle plows through fruit carts and smash-bang ricochets off other vehicles making their rightful way through an intersection. The chase took more than five weeks to shoot and covers more than 26 New York City blocks. The rewards of the effort are self-evident and cemented in cinematic legacy.
That riveting result, however, should be no surprise, as producer Philip D’Antoni had also worked on the too-cool-for-political-subplots Steve McQueen cop vehicle “Bullitt ” (1968) and would later direct his only feature, “The Seven-Ups” (1973), starring “Connection” co-stars Roy Scheider and Tony Lo Bianco, notching three of the greatest car chase sequences committed to celluloid (including “Connection”). It was filmmaking at its very best, with the filmmakers earning every nerve-rattling inch or mile, not some post-production AI spitting out “Fast and Furious” crash-bang video game pablum.
And as much as D’Antoni’s fingerprints are on “Connection,” it was Friedkin’s full visionary control – especially in postproduction – that delivered the symphonic, neo-noirish masterpiece. Friedkin would later prove that his accomplishment was not a one-off with a harrowing, wrong-way chase down a freeway in “To Live and Die in L.A. ” (1985). That deft day-glo crime thriller introduced us to Willem Dafoe and was what made me fall in love with film after Akira Kurosawa’s “Yojimbo” (1961). The week it opened, I went to see “To Live and Die in L.A.” on a whim because my roommate at the time, wounded from a breakup, needed solace and friendship and was a huge Wang Chung fan, and the techno dance band scored the film; so on a hungover Saturday we did “To Live and Die in L.A. ” That chaotic freeway scene – the perfect antithesis to the impressive long-take opener of “La La Land ” – ignited a Friedkin deep dive for me and my roomie. Back then you’d pay $100 to rent a VCR for a weekend and $6 per video, and for my birthday that year we ate gloriously greasy Chinese food, drank far too many sugary mai tais at some long-gone place by the Berklee College of Music and watched all we could, even taking in a second helping of Friedkin’s movie at the old Cinema 57 in the bottom of what is now the Revere Hotel Boston Common on Stuart Street. Sadly, “To Live and Die in L.A.” and “The Brink’s Job” are not available for streaming (so if you see either on a repertory slate, run to the box office). Director Michael Mann (“Thief, ” “Heat”) sued Friedkin over “To Live and Die in L.A.,” claiming it ripped off his “Miami Vice” TV series that ran 1984-1989. Mann lost.
Friedkin, who died in the Bel Air home he shared with wife Sherry Lansing, former head of Paramount, has a Cambridge connection. In 2014, he gifted some of his memoirs to the Harvard Film Archive; earlier, as part of the “Uncanny Cinema of William Friedkin” program there, the director took on a brief residency and appeared at screenings of his films to provide anecdotes about their making – most intriguingly, the scores. (Quick pause here to acknowledge Don Ellis’ foreboding “Connection” score, which echoes Doyle’s inner turmoil and captures the drab, coarse ambiance of the street). I had the opportunity to catch “Sorcerer” (1977), Friedkin’s bold remake of the Henri-Georges Clouzot classic “The Wages of Fear” (1953), about four men transporting nitroglycerin across a treacherous Latin American jungle to cap an exploded oil well 200 miles away. After the screening, Friedkin discussed how Steve McQueen was supposed to play the lead role taken by Scheider, but McQueen wanted a part for his girlfriend Ali MacGraw (“Love Story”). “I told him, it’s a movie about four guys in a jungle, ” Friedkin said. The lack of MacGraw in the project proved a deal breaker. Friedkin then recounted how he got the German techno band Tangerine Dream to score the film, a total happenstance resulting from Friedkin, in Germany to oversee the dubbing of “The Exorcist, ” being taken to a party at an abandoned church in the Black Forest. The band was Tangerine Dream. Friedkin remarked that the score was particularly impressive in that they didn’t see any dailies or postproduction material, just the script. The same was true with Wang Chung and “To Live and Die in L.A.” – the director and musicians met at an L.A. radio station. When Friedkin gave the band the script, he said he didn’t want a tune with the title in it. Natch, the song “To Live and Die in L.A.” plays during the closing credits.
“To Live and Die in L.A.” would prove to be Friedkin’s swan song of sorts. He tried to create lightning in a bottle again with the erotic crime thriller “Jade” (1995) with Linda Fiorentino, hot off her sizzling femme fatal turn in “The Last Seduction” (1994), but the script proved a flat “Basic Instinct”-esque pretender and the car chase sequence that included San Francisco’s winding Lombard Street was a painful-to-watch rehash of that epic L.A. freeway misdirection. Friedkin even tried going back to the demonic with a possessed tree in “The Guardian” (1990). He found some middle ground with A-list actors in the psychological thrillers “Bug” (2006) with Ashley Judd and “The Hunted ” (2003) with Tommy Lee Jones and Benicio Del Toro. He rounded out his career on a high note (we won’t mention 2017’s “The Devil and Father Amorth,” and he does have a play adaptation of Herman Wouk’s “Caine Mutiny ” in the can) with “Killer Joe” (2011), an adaptation of a Tracy Letts play (“Bug” was also a Letts play) about a contract killer (Matthew McConaughey) out to score a life insurance payout for a thwarted son (Emile Hirsch). Two Friedkin films I’d say are unique curios meant for discerning eyes are “Blue Chips” (1994) with Nick Nolte as a Bobby Knight-like college basketball coach trying to get though one more season (Celtics Bob Cousy and Shaquille O’Neal have small roles) and the long-shelved “Rampage ” (1987) about a demonic mass murderer (Alex MacArthur) and the DA trying to put him away (Michael Biehn). Friedkin did do a nice job with his 1997 television version of “12 Angry Men” featuring a knockout cast that included Jack Lemmon, George C. Scott, Ossie Davis, Edward James Olmos, Hume Cronyn, James Gandolfini and William Peterson of “To Live and Die in L.A.”
Friedkin was both a traditionalist and an iconoclast when it came to his trade and wears the “maverick” tag well in an era that preceded the blockbuster. His work heightened the filmgoing experience with old-school craftsmanship, control and tight collaborative efforts from cast and crew. He broke ground in genre and how narrative is paced and told (he’s right there with Kurosawa, Tarantino and Fellini), and most of all, he was able to put the audience in the action without bit-and-byte trickery. “The French Connection” will live on as one of the few films to achieve perfection from frame one to the end credits. It is Friedkin’s well-earned legacy.
At one juncture in Christopher Nolan’s last outing, the mind-bending, time-rewinding spy thriller “Tenet” (2020), a scientist in the future able to weaponize and manipulate the past to alter history is likened to J. Robert Oppenheimer, lead scientist at the Manhattan Project, which produced the nuclear warhead that in effect ended World War II. Foreshadowing for this next project?
That future scientist killed themselves to take their secrets with them and prevent further ripples in time; Oppenheimer, as the Cold War set in, became outspoken against nuclear proliferation and subsequently – with the help of FBI dirty trickster J. Edgar Hoover – had his security clearance revoked by the Atomic Energy Commission. It didn’t help that his wife, lover and several other personal associates had ties to the American Communist Party.
Nolan began work on his “Oppenheimer” in January, shortly after the Biden administration conferred public wrongdoing on the AEC and U.S. government for its lack of process and credible evidence against Oppenheimer, who died in 1967 at the age of 62.
The film plays loyally to its roots, the 2005 biography “American Prometheus: The Triumph and Tragedy of J. Robert Oppenheimer” by Kai Bird and Martin Sherwin, and both embrace Oppenheimer (“the father of the atomic bomb”) as a committed yet complicated man, caught at many crossroads: the morality of mass destruction, the dirty politics of Cold War paranoia and messy personal relationships. As Oppenheimer, frequent Nolan collaborator Cillian Murphy portrays the scientist as a reserved, buttoned-up sort with a kind, demurring affect. He’s charismatic and approachable, with piercing blues and a gaunt sheen clearly deepened for the part; Oppie’s signature wide-brim porkpie fedora goes a long way to cement the image. It’s a bravura performance that rightly sends Murphy, best known for the series “Peaky Blinders” and Danny Boyle’s “28 Days Later” (2002), to the fore after many years of almost getting there. He feels custom minted for the part.
Nolan is a filmmaker who likes to play with time – the brilliant weaving of three timelines that converge at singular moment in “Dunkirk” (2017) as well as “Tenet” and “Memento” (2000) – and works another triptych here: the race to build the atomic bomb before the Nazis at the Las Alamos complex (something of a Western mining town) in the middle of the New Mexican desert; Oppenheimer’s 1954 hearing before the AEC inside a cramped conference room; and the senate proceedings on Eisenhower’s secretary of commerce nominee Lewis Strauss, who had been Oppenheimer’s boss at the commission. The clear but kinetic interweaving that frames the Strauss hearings in black and white and the rest in color is eerily evocative of Oliver Stone’s energetically edited and sharply acted bit of nearby history, “JFK” (1991); in “Oppenheimer,” that then-junior senator from Massachusetts poetically has a small hand in one of the three timelines.
“Oppenheimer” for the most is a deeply internal film, and Nolan deepens our access to Oppenheimer’s mental and emotional state with tearaways to stars colliding in the cold dark universe, people in a celebratory audience suddenly melting in a hot white light and, at one point during his AEC security access hearing, sex with his lover Jean Tatlock (Florence Pugh, fantastic in the small part) and him confessing to the tryst to his wife Kitty (Emily Blunt, fantastic in a larger part). The soul-rattling aural immersion and meticulous imagery by Nolan regulars composer Ludwig Göransson and cinematographer Hoyte Van Hoytema, as well as an ace team effort by the sound department, fill out the spectacular, collective achievement. The cast beyond Murphy and Robert Downey Jr., who manages to make the eely Strauss human, is a long list of potential competing supporting-actor award nods, starting with Matt Damon as general (to be) Lesley Groves, who oversees the Manhattan Project and gets to deliver a fiery back-and-forth that’s almost on par with his indelible rant in “Good Will Hunting” (1997). Also notable are director Benny Safdie (“Uncut Gems,” “Good Time”) as H-bomb scientist Edward Teller; Josh “where have you been?” Hartnett solid as Oppenheimer’s department mate at Berkeley, Ernest Lawrence; Kenneth Branagh as physicist Niels Bohr; Jason Clarke, insidious as AEC special counsel Roger Robb; and Tom Conti (another “where have you been?”) avuncular and dead on as Albert Einstein. The list goes on. Less effective are Casey Affleck as military investigator Boris Pash interrogating Oppenheimer and Gary Oldman as President Harry Truman.
How Nolan pulls it all together is interesting in how much you see – or don’t – of the actual use of the atomic bomb and the devastation it had on Hiroshima and Nagasaki (thought it’s in the corner of every frame) versus the high of the Trinity experiment at Los Alamos (well orchestrated cinematically) and chaotic proceedings in the rooms and halls of government. Ever meticulous, Nolan also does a masterful job of taking subthreads and small gestures and weaving them into surprising and disparate places with subtle poetic panache that doesn’t scream, “Did you just see what I did there?” I wouldn’t want to call them Easter eggs, but …
As to Oppenheimer’s initial reluctance to signing onto the Manhattan Project due to the potential moral and historical implications, one fellow Jewish colleague says, “We don’t know if we can’t trust ourselves with it, but we know we can’t trust the Nazis.” A point well taken, with added personal appeal. Later, after the Germans have been defeated and Truman drops the two bombs, he justifies it by saying it saved American lives and allowed him “to bring our boys home.” Truman, like Strauss, comes off as a bit of a runaway ego (he calls Oppenheimer a “crybaby” when not quite out of earshot) and the film poses whether the bombings were necessary. It’s another good pique, and a complex one for me – this was when my father, a teenage member of the 101st Airborne, had just finished his service in Europe and was on a slow boat to Japan. Heavy stuff all around.
Rewinding back to “Tenet,” Nolan’s tightly controlled 2020 release during the height of the pandemic and the first big theatrical release at a time we were still in masks, eating outside under heater lamps and spaced apart in theaters. That release signaled the revival of the filmgoing biz and a return to normal; with “Oppenheimer” we have Hollywood writers and actors on strike, which could mark a notable damper to the release schedule come holiday season and beyond. For now we have “Oppenheimer,” which is more than a movie or a just a biopic; it’s an immersed contemplation on destiny, control and power, and obligations to the future. Looking at the political shenanigans then and now, it’s easy to see where we came from and where we are. “Oppenheimer” may not quite be an American history lesson, but it is most certainly an American fable.
For What it's Worth 