The latest from Kevin Macdonald (“Touching the Void,” “Last King of Scotland”), working with Sam Rice-Edwards, delves into the life and times of John Lennon and Yoko Ono in New York City during the tumultuous Richard Nixon and Vietnam War era. It’s a spry, electric rewind with sharp, well-cut footage of the time and, naturally, the music and idealistic political activism of Lennon and Ono. Leaving their massive estate in London post-Beatles breakup, Lennon and Ono came to America to try to find Kyoko Chan Cox, Ono’s daughter from an earlier marriage to jazz musician Anthony Cox, who defied a court order and hid her from Ono. Lennon and Ono, in alignment with their ideology, opted to live “plainly” in the middle of New York – a decision that would factor into Lennon’s very public murder in 1980. The focus of the film is the “One to One” concert Lennon and Ono put on at Madison Square Garden in 1972 to benefit the children of the Willowbrook State School on Staten Island, shut down in 1987 but at the time the largest institution in the country caring for children with Trisomy 21 and other developmental disabilities. The concert was a reaction to an exposé by Geraldo Rivera of the inhumane, overcrowded conditions – there was one caregiver for every 30 children (the concert’s title offers a better ratio), living in squalor on cold cement. What’s shown is horrific (think Frederick Wiseman’s “Titicut Follies”). Filling out the frame of this conflict-rich time capsule are the shenanigans of Nixon, the bravery of Shirley Chisholm and the kindness she extended to a wounded George Wallace, a jazzed-up Jerry Rubin, poet and defiant pacifist Allen Ginsberg and Bob Dylan and his controversial “garbologist,” A.J. Weberman. It’s a wild olio that captures the chaotic time with Lennon and Ono at the fore, on point and putting themselves out there in every sense of the word. You have to admire their cool, calm and rapier-sharp responses, especially Ono, fighting to see her daughter and often tagged “an ugly J*#!, who broke up the Beatles.” There’s a bit about Cambridge too, with Ono as a speaker at the First International Feminist Conference held at Harvard University. If you’re not left verklempt by the end sequence, of kids from Willowbrook in daylight, beaming, cross-cut with Lennon and Ono performing classics such as “Imagine” and “Come Together” with Stevie Wonder and Roberta Flack, you need to get to the doctor to see if you have a heartbeat.
Lynne Ramsay, the Scottish filmmaker behind such macabre psychological chillers as “We Need to Talk About Kevin” (2011) and “You Were Never Really Here” (2017) – the former, about a youth who commits a mass school shooting, the latter with Joaquin Phoenix as a hammer-wielding sociopath-avenger – may be the most convincing female voice in matters of masculinity onscreen since Kathryn Bigelow (“The Hurt Locker,” “A House of Dynamite”). And the company in that elite club may just be a crew of two. Here, going to the more feminine side of things doesn’t make anything less messy, violent or bloody. In fact, it’s more unsettling. No human being dies of a violent act, though animals – a horse and a poorly adjusted dog – don’t fare as well. Jennifer Lawrence is Grace, who has a lot pushing and pulling in her head. She’s a writer who’s moved into the old Montana farmhouse of her partner Jackson (Robert Pattinson) with the intent of sinking into creativity and new motherhood. Neither really happens as Grace becomes less and less rooted in reality and waking delusions take hold. Is Jackson having an affair? Is the menacing presence on a motorcycle (LaKeith Stanfield) also Grace’s moonlight lover in the rickety old barn? Or is it all an illusion cast by an unreliable narrator dealing with postpartum delirium, or something more chronic? Ramsay, working from Ariana Harwicz’s 2013 novel, keeps us in the dreamy, demented dark – when Grace crashes through a sliding glass door, opens the car door to jump or bashes her head into a hotel suite mirror and Jackson underreacts, you don’t know if this is par for the course, the man has no idea what to do and is simply silent and agog, if it’s a disjointed distortion of reality or somewhere in between. There are clues, but teasingly few. Lawrence gives a bold, brave performance, emotionally exposed and often naked, oddly like an antithetical companion piece to her 2023 dark comedy, “No Hard Feelings.” In “Mother!” (2017) the madness around Lawrence’s bearer of life was external and a metaphor for the religious patriarchy; here it’s internal, and troubling to the forces who can’t get a handle on or squash it – a forced commitment in an asylum seems to fix things for a moment, but did it really happen? The tension over what is real is the film’s weakness and appeal, but not enough can be said about Lawrence: She switches on and off, or explodes, or recedes, with seamless perfection. It’s stunning. Ramsay and Lawrence are in tune at every turn and we are lucky to be here for their deftly deliberate dissonance.
The latest from Guillermo del Toro (“The Shape of Water,” “Nightmare Alley”) is a he-said, they-said kind of a tale that’s fairly faithful to its Mary Shelley roots. In scope and success it’s akin to Kenneth Branagh’s 1994 effort with Robert De Niro as the Creature but won’t make anyone forget Boris Karloff and the 1931 James Whale classic. Del Toro gets his creepy-crawly shivers in early with a smattering of reanimation scenes as Victor Frankenstein (Oscar Isaac) plugs half corpses into a battery and gets them to sputter to life for a board of London scientists who are both wowed and appalled – “Only god can create life,” one shouts, and that was Shelley’s point: Don’t mess with Mother Nature. If you do, the consequences can be boss-level bad. And, in this case, existential and unrelenting. At nearly two and a half hours, the film is told in two chapters, one from Victors’ “he” perspective and one from the Creature’s “they” view – yes, pronouns back then mattered too, but in this case the “they” is a humanization of the Creature versus the “it” used by Victor and others. The Creature is played with empathetic loneliness and rage by Jacob Elordi (“Saltburn,” “Priscilla”). The most touching scenes are with a blind man in the woods (David Bradley, excellently channeling his inner Anthony Hopkins) and with scream-queen “it girl” Mia Goth (“X,” “Infinity Pool”) as Elizabeth, the fiancée of Victor’s brother Willam (Felix Kammerer, “All Quiet on the Western Front”) whom both the Creature and Victor have strong sexual tensions with. Goth also plays Claire Frankenstein, the lads’ mum who dies in birthing William – from bearer of life to love interest, a piquant ponder, right? The rendering of the Creature takes its cues from classic Karloff mashed up with the tall, porcelain-white alien beings in “Prometheus” (2012), who, as that movie had it, created us; it’s here we shall note that the subtitle of Shelley’s tale is “The Modern Prometheus.” Christopher Waltz is in the cast as Harlander, Elizabeth’s uncle and the financier of Victor’s reanimation lab, the tower atop a Scottish seaside cliff designed to pull down that massive bolt of lightning to bring the Creature to life. There’s a lot stitched into de Toro’s vision of Shelley, some a smooth, seamless period horror, other times moving in gangly, awkward leaps in which the timing of events is too overly convenient and implausible. Another round of editing and tightening may have helped, but del Toro’s “Frankenstein” is a wonderment that’s at its best when quiet and internal, or as Elordi rises up and roils in beast mode.
‘Aileen: Queen of the Serial Killers’ (2025)
Emily Turner’s documentary revisits the life and crimes of Aileen Wuornos, America’s first crowned female serial killer. The film doesn’t add much to the 2003 biopic “Monster,” which won Charlize Theron an Oscar for her portrayal of Wuornos, or Nick Broomfield’s docs “Aileen Wuornos: The Selling of a Serial Killer” (1992) and “Aileen: The Life and Death of a Serial Killer” (2003). If anything, it casts a softer light on Wuornos’ adoptive mother, Arlene Pralle, a horse breeder and born-again Christian; her hippie attorney, Steve Glazer; and childhood friend Dawn Botkins, who in Broomfield’s films were opportunists trying to make a buck off their proximity to Aileen. Aileen herself comes off as warm and engaging in her day-before-execution interview with Australian pen pal Jasmine Hirst – a stark contrast to Broomfield’s 2003 final interview. It’s telling too when Wuornos whispers into Hirst’s ear and tells her she’s “going to make millions.” The most interesting spins are the outtakes from “Dateline” investigator Michele Gillen’s interview footage, the testimony of the female judge removed from the case before trial and the brimming political aspirations of god-fearing prosecutor John Tanner. The rewind of a related cop scandal – investigators cut Hollywood deals while the investigation was ongoing – intrigues, as do the late reveals of Aileen’s confessional truth before execution. Both were well covered in Broomfield’s takes, and the latter to different conclusions. It’s not new, but Aileen still rivets, and this will likely send viewers to the archives for Broomfield’s bits and Gillen’s deep delve.
‘Ballad of a Small Player’ (2025)
Edward Berger’s casino drama dazzles in every scene framed by Academy Award-winning cinematographer James Friend (“All Quiet on the Western Front”) – though as a tale, it lacks sense and soul. The true star of the film is Macau, an island causeway south of Hong Kong that has become an international hub of casinos. Amid the bright lights we embed with gambler Lord Doyle (Colin Farrell), a dignified Brit with Bond-esque reserve who lives large but can’t pay for it. His tab at the posh hotel he has holed up in is $350,000, and it’s long past due. The next big hand keeps coming up bust, and soon Doyle’s only drip of credit is from a compassionate senior casino employee named Dao Ming (Fala Chen) who may not be as kind as her eyes present, and may, in fact, be a willful enabler. More mystery wafts in with Tilda Swinton as an investigator of white collar crimes, like Faye Dunaway in “The Thomas Crown Affair” (the 1968 Boston shot version). There are also some questions as to the verisimilitude of Doyle’s lineage. Farrell, recently in “The Banshees of Inisherin” (2022) and “The Penguin” series, keeps proving he’s become an actor willing to go all in for his character, but he’s not given enough here from Rowan Joffe’s adaptation of a Lawrence Osborne novel. Given Joffe’s and Berger’s CVs (“The American” and “Conclave” among them, respectively) it’s a disappointing sojourn of sideways movements that never finds a peak. “Ballad of a Small Player” marks the third successive Netflix project by a major filmmaker – along with “A House of Dynamite” and “Frankenstein” – to get a short theatrical run and mixed critical reactions before being moved to the streaming giant’s platform of plenty.
The lates from Lanthimos imagines a CEO as a threat to humanity, but what’s the the weird part?
If you like your Yorgos Lanthimos films outré and boundary-pushing like “Poor Things” (2023) as opposed to something more rooted in the simmering edginess of the day-to-day – say, “The Killing of a Sacred Deer” (2017) or last year’s underappreciated “Kinds of Kindness” – “Bugonia” is your cup of crazy chai.
Lanthimos’ muse for his past four features, Emma Stone (she won gold for her portrait of a female Frankenstein’s monster discovering the power and pleasure of sex in “Poor Things”) stars as Michelle, the chief executive of Auxolith, a boffo biotech company outside Atlanta. We first meet Michelle making corporate messaging videos about diversity and workers’ rights. After one fumbled miscue and a retake, it’s abundantly clear that Michelle’s not a woke woman trying to raise others up, but doing a performative ass-covering for lawsuit prevention – “you can go home at 5:30 if you want,” she tells one employee, and then another, “but if you still have work to do …”
A deeply engrossing, if uneven, sojourn into the realm of reckoning and redemption. The ace in the hole here would be Daniel Day-Lewis, who came out of retirement (in 2017, with the release of “Phantom Thread,” he implied it would be his last film before the camera) to make this deeply emotionally portrait with his writer-director son Ronan in his filmmaking debut. The senior Day-Lewis co-wrote the script, but from the overall scrumptious look and intensity, Ronan is an up-and-comer to watch. The title refers to the delicate and sensitive flower that closes up when touched and is evocative of Day-Lewis’ Ray, who has dropped out of society and is living off the grid in the woods of Northern England. For nearly 20 years, his brother Jem (Sean Bean) has been rearing Ray’s son Brian (Samuel Bottomley, “How to Have Sex”) after marrying Ray’s former lover, Nessa (Samantha Morton). In short, Jem stepped in when Ray stepped out on the pregnant Nessa; Jem ventures out to find Ray now because Brian is struggling. To say why Ray has gone into isolation wouldn’t be a spoiler, but it’s besides the point – involving Ireland’s violent Troubles, with the present-day of “Anemone” set in the early to mid-1990s. Much of the early segments of the film are long, speechless moments between Jem and Ray in the lush, deep forest that offers access to a remote beach and nearby stream. The intensity that defined Day-Lewis and earned him three Best Actor Oscars (the only male lead to do so; Katherine Hepburn notched four) is on full display in the red flicker of his cottage’s fireplace as he delivers two big soliloquies that give us Ray’s “why.” Cutbacks to Nessa and Brian in a distant working-class borough fill out the picture, and Bean and his character know the landscape and their place in it. The film, shot by Ben Fordesman (“Love Lies Bleeding,” “Out of Darkness”) and scored by Bobby Krlic, is a stunning fusion of sound and image – intimate yet expansive with deep eerie chords that conjure wonderment and a haunting sense of foreboding. Not all of it melds, yet it rivets in nearly every frame.
Brothers who direct together don’t always stay together. We know this from the Coens, who after 30-something films went off to do solo projects, and it seems to be the same for the Safdie brothers (“Good Time,” “Uncut Gems”), with Benny breaking out for this biopic about MMA fighting pioneer Mark Kerr (Dwayne Johnson) when the sport was mostly in Europe and Japan. Much of the action takes place there, and it’s an odd sojourn. You can see Safdie, so good at channeling the freneticism of fringe personalities in “Gems” and “Good Time,” constrained here by facts versus fiction and straining to find a character motivation or that challenging event that drives the protagonist. Kerr’s challenges with painkiller addiction and recovery come early in the film, and there are domestic struggles at his Arizona hacienda with significant other Dawn (Emily Blunt), but otherwise no real arc. It’s more a meandering love letter to Kerr and an era, and in some ways has a docudrama feel. Johnson, jacked up to seam-bursting size, acts his pants off. It’s an impressive immersion and a major turn in his career, fusing his WWE roots and aspirations to be taken as more of a serious actor than straight-up action star or Schwarzenegger-ish comedian. Blunt, close in tenor to Amy Adams as the girlfriend in “The Fighter,” is good too but never gets enough breathing space to make Dawn fully formed, and the role comes dangerously close to lapsing into rote hysteria. The one seam Safdie finds is the camaraderie and bonding among the athletes, namely between Kerr and friend-coach-rival Mark Coleman (MMA fighter Ryan Bader, who nearly wrestles the film from Johnson and Blunt). It’s a soulful meander in search of a reason to go to the mat.
There’s little surprising or new in “The Long Walk” despite its pedigree, passion and professionalism. It’s still a compelling and emotionally charged tale primarily because of those three Ps – and the grim prospect of how much further we as a society can fall. It’s based on Stephen King’s first novel, written as a student while at the University of Maine but not published until 1979; even then it went under King’s pen name of Richard Bachman, like “The Running Man.”
In “Walk,” we get dropped into a dystopian America in the late 1960s or ’70s. It takes a while to register, but the unhappy alter reality has the distinct tang of “The Mist” or “The Stand”: The United States has just emerged from a war, but the country is not the portrait of Ozzie and Harriet productivity we’ve all been sold on. Much of what we see in our limited lens is the depressed and the needy. Most of the people we see along the long stroll could use a hot shower, a bowl of hot soup and some new threads.
Ethan Coen and co-writer and wife Tricia Cooke reteam with actor Margaret Qualley for the second of a purported loose lesbian neo-noir trilogy. That first outing, last year’s “Drive-Away Dolls,” was a bit of a rickety start, but through no fault of Qualley, who packed the punchy best of both Thelma and Louise as one of two gal pals who zoom off in a car with various factions of angry patriarchy hot on their tail. It was a concept in search of a story. Here, Coen and Cooke dial up the noir aspect and concoct something more worthy of Qualley’s onscreen allure.
She plays Honey O’Donahue, a private detective working the dusty, depressed streets of Bakersfield, California. There’s trouble right off the bat as an angular French woman (Lera Abova) in leopard-skin tights navigates the scree of a ravine to get to an inverted car, its driver dead or dying. She’s not there to help, but to pluck a signet ring off a finger, and in the next scene Abova’s agent of cold deeds is floating casually full frontal in a nearby quarry pond. An important fashion note: As she clads up, there’s a Garanimals moment as we realize her underwear and bra match her motorbike helmet.
Somerville TheatreSomerville Theatre Crystal Ballroom Movie Trivia nights draw more than 150 people monthly, as seen from the POV of the scorekeeper.
Somerville Theatre Crystal Ballroom Movie Trivia nights are a raucous two hours of competitive film fan fun for self-anointed cinephiles and trivia tricksters looking to flaunt deep stores of knowledge to attain factoid alpha status.
The nights, on the third Tuesday of the month, are hosted by Billy Thegenus, program and outreach coordinator at the Coolidge Corner Theatre in Brookline and Ian Brownell, co-owner of CSB Theaters (with longtime theater manager Ian Judge), which runs the Somerville Theatre.The events have drawn 150-plus people – or 20-ish teams of five to six – to the Crystal Ballroom space. You can show up with your own, ready-to-roll crew or go freelance and hop on with a duo or trio needing a trivia turbo boost.
Crowds jeer in James Gunn’s recently released “Superman.”
James Gunn’s “Superman” swooped into theaters a week ago and knocked it out of the park with more than $125 million at the domestic box office. Not bad for a flat-footed rebrand that’s a long way from “Jaws,” which 50 years ago became the pindrop for the blockbuster, pulling in more than $260 million ($1.5 billion by today’s standards), with the eventual Academy Award winner that year (and No. 2 in box office totals), “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest,” taking in less than 40 percent of that. With that success, Spielberg’s gambit forever altered filmmaking and the way we see films; producers began seeking ready-made target audiences and the next big onscreen wow that would blow watchers’ minds and create lines to the ticket booth.
For What it's Worth 