Oh, would that Captain Marvel had been made in another era. If ever there was an entry in the Marvel superhero stable begging for the kind of fearless imagination that B-movie sci-fi used to thrive on, it’s this one. A loopy 80s premise involving rubber-suited alien factions shooting lasers and shapeshifting while carrying their incomprehensible war to mid-90s Earth has the potential for a ton of silly fun à la cult classics like Buckaroo Banzai, but the film never cuts loose, constricted at every turn by boring characterizations and the assembly-line sterility of the 21st-century Disney machine. Desperate to prove its boldness yet never straying outside the boundaries of safety, the resulting wannabe romp is perfectly serviceable — thanks mostly to some spirited performances and a couple of well-staged action set pieces — but it’s also one of the most shoulder-shrugging Marvel movies to date.
Prospects initially look bright; trippy dream sequences set up the mysterious past of Vers (Brie Larson), a soldier-in-training for a race of hive mind aliens called the Kree. She is plucky and impulsive, traits her commanding officer, Yon-Rogg (Jude Law), apparently disapproves of. He lectures her that warriors must control their emotions, you see (never mind that valid reasons for this are never properly demonstrated), and so Captain Marvel sets up its theme of The Man keeping folks down, suppressing their true natures. Meanwhile, Vers is also plagued with amnesia so that the story has some actual impetus, and after being finally granted her first mission, she quickly proceeds to be captured and interrogated by Kree enemies called the Scrull. These cast-offs from Star Trek: The Next Generation find memories locked in her brain that point to a life on Earth as an Air Force pilot named Carol Danvers, as well as involvement in the development of secret technology that may have incredible power.
If this plot sounds at all ridiculously convoluted, that’s because it is — and that’s part of the early, cheesy fun. Early on, Captain Marvel barely tries to be coherent as it hops from planet to planet, breezing through the politics of war, establishing half-hearted motives while the CGI equivalent of cardboard cutout spaceships zoom about, unexplained energy beams blast out of hands, and talking bat-people rewind memories like they have them on VHS. On the surface, it’s the kind of old-fashioned mess that would have certain viewers poring over every detail as they catch a midnight showing. Yet, the filmmakers never truly lean into the odd moments, never lose themselves in the goofiness — there’s too much control.
Eventually, this ragtag group of ETs find themselves on 1990s Earth, and after Vers plummets through the roof of a Blockbuster Video store (how quaint!), she questions the bewildered shopping center security guard, uses Radio Shack parts to build a communications device, and is confronted a young Nick Fury (a digitally de-aged, two-eyed Samuel L. Jackson) in an energizing back-and-forth that establishes a quirky comedic contrast. The stage is set for a whole slew of fish-out-water interactions as this young space warrior slowly uncovers her identity and place in the universe. Those moments end up fleeting, however, sacrificed to origin story exposition.
Captain Marvel lives right on the edge of entertaining, paying just enough lip service to its best bits that viewers won’t lose interest, but glossing over them in a way that continuously elicits disappointment. Clever banter often feels curtailed, usually devolving into contrived one-liners or forced jokes that would have been old even in the time in which the story is set. Tricks perpetrated by the shape-shifting Skrull whet the appetite for visual identity games, yet more often than not they fizzle out, as if tossed in for canon purposes instead of filmmaking ones. Sure, these movies are manufactured products, but they’ve usually had a better sense when to roll with something that works.
Much of the blame can be put squarely on the writing, with a script that falls well below the studio’s standard fare. Not only is the dialogue less snappy, but far too many elements lack awareness in how to translate ink to live-action. It’s one thing to accept the heroes themselves breaking the laws of physics (they’re ‘super’ after all), but it’s another to watch a transport plane swoop and roll like a fighter jet, all while its passengers remain comfortably on their bench seats. Why even set this in the real world at all?
The biggest casualty of the script, however, is Vers/Danvers/Captain Marvel herself; while it is about time that a woman leads a Marvel movie, could they have created a less interesting character? Captain Marvel has immense physical power, but nothing personal to focus it on, no real growth to achieve other than to be herself — to remember. That’s not much of a flaw, and without human weakness to overcome, why should we care? She’s Superman without the threat of kryptonite, Galahad without a real grail. These sorts of films are loaded with sassy quips; what else ya got? Some obligatory pathos is shoehorned in via a former pilot friend (Lashana Lynch, who does her damnedest to stir up feelings), but simply parading old photographs is Captain Marvel‘s idea of establishing a deep emotional relationship.
This is a shame, as Brie Larson brings some real spark in her performance. She injects otherwise dull dialogue with an acerbic quality that isn’t on the page, and boy, does she squint at people like no one’s business. Those often hilarious expressions deserve better than lazy moments like sizing up a sexist motorcyclist. The rest of the cast is there for various levels of comedic support, and do the best they can, especially the always-reliable Jackson, and the scene-stealing Ben Mendelsohn as the Skrull leader. When these three share the screen, that early promise of wacky sci-fi fun returns, poised to present a classic oddball moment any second. As soon as they come close to the edge, however, they are reined back in by a force as restrictive as those rubber suits.
At just over two hours, Captain Marvel whisks by fairly quickly but fades just as fast. Outside of an ending that devolves into the usual special effects fest, the action is small-scale and well-executed (a knock-down brawl aboard a train is particularly amusing), but lacks that gonzo quality that a story like this really needs to be memorable (another fight set to No Doubt’s “Just a Girl” is a wasted opportunity for wonderful zaniness). One can’t shake the feeling that this story just isn’t being true to itself. Captain Marvel could have taken its own advice and unleashed the wild child within upon unsuspecting movie audiences. It plays things too Marvel-safe, however, a wasted opportunity for real razzle-dazzle that instead stands out in the crowded MCU for the wrong reasons.
‘Rojo’ Takes Carefully Composed Aim at Argentina’s Murky Past
Getting off to a creepy and crackling start, Benjamín Nasihtat’s Rojo can’t quite live up to its opening promise while admirably trying to navigate a muddied maze of vague suspicion around a small town in Argentina during the 1970s before the coup. Still, though the story bumps into a few dead ends before finally emerging into some light at the finish, exquisite compositions — punctuated by occasional bursts that mimic the time period’s cinematic style — and a quietly simmering performance from star Darío Grandinetti manage to keep things engaging enough throughout this low-key thriller.
After a mysterious opening shot in which an abandoned house in a pleasant neighborhood is calmly looted by various locals, Rojo directs our attention to a cozy, upscale restaurant where respectable lawyer Claudio sits alone, waiting for his wife, courteously acknowledged by other similarly well-off patrons. He draws the ire of another customer, who abrasively chides Claudio for occupying a table when he is not ready to order, thus depriving those who are. Pretending to take the higher road, Claudio gives up his seat, but can’t resist also giving this rude young man a lecture of his own — one that despite its refined vocabulary, smacks of hostile superiority. From there, an altercation ensues that will not only haunt Claudio for the rest of the film, but also stand for a certain societal rot that took over a country.
The sequence is chilling in its callousness, the way in which a person is removed from a restaurant — and a community — with nary a blink of an eye; soon, everyone is back to chattering away, enjoying their meals as if a mere pest had entered and was quickly shooed away. Beneath their civilized faces, however, their are subtle signs of deep unease. Rojo expertly creates a tension here that it will then go on to very slowly dilute, as more and more tangents are given prominence in an attempt to reinforce already clear themes without shedding new light on them.
The paranoia and guilt lurking beneath nearly every interaction in Rojo serves to bring attention to the various disappearances that take place and are alluded to throughout the story. That fear of being “disappeared” without a trace is a clear reference to the “los desaparecidos” — political dissidents from the era who either fled the country or were kidnapped and murdered in the wake of a military coup that wanted to silence opposition. The premise that one can suddenly say the wrong thing and summarily be erased from society while everyone looks the other way is an inherently scary one, and that pervading atmosphere goes a long way toward making Rojo highly watchable.
However, once the general idea is firmly and skillfully established, Rojo seems to have little place else to go with it. A subplot involving selling the house from the prologue is mildly interesting in how it portrays the opportunistic behavior that capitalized on atrocity, but the process eventually fizzles out. American rodeo cowboys pay a visit, alluding to U.S. involvement during the coup, but not much else. A trip to the beach perhaps shows a bit of the pressure that gets to those who have had to turn a blind eye for so long, but little else is garnered outside a stylish depiction of a solar eclipse that washes the screen symbolic red. A teenage romance seems like it’s reaching for something important to say about dominance and jealousy, but can’t come up with more than another disappearance — and of a character who might as well be a nobody regardless, for the few minutes they are on screen.
A missing doctor, a magician’s act, a church confrontation; the power of the vanishings is undermined somewhat by their frequency. But maybe that’s the point — that we all can be desensitized to injustice.
Still, whether or not one finds meaning, it’s hard to take one’s eyes off such gorgeously composed images as Nasihtat has crafted here. Though its plot often seems to lack focus, Rojo still emits a feeling of pinpoint exactitude through pictures. Nearly every frame is a joy to examine, creating a palpable sense that angles and staging have been meticulously prepared to convey important information key to unlocking the script’s mysteries. Restrained use of zooms and freeze frames also help inject some period style into the proceedings, and can be effectively startling. Holding it all together though is the repressed performance of Darío Grandinetti, who masterfully finds the quiet fear and hypocrisy in a certain kind of ‘upright’ citizen. As the various pressures grow (including from a big-city TV investigator played by Alfredo Castro), will he be able to hold it together?
The payoff is a bit anti-climactic, but Rojo has already been trending that way since the beginning. Nevertheless, it does conclude on a more explicit note, and there is a great visual pleasure to be had from simply watching this story unfold in such sharp, capable filmmaking hands.
‘Rojo’ is now available on digital formats from 1844 Entertainment.
‘Queen of Hearts’ is a Frank and Difficult Look at Sexual Desire
Trine Dyrholm is typically brilliant in Danish film ‘Queen of Hearts’ — playing an older woman embarking on an affair with her stepson.
Queen of Hearts starts with a rather banal scene. Anne (Trine Dyrholm) walks through the woods with her dog. Her children are just outside her large, glass-heavy house. She goes inside, where her husband, Peter (Magnus Krepper), says police have called and he has to go. She looks outside at some barren trees, dramatic strings play, and the title credits come on; it’s a seemingly innocuous moment curdled into something far more ominous.
This opening salvo with something moody and dark hiding within the banality and reliability of a simple family scene (later revealed to be in the future) sums up the Official Danish Best International Film submission Queen of Hearts as a whole. This is a film of bad decisions, loneliness, and creaky moral boundaries, interrogating the mores of modern womanhood against the backdrop of supposed domestic perfection.
Our protagonist, Anne, is a lawyer who works with children who have been abused. She knows how to talk to young victims of rape and neglect, balancing a firm sense of what’s right with the necessary language to give these children hope. But she has difficulties switching from work to home, unable to give her twin daughters the affection they deserve. One way for anyone to switch off and focus on life outside of work, of course, is to engage in some form of intimacy; yet, her hypocritical, workaholic doctor husband has little time to give her any attention in the bedroom.
When Peter’s teenage son, Gustav (Gustav Lindh), turns up to stay for the summer, Anne is immediately attracted to his moodiness and sexual swagger. Their slow seduction scenes seem to all come from different movies: porno (he suddenly comes out of the shower in the towel), summer indie drama (a scene in a lake with splashing water and an ecstatic soundtrack), and eventually horror (a writhing, overly staged sex scene in the dark that is extremely shocking in its frankness).
These shifts in tone reflect the film’s queasy study in shifting sympathies, making Queen of Hearts a modern morality play baked in typically Scandinavian seriousness. Is Anne simply engaging in a harmless affair, rediscovering her long-dormant sexuality? Or is the age difference simply too far? With echoes of both The Hunt (2012) and the women-focused sex-dramas of Lars von Trier, it is sure to provoke a mixture of praise for its brazen female sexual gaze, and eventually disgust for where this gaze finally takes us.
Most of us assume that we are good people, even as we are engaging in less than savoury activities. It may look bad to people on the outside, but we have our reasons. The ever-reliable Trine Dyrholm turns in another mesmerising performance here, balancing her own lack of sexual self-confidence against her outwardly authoritative presence as a lawyer. Even if we cannot agree with what she does, Dyrholm successfully conveys her character’s complexity, making her sympathetic throughout. But just as we can never judge ourselves objectively, we can never know the ultimate effect our actions may have on others, especially in a dynamic such as this, leading to some bitter results.
Queen of Hearts asks the viewer to never make assumptions, to think outside of clichés, and to really dig deep into the true heart of the matter. Director May el-Toukhy knows she has strong actors and a strong screenplay here, employing minimal tricks to just let them get on and really chew into the material. While unlikely to make it into the final Oscar shortlist, Queen of Hearts deserves a lot of credit for its utter brazenness and steadfast commitment to its difficult premise.
‘Ford v Ferrari’ Drives Fast with Little Under the Hood
A classic Hollywood drama with fast cars and a stellar Christian Bale performance that feels great despite a lack of emotional substance.
Many directors always struggle with producers and other businessmen to retain their vision. What might work most for that vision may not be what focus tests and audiences have proven to enjoy, so the film gets reworked and reworked until it becomes a box office hit, and potentially retains a director’s intent. Ford v Ferrari doesn’t necessarily feel like that — this is a James Mangold film in many regards — but by the end of its story of vision and skill versus marketing and business agendas, Mangold’s latest wrestles with placing trust in an individual against an entire body of suits.
When Carroll Shelby (Matt Damon) is approached by Ford Motors to create a car fast enough to beat Ferrari at the 24 Hours of Le Mans (an annual racing event where drivers go all day and night around the same track), he is forced to fight tooth-and-nail to get the best driver for the job: Ken Miles (Christian Bale). Shelby’s fight is singular; he wants to win the Le Mans, and knows that Miles is the only one who can do it. Yet, Ford Motors is still a company with many eyes on them, and employing the hot-headed Miles as a driver could be disastrous. So begins a struggle for Shelby and Miles to have their desires met by a company looking at the bottom line. That struggle — one that underscores every decision made by the characters in the film — is what sits at the core of Ford v Ferrari, and keeps things interesting. Set that aside, however, and the film loses a lot of momentum.
Still, the racing will grip audiences throughout. The final Le Mans challenge runs for a decent portion of Ford v Ferrari and is engaging throughout, but there are several other races and practices where Mangold’s craftsmanship as a filmmaker shines bright. Miles sits in the driver’s seat of all of these moments, and Bale’s performance is never stronger than when his character has that need for speed. Miles is a passionate driver with pure intentions, and Bale gives him a lot of wit and heart in between huge swings of emotion. It’s a performance that stands tall but doesn’t distract, instead meshing extremely well with the action.
Meanwhile, the other performances are also solid. Matt Damon is very good in the role of Shelby, though his character is quite often reserved because he has to be. When you put him against Bale, however, it’s clear that Shelby pales to the race car driver’s fleshed-out character, as we follow the latter’s family, his rejections and successes, and his pure heart. In the backdrop is a wide array of supporting actors, including Caitriona Balfe as Mollie Miles, Josh Lucas as the thorn in Shelby’s side, Jon Bernthal playing a standard Jon Bernthal role, and Tracy Letts chewing up scenery whenever he can as Henry Ford II. Letts and Lucas in particular give great caricatured performances, planting Ford v Ferrari into a more standard Hollywood drama.
Largely that’s the problem: Ford v Ferrari is a technical achievement with some incredible craftsmanship and performances that just never feels as great at slow times as it does when it’s moving past 7000 RPMs. It has a need for speed, and the pacing shows that, but it also doesn’t really rise very high above what’s needed to please an audience. Mangold is great at deriving emotional substance out of a subject, but a lot of that in Ford v Ferrari is left on the shoulders of Bale’s performance. Instead, the film focuses heavily on the bureaucratic side of things, and how that hinders talented people from being who they are destined to be. While fun to watch, there isn’t much more that will have Ford v Ferrari lingering with audiences. Instead, this will be a movie that resonates with racing fans and those that struggle against restrictions, keeping general audience satisfied in their big Hollywood dramas for the time being.
Editor’s Note: This article was originally published on September 14 as part of our coverage of The Toronto International Film Festival.
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