By Steve Crum

The film title The End references the apocalyptic end of the world. Joshua Oppenheimer (director/producer/screenwriter) has taken that grim premise to unfamiliar territory, fashioning it into 149 minutes of a family musical-drama-tragedy. 

It is not easy to watch.

Co-screenscribes Oppenheimer and Rasmus Heisterberg set their tale two decades following an environmental disaster that has wiped out most of the world. A wealthy family live in a relatively luxurious bunker (more like a mini-house) located within the confines of a cavelike salt mine. Among the group are Mother (Tilda Swinton), Father (Michael Shannon) and Son (George MacKay). Living in nearby rooms are the family’s butler (Tim McInnerny), doctor (Lennie James), and friends Mary (Danielle Ryan) and Bronagh Gallager (no character name). 

The group tries to maintain a semblance of normal daily life, including physical exercises (they have a swimming pool), doctor checks (he also dispenses drugs), shared mealtimes, reading books, writing journals, and art collecting. (We assume they had access to a museum?) Oddly, they conduct safety drills. 

Individually, the soft spoken characters have quirks and nuances they still try to either hide or downplay after 20 years together. The real focus in this regard is on the son’s lack of sophistication about love and sex. His parents’ relationship is devoid of any display of affection, even in private. The boy’s lack of role modeling is challenged following the discovery of a wounded girl (Moses Ingram) in the outer cave. Their burgeoning relationship becomes the crux of the plot and hope for the future.

Note that at any given time, a character will burst into song and dance. Rename “burst” as speaking in rhyme—with full orchestral accompaniment. It is not even at Rex Harrison level of sing-talk. There are 13 such “songs” with titles like “A Wonderful Gift,” “We Kept Our Distance” and “The Mirror.” The latter tune is embellished by impressive camera work reminiscent of Orson Welles. 

Overall, the sadly courageous group seems to suffer from PTSD via boredom and fear. Such is understandable. Laughs are a rarity in The End. I kept thinking about Debbie Downer from SNL. 

If Tilda Swinton speaking a sorrowful lyric like “each day is like the last” entertains you, The End might be your tea cup.

—————

GRADE on an A-F Scale: C-

By Steve Crum

There are surprises and revelations in Look Into My Eyes. But the quirky documentary about psychics has a couple of unanswered questions. Maybe we need a psychic to figure it all out? 

No crystal balls are used, but there are candles, dimly lit rooms and theatrics. Produced and directed by Lana Wilson, who has created four other documentaries, Look Into My Eyes is a fascinating glimpse into the life of a professional psychic. Make that seven psychics operating in New York City. The 108 minutes suggest they all function in their apartments—either in the same building or in close proximation. 

There is a scene, however, in which a psychic solicits readings outdoors. 

The people seeking the mediums are troubled and obsessed in communicating. If you are like me, curious about the monetary payment for each meeting, stay wanting. Fees are not mentioned on camera. It must be substantial since the psychics do not seem to have another job. (By the way, the apartments are anything but elaborate.) 

The central figures are not “fortune tellers.” These mediums share messages from departed spouses, friends, family members, and even pets. They tap into the the outer world of the deceased, and elicit both joy and tears. 

We witness the actual seance, the psychic’s connection with the client, the answered and unanswered questions, and tearful impacts. It seems real. Perhaps the most jarring exchange occurs when a client wants to know if his birth mother regrets having given him up when born. We can all empathize. 

Is everything we see in Look Into My Eyes true? Are we witnessing reality? My question is an ongoing one in our world of reality TV. For example, we know that a program like the super popular Survivor is unscripted, but it is all taped by several cameras. Participants realize they are on camera, even in supposed private conversations. Maybe everyone has learned to ignore a camera constantly focused on them. So goes the Eyes documentary. How can the psychic and client truthfully interact with one or two cameras obviously in the room? 

Half of Look Into My Eyes is devoted to the private lives of the psychics themselves, sans clientele. What makes a guy or gal become a psychic? Do they have anything in common with other psychics? (The seven regularly meet with each other in a therapy session to share common concerns, both professional and private.) One of the group is also shown at singing lessons. (He has a long way to go.)

These messengers are fraught with their own problems, insecurities, and histories. Yet they are driven to answer strangers’ queries due to their ability to connect. 

Director Lana Wilson captures the isolationism of the psyche as it plays out in Hannah Buck’s spot on editing. The film is reminiscent of the style of documentarian Frederick Wiseman, and that is great praise. 

—————

GRADE on an A-F Scale: A-

By Steve Crum

Feature movies with a prostitute as the main character have existed for nearly a century. They include Anna Christie with Greta Garbo, Rain (Joan Crawford), Klute (Jane Fonda), Irma la Douce (Shirley MacLaine), Pretty Woman (Julia Roberts), and Midnight Cowboy (Jon Voight). 

Add Mikey Madison to that stellar list. Make that the Oscar nominated Mikey Madison. She memorably portrays the title character in Anora. (The film has received five other Oscar noms as well, including Best Picture.) 

Everyone in the cast is way above average, including Yura Borisov as Igor. (He is an Oscar nom for Best Supporting Actor.) Sean Baker (The Florida Project) is director, producer, screen scribe and editor—all nominated. All said, the combination of that creativity results in a unique and unforgettable film. 

Anora is touted as an “American comedy drama,” which indeed it is. It is also wild, raucous, and sexually explicit. Label it Super-R. The story opens in Anora (“Ani”) Mikheeva’s (Mikey Madison) main workplace, a strip club brothel in New York City. Her prostitution demands sometime take her and a client to a nearby location outside the club. That scenario occurs when she hooks up (yeah, a pun) with a Russian young man, Ivan (“Vanya”) Zakharov, a man-child played by Mark Eydelshteyn. After some horizontal activity in a back room at the club, Ivan insists Anora party with him for a week ($15,000) while staying in his rich parents’ nearby mansion. Mom and Dad are still in Russia. 

The set-up escalates into a private plane trip to Las Vegas, more sex…and marriage! They return to NYC, word gets out to Ivan’s parents, and the outraged family calls on their hired fixer, an Armenian priest, to retaliate. In one of the funniest bits in the film Toros (Karren Karagulian), the head handler, is in the middle of a christening when he gets a call to dissolve Ivan and Anora’s marriage. He immediately responds, running out of the ceremony and taking two of his strong arms with him: Igor and Garnik (Vache Tovmasyan).  

Be prepared for pushback from the newlyweds: screaming, threats, throwing things, tying up, barfing, a couple of car escapades, and general chaos. Everything escalates when the Russian parents arrive to make things worse. 

Much of Anora’s dialogue is laced with foul language, particularly the f-word. In fact, her lines are a close runner-up to the nasties in 1992’s Glengarry Glen Ross. Then again, Anora’s use seems totally natural and expected. She uses the word as both punctuation and angry leverage. 

By the story’s resolution, Anora has withstood numerous challenges. A happy ending? Not necessarily. 

Up to and particularly including the last 30 minutes of this 139-minute gem of originality, I had zero idea where the story was going. Thusly, my affection for this terrific movie was a given.

—————

GRADE on an A-F Scale: A

By Steve Crum

“PRIVILEGE.” It is an apt alternate title I would give to Maria, the fascinating biopic of world renowned opera singer Maria Callas, starring Angelina Jolie. To say that Maria Callas was spoiled is to put it, um, mildly. Accurately described as as a “biographical psychological drama,” the film’s production is the result of an international collaboration encompassing the United States, Chile, Great Britain, Italy and Germany. For example, Director Pablo Larrain (Jackie) is Chilean; Screenwriter Steven Knight is British. 

The story opens during the final day of Maria Callas (Sept. 16, 1977), and continues for the next 124 minutes in flashbacks…and flashbacks within flashbacks. To offset confusion, past incidents appear in black and white. The narrative is still confusing, particularly when Maria has distorted recollections (hallucinations) due to her ill health—influenced by drugs, fantasies, and memory loss. She suffers mental demons, viewed through her recollections. Expect lapses in truth and rumor like whether or not the young Maria was forced to sing for the Nazi SS…or her relationship with Aristotle Onassis (well portrayed by Haluk Bilginer). 

Her need to be pampered and the center of attention is explored. As depicted, she stops by a favorite eatery in Paris. “I’m not hungry,” she tells the waiter. “I come to restaurants to be adored.” 

During her prime, Callas was considered THE prima donna opera singer. With a yet unequalled singing range, she exuded professionalism and showmanship on major stages around the world. 

Yet, as shown in the film, she is fraught with vocal insecurity. Scattered memories surround her fear of never singing again as she grows older. 

As the film slowly (too slowly) progresses, it reminded me in several ways of Albert and David Maysles’ 1987 documentary, Grey Gardens. Even though Maria is not a documentary, it has a similar feel in its mixture of grandeur and former grandeur. Sadness permeates both films.

That sadness is somewhat balanced with friendship via the dedicated and loving relationship between Callas and her longtime servants, expertly portrayed by Pierfrancesco Favino as her butler, Ferruccio—loyal to the hilt, and Alba Rohrwacher’s Bruna, the housemaid. 

Angelina Jolie shines as Callas, not only in terms of acting but expertly lip synching to the diva’s original recordings. It is Jolie herself superbly singing at the movie’s conclusion. Her seven months in vocal training paid off!

Kudos to the awesome location filming (in and outdoors) by cinematographer Edward Lachman. 

And bravo to Jolie, whose acting (and singing) chops have risen to Oscar level since those long ago Tomb Raider days—not saying that she wasn’t an impressive action star.

—————

By Steve Crum

It was less than a delightful experience viewing The Piano Lesson. Based upon August Wilson’s Broadway play of the same name and directed-adapted by Malcolm Washington, The Piano Lesson is a study in family values and characterizations. Its strength is in the superb acting, supported by rich dialogue. 

It is an ensemble piece, par excellence. 

Umbrage has to be taken, however, with expectations. Specifically, TPL is advertised as a “drama”—which is valid. From the outset, the story “presents realistic characters who deal with realistic conflicts or struggles.” (Thank you, Mr. Webster.) 

However, exploding during the third act of this 127-minute tale is a supernatural aspect best described as “horror.” Ghostly, violent things occur. It all pertains to the family and friends inside the house, which is the primary setting. So why isn’t The Piano Lesson truthfully promoted as drama/horror? A petty observation? I don’t think so.

Consider the plot line, which Virgil Williams co-adapted. Utilizing flashbacks to tell the history of the piano that centers the story, the tale opens on July 4, 1911 in Mississippi. The wealthy Sutter family is enjoying fireworks miles away from home as their estate is being ransacked. Specifically, their piano is stolen. The thieves include the Black ancestors of the Sutters’ former slaves, the Charles Family. It turns out that the piano has intricately carved faces across the front and sides. The faces are of the Sutter slaves. 

Continuing in flashback, the Sutters eventually catch up with a perpetrator (Boy Charles) while the piano is separately transported by others up north—never to be returned. 

In a flash-forward to 1935 Pittsburgh, Boy Charles’ son Boy Willie (John David Washington), rides a wagon to town to visit his sister Berniece (Danielle Deadwyler). She is the single mother of daughter Maretha (Skylar Aleece Smith). Both live with Uncle Doaker, played by Samuel L. Jackson. They live in an impressive two-story house…with that gorgeously carved piano standing in the living room. 

So goes the initial plot, as Boy Willie wants to sell the piano, which he claims as co-owner with his sister. His sister vehemently objects, and seemingly endless arguments ensue. A half dozen other characters get involved over time, including a wanna be preacher Avery (Corey Hawkins), who wants to marry Berniece. 

As referenced earlier, the final third of TPL involves the ghost of Old Man Sutter seeking vengeance via apparitions, spooky sounds, and downright physical fighting—particularly with Boy Willie. As effective as the chills are, they seem trite to advance the story. And the story’s finality is a sugar-coated letdown.  

The Piano Lesson is the third of three August Wilson plays produced for films by Denzel Washington. Like Fences and Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom, it features Black characters fusing history with human values. 

So why taint it with a partial reworking of The Amityville Horror? 

—————

GRADE on an A-F Scale: C