GREENDAY

Happy October everybody! Your Humble Narrator must confess that I am all too vulnerable to seasonal marketing for this, my favorite month. Recently I tried...

...Fanta's Beetlejuice Beetlejuice tie-in pop, Haunted Apple, and also...

...Hostess Limited Edition FrankenCakes, "with SCREAM filling!"

The FrankenCakes tasted, to me, exactly like a regular, tasty cupcake. Perhaps the SCREAM filling would have had more creepy impact if, like the frosting, it was green. As for the pop, at least it commited to the macabre conceit; it had an elusive flavor that I might describe as "very sweet, but moldy." I finished one bottle but I suspect I am unlikely to buy a second.

GOOD COPPOLA, BAD COPPOLA

Opening this weekend:

Megalopolis--The buzz on this long-cherished, finally realized project by Francis Ford Coppola is that people either love it or hate. But you may find that duality stifling. I kind of hated this movie, and I also kind of loved it.

It's an epic with sci-fi, fantasy and surreal elements, set in a city called "New Rome." New Rome looks exactly like New York, if New York was shot in exquisitely burnished metallic tones by the Romanian cinematographer Mihai Malaimare Jr., and if the men wore '90s-George Clooney haircuts. Against this backdrop, Coppola develops a story that very loosely parallels the Cataline Conspiracy of 63 B.C., as chronicled by Sallust.

Cesar Catalina (Adam Driver) still wants to take over Rome, but in this version he's a visionary architect and urban planner who wishes to create a new utopian downtown full of futuristic, even surreal amenities, made possible by a building material called Megalon. His rival Mayor Cicero (Giancarlo Esposito) has, one might say, more modest ambitions for his town.

Trouble brews when Cicero's beautiful daughter Julia (Nathalie Emmanuel) goes to work for Cesar, and despite a dark secret involving Cesar's late first wife, he and Julia begin to fall in love. Into this basic conflict, rafts of supporting players and subplots and sub-subplots and digressions are interwoven, on the whole pretty chaotically.

The movie opens with a breath-quickening sequence in which Cesar stands on the ledge of the New Rome version of the Chrysler Building, leaning out, tempting gravity and stopping and starting time with the power of his will. The movie that follows seems to be Coppola trying to do the same with his art, and struggling with the awareness that time can't be suspended indefinitely.

It's potent start, but after that Megalopolis splutters and flails for quite a while, with short, scattered, over-edited scenes that fail to draw us in, or sometimes even to communicate what's happening and who's who in relation to who. A half-hour or so in, I was starting to squirm, thinking this could be a really punishing disaster. Very gradually, however, a story begins to take shape that we can invest in.

The intent seems to be satirical, but Coppola's tone comes across as too earnest, even naive, for any real bite. The writer-producer-director sees our society as in decline, and he wants to have "A GREAT DEBATE ABOUT THE FUTURE." This seems like a worthy goal; our current debates about the future seem pretty lacking in greatness, with one side regarding the future as a place where Jesus will come back and then all the elitists will be sorry, and the other side regarding the future as a place where maybe we'll get people's pronouns right.

Coppola certainly has broader, more robust, more soulful hopes for the future than these. But his utopian ideals are unspecific, beyond a sort of technocratic optimism. Cesar's "Megalon" (no relation, apparently, to Godzilla's old rival) is a conveniently vague plot device, and much of what Coppola shows us as evidence of our decline are lots of nubile young women partying too hard.

All this and more undoubtedly makes Megalopolis seem dubious, even campy. It's the kind of grand, glittering cinematic folly that we rarely see any more, because perhaps regrettably we don't have as many auteurs with the same level of delusional hubris as we did half a century ago. Yet it's hard to shake the sense that, at bottom, Coppola is right about contemporary society; that it is time for us to pull our collective heads out of our asses. And his sense of spectacle can get to you. His style here recalls everything from Orson Welles to Abel Gance to Koyaanisqatsi to Things to Come, and after he settles down, his movie begins to get exhilarating.

In no small part, undoubtedly, this is due to the uncommonly glamorous and vibrant cast. The roles are grievously underwritten--Dustin Hoffman in particular makes a fine, energetically weaselly entrance, but then his part seems unceremoniously truncated. But these actors inhabit their pageant figure roles and flesh them out with their own personalities.

Driver is excellent, again showing his ability to be eccentric and vulnerable while retaining the commanding presence of a leading man, and Esposito's pensive, wary eyes make a perfect, puny-spirited contrast to Driver's virility. Emmanuel is able to keep Julia from becoming too much of an idealized love object despite Coppola's gauzy presentation of her.

Shia LaBeouf has a juicy turn as Cesar's cousin and enemy Clodio, and Laurence Fishburne is a reassuring presence as Cesar's chauffeur, who also serves as the movie's Greek Chorus narrator. As Cesar's rich uncle Crassus, Jon Voight, despite his real-life political leanings, gives what seems like a gleeful parody of a certain recent president from the Big Apple, and it's fun to see veterans like Balthazar Getty, James Remar, Jason Schwartman, D.B. Sweeney and even Talia Shire among the supporting players.

It's possible that the strongest performance in the movie, however, is that of Aubrey Plaza, in the role of Wow Platinum, a TV financial reporter who has snaked her way into the lives of both Cesar and Crassus. Plaza isn't subtle as the lewd, scheming Wow, and from the beginning the character refuses to get buried by Coppola's grandiose conceptions. Every time she gets up to some juicy mischief, the audience comes happily to life.

BOT WAIT THERE'S MORE

Opening in the multiplexes this weekend:

Transformers One--The Hasbro toy line debuted in 1984, when I was in college; I knew the Transformers only slightly, through my nephews. As with the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles or the Power Rangers or Pokemon, I never had a personal sentimental attachment to them.

For the uninitiated: The Transformers are elegant anthropomorphic robots capable of folding themselves up into vehicles: a truck, a car, a tank, a drone. Or, are they sleek vehicles that can unfold themselves into robots? It's all rather Zen, but it was also brilliant toy marketing, taking kids beyond the childhood power fantasy of having a truck or a tank to being a truck or a tank.

Along with the toys, the franchise has spawned comics, cartoons, novels and several previous feature films, some animated, some live action. I haven't seen them all, but the couple I did were overstuffed and silly, though they also offered some gorgeous imagery.

This new animated feature is an origin story for the two central figures in the Transformer pantheon, Optimus Prime, leader of the good-guy Transformers, and Megatron, leader of the bad-guy Transformers, or Decepticons. It follows the pair, then called Orion Pax and D-16, as young mining robots, without transforming powers, on their home planet of Cybertron.

Pax is forever snooping around old archives, looking for clues to the whereabouts of some McGuffin that will give him and his overworked comrades equality. D-16 resents his oppression at least as much as Pax does, but he's less of a daring, chance-taking sort. Eventually they end up, along with a couple of other allies, on an adventure on the planet's bleak and mercurial surface.  

I couldn't always follow all this, not just because I was unfamiliar with the references but because the movie, directed by Josh Cooley from a script by several hands, is presented in the Michael Bay manner, with scenes so rapidly cut that you sometimes have to take the dialogue's word for what's happening onscreen. That said, it's a great-looking movie, not quite as beautiful as the recent Ultraman: Rising, but close. Along with the strangely passive harlequin faces of the robots, there are lovely planetscapes and herds of cybertronic deer and vehicles that generate their own roadways and tracks before them as they sail along and other magical sci-fi flourishes.

It has a voice cast of stars, too; along with Chris Hemsworth and Brian Tyree Henry in the leads we also hear from Scarlett Johansson, Keegan-Michael Key, Jon Hamm, Steve Buscemi and Laurence Fishburne. And somewhere amidst the fan service, along with a hard-to-miss Christ allegory, the plot probably carries a pretty nuanced and complex parable of radicalization and the manipulation of media.

ASS THE WORLD TURNS

Opening Friday in Scottsdale:

My Old Ass--18-year-old Elliot lives on an idyllic Canadian cranberry farm, but can't wait to head to college and start her life. She confesses her feelings, successfully, to her summer-long crush, and then she and her friends camp out on an island and take 'shrooms.

Under this fungal influence, Elliot, played by Maisy Stella, finds herself sitting next to the Old Ass of the title, her 39-year-old self, played by Aubrey Plaza. Younger Elliot is eager to hear dish and glamour about her future, but Older Elliot is cagey; she just advises her to avoid anybody named Chad. Soon after, Younger Elliot meets a nice young man while swimming. Guess what his name is.

The wish to go back and offer guidance and comfort to your younger self is a human perennial, perfectly expressed in the Faces anthem "Ooh La La." My Old Ass, written and directed by Megan Park, works the premise ingeniously by taking it, one might say, ass-backwards. Thus we see the story from the younger heroine's point of view; that is, from the version of her who, being young, knows everything and is unlikely to consciously accept an older person's counsel. Yet we also see Older Elliot's healthy influence on her behavior.

Stella carries the movie sweetly as Younger Elliot, with a suggestion that she's trying to present as more daring and sardonic and above-it-all than she really is. Her supposed mortification at her provincial circumstances is a less than convincing pose. In the much smaller role of Older Elliot, Plaza's guarded, pained manner complements Stella's performance amusingly, and credibly.

Percy Hynes White, as the amiable Chad, is the other standout of the small cast. The settings--the film was shot in Muskoka Lakes, Ontario--are breathtaking, and the movie glides very agreeably through its brief running time. There's one sequence, involving a Justin Bieber song, that's truly hilarious, but otherwise My Old Ass feels, really, a little mild and undemanding.

This, paradoxically, may be what's most striking about it. Elliot identifies as gay, you see; the crush with whom she makes out early on is a (slightly) older woman. Park doesn't make a big deal about this, and she's almost equally nonchalant when Elliot finds herself attracted to Chad and begins to question her long-held assumptions about her own sexuality.

In the real world, of course, and in this day and age, this probably really does reflect normal teen development. But I couldn't help thinking about the tizzy that this would have stirred up from a teen flick even ten years ago, much less twenty. Like 2018's Love Simon, the sunny, breezy My Old Ass may be most remarkable for how unremarkable it is.

HAUNT GENERATOR

Opening this weekend:

Beetlejuice Beetlejuice--To the list of Gen X-era movie favorites getting very belated sequels, the sweetly macabre 1988 comedy Beetlejuice may now be added. You may remember the title character (spelled, outside of the title, like the red giant star in Orion) is a manic ghost who specialized in exorcizing the unwelcome living from haunted houses. Like Clive Barker's Candyman, he could be conjured into the world of the quick by speaking his name aloud three consecutive times, after which he would wreak havoc.

It's one of the signature roles of the great Michael Keaton; probably his greatest comedic triumph. The film also featured a breakthrough performance by Winona Ryder as the endearing, self-consciously "goth" heroine Lydia, and was a showcase for the visual and comic style of director Tim Burton. It's unquestionably a classic of '80s popular cinema, and it gave rise to a TV cartoon, video games, comics, a long-running stage show at Universal Studios theme parks, and eventually a Broadway musical that put Representative Lauren Boebert into an uncommonly good mood.

None of which necessarily means, of course, that a sequel was required. But one has been made, directed by Burton, starring Keaton, Ryder, and Catherine O'Hara, and scored by Danny Elfman. It has, in short, the stamp of authenticity, and this many years later it's a bit surprising that the original makers have managed to infuse, if anything, even more craziness into it.

Ryder's Lydia, now widowed, is still able to see ghosts, including the occasional startling glimpse of her old nemesis. She's the host of a paranormal TV show produced by her intolerable boyfriend (Justin Theroux). Relations between Lydia and her teenage daughter Astrid (Jenny Ortega) are tense, but circumstances bring the two of them and Lydia's stepmother Delia (O'Hara) back to the old house in picturesque small-town Connecticut. Before long, the boundary between our world and the Kafkaesque, DMV-style bureaucratic afterlife has been breached, and the title ghoul is trying to insinuate himself back into the picture.

What ensues, strung along a script by Alfred Gough and Miles Millar from a story by Seth Grahame-Smith, are more of Burton's elaborate yet non-sequitur slapstick set pieces. The gross-out content is slightly higher here than back in 1988, but it works. The original, you'll recall, had a fixation with Harry Belafonte songs from which its most memorable sequences arose; the new movie is likewise enriched by similarly out-of-nowhere musical interests, even more grandly staged. There are sequence here that achieve true, weapons-grade silliness.

Ortega is touching, and there are other effective new additions to the cast, like Willem Dafoe as an afterlife cop--he was a movie cop in this life--with an exposed brain, or Arthur Conti, excellent as a local kid who charms Astrid. Best of all is Monica Belluci, formidable as the enraged ghost of the leader of a "soul-sucking death cult" who has an unhappy history with our titular hero. The scene in which she pulls herself together with the help of a staple gun is a Burton classic.

Keaton, though used somewhat sparingly, slips easily back into his role, tossing off asides in his muttering natter (or nattering mutter?) with the same moldered aplomb, and moving with the same light-footed exuberance, with which he conducted himself three decades ago. Ryder is also perfectly convincing as the middle-aged version of Lydia; tinged with a hint of emotional desperation in her interactions with Astrid.

I know it sounds ridiculous, and maybe I'm just projecting, but I thought that Ryder, O'Hara and even Keaton brought a subdued, rueful undercurrent to their performances, as if stirred-up memories of the first film's events had awakened genuine emotional pain. Don't misunderstand; if it's there, it's done without the slightest heavy-handed intentionality; it may not even have been conscious on the part of the actors. But it deepens both this film and the original.

BUTT WAIT THERE'S MORE

Last night Your Humble Narrator happened to watch an episode of The Twilight Zone that begins with Joe Maross and Claude Akins as astronauts who have made an emergency landing on a distant and seemingly barren planet...

After the opening teaser, we pan over to Rod Serling, natty as ever in his Eagle or Kuppenheimer suit. He delivers his intro with a cig in his hand.

I couldn't help but wonder if Rod mysteriously left the crushed-out smoke in the sands of that desert world, a cosmic ashtray for nicotine-addicted denizens of...the Twilight Zone.

TEMPLE MINDS

In Valley theaters this weekend:

Between the Temples--A cantor who can't sing sounds like the set-up for a joke. Fate has, indeed, played a pretty nasty one on the hero of this wistful, stinging comedy about grief. Ben (Jason Schwartzman) is the sad-sack cantor of a modest synagogue in small-town upstate New York. A year after an appalling freak tragedy, the devastated fellow can't find his voice.

His Rabbi boss (Robert Smigel) refuses to fire him, possibly in part because Ben's two moms (Caroline Aaron and Dolly de Leon), with whom he lives, are generous donors to the temple. But all that anybody can think to do to help him is push him to re-marry; the Rabbi's avid daughter (Madeline Weinstein) is a prime candidate.  

Enter, or rather re-enter, Ben's grade school music teacher Carla O'Connor (Carol Kane), who used to be Carla Kessler before she was married. Long widowed in her seventies, Carla would like the Bat Mitzvah she never got when she was young. Reluctantly at first, Ben begins to give her instruction, and gradually they bond.

It's no secret that Carol Kane has been a treasure since the '70s, playing ethereal if often hapless waifs in films ranging from Hester Street to Wedding in White to When a Stranger Calls to The Last Detail to Annie Hall. She made her pixie persona legitimately creepy in The Mafu Cage and she gave a riotous self-parody in Scrooged. Her magic hasn't deserted her in Between the Temples; even though she's playing a believable, realistic character she retains a touch of the otherwordly angelic.

Schwartzman is no slouch either. In probably his most vivid role since his tour de force debut in Rushmore, he gets across the terrible confusions and wrongheaded impulses into which bereavement can lead a person, the way one can rebel against one's own best interests if the alternative is acceptance of an unacceptable loss.

I loved these performances and these characters. I loved the direction by Nathan Silver, from a script he wrote with C. Mason Wells, and the grainy, washed-out, '70s-movie-looking cinematography of Sean Prince Williams (this film seems to share a '70s-cinema aesthetic with last year's The Holdovers). But following the psychology of its central character, Between the Temples does spin out of control toward the end, into a deeply uncomfortable climactic scene and an unsatisfying, incomplete-feeling finale. It's a gem, frustratingly flawed.

There can be little doubt, however, that the Bat and Bar Mitzvah is a potent subject, especially when sought by an older person. In 1997, Ira Wohl's too-little-known documentary Best Man; "Best Boy" and All of Us Twenty Years Later concerned Wohl helping arrange a belated Bar Mitzvah for his developmentally disabled cousin, who was then in his seventies. Then in the 2000s, a late friend of mine had a second Bar Mitzvah when he reached the age of 83.

Carla's rather urgent aspiration in Between the Temples reminded me of all this; sometimes, perhaps, you can't see the value of a rite of passage until after the passage has already been made.

BAR NONE

In theaters this weekend:

Sing Sing--A troupe of actors, all incarcerated, work to put up a show in the notorious maximum security state prison in New York. They're members of the institution's Rehabilitation Through the Arts program (RTA). At the center of the company is John "Divine G" Whitfield (Colman Domingo).

In prison for a crime he did not commit, Divine G not only throws his soul into his theatre work, playing Shakespearean leads like he should be onstage in Central Park, he also assists his fellow inmates with appeals and preparation for parole hearings.

His anger at the injustice of his circumstances is unmistakable, yet it's less scary than the intensity with which he works to control and channel it; he knows too well that giving vent to rage would be futile and harmful to his cause. Besides, he's a true believer. His positivity is an act of faith, sometimes a Herculean one.

Like its hero, the movie, directed by Greg Kwedar from a script he wrote with Clint Bentley, is taut and melodrama-free. Perhaps because so many of the actors were actually incarcerated people--many of them RTA veterans playing themselves--Sing Sing has almost a documentary feel at times. Yet it also has, with almost no violence or other prison-movie cliches, the charge of high drama. Clarence "Divine Eye" Maclin and Sean San José are particularly memorable among the other company members. A word should also be said for Paul Raci, who plays Brent Buell, the diplomatic, unflappable director and playwright. 

But the core of the film is Colman Domingo. Rarely does an actor give us so much heart to invest in with so little hamming or telegraphing. It's a classic performance, both for its emotional impact and for its discipline.

My Penguin Friend--It's hard to go wrong with penguins. They've been amusing us for a long time, not just in zoos but in movies like George Miller's mad animated musical epic Happy Feet and its sequel, and Surf's Up, and the crack team of penguins in the Madagascar franchise, and Mr. Popper's Penguins, and the 2005 French documentary March of the Penguins, back though the exploding penguin and the giant penguin in Monty Python, not to mention Chilly Willy and Bugs Bunny's friend "Playboy Penguin," who wept tiny ice cubes when he was sad.

It's also hard to go wrong with Jean Reno. Best known as menacing killers in Luc Besson films like La Femme Nikita and The Professional, the rugged-looking French actor projects an air of effortless authority. So My Penguin Friend, which has both Jean Reno and a jaunty, spirited penguin in starring roles, starts out with certain advantages. And it ends up needing both of them.

This family film is, to use its opening titles, "Inspired by a True Story." In 2011, a man named Joao Pereira de Souza living on Ilha Grande, off the coast of Brazil, found a weakened, oil-slicked Magellanic penguin outside his house along the beach. He cleaned the poor flightless castaway up, fed him some sardines, and soon became friends with him. Dubbed "Dindim"--a grandchild's mispronunciation of the Portuguese word for penguin--the bird disappeared back into the Atlantic some months later. But he returned for many years thereafter, to hang out for the winter with Joao along his migratory route.

This fictionalized retelling of the story, directed by David Schurmann from a script by Kristen Lazarian and Paulina Lagudi Ulrich, starts off on the wrong foot with a tragic episode that seemed entirely gratuitous to me. And in its second half, it follows Dindim's encounters with researchers at his other home in Patagonia. These scenes feel very strained, with dialogue so stilted I began to wonder if it had been written by AI. And the movie's final stretch, which attempts to generate some danger and suspense, feels extremely half-hearted.

In between all this, however, we get to see Jean Reno, looking scruffy and soulful and beaky-faced as Joao, tenderly interacting with a penguin. That can carry a movie a long way. Reno seems to enjoy playing a childlike sweetness here, as Joao proclaims that Dindim "comes and goes as he pleases" and is "not my pet...he's my friend." The other humans in the film, including Adriana Barraza as Joao's wife, are all attractive, even when the dialogue coming out of them seems canned.

The movie is visually impressive, too. Dindim was played by several different penguins, and presumably his adventures, particularly underwater, have been at least partly enhanced by CGI, but it's pretty effective and seamless; he comes across as a character. And the scenery, both in windswept Patagonia and idyllic-looking Ilha Grande, is breathtaking.

So it will be a matter of personal calculation for you to decide if a penguin, a bona fide international movie star and gorgeous settings overcome feeble kid-movie devices enough to make My Penguin Friend worth your time. For me, it was; the penguin tipped the scale the farthest.

Alien: Romulus--A band of young scavengers bust into a huge derelict spaceship in orbit around the cheerless, sunlight-free mining planet on which they live. They're hoping to filch equipment that will allow them to escape their indenture, and they repeatedly express confidence that they'll be in and out in half an hour, and nothing can go wrong.

So in they go, get the stuff they need, and sail off to a new world where they live happily ever after. The end.

Just kidding. The result, in this seventh entry in the Alien series, is of course another gory encounter with an infestation of the elegantly spindly, terrifying creatures in all of their various stages of development, from "facehugger" to "chestburster" to full-grown fang-bearer.

Though it's not close to the 1979 original, Romulus is on the more watchable end of the franchise, deliberate and creepy for the first half, and non-stop in the second. It's a little unvaried and dark, however, and until the climactic scenes it doesn't really give us much that's new. Toward the end, the shots of the ice ring around the planet that the ship is approaching have a certain magical beauty, but otherwise we're mostly stuck in the chiaroscuro space dungeon.

The star is Cailee Spaeny, who played the fresh-faced young journalist in Civil War earlier this year. She's sympathetic, but the movie is stolen by David Jonnson as her companion Andy, a sweet, dad-joke-dispensing android who gets a reboot that gives him an upsetting personality change. Andy may be the best robot with divided loyalties since Robby in Forbidden Planet.

One more note: I'm a little over the vogue for gynecological/obstetric body horror. We got a big dose of nasty surgical instruments and moaning, keening young women birthing unnatural spawn earlier this year in The Last Omen; we get more natal splatter here. The gifted director of Romulus, the Uruguayan Fede Alvarez, also showed unsavory interest in coercive pregnancy in his terrific 2016 shocker Don't Breathe. Even the title Romulus refers to one species nursed at the teat of another.

Could all this be a reaction to post-Roe reproductive chaos? I'll leave that to graduate students with stronger stomachs than mine.

UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF A WOMAN

In 2000, I got to briefly interview Gena Rowlands for Phoenix New Times ahead of her appearance at a showing of A Woman Under the Influence in Scottsdale.

At the beginning of this chat, I indulged in a rather shamelessly unprofessional bit of gush:

"You know, I talk to famous people all the time, so I don't get starstruck much any more," I told her. "But talking to you is an exception."

She acted very girlishly flattered. Maybe she really was, or maybe she was just acting. Either way, it was an honor to be on the receiving end of it.

The word awesome gets thrown around a lot, but Gena Rowlands was awesome.

She did a lot of routine roles that seemed like they were just to pay the bills, and she was good even in that stuff, but when she worked with John Cassavetes--in A Woman Under the Influence, in Minnie and Moskowitz, in Gloria, in the underrated Tempest (directed by Paul Mazursky, but opposite a brilliant Cassavetes as her leading man) or in the grueling Opening Night--she was luminous. Potent as they are at their best, the films that Cassavetes directed can also be overwrought and exhausting, but her classic performances make them indispensably worth it.

Just a few days ago I happened to see her, very young, in an episode of The Alfred Hitchcock Hour called "Ride the Nightmare," opposite Hugh O'Brian.

One of O'Brian's criminal cronies, who he betrayed years earlier, has come seeking revenge, and is holding him at gunpoint. But when the crook gets a load of Rowlands, as O'Brian's wife, he can't help but remark "You did alright for yourself; she's a winner."

Indeed she is. Rest in peace and joy goddess.

DINE AND DASH

In July Pete Wells, the restaurant critic for the New York Times, announced that he was stepping down from that job after 12 years. His principal reason was what the work had done to his cholesterol, blood pressure, blood sugar and weight. He noted the short life spans of legendary food writers like A. A. Gill and Jonathan Gold. But he also said, simply, that "I realized I wasn't hungry anymore. And I'm still not, at least not the way I used to be."

All this rang true in my experience.

For most of my years working for newspapers and magazines, I have principally been an entertainment writer, focusing on movie reviews with occasional forays into writing about theatre, television, music, books. But I've also written about dining, for various publications, for decades.

I was a fill-in restaurant reviewer at Phoenix New Times, where I also had a weekly food review/interview column called "Lunch Meet." I've reviewed or profiled many East Valley eateries for the Wrangler News, and more recently I wrote a monthly column called "Four Corners" in Phoenix Magazine, in which I reviewed four different restaurants from four ends of the Valley, for slightly over four years, until it was shut down by COVID. I've also written many food-related entries for "Best of the Valley" and features like that.

And fun and delicious as all of this was, I too have suffered burnout. I don't expect any sympathy for this, of course; as Wells hastens to add: "The first thing you learn as a restaurant critic is that nobody wants to hear you complain."

This is understandable. Restaurant reviewing is a quintessential example of Nice Work If You Can Get It. Nobody doing data entry or telephone customer service, let alone paving roads in the Arizona heat, should have to endure somebody whining about what a drag it is to eat at nice restaurants for free and then write about it.

The day I was offered the food writing gig at Phoenix Magazine, I was driving home from the doctor's office where I had just learned I had diabetes. I immediately accepted the offer. My pancreas was just going to have to learn to cope.

All the same, after a few years even that nice work can grow old. First of all, not every restaurant is good. It's not fun--at least, it isn't fun for me--to write negatively about a small business into which people have poured their heart and soul and fortune, and on which their dreams are riding.

Besides, poor food can be hard on you. Substandard, misfired meals can clobber your digestion and leave you feeling hung over and help expand your waistline, all without the compensatory pleasure of a culinary success. As Wells says, after a few years you may find you're not so hungry anymore.

Even when the food is good, however, writing about it, for me, was often difficult. Applied to food, adjectives tend to wear out fast through repetition. I adore a good burrito, but it's hard to find a new word to describe even the most heavenly burrito on the planet.

Truthfully, I have sometimes found this same syndrome creeping into my movie reviewing. For most of about nine years, that was my main job--going to see movies and then writing down my thoughts about them. No doubt, if you're a cinema lover, it beats work.

Still, it's not certain that spending your days sedentary, in a cold dark room, eating greasy popcorn and Dots and Junior Mints and drinking Dr. Pepper, is the surest ticket to health and well-being. Certainly there are many movie critics who lived to old age, but two of the most famous departed on the early side, Gene Siskel at 53 and Roger Ebert at 70.

After long stretches of movie reviewing, a sense can sometimes set in that you've seen, and reviewed, all the movies, just with different titles and actors, just as when you're reviewing restaurants, a sense can set in that you've written up all the burritos, just with different dining rooms surrounding them. In my full-time critic days, people used to sometimes say, wow, you're lucky, you get to see all the movies. 

I would agree that I was very lucky. But then remember, I would add, it's not that I get to see all the movies, it's that I have to see all the movies.

Again, I do understand how absurdly fortunate I've been to spend so much of my working life in these amusing pursuits, and I'm inexpressibly grateful for it. My only point in all this, I suppose, is that no matter how cushy a job is, in the end it's still a job. So I wish Pete Wells a happy, and hungry, post-reviewing life.

JOINT SESSION

Opening this weekend:

Kneecap--The title refers to a west Belfast rap trio whose members perform in Irish, as in the Irish language. The members play themselves in the film--two youths, who go by the stage names "Mo Chara" and "Móglai Bap," and an older music teacher, JJ aka "DJ Próvai," who performs in a balaclava to hide his identity both from his employers and from his wife.

The group's bristling, furious, insolently funny music gets them in trouble, not only with the police and  politicians but with scuzzy local gangsters, the Orange Order and their own families. Even the pro-Irish language activists react with distate; they don't want the mother tongue associated with this sort of profanity, obscenity, drug use and anti-Brit sentiment. But the music also, of course, finds an enthusiastic audience.

The trailer calls the film, set in 2019 and directed by Rich Peppiatt from a script he wrote with the stars, a "mostly true story." To what extent the adverb in that phrase is strained, I can't say, though the publicity seems to suggest that this is a tall-tale version of the truth.

What I can say is that the movie is irresistible. The three stars are extremely endearing, and hold their own onscreen alongside veterans like Michael Fassbender as Móglai Bap's father and Josie Walker as a forbidding detective. Peppiatt's direction is fast and graphically playful but never merely slick; there's always warmth in the wit. And it's all driven forward by that marvelous music.

I realize that I come to Kneecap as a total outsider; most of the cultural references were opaque to me, and if there's another, darker angle from which this story can be seen, I'm certainly not in a position to recognize it. Things get a bit melodramatic toward the end, but again, the movie never really tries to claim that it's a documentary. Taken on its own terms, it's a delight.

There's also an irony built into the movie's language: the beautifully-spoken Irish is subtitled; the English dialogue is not, and was thus much harder for my Yank ear to follow. Maybe they should have subtitled both languages for the U.S. market, one in orange lettering, the other in green.

BESTWORLD

The July/August issue of Phoenix Magazine, now on the stands...

...includes the 2024 edition of "Best of the Valley." Your Humble Narrator is proud to have once again been among the authors. As always, I invite you to read it carefully and see if you can guess which eleven entries were elegantly composed by me.

LET'S TWIST AGAIN...

Opening this weekend...

Twisters--This isn't a look behind the scenes at the raw, fiercely competitive world of people who play the Milton Bradley party game. No, this is a pretty belated sequel to Jan de Bont's Twister, the 1996 adventure yarn about storm chasers. It follows roughly the same plot template: A midwestern heroine with a personal grudge against tornados tries to devise a way to combat them. In '96 this role was played by Helen Hunt; here it's a waif called Daisy Edgar-Jones.

After an opening tragedy while she's trying to deploy the "Dorothy" technology from the original film, our meteorologist heroine withdraws to New York. Five years later she's tempted back into storm chasing in her home state of Oklahoma by an old crony (Anthony Ramos) with new high-tech charting equipment and a crew and budget. He wants her tornado whisperer skills in helping them get close enough to get the essential data to figure out how to dissipate a tornado in progress. She reluctantly agrees to join them for a week.

She and her new colleagues finds themselves in competition with a rowdy, showboating band of YouTube storm chasers, led by the cute, cocksure cowboy Glen Powell. They look like insufferable clowns, but as our heroine trades banter with him and gradually gets to know him better, and to learn more about his motives...Well, you can forecast where this is heading.

I guess I wasn't aware that Twister, which also starred Bill Paxton and Jami Gertz, was such a beloved film that there was a burning desire for a sequel. I remember thinking it was okay, if a little CGI-ersatz, and that the "bad" meteorologist in the black SUV played by Cary Elwes was a little corny. I enjoyed it, but certainly didn't feel any great need for another chapter.

The new film, directed by Minari's Lee Isaac Chung from a script by Mark L. Smith, has the same merits as the original, and the same weaknesses. The storms and the destruction they wreak have the sterile, unreal quality of wall-to-wall CGI effects. I'm not sure what the alternative would be; it's hardly fair to ask the cast and crew to work with actual twisters. But the tornado that sucked Dorothy up to Oz in 1939 has, for me, more physical menace than the virtual twisters here.

That said, Chung handles the big showpiece action scenes excitingly, and he keeps them coming. Edgar-Jones, Powell, Ramos and the other actors are amiable enough, though the dramatic and romantic side of the film isn't much more substantive than that of, say, a Hallmark holiday movie--Powell looks like he'd be a natural for those.

All throughout Twisters, it's continually exasperating to see that, in the midst of what we're told is a record-setting tornado outbreak, the small-town Okies are still going to rodeos and street fairs and baseball games. At one point our heroes even seek shelter from the storm in a movie theater which, this being a Universal picture, is showing the original 1931 Frankenstein. If they must get flattened in a theater, at least they get a worthwhile flick.

THE LADY IN THE FAKE

In theaters this weekend:

Fly Me to the Moon--Scarlett Johansson plays a Madison Avenue marketing hustler brought to NASA in Florida in the late '60s to help re-sell the Apollo moon mission to the public, and thus to an increasingly reticent and tight-pursed Congress. Soon the astronauts are sporting Omega watches in print ads, and Tang drink mix is being touted as the beverage of space travelers.

Those of us who go back that far may remember this advertising blitz; I certainly consumed unhealthy quantities of Tang around that time--any quantity was probably unhealthy--because of its supposed outer space connections. But in this lavish period romcom, it's the highly fictitious set-up for the meet-cute between Johansson and Channing Tatum, as a serious-minded NASA launch director.

He falls for her at first sight, then when he learns who she is he's outraged at her interference. And it truly is outrageous; she even hires actors to play some of the less charismatic or more camera-shy NASA staffers in TV interviews, Tatum included. But of course, over time his resistance is worn down by her adorableness.

Johansson is pretty adorable, at that. She wears the chic '60s outfits like she was born for them, and her purse-lipped, mischievous little smirk is winning as always. Tatum is in his comfort zone here, too; likably bland and dim and stalwart. The stars have a comfortable romantic rapport, and they're well supported by a roster of character players, like Woody Harrelson as the jovial mystery man who hires Johansson, Jim Rash as a prima donna commercial director and Ray Romano as Tatum's loyal sidekick. There's also a gorgeous black cat.

Between the cast, the vintage atmosphere and retro styles and settings, and a terrific soundtrack, the movie, directed by Greg Berlanti (of Love, Simon) from a script by Rose Gilroy, would be ludicrous and fluffy but inoffensive enough, even charming. But in the middle of this buffoonish burlesque of NASA history, there are attempts to generate genuine drama and poignancy over the earlier tragedy of Apollo 1 in 1967 that strike a sour note.

Worse yet, in the severely overlong second half, the plot goes off the rails. Harrelson's government spook makes Johansson stage, you guessed it, a fake moon landing, as a contingency in case the real one fails. She reluctantly goes along with this, unbeknownst to Tatum, as the real landing is taking place, even though she feels like she's betraying him.

This extended finale is clumsily staged, but that's not what's offensive about it. The "Fake Moon Landing" narrative is one of the quintessential paranoid American folk legends, likely arising, I've always suspected, among the many people who insisted that the moon landing was a ridiculous folly and would never succeed--arising, like so much else in our toxic national discourse, from the common American inability to admit it when we're wrong. Fly Me to the Moon means it all facetiously, of course, but this doesn't strike me as the most auspicious time in our country's history to lend even that much credence to a conspiracy theory.

PAINT MANAGEMENT

May before last The Wife and I went to Chase Field for "Paint at the Park" Day...

...in which our seats in the roomy, comfortable "All You Can Eat" section beyond center field were supplied with an apron, a paper plate with various blobs of acrylic paint on it, a couple of brushes, a paper towel, a plastic cup of water for rinsing, and a small canvas. We were then given instruction in painting a serene desert landscape by night, with the moon as a baseball sailing overhead. This was my finished product...

...currently hanging in my garage.

It was quite fun, so yesterday we went again. This time, instead of a canvas, we were provided with a small wooden placard with letters outlined on it...

...and the instructor guided us through making the word HOME, decorated with Diamondbacks colors and motifs. I found it much more difficult than working with the canvas, but it was still fun. Here we see The Wife's crisply realized, gift shop worthy finished product...

And here's my masterpiece, which looks as though I painted it while wearing boxing gloves and riding over sand dunes in an off-road vehicle...

The game, against the Minnesota Twins, also left something to be desired. Starter Jordan Montgomery gave up six runs in the second inning, and his relievers Scott McGough and Bryce Jarvis did little better. The D-bax bats did entertainingly come to life a bit in the fourth inning against Twins starter David Besta, making his Major League debut, and Ketel Marte whacked his 17th homer of the year, but it was all way too little too late; the final was 13-6.

The Wife and I stayed to the bitter end, consoling ourselves with copious All-You-Can-Eat hotdogs and other goodies not good for us, and also with the knowledge that we were leaving the park having created art that transcended the disappointment on the scoreboard...

 

AGE AGAINST THE MACHINE

Now in theaters:

Thelma--Played by June Squibb, the title character is a widow in her nineties, living on her own in a lovely house in Encino, California. She's intelligent and proudly self-reliant, but she nonetheless falls prey to a scam; somebody claiming to be her beloved grandson Danny (Fred Hechinger) calls up claiming to have had an accident and to need $10,000 fast.

Before she can reach her daughter (Parker Posey) or son-in-law (Clark Gregg), Thelma has mailed the money. She's informed that there's little the cops can do, and her family tells her to let it go. But she can't. The theft has threatened her sense of independence, and left her furious, both at the perpetrators and herself.

She goes to see her old friend Ben (Richard Roundtree), who lives in a nursing home. She no longer drives, so she asks Ben if she can borrow his rather snazzy scooter to follow up a lead she's found on the scammer. Though he's horrified at what she wants to do, soon the two of them are zipping along the sidewalks of L.A. in the scooter, Thelma at the handlebars.

The writer-director is Josh Margolin, whose real-life Grandma, really named Thelma, was really targeted by such a scam. Though the real Thelma didn't fall for it, you can understand Margolin's impulse to dramatize such an infuriating, odious plot.

There's a certain raggedness to the movie's middle stretch. Margolin seems so delighted with the image of Thelma and Ben riding to vengeance on a scooter that he may have sacrificed a certain amount of narrative logic to it; it's hard to imagine that they couldn't have contrived a more efficient way to get across town. And Thelma's daughter and son-in-law seem underdeveloped and caricatured, though Hechinger's Danny is endearing. When this goodhearted but coddled and aimless kid in his early twenties bemoans his lack of life skills, plenty of us in the audience can empathize.

But the center of the movie, of course, is June Squibb's performance as Thelma. Now 94, Squibb has been around show business since the '50s--she was in the original Broadway run of Gypsy!--and in TV and movies since the '80s and '90s. She made an impression with her role in About Schmidt (2002) and got an Oscar nomination as Bruce Dern's salty wife in 2013's Nebraska, but this is her first star part.

She handles it with great skill, careful to keep Thelma from getting too twinkly and adorable, and giving her a reflective side. She also has a fine rapport with her costars, especially Roundtree, whose last film this was (it's dedicated to him). His quiet, dignified Ben has, unlike Thelma, accepted his declined status. He insists he likes living in the home, and playing Daddy Warbucks in the production of Annie there.

His idea of aging gracefully is not being a bother or a worry to younger people. In the buddy-picture structure of the movie, this makes him the fretful Danny Glover or Martin Lawrence to Thelma's Mel Gibson or Will Smith; he's quite literally getting too old for this shit.

The comparison isn't strained. Margolin's most fertile source of comedy here comes from shooting and editing the film like any tense urban action thriller; Nick Chuba's driving musical score helps a lot with this. When Thelma has to climb a steep flight of stairs or stand up on a bed to reach something in a high place, it's treated much the same as, say, Tom Cruise's daring feats in a Mission: Impossible movie, and you realize that, in terms of courage and risk, there really isn't much difference.

I DON'T WANT A PICKLE...

Opening this weekend:

The Bikeriders--There are many variations within the genre, but overall, biker movies tend to fall into two broad categories. There are those, exemplified by The Wild One (1953), in which the bike gang is seen from the point of view of mainstream society, and those, like The Wild Angels (1966) or Easy Rider (1969), where mainstream society is seen from the point of view of the bikers.

This new "wheeler" manages to have it both ways. Adapted by writer-director Jeff Nichols from the 1967 book by photojournalist Danny Lyon, the film traces the growth of a fictitious Chicago area club, The Vandals, based on The Outlaws, with whom Lyon embedded off and on throughout the '60s. It's very much an insider's view, focusing less on riding action than on the tempestuous relationship between Johnny (Tom Hardy), the club's founder, and Benny (Austin Butler), his beautiful, stoic, monosyllabic right-hand man. The Vandals begins as a racing and social club--Johnny, a truck-driving family man, is initially inspired by seeing The Wild One on TV--but criminality and ugly violence gradually creep in. 

Wisely, however, Nichols makes a mainstream viewpoint central to the film as well. The story is narrated to Lyon (Mike Faist) by Kathy (Jodie Comer), a respectable young working-class woman who stumbles into a biker bar one night to meet her girlfriend, and is unimpressed, not to mention understandably scared, by what she sees. She's unimpressed, that is, until she gets a look at the angelic Benny at the pool table, and can't keep an infatuated smile off her face. Despite Benny's anomie and recklessness, before long he and Kathy are a couple, and she's in competition with Johnny for Benny's devotion.

The beguiling Jodie Comer's Kathy is the live wire in The Bikeriders. A Brit of course, Comer lays on a Chicago accent as thick as a deep dish pizza as Kathy tells us, in hilariously bemused terms, about both the follies of bike gang life and her own folly in loving the seemingly emotionless, self-destructive Benny. Her sensible, self-deprecating take is pre-emptive to how many of us in the audience may feel, and keeps The Bikeriders from skidding into cornball melodrama.

None of this is to say that the movie's other elements aren't top-notch. It's full of fine performances: Hardy, sporting a sort of buzzy, mild-mannered Brando voice, has a quietly tragic appeal as Johnny. By the nature of his character, Butler is asked to play Benny very close to the vest, but he brings a star presence to the part. Damon Harriman, Boyd Holbrook, Emory Cohen and others are strong in supporting parts, and Norman Reedus drops in as "Funny Sonny," an unnerving representative of a California club. As the frazzled Zipco, who wanted to serve in the Army, Michael Shannon makes his big monologue a knockout.

The Bikeriders is also one of the best-looking movies of the year, stunningly shot in Grant Wood-esque midwestern tones by Adam Stone. Like the biker pictures from the period it depicts, it seems to be made up of images of real people, objects and places, lovingly captured but rock-solid. In our computer-generated era, this is refreshing; for all its brutality, this movie takes the world in a love embrace.

ULTRA BEAUTY

Now on Netflix:

Ultraman: Rising--The very name Ultraman is a madeleine for me, evoking powerful childhood memories, often thrilling, just as often frustrating. As a kid in rural northwestern Pennsylvania in the early '70s, I used to try to tune in UHF Channel 29 from Buffalo, New York, on weekday afternoons to see reruns of the late '60s Japanese TV series about the solar-powered superhero who battled all manner of bizarre kaiju threatening humanity.

When the weather was clear, especially in the summer, I would often have a good signal, and I'd get a clear picture of the weird psychedelic paint swirls out of which the show's opening title would take shape. When the weather was lousy or wintry, I'd usually get nothing but snow, and great would be my indignant disappointment.

In the early iteration of the show that I loved (1966-67), created by Godzilla special effects master Eiji Tsuburaya, Ultraman was the alter-ego of Clark Kent-esque Hayata, an intrepid member of the "Science Patrol." This agency was tasked with animal control duties on the myriad massive monsters that regularly inconvenience Japanese society and threaten its infrastructure. When the situation became sufficiently desperate, Hayata would excuse himself and press a button on the "Beta Capsule" he carried, thus transforming himself into the sleek android giant, who would then fight the creature in question with a combination of martial arts and a variety of rays he could shoot from different parts of his body.

Ultraman's might was short-lived, however. Very early in the fight, a small warning light in the center of his chest would begin to flash, and the narrator, in the English-dubbed versions I saw, would gravely intone (if memory serves): "The energy which Ultraman draws from the sun diminishes rapidly in Earth's atmosphere. The warning light begins to blink. If it stops blinking before he returns to the sun, Ultraman will never rise again!" Or something like that. It seemed pretty urgent, every episode.

The franchise has continued in Japan throughout the decades, over dozens of series with differing characters, as well as movies, comics, video games etc. I never followed any of them. This animated feature from Netflix, however, is of American origin, though it's set in Japan and is an unmistakably loving homage. Directed by Shannon Tindle from a script he wrote with Marc Haimes, this one gives The Big U a new alter-ego, a handsome baseball star named Sato, who is estranged from his father, a scientist who once had the Ultraman secret identity gig.

Early on, a winged monster's baby imprints on Sato/Ultraman (voiced by Christopher Sean) and regards him as his parent. The story involves our hero's efforts, aided by a flying robotic sphere (Tamlyn Tomita) to protect the baby from the schemes of the kaiju-hating Dr. Onda (Keone Young), and also to mend his relationship with his Dad (Gedde Watanabe).

The old show was deeply silly but visually elegant; this new feature is visually elegant but balances the silliness with a sincere attempt at solid characterizations and relationships. It's an entertaining movie, but it does have a large downside, at least for me: I found the baby kaiju grotesquely cutesy; it looks like a mutant human baby in a tacky Halloween costume. It's like an Anne Geddes photo gone nightmarish.

In general, I could have done with more full-grown kaiju action. But the finale of Ultraman: Rising is fairly spectacular, and there's a lot to like in this movie. I would welcome future installments in this series. I particularly like the idea of an Ultraman who treats kaiju as humanely as possible. Or, rather, ultra-humanely.

SUMMERTIME VIEWS

There may not be a cure for the summertime blues, but going to summer movies has long been a source of temporary relief. Your Humble Narrator had fun chatting with Mark Brodie of KJZZ's The Show...

...about some of the big midyear releases; listen to it here.

THUMB AND THUMBER

Check out my review, online at Phoenix Magazine, of Space 55's Roger & Gene...

...playing at Metropolitan Arts Institute through June 16.

CRITICAL MASS

Check out my interview, online at Phoenix Magazine, with playwright Ashley Naftule, whose new play Roger and Gene...

...runs through June 16 at Space 55 in Phoenix.

OLD MEN WILL BE BOYS

Opening this weekend:

Bad Boys: Ride or Die--Walking out of the theater after this fourth film in the Miami cop franchise, I was reminded by a friend that the original was released in 1995. Strange as it may seem, Bad Boys is almost thirty years old.

My first reaction was envy at how well the stars, Will Smith and Martin Lawrence, appear to have aged. These can no longer properly be called bad boys; as a title, something more like Grumpy Old Men seems more in order at this point. Yet neither actor looks ridiculous going through their action paces.

But it also strikes me that, to have lasted anywhere near this long, these movies must have meant something to audiences. Using the most routine, generic, by-the-numbers car chase and explosion formula, these four flicks, spaced out over decades, have kept people coming back to theaters.

The reason, of course, is the bickering. Directed by the Belgian filmmaking team of Adil El Arbi and Bilall Fallah, Ride or Die opens with Mike Lowrey (Smith) and Marcus Burnett (Lawrence) kvetching at each other on their way Mike's wedding. There's a vague attempt to flip the script (by Chris Bremner and Will Beall) by giving Marcus a health scare which turns him into the daredevil of the duo and Mike into the worrywart. But the result is basically the same, with our heroes squabbling like an old married couple as they attempt to redeem the reputation of their late boss Captain Howard (Joe Pantoliano).

The Captain (who appears, via some visions and prerecorded cautionary messages) has been posthumously framed by drug dealers, led by a quite hissable Eric Dane. Jacob Scipio returns from the third film--over which Ride or Die felt to me like an improvement--as Mike's hunky convict son Armando.

In what appears to be a sheepish, pre-emptive wink at the audience, Smith gets slapped at one point in Ride or Die. Still, even with that almost fourth-wall gag, it wasn't until near the end, when an enormous albino alligator threatens Marcus, that it occurred to me what the Bad Boys flicks have come to resemble in tone: the Bob Hope-Bing Crosby Road pictures. But that series of seven goofy, easygoing movies started in 1940 and ended in 1962. So for longevity, Bad Boys already has it beat.

OH, BROTHERS

Check out my review, online at Phoenix Magazine, of Sam Shepard's True West...

...by Arizona Theatre Company, through June 9 at Tempe Center for the Arts.

CAMPING IT UP

Now in the multiplexes:

Summer Camp--As she's been doing for most of the last three decades, Diane Keaton here cranks out another fluffy senior chick-flick comedy. The formula, seen in the Book Club flicks and Mack & Rita and others, is simple: Assemble Keaton and some other big names popular with the AARP crowd in a pleasant setting for some undemanding romance and mild slapstick, then pad it out to at least an hour and a half.

In this one, written and directed by Castille Landon, Keaton finds herself at Camp Pinnacle, nestled in gorgeous forest scenery in North Carolina, at a camp reunion with cohorts Kathy Bates and Alfre Woodard. Keaton is a widowed hotshot biotech exec; Woodard is an accomplished but unhappily married nurse who really wanted to be doctor, and Bates is a rich celebrity self-help author with a devoted following. They met at Camp Pinnacle as kids, and Bates is trying to make them keep their vow they'd always stay pals.

Other mature favorites are around, like Beverly D'Angelo as the adult version of the pretty-girl alpha, Eugene Levy as a love interest for Keaton and Dennis Haysbert as a love interest for Woodard. As a bone to anyone under fifty who wanders in, Betsy Sodaro, Josh Peck and Nicole Richie are thrown in as camp staffers.

This movie is quite terrible, but all three of the leads are high on the list of the best film actors of the last fifty years. It's possible to react to this in two ways; one, that it's a disgrace they all aren't doing something better with their time and glorious talents, or, two, that it's simply great to see them, and to see them together, hanging out, being silly, and making money as leading ladies. Indeed, it seems to be possible to react to Summer Camp in both of these ways at the same time.

If they're going to keep doing stuff like this, however, it really seems like Keaton and cronies could find somebody to write them some snappier dialogue than the meandering stuff they shrug out here. Most shocking, perhaps, was how the filmmakers went to the trouble to hire Eugene Levy, only to use him as a bland straight man to Keaton. He's still charming, but he had, I think, one laugh line of his own. Maybe it was a nice summer vacation for him.

APOCALYPSE; MEOW

Opening:

Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga--In the unlikely event that I'm ever asked to take the "Colbert Questionert" on Late Night, my answer to the question "Favorite Action Movie?" will be George Miller's 1981 Mad Max 2: The Road Warrior. It would probably be on the list of my twenty or thirty favorite movies, all-time. So any later chapter in George Miller's postapocalyptic Down Under car chase franchise has a lot to live up to.

This fifth entry is a prequel, offering backstory on the one-armed warrior played by Charlize Theron in 2015's Mad Max: Fury Road. Turns out that Furiosa was abducted, as a child, from a "place of abundance" into the Wasteland, a vast desert region inhabited by gnarly motorcycle-borne pirates shuttling between three horribly symbiotic fiefdoms: The Citadel, Gas Town and The Bullet Farm.

The Citadel, a water source, is presided over by the masked warlord Immortan Joe (Lachy Hulme) and filled with his bald, pale, mindlessly loyal followers the War Boys, who recall the acolytes of Thulsa Doom in Conan the Barbarian. Gas Town refines the fuel that the Wasteland's countless motor vehicles burn; The Bullet Farm provides the munitions.

Furiosa is dragged into this miserable world as a girl (Alyla Browne) and ends up in the clutches of the gabby nomadic biker chieftain Dementus (Chris Hemsworth), who more than earns her grudge against him. Over the more than two-hour run of the movie, the grown-up version of Furiosa (Anya Taylor-Joy) is carried along through Miller's lengthy showcase chases and battle scenes, which have the feel of movements in a symphony.

I saw this film in IMAX, with a large screening audience, and what I noticed is that every time one of Miller's mad, headlong, thundering action sequences wound down, the crowd was left quiet, mesmerized. The term "gripping" gets thrown out a lot in describing movies, but Furiosa truly grips. I liked but didn't love Fury Road; this one still falls shy of Road Warrior for me, but it's a majestic piece of filmmaking nonetheless.

There's no director quite like Miller. His action scenes are staged with an epic sweep but also with a macabre slapstick intricacy. His view of humanity seems deeply jaundiced; he's forever showing us people taking cruelty and indifference to their fellow humans to horrifying extremes, yet he does it with a casual humor, as if to say, of course we're capable of this.

Yet somehow this bleak outlook doesn't come across like cheap, sophomoric cynicism, and it isn't depressing. Partly this is because he always shows us decent human values struggling to hold on in this world, but it's also because the generous-hearted Miller imbues his characters, even the deplorable ones, with so much personality and grotesque glamour.

Taylor-Joy, with the jolting anger that takes over her almost inhumanly urchin face, fits the role perfectly. As her love interest, driver Praetorian Jack, handsome Tom Burke has a valiant and sympathetic appeal. But it's Hemsworth, his eyes wounded and his tone aggrieved every time somebody has the temerity to resist him, who really engages with the audience. The final clash between Dementus and Furiosa, featuring some of the best dialogue from the script (by Miller and Nico Lathouris), gets at the impulse to avenge with a subtlety that few action movies attempt. 

There can be little doubt that Miller's films have contributed to the dangerous illusion that many people, especially young men, seem to hold: that the collapse of civilization would be cool and liberating and fun. He should probably be censured for this, but it sure makes his movies exhilarating.

The Garfield Movie--Another origin story; this computer-animated yarn starts by tracing the humble beginnings of the indolent, lasagna-loving housecat from the calculatingly marketed comic strip by Jim Davis. Turns out that as a kitten, Garfield, voiced here by Chris Pratt, was left in an alley by his feral father, Vic (Samuel L. Jackson) and met his devoted human Jon (Nicholas Hoult) when he saw him through the window of an Italian restaurant. His overeating is a psychological overcompensation for early want.

The rest of The Garfield Movie concerns our hero and his exuberant canine pal Odie getting abducted by the cronies of the Persian cat Jinx (Hannah Waddingham), who has a grudge against Vic. Somehow it all leads to an attempt to steal milk from a commercial dairy, and an alliance with a glowering, lovelorn bull (Ving Rhames, who's pretty funny).

Admirable as Pratt is as an easygoing onscreen star, his voice struck me as a bit generic for this character, after being performed in earlier iterations by such distinctive voices as Bill Murray and Lorenzo Music. But he's not bad, and the movie has imagination and a snappy, propulsive comic precision, not to mention a catchy theme song by Jon Batiste. It's inconsequential but slickly-made fun, and when it was over, I'll admit I went out for lasagna.

CORMAN VALUES

R.I.P. to the great Roger Corman.

Here's my utterly trivial Corman story: Back in 2000, I did an edition of my KTAR radio show Another Saturday Night by remote from a station in Palm Springs during the weekend of the Palm Springs International Film Festival. There were a few pretty big Hollywood stars there that year, and I had expressed confidence to my bosses at the station that I might be able to get a couple of them to sit down as guests on the show.

I wasn't.

One of the few guests of any stature that I was able to land was Rachel Samuels, who had directed a film in the festival called The Suicide Club with Jonathan Pryce and Paul Bettany, based on the Robert Louis Stevenson story, for the Irish division of Corman's Concorde Pictures (it was later lamely retitled The Game of Death). Samuels said the usual stuff about Corman; what a great opportunity he had given her, and how little he had paid her.

After the show, I went back to the hotel room to change into something more appropriate for dinner. While I was changing, The Wife, who was already in the bar downstairs, called me.

"You'll want to hurry. Roger Corman and his wife just came in."

I hurried. I took the promotional card for The Suicide Club with me. When I walked into the bar, there the great man was at a high top table, handsome and natty as ever, enjoying a drink with his lovely wife. I walked over and asked if he'd sign my card, telling him that I had just plugged the film on my radio show. He thanked me very graciously and signed my card.

I wish I could say I pushed the conversation, that we bonded and that he offered me a job--apparently he was known to do such things--but I was too shy and didn't want to intrude on his evening out. So I didn't. But the card still hangs, framed, next to my desk.

Last night my friend Richard and I had a Corman movie night; we watched the director's 1957 opus Not of This Earth.

The star is the late, incomparable Beverly Garland, at whose hotel in Burbank I stayed a couple of times; I once saw her, large and in charge, taking care of business with some underlings in the parking lot.

Here the ever-fabulous Bev is a nurse (she seriously rocks the uniform) menaced by Paul Birch as a creepy telepathic vampiric alien in cool shades that mask his hypnotic blank eyes. The monotonic fellow is from the planet Davanna, which has been devastated by radiation and needs Earthlings--who he refers to as "sub-humans"--for our blood.

This truly nutty picture is quintessential Corman, scripted by Charles B. Griffith and Mark Hanna, with an eerie animated title sequence and a cast that includes Corman's repertory company members Jonathan Haze (of The Little Shop of Horrors), and Dick Miller (of A Bucket of Blood) as a vacuum cleaner salesman. There's also a small alien monster, created by the marvelous low-tech creature craftsman Paul Blaisdell; sort of a tentacled flying flapjack that settles on to a victim's head like an oversized hat, then sucks the blood out of his noggin.

Thank you for this and all the other wacky and wonderful times, sir. Peace and joy eternal to you.