Here, in a rare departure of form, though co-writing and producing, they've chosen George Clooney to direct what nonetheless bears their unique signature. While I've dubbed the crime story "Fargo Light," it's far from their best effort.
In this sweet, nicely filmed tale based on the actual relationship England's Queen Victoria had late in life with her Muslim Indian servant, Abdul Karim, oodles of feel-good charm temporarily anoint an egalitarian salve to a sense of fairness long abraded by social Darwinism.
What immediately came to mind as the fascinating biopic unreeled, beginning with Dr. William Moulton Marston's days as a heralded psychology professor, was how many second-tier, illustrious people there are: folks who did something major, but who are now all but forgotten.
While director Joshua Z. Weinstein's "Menashe" is on first blush a touching look into a child custody battle being waged by Menashe, a Hasidic grocery clerk in Borough Park, Brooklyn, further reflection reveals a much larger, equal opportunity meditation about the human condition.
It's all well and good for starters ... ain't love grand? etc., etc. But the getting-to-know-you portions of this budding affaire de coeur, at first rollickingly humorous as Emily and Kumail embrace their cultural differences, eventually runs into reality.
Wright offers samples of utter venality in lazy-Susan style. And admittedly the shamelessly belligerent soliloquies and one-upmanship in praise of anti-social behavior are a bit wearing on the soul. But that's the message, to mirror in microcosm the raw exhibition of corruption in this second decade of the 21st century, when the real-life effort to subvert truth, decorum and ethics barely attempts to hide its nefarious aims.
The screenplay, adapted by Michell from Daphne du Maurier's novel, includes a slew of the author's slyly injected metaphors ... thoughts about the human condition you'll either agree with or disavow. On an objective note, viewers of a literary bent may venture a thought or two about the genre of fiction du Maurier chose to explore our behavior, decorum and proclivities
Harking back to the original, uplifting purpose of superheroes, Jenkins' superbly directed meld of adventure, social conscience and eye-filling visuals should deservedly attract those filmgoers who otherwise wouldn't think twice of considering such fare. But there has been much buzz about its humanitarian notions regarding gender equality, civil rights and other sacred values our better instincts attempt to find in art whenever dark forces threaten to cloud them in reality.
If the raison d'etre for such a bleak vision was to stir the optimist in our national psyche into a resisting action, I might understand it. But that's the pie-in-the-sky, former hippie in me looking to see the bright side of something that is resolutely dark.
And, because she is a woman nearly a century before suffrage is enacted, and slavery is still very much the law of the land among her Southern neighbors, these and other grave political matters can't hide from her condemnation, wittily slipped into the poet's politely acerbic commentary.
Thus, while "The Circle" isn't enjoyable in the usually accepted definition of the term, the not so blurry mirror it holds up proves the cinema version of the horrific traffic accident from which we can't divert our eyes. It's too close to reality.
I've become magnanimous. All of which is my diplomatic, if not entirely apologetic way of touting a film that many of my so-called colleagues have marginalized if not downright denigrated. Well, they're all wrong. FAKE NEWS. Sad!
The literary conceit is that women hold the secrets to the life force, or that they are at least more interesting than men. I won't argue with that. After several decades trying to unravel the conundrum that la difference poses, I've come to accede that being in a total muddle about this subject is key to our evolutionary survival. Besides, I've got other things to worry about, like how to finally get that Ferrari, ensure world peace and find out once and for all where that missing sock goes.
It gets you thinking what you might have done, and wondering if you ever passed up such a seemingly divine signal. For when Kroc, the heretofore unsuccessful milkshake blender salesman, receives an order for not one but six blenders from San Bernardino's Dick and Mac McDonald, he isn't content to take the paltry commission. Nope, he gets out the map and makes a beeline for that first McDonald's eatery — a clean, shining example of gastronomic efficiency.
This is a civics lesson, especially important at this tremulous juncture when a sizable portion of our population wishes to forego the humanitarian advancement of our species for the sake of a personal interest that they've been tricked into believing is at war with all progressive thought.
The curious idea to have Emma Stone and Ryan Gosling play the sort of aspiring showbiz kids Ruby Keeler and Dick Powell portrayed in vehicles like "42nd Street" (1933) won me over despite the film's unrealistic plotting and a minor litany of incongruities.
Denzel Washington's phenomenally touching, multitextured performance in August Wilson's "Fences" sings a heartrending paean to every dad who struggled to make a living, raise a family and preserve his human dignity in the face of herculean obstacles.
But while a sizable portion of the joy is also the sheer outlandishness of it all, it's the whimsical likeability factor of the main characters that ultimately puts it across. McCarthy, who has come into her own as a true original, is superb as the pushy entrepreneur of all gambles and ventures.
The storyline is basic. The Southside is getting worse and worse, the sociocultural casualty of increasing gang violence. Politicians have suggested surrounding it with a wall. Gee, doesn't that sound familiar? Secretly, Calvin harbors thoughts of giving up the fight and relocating to the North Side.
However, respect for the neighborhood institution his dad founded, as well as a dedication to his loyal band of cohorts, stirs him to make one last stab at winning back the civility of yestery
Somewhat reminiscent of how the great Rodney Dangerfield and other standup artists before him packaged their shtick in feature-length celluloid, the script, while not badly written, is but a vehicle for McCarthy's scattershot criticism of whatever comes to mind.
Doubtless you'll recall from childhood the man or woman in your neighborhood who cast a similar image, someone decidedly afield of the mainstream who scared you just a little, but all the same suggested the plausibility of infinite lifestyles. Well, that's Doris.
Director Alejandro González Inarritu's "The Revenant," starring Leonardo DiCaprio in the ultimate survival tale, is the adult equivalent of those scary films when you were little that gave you nightmares for a week, causing Mom to decree, "That's it, no more watching those movies."
Chronicling the mostly true travail of Hugh Glass, a trapper in what would become the Dakota Territory, circa 1823, DiCaprio's tour de force chillingly reminds that the real horrors of life are far more frightening