When we last left Robert McCall (Denzel Washington), he had killed the shit out of the entire Boston-based Russian mafia in order to save teen prostitute Chloë Grace Moretz and his co-workers at a Home Depot knock-off. It was an update of the 1980s TV show that would have done Edward Woodward—the original McCall, himself a bad-ass, just with an English accent—proud. Washington, director Antoine Fuqua and screenwriter Richard Wenk return for the sequel, and despite the similar cool gadgetry and Denzel’s blend of humor and cat-toying-with-doomed-mouse energy—there’s even a wayward youth he has to protect, well played by Ashton Sanders—nothing here seems quite as dangerous. Perhaps that’s because his enemies this go-around are a bunch of old CIA buddies and not the Russian mob. In this day and age I’d be more worried about the Russian mob. That doesn’t mean there isn’t some fun and some good killin’, with McCall dispatching more than one person with knives (yeesh). But there’s something too predictable about McCall wasting a bunch of people who’ve crossed him. Don’t they know he’s smarter and better-trained than they are?
This review first appeared in Salt Lake City Weekly.
The Purge series has a simple premise: A fascistic American government allows all crime to be legal for 12 continuous hours once a year. It’s also a small miracle, in that the dumb original—a been-there done-that home invasion story—has been followed by better movies, including the two direct sequels that increasingly painted Purge Night as class war in which the rich live and the poor die. Smart. This prequel finds the government paying Staten Islanders to participate in what they call “the experiment.” When the experiment results in few deaths, the government sends in militias. A drug dealer named Dmitri (thoughtfully played by Y’lan Noel) sits out the purge until it becomes clear the government is using the experiment as an excuse to kill welfare recipients. There’s some sloppy filmmaking—windows break and doors open without explanation—but once the action gets rolling, it rolls, man. The jump scares are effective, the action is fierce and the costume design leaves no doubt as to what kinds of people would hunt the poor for pleasure. I don’t know where this franchise is headed next, but I’m in.
This review first appeared in Salt Lake City Weekly.
With First Reformed, there’s finally a movie that lives up to the hype that has surrounded Paul Schrader since roughly 1976, when Taxi Driver—which he wrote and Martin Scorsese directed—put him on the list of writers to watch. Since then, for each objectively good or even great movie he’s written—Mishima: A Life in Four Chapters, Affliction, Raging Bull, American Gigolo—he’s pumped out dog shit at more regular intervals.
Maybe his spotty track record is a result of studio interference. Schrader’s previous gig as both writer and director on 2014’s Dying of the Light was taken from him by the studio. 2016’s Dog Eat Dog, which he directed but didn’t write, received the most limited of limited releases, and it’s easy to see why: Most film studios don’t want to see some guy’s head blasted off with a shotgun, especially when that exploding head is in the same room as a sleeping baby. (Maybe these studio execs never saw the last 10 minutes of Taxi Driver.)
But you should know what you’re getting with Schrader. This is a filmmaker who fires on all thrusters whether the material is wretched or sublime. Take First Reformed, which tackles one of Schrader’s favorite recurring themes: faith taken to such obsessive extremes that it nearly turns his characters mad. It, too, has an exploding head. Fortunately, the head in question is removed from its body off-screen, and is appropriately played for horror and sadness, unlike in Dog Eat Dog, where it’s supposed to be high-sterical.
In First Reformed, the head in question belongs to Michael (Philip Ettinger), a young husband consumed with despair over the possibility of cataclysmic global climate change. When he learns his wife Mary (Amanda Seyfried) is pregnant, he takes his own life rather than bring a child into a decaying and dying world. Reverend Ernst Toller (Ethan Hawke) has counseled Michael to no avail, but their conversation has renewed Toller’s faith. Toller, a bit of an emotional wreck himself—son who died in Iraq, failed marriage, cancer diagnosis—decides to pour his energies into Michael’s cause, studying climate change websites and taking back to his church the suicide vest that Michael was building in his garage.
Click here to read the rest of this review at Salt Lake City Weekly.
All the hallmarks of a Michael Mann production are here: long stretches of silence, sudden bursts of violence, men being men, women being subservient to men (an unfortunate hallmark).
Mann hadn’t yet learned to round out his stories with anything resembling subplots. This is one story, writ large, and I’m not sure I care much about the story. James Caan comes across as aloof instead of tough or righteous. Could be his fault, but I think it’s more Mann’s screenplay. Just look at poor Tuesday Weld’s character. She’s not even an archetype she’s so thinly drawn.
In any event, it’s cool to see all the things Mann would pack into each movie are here, albeit in a less polished form. Plus, I usually loathe Robert Prosky, but he’s goddamn good here.