Movies now in theaters

Time Out goes to the movies to bring you film reviews from the latest showings in theaters and our top critics' picks

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Recommended movies in theaters

The Interview

Despite making a career of playing slight variations on the same pasty manchild, Seth Rogen (together with longtime collaborator Evan Goldberg) has consistently leveraged his broad appeal as a vehicle for laughing at the great crises of our times: cancer (50/50), the apocalypse (This Is the End), Zac Efron’s abs (Neighbors). But if Rogen has always been unafraid to go places that most people won’t, The Interview marks the first time he goes to a place that most people can’t: North Korea. Fashioning The Great Dictator and Inglourious Basterds into a cross joint and then lighting it from both ends, Goldberg and Rogen’s second directorial effort follows the hysterically violent misadventures of idiotic talk-show host Dave Skylark (James Franco, hamming it up) and his underachieving producer, Aaron (Rogen). When they land an interview with Skylark superfan Kim Jong-Un (Randall Park), the CIA enlists the bumbling duo to assassinate the world’s most reclusive tyrant. Cut to Pyongyang, where Skylark and Kim are singing Katy Perry’s “Firework” to each other inside the cockpit of a tank. It’s Park’s performance that elevates the premise of a routine SNL sketch into the stuff of a compelling and genuinely radical feature, the actor portraying Kim as an endearingly deranged despot with nuclear daddy issues. But Goldberg and Rogen are most enamored of the idea that Kim’s subjects see him as a living god, and the character’s insecurities soon form the cornerstone of the film’s halfhearted

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The Babadook

Who would bring a children's book called Mister Babadook, rife with illustrations of toothy terrors peering around bedroom doors, into their home? The answer to that is left deliciously vague in this slow-building, expertly unsettling horror film, but it's probably safe to assume that it wasn't the broken Australian family at the heart of the story. Amelia (Essie Davis), a tired-looking caregiver working in a nursing home, grapples with single motherhood in the wake of a car accident that killed her husband while he was driving her to the maternity ward. Samuel (Noah Wiseman), the surviving child, now six, is stuck in his shrill phase, has a hyperactive imagination and is obsessed with building weapons. These are precisely the wrong people to be reading dark bedtime stories, yet mysteriously, there's the book on the shelf. And there goes your peaceful night's sleep. Maybe the better question is: Who thinks up a film like The Babadook? Actor turned debuting feature director Jennifer Kent has the narrative chutzpah to show her entire hand in the pop-up story and then make us squirm as foretold events come true. Even more impressively, Kent (expanding richly on her 2005 short, "Monster") doesn't shy away from Amelia's off-putting mental state, an internal battle between parental love and palpable resentment. (Young Sam will always be a reminder of her marital loss.) The Babadook is female-centric in ways that other horror movies, while often dominated by tough "final girls," rar

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Inherent Vice

Ever since Boogie Nights, the untamable Paul Thomas Anderson has thrilled us with the mania of self-made men—porn stars, game-show hosts, oil prospectors and cultists. Now, for a change, the director grabs you by the nose: Inherent Vice, Anderson's sexy, swirling latest (based on Thomas Pynchon's exquisite stoner mystery set at the dawn of the '70s), is a wondrously fragrant movie, emanating sweat, the stink of pot clouds and the press of hairy bodies. It's a film you sink into, like a haze on the road, even as it jerks you along with spikes of humor. "Go back to the beach, you smell like a patchouli fart," growls Josh Brolin's flat-topped L.A. detective, Bigfoot Bjornsen, to our dazed hero, Doc (Joaquin Phoenix), an unlikely private eye but one you can't help rooting for. We're in a semifictionalized version of California, sort of like the real thing but scented with hallucinogenic behavior, weird restaurant menus and Manson-era paranoia. (Maybe that's not so altered at all.) Inherent Vice is the first time that Pynchon's elaborately dense prose has made it to the screen, and for good reason. With this novel, a recognizable thrust could be seen: an us-versus-them hippie fantasia decked out in the trappings of noir. Anderson doesn't so much adapt the book as hawk it up on the screen proudly, in faithful chunks. (His screenplay is said to have received the author's blessing.) And the movie he's ended up with is astounding: literary, loose-limbed and simply impossible to make h

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Mr. Turner

Twice before, first with Topsy-Turvy and then with Vera Drake, Mike Leigh has punctuated his bittersweet studies of contemporary life with period dramas. Now, with Mr. Turner, the British director of Naked and Secrets & Lies takes us back to the 19th century and the later years of the celebrated, groundbreaking, difficult painter J.M.W. Turner (1775-1851). Sad and joyful, Mr. Turner offers a wonderfully rich tapestry of experience, digging deeply into a complicated, contradictory life. Timothy Spall—a veteran of Leigh’s films—plays this eccentric, determined London bohemian like a bronchial, cantankerous, randy old toad with a bad back. He grunts and grimaces and gropes through life. Leigh, meanwhile, explores Turner’s life unburdened by any sense of purpose other than an intense, contagious fascination with this man, his work and, increasingly, the inevitable, slow, irresistible trudge toward death. We observe Turner’s fondness for his elderly father; his sexual relationship with his meek housekeeper (Dorothy Atkinson); his rejection of his children and their mother; his arm’s-length acceptance by the lions of the Royal Academy; his late-life relationship with a Margate widow (Marion Bailey); and the mockery of the crowd when his work turns experimental. “Vile” and a “yellow mess” concludes Queen Victoria at an exhibition. The presence of royalty in a Mike Leigh film is just one of its many welcome surprises. Mortality hangs heavily over Mr. Turner, which covers roughly 25 y

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Nightcrawler

It's no news to anyone who watches TV—especially local crime coverage—that the beat has devolved into a cesspool of gore, jittery witnesses and "hot content." What was once prophetic in movies like Network and Broadcast News is now commonplace. Writer-director Dan Gilroy's supercharged Nightcrawler, a viciously funny film, starts from that premise and wisely avoids making the same points. Instead, it twins the frenetic, sleazy hunt for shocking footage with the career ambitions of a closet psycho who, naturally, rises to the top. Closer in spirit to the media-amplified perversity of Martin Scorsese's Taxi Driver and The King of Comedy, Nightcrawler feels like a major portrait of a sick, insatiable appetite. The hungry wolf at the center is Louis, impressively played by a wire-thin Jake Gyllenhaal, who right off the bat doesn't feel like your everyday L.A. loner. Bug-eyed, upbeat and frustrated by his nighttime excursions fencing stolen goods, he strolls up to a burning car on the highway, the rescue in progress. As he watches the swarming cameramen (freelancers who provide smut to stations for quick payouts), a light bulb goes off over Louis' head. Soon enough, he's out there with his own camcorder, getting closer than anyone—he nearly runs over a victim with his car—and sneaking through bullet-strewn homes without permission Initially, Nightcrawler plays like a darkly comic how-I-made-it story. Louis marshals an impressive (if slightly cracked) discipline to his new passion.

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Gone Girl

Transformed into the kind of wickedly confident Hollywood thriller you pray to see once in a decade, Gillian Flynn's absorbing missing-wife novel emerges—via a faithful script by the author herself—as the stealthiest comedy since American Psycho. It's a hypnotically perverse film, one that redeems your faith in studio smarts (but not, alas, in local law enforcement, tabloid crime reporting or, indeed, marriage). No secrets will be revealed here, apart from an obvious one: Director David Fincher, also the maker of Seven, Zodiac and The Social Network, is more than just your everyday stylish cynic. Five years of matrimony haven't been kind to the Dunnes, a pair of formerly dazzling NYC writers rocked by layoffs, family illness and a resentful move to a Missouri dead zone. We learn this early on, after the disaster that kicks off the movie: Nick (Ben Affleck, never better) stops home after a neighbor phones him about his cat that's slipped out the front door. Inside, he finds shattered glass everywhere but no Amy (Rosamund Pike, delivering a ghostly yet dominant turn that's the year's biggest surprise). Has she been snatched? Cops gather, along with news trucks, Amy's snobby Manhattan parents and a dawning sense of media frenzy in need of a culprit. Nick, who's a touch too aloof, comes in handy in this regard. Toggling between the developing investigation and flashbacks to the couple's happier days in a Brooklyn brownstone (as did Flynn's original structure), Fincher brews an om

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Boyhood

Looking at it one way, Boyhood represents a spectacularly cheap way of saving on actors’ salaries: To capture his rambling yet absorbing Texas family drama, director Richard Linklater (Bernie, Before Midnight) received agreements from several performers—including his eight-year-old daughter, Lorelei—to shoot a movie with them over 12 years in dribs and drabs. Teenage voices drop, waists thicken and, in one turn nobody could have predicted, moppet Ellar Coltrane, playing the younger child of a divorced couple, develops into a magnetically internal student and heartbreaker. Cool as it sounds, this long-game gimmick doesn’t automatically guarantee profundity. Linklater, the least pretentious and most relaxed of American filmmakers, would probably say so himself. But amazingly, depth is what he achieves, by letting the years play out in an uninterrupted three-hour flow, and lingering on moments that most films would cut for pace. Boyhood feels unprecedented in its intimacy; the process is quietly radical (with a hat tip to François Truffaut’s 20-year Antoine Doinel series that began with The 400 Blows in 1959), but the unassuming script even more so. We’re introduced to the clan in impressionistic bursts. Olivia (Patricia Arquette), a single mother heading back to college, preps her kids for relocation to Houston, while cool dad Mason (Ethan Hawke) shows up in a muscle car on weekends for trips to the bowling alley. You root for their reconciliation, but the plot has other plans,

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Top Five

Of course, Chris Rock loves to crack us up, but lately, a stealth dramatist has emerged: His previous self-directed film, 2007’s I Think I Love My Wife, was based on a chatty Eric Rohmer classic, and watching him play off Julie Delpy in 2 Days in New York (2012) made him seem like a Linklater-ready natural. That impulse is further pursued in the dazzling Top Five—on the surface, a lost-artist comedy in the vein of Woody Allen’s Stardust Memories, but more deeply, a referendum on the dead-end choices Rock himself might be feeling. Rock plays Andre Allen, a star resisting the celebrity machine that has him wearing a bear costume in his latest blockbuster sequel and also engaged to a shallow reality-TV princess (Gabrielle Union). Warily, Andre eases into a long interview with a sharp journalist (Rosario Dawson) sure to expose him, but that’s when the movie drops into a sensitive register, mutual vulnerabilities coming to the fore during the pair’s walk-and-talk NYC chat. There’s still broad humor here (Cedric the Entertainer owns the flow as a rowdy concert promoter), but that material is funnier for being a part of many comic tones. Follow Joshua Rothkopf on Twitter: @joshrothkopf

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The Imitation Game

Hidden codes, secret meanings and mixed messages pulse through the reliable, old-fashioned, buzzing copper wires of true-life period drama The Imitation Game. Snappy and not too solemn, but perhaps not as much of a psychological puzzle as it could have been, the film gives us key episodes in the tragic life of Alan Turing. He was the mathematician whose biting antisocial intelligence briefly ran in step with the needs of the British war effort in the 1940s when he was employed to help break the Nazis’ Enigma code at Bletchley Park. Turing’s wartime achievements, kept under wraps for years, counted for nothing when his homosexuality fell foul of the law in the early 1950s, sending an already fragile personality into free fall. Benedict Cumberbatch, no stranger to roles with a hint of sociopathic genius, delivers a performance with more complexity and knots than the film around him. The script tends to spell out its themes, repeating a corny slogan: “Sometimes it is the people who no one imagines anything of, who do the things that no one can imagine.” Cumberbatch, though, defies the film’s simplicity. His Turing is awkward, determined, at times comically standoffish (a description that could just as easily apply to his portrayals of Stephen Hawking, Julian Assange and Sherlock Holmes). Mainly, the film lingers on the war period and the code-breaking years, where it’s most comfortable as an ensemble, getting-the-team-together drama. Director Morten Tyldum and writer Graham Moor

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The Theory of Everything

At its best (which is often), director James Marsh’s affecting biopic of the cosmos-rattling astrophysicist Stephen Hawking plays deftly against schmaltz. Hawking, a great wit, has always seen the dark humor in his bodily predicament, the ALS-like disease that began robbing the intellectual explorer of his muscular function as early as his university years. The Theory of Everything embraces that irony: This is a Hawking profile in which you’ll see the wheelchair-bound, speech-impaired scientist happily rolling around his living room dressed up like a Dalek from Doctor Who, his children squealing. More substantially, it’s a movie that delivers science in an approachable Neil deGrasse Tyson–like way, one that might turn young people onto big theoretical ideas—as well as turn them onto the enjoyment of problem solving with the right partner. An early scene has a thoughtful professor introducing ruffled Cambridge student Stephen (Eddie Redmayne) to a lab where all the action happens; it’s a lovely moment of quiet inspiration. The film is filled with snazzy visual metaphors: A swirling cup of coffee becomes a symbol for dark and light matter. A formal dance, where Stephen twirls with the future love of his life, Jane (Felicity Jones), twinkles with glowing lights and a hint of the universe falling into place. The film is their story (the script is largely based on the second of Jane Hawking’s two memoirs), and even though it smooths out some of their domestic unease and eventual d

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Mommy

Cinema doesn’t come much more exuberant and raw than French-Canadian filmmaker Xavier Dolan’s Mommy. It’s the tale of Steve (Antoine-Olivier Pilon), a wild teen with severe ADD, his love-hate relationship with his mother, Die (Anne Dorval), and their stuttering new neighbor, Kyla (Suzanne Clément). Songs by Dido and Oasis boom out over the brilliant musical interludes, but they never drown out the very real compassion and love that Dolan shows for the flawed but lovably irrepressible characters at the heart of his unkempt melodrama. As Die fights to keep Steve out of trouble and Kyla becomes a secondary mother figure to him, Dolan fits everything but the kitchen sink into the confines of his cell phone–style screen ratio. Mommy may feel crass and bombastic, but Dolan finds joy in the most unexpected places. You simply can’t ignore his heartfelt and winning belief that there’s no one definition of what makes a real family. This is Dolan's fifth feature – he's still only 25 – and he does terrific work again with the actresses Dorval and Clément, both of whom appeared in his 2009 debut I Killed My Mother as well as in some of his subsequent films. This is melodrama and then some, and songs by Dido and Oasis boom out over musicial interludes and montages. It's anything but minimal, but none of this drowns out the very real compassion and love that Dolan shows for all these characters, none of whom behave brilliantly all the time but who all struggle to get along in life as best

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John Wick

An especially cute floppy-eared beagle is killed within the first 20 minutes of this action throwback and, for all the body blows still to come, nothing hurts us as much. Maybe that's as it should be: No one in this movie is as innocent as that pooch, certainly not its owner. John Wick (Keanu Reeves, channeling the euphoric whoa of yore) is a recent widower and secret assassin whose final gift from his cancer-stricken wife is snuffed out with a sad little yelp during a brutal home invasion by Russian thugs. Wick recovers in record time, then out come the guns, the rifles, the mysterious gold coins, as Game of Thrones' hapless Alfie Allen (forever destined to be a picked-upon target) finds himself pursued by a ruthless, legendary killing machine that every other character seems wise enough to fear. Let's not go overboard: John Wick feels like action manna for its cleanly designed gun-fu sequences—ones you can actually follow—and brutal takedowns. But the revenge plotting is deeply dopey and we shouldn't have to choose one or the other. The film's codirectors, veteran stunt experts, have designed the movie within an eye for impact, and there's an elegant sparseness here that's thrilling. Reeves takes residence in some kind of swanky boutique hotel that caters to criminals—it's the only bit of wit in Derek Kolstad's generic script. John Wick will do for an escape watch with a rabid crowd; don't go in expecting poetry. Follow Joshua Rothkopf on Twitter: @joshrothkopf

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The Humbling

Philip Roth’s dirty-old-man fantasy novel, in which a much younger lesbian named Pageen (Greta Gerwig) is so awestruck by a washed-up 67-year-old actor that she’s instantly converted to the delights of heterosexuality, has now been made into a kind-of-comedy by Hollywood veteran Barry Levinson (Rain Man). And guess what: The filmmakers have made the woman even younger. It would be unbearable were it not for Al Pacino (looking like Keith Richards’s less-ravaged brother) playing Simon Axler, a legendary Shakespearean actor suffering the equivalent of writer’s block, and possibly the first stages of dementia. “Old age isn’t a battle; old age is a massacre,” Roth wrote in Everyman, but other than a few jokes about Axler’s limp erection and thrown-out back, we don’t see much of that. The only upside here is the acting: Pacino is sympathetic as he transforms from Pageen’s mentor-lover to her lapdog, while Gerwig is excellent, turning what’s essentially a bitch role into an actual human being. The rest is an irredeemable mess.

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Foxcatcher

Arrestingly made yet oppressive, Bennett Miller’s feeble-brained sports movie focuses, like the director’s Capote (2005), on a true-life crime story. Mark Schultz (Channing Tatum) is a world-champion wrestler forever living in the shadow of his brother, Dave (Mark Ruffalo), also a gold medalist in the sport. Theirs is a complicated relationship in which issues aren’t talked out but physicalized during tough-and-tender training sessions. (A terrific early scene captures their daily gym routine, a tussle that moves from filial intimacy to violence and back again.) Perhaps this explains why Mark feels so drawn to mysterious John du Pont (Steve Carell, transformed into creepiness), an eccentric multimillionaire who showers him with praise and invites him to train at the new facility he’s built on his sprawling estate near Valley Forge. Carell’s gun-loving one-percenter, whom the actor plays as a heavy-lidded burlesque of unbridled affluence, sees wrestling as a way to not only make his mark but to restore a sense of glory to the American empire. (It’s no coincidence that Mark’s new home is located within walking distance of a key site in the Revolutionary War.) Miller sees parallels between Du Pont’s failed, ultimately murderous campaign and the current state of the U.S., with its pronounced economic divides. Screenwriters E. Max Frye and Dan Futterman even set the events, which actually took place over the course of the 1990s, during the right-leaning 1980s to better drive home

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Ida

Tragedy hangs like smoke over this spectral, startling return to form for Polish-born, British-based writer-director Pawel Pawlikowski. First and foremost there’s the historical catastrophe of the Holocaust that drives the story, shot in b&w. But there’s also a pervasive, underlying layer of personal hardship and struggle: It doesn’t feel like a stretch to place Ida alongside, say, Roman Polanski’s Macbeth and Elem Klimov’s Come and See, films haunted by the loss of a spouse and a subsequent darkening in the filmmaker’s view of the worldview. First-timer Agata Trzebuchowska is quietly compelling in the title role of an apprentice nun who, on the eve of taking her final vows, leaves the convent for the first time to track down her last surviving relative. But Aunt Wanda (Agata Kulesza) isn’t exactly what Ida was expecting: She’s Jewish, alcoholic, a bedhopper and a ruthless court justice whose once-powerful standing in the Soviet regime of early-’60s Poland is slowly but inexorably waning. Ida is a film built of snapshots: Few scenes run longer than a minute or two, and the dialogue is sparse and functional, in stark contrast with Pawlikowski’s poetic, chatty earlier works like My Summer of Love. In addition, the painterly, painstakingly composed camera angles are all self-consciously “off,” with faces and bodies confined to corners of the empty, TV-square frame. The effect is somewhere between incredible beauty and mounting discomfort: a direct reflection of how sheltered

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The Hunger Games: Catching Fire: movie review

It’s tough at the top. Katniss Everdeen (Jennifer Lawrence) and Peeta Mellark (Josh Hutcherson) have won the Hunger Games, the first dual champions in the bloody battle royale’s 74-year-old history. Now they have to deal with the soul-sucking expectations of celebrity, something that has already all but done in the pair’s alcoholic mentor, Haymitch Abernathy (Woody Harrelson). So they put on their best game face, smooching plenty for the cameras—even though Katniss’s heart also yearns for strapping coal miner Gale Hawthorne (Liam Hemsworth)—and robotically reading cue cards that emphasize the greatness of the totalitarian nation of Panem. There’s rebellion in the air, however—everywhere the troubled Katniss goes, someone is guaranteed to raise their hand in a three-fingered salute of solidarity and get a bullet to the brain for their troubles. Panem’s nefarious leader, President Snow (Donald Sutherland), knows revolution is on the horizon, so he and his spectacularly monikered henchman, Plutarch Heavensbee (Philip Seymour Hoffman), cook up something special for the games’ 75th edition: Pit as many past winners as possible against each other, and quell this fire before it burns out of control. Conversely, the conflagration that is the Hunger Games franchise is already well beyond full scorch. Novelist Suzanne Collins’s dystopian YA trilogy is a bona fide publishing and moviegoing phenomenon, to the point that everyone involved could easily rest on their laurels and let the p

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St. Vincent

Why not just call it St. Bill and get it over with? The most lovable curmudgeon in modern movies gets a valedictory lap (and, you suspect, another Oscar campaign) in Theodore Melfi’s crowd-pleasing yet dangerously sentimental wacky-neighbor dramedy. The film comes to gruff life whenever its star growls out a terse one-liner through his character’s alcoholic haze: Vincent (Murray) is an unkempt Sheepshead Bay loner, a Vietnam War vet who likes to toggle between the track or the bar. With the arrival of a new neighbor (Melissa McCarthy) and, more significantly, her wide-eyed son, Oliver (Jaeden Lieberher), the movie’s entire trajectory is clear: from grumpy after-class babysitting to surrogate father-son bonding and lessons in bully defense. St. Vincent has nothing on Rushmore, an obvious forebearer, even though it strains for the same egalitarian spirit of thrown-together family, one that includes a pregnant Russian stripper (Naomi Watts) and a sympathetic but firm Catholic schoolteacher (Chris O’Dowd). Almost every actor’s performance is pitched toward indie caricature, all the better to showcase Murray’s subtle Irish honk (he’s unusually capable with the accent) and feisty old-school Brooklyn demeanor. Does St. Vincent really need a school project in which Oliver has to give a speech about an everyday saint he knows? (Guess who?) Of course it doesn’t, but you get the appeal of putting Murray behind a podium. Less understandable are several third-act developments (a stroke,

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The Interview

Despite making a career of playing slight variations on the same pasty manchild, Seth Rogen (together with longtime collaborator Evan Goldberg) has consistently leveraged his broad appeal as a vehicle for laughing at the great crises of our times: cancer (50/50), the apocalypse (This Is the End), Zac Efron’s abs (Neighbors). But if Rogen has always been unafraid to go places that most people won’t, The Interview marks the first time he goes to a place that most people can’t: North Korea. Fashioning The Great Dictator and Inglourious Basterds into a cross joint and then lighting it from both ends, Goldberg and Rogen’s second directorial effort follows the hysterically violent misadventures of idiotic talk-show host Dave Skylark (James Franco, hamming it up) and his underachieving producer, Aaron (Rogen). When they land an interview with Skylark superfan Kim Jong-Un (Randall Park), the CIA enlists the bumbling duo to assassinate the world’s most reclusive tyrant. Cut to Pyongyang, where Skylark and Kim are singing Katy Perry’s “Firework” to each other inside the cockpit of a tank. It’s Park’s performance that elevates the premise of a routine SNL sketch into the stuff of a compelling and genuinely radical feature, the actor portraying Kim as an endearingly deranged despot with nuclear daddy issues. But Goldberg and Rogen are most enamored of the idea that Kim’s subjects see him as a living god, and the character’s insecurities soon form the cornerstone of the film’s halfheart

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Black Sea

Submarines are such scary places that it’s hard to make a mess of a movie about them. The challenge lies in coming up with a fresh twist on the milieu that doesn’t tread on familiar WWII territory. Kudos, then, to screenwriter Dennis Kelly for this engrossing modern fable, in which a group of disgruntled employees of an ocean salvage company rent an ancient Soviet sub to retrieve lost Nazi gold from the floor of the Black Sea. The grizzled crew all have equal shares, but then they realize that the loss of a shipmate or two would mean a fatter payday for everyone else. Law brings unexpected gravitas to his role as the embittered captain whose desire to wreak revenge on his heartless bosses may be clouding his judgment, and the excellent supporting cast vividly captures the script’s intercrew animosities. Detailed set design also contributes to the oppressive claustrophobia of this undersea Treasure of the Sierra Madre, which oozes atmosphere. If Black Sea runs a few fathoms short of classic status, it’s because director Kevin Macdonald pumps the brakes just when things are picking up. Still, the film’s old-fashioned storytelling makes it a worthy addition to the sub subgenre.

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Song One

Dismissing Song One as a weak Williamsburg cover of Once really ought to feel more reductive than it does. Both are short, guileless and narratively threadbare indies about two wounded people brought together by the healing power of music. But where John Carney’s cult classic was honest in its efforts to eke out some hope from a cold Irish winter, Kate Barker-Froyland’s debut feels emotionally Auto-Tuned, the film’s depiction of Brooklyn like that of a naïve teenager heading to the outer boroughs for her first show at Glasslands (R.I.P.). Amounting to little more than a chain of naked emotions strung together by a simple melody, Song One joins Carney’s own Begin Again in reminding us why his breakthrough hit wasn’t called Twice.  Anne Hathaway plays Franny, a pixie-haired Ph.D. student who’s summoned back to Manhattan from the Middle East when her estranged kid brother, last seen busking to an audience of none near the L Train, gets steamrolled into a coma by a passing cab. Ruffling through her sibling’s stuff in a desperate bid to reconnect with him, Franny finds a ticket to an upcoming concert by his favorite musician, Jonathan Forester (Johnny Flynn), for whom she’s about to become a most unlikely muse. The only surprise to be had in this predictable trifle is that Hathaway, a perpetual theater kid, doesn’t do much singing. That falls to Flynn, a folk demigod whose nascent film career will continue to pick up steam with his appearance in this spring’s Clouds of Sils Mari

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Comments

1 comments
Linda R
Linda R

What kind of movie list is this? I want to see an alphabetical list of reviews for movies currently in theaters. This is just a mishmash