Things to do in Los Angeles this Friday

Review by Dave Calhoun The sort of high-wire, playfully enjoyable riff on movies that only Quentin Tarantino could get away with, Once Upon a Time…in Hollywood is a massively fun shaggy-dog story that blends fact and fiction, inserting made-up characters at the heart of real, horrible events (Charles Manson horrible) and then daring history to do its worst. Sitting at the mature, Jackie Brown end of Tarantino’s work, the film is also a love letter to Los Angeles and the film industry, bringing his tongue-in-cheek storytelling together with exquisite craft and killer lead performances from Brad Pitt and Leonardo DiCaprio. And yet, it’s still very much a Tarantino film, trading in genuine emotion one minute, unapolegetically silly the next. Tarantino starts with Hollywood in the era of the Manson murders—specifically, the slaying of starlet Sharon Tate and her friends in August 1969—and retells the story on his own terms, first over a few days in February 1969 and then, six months later, over the weekend of the killings. That means we’re spending nearly the whole movie wondering how this director is going to deal with the actual historical tragedy. For the answer to that, you’ll just have to sweat it out. Let’s just say this: Tarantino somehow manages to carve good taste out of bad. Nonfictional characters pop up throughout: the doomed Tate (Margot Robbie), Nixon-era celebrities Steve McQueen (Damian Lewis) and Bruce Lee (Mike Moh), the Manson gang (one of whom is played by

The masters of alfresco rooftop movie viewing have returned for another season of screenings in Hollywood and Downtown L.A. Known for excellent film choices and a steady supply of snacks and booze, Rooftop Cinema Club is your snazzy, comfortable and less stressful alternative to other outdoor movie screenings. You don’t even need to bring your own blanket or camping chair—Rooftop Cinema Club provides you with your very own comfy lawn chair, as well as blankets on request for the ultimate cozy experience. And instead of listening to the movie over loudspeakers, you’ll get a set of wireless headphones so you never have to miss a word.

Review by Dave Calhoun The sort of high-wire, playfully enjoyable riff on movies that only Quentin Tarantino could get away with, Once Upon a Time…in Hollywood is a massively fun shaggy-dog story that blends fact and fiction, inserting made-up characters at the heart of real, horrible events (Charles Manson horrible) and then daring history to do its worst. Sitting at the mature, Jackie Brown end of Tarantino’s work, the film is also a love letter to Los Angeles and the film industry, bringing his tongue-in-cheek storytelling together with exquisite craft and killer lead performances from Brad Pitt and Leonardo DiCaprio. And yet, it’s still very much a Tarantino film, trading in genuine emotion one minute, unapolegetically silly the next. Tarantino starts with Hollywood in the era of the Manson murders—specifically, the slaying of starlet Sharon Tate and her friends in August 1969—and retells the story on his own terms, first over a few days in February 1969 and then, six months later, over the weekend of the killings. That means we’re spending nearly the whole movie wondering how this director is going to deal with the actual historical tragedy. For the answer to that, you’ll just have to sweat it out. Let’s just say this: Tarantino somehow manages to carve good taste out of bad. Nonfictional characters pop up throughout: the doomed Tate (Margot Robbie), Nixon-era celebrities Steve McQueen (Damian Lewis) and Bruce Lee (Mike Moh), the Manson gang (one of whom is played by

The virtue of courage is high up on the list of Disney princess must-haves (just below kindness, beauty and a strapping prince in tight pants). So three cheers for Dreamgirls director Bill Condon and star Emma Watson for having the courage to make a live-action musical adaptation of Disney's adored Beauty and the Beast with 2017 gender politics and a diverse cast. Not only is this new Belle the studio's most feminist princess to date, the update boasts the first (and second) interracial kiss to ever appear in a Disney movie, as well as the first openly gay character. And it's all done with a lovely feeling of integrity. Today's Beauty and the Beast is a lavish pull-out-all-the-stops musical. Watson brings sincerity to the role of Belle, the only bookworm in an 18th-century French village. (Her singing isn’t bad either). Luke Evans is hilarious as her sexist meathead suitor, Gaston, whose charming come-ons include: "Do you know what happens to spinsters in the village when their fathers die? They beg for scraps." Josh Gad (who voiced Olaf the snowman in Frozen) is Gaston's adoring sidekick Le Fou. The pair’s one-sided bromance is a highlight. Belle’s inventor dad (Kevin Kline) is on his way to market when he takes a wrong turn and finds himself locked in the gothic castle belonging to the Beast (Dan Stevens from Downton Abbey, hiding behind a furry face and a CGI-supplanted physique). Of course, the Beast is actually a dashing prince, transformed by a kind witch as punishmen

Think Ocean’s Eleven with strippers and you’ve got the premise of Lorene Scafaria’s surprising, gripping Hustlers. Constance Wu stars as Dorothy, a.k.a. Destiny, the new girl at a hot Manhattan gentlemen’s club. The wildly successful Ramona (Jennifer Lopez) takes Dorothy under her wing and shows her how to get ahead in exotic dancing. But after the 2008 financial crash, the pair and their friends resort to criminal means to keep the cash coming in. This is a deeply feminist film, one where men are given less screen time than the cameoing Cardi B and Lizzo. These women are objectified by the world, though rarely by Scafaria’s camera. They use that fact to scam money and take revenge on Wall Streeters. Scafaria treats the women as flawed, fractious characters and folk heroes, not sex dolls. She packs in some visual flourishes too, like a shaky-cam shot of one of the crew’s walk of shame to her daughter’s school. It’s a reminder that there’s more at stake for these women than the ability to buy designer clothes. If Wu is compelling as Destiny, Lopez is magnetic as her savvy mentor. It’s her most authoritative role since Out of Sight. The plot, in contrast to the stars, sags in the middle and there are a few more celebratory hang-out scenes than we need, but the gang is so charismatic, it’s no great chore to spend extra time with them. Some people would pay thousands for just a few minutes.

Bittersweet and maturely witty, director Lulu Wang’s Chinese-American family drama The Farewell beats with an immigrant’s split heart. Featuring a thoughtful, career-revising turn from Crazy Rich Asians scene-stealer Awkwafina, Wang’s autobiographical story is “based on an actual lie” (as an intro title tells us), though not the comforting kind of white lies shared at the start: Walking through a wintry New York City on a long-distance call, the unemployed writer Billi (Awkwafina) reassures her concerned granny back home in Changchun, China, that she’s wearing a hat. (She isn’t.) In turn, “Nai Nai” (Zhao Shuzhen, adorably commanding) casually claims that she’s at her sister’s house. (She’s actually at the hospital for a scan.) Now comes the real lie: In what is commonplace practice in China, Nai Nai’s family elects to withhold a grim diagnosis of cancer from her, saying the news is good. The clan comes together in Asia under the false pretext of a sudden wedding between Billi’s cousin and his confused Japanese girlfriend, setting the stage for a gathering that’s outwardly celebratory but secretly devastated (a mood beautifully supported by Alex Weston’s vocal-heavy score). Wang expertly plays these scenes to both comedic and heartbreaking effect, while the unruffled but bossy Nai Nai proudly throws together the trimmings of a full wedding, complete with a photo shoot and an over-the-top, colorful banquet. The riotously awkward event (reminiscent of a low-key version of the

Review by Tomris Laffly An endearing and earnest comedy about self-acceptance and body positivity that sidesteps cheesy pitfalls, Brittany Runs a Marathon is based on the journey of a real-life friend of writer-director Paul Downs Colaizzo. Snarky Off Broadway usher Brittany (Rough Night’s quick-witted Jillian Bell, striking a deft blend of sincerity and slapstick) uses humor to conceal her demons. Tired of being invisible to men and unable to afford a gym, Brittany decides to take it to the streets, running one city block at a time to build up her stamina. (The Astoria-set film is believable in its NYC-ness without trying too hard.) Along the way, she befriends Catherine (Michaela Watkins), a jogging obsessive, as well as fellow rookie Seth (Micah Stock), eventually training with both of them for the annual city marathon. Meanwhile, a new house-sitting gig introduces her to Jern (Utkarsh Ambudkar), a lovable troublemaker who convinces Brittany to move into the fancy digs they’re supposed to be taking care of. Colaizzo successfully walks a fine line between inspiration and caution, never presenting Brittany as a patronizing role model for weight loss, nor a clichéd case of inner beauty. The film grasps the complex nature of Brittany’s self-image without ignoring its dark side: One poignant scene observes her in a weak moment as she regretfully insults another overweight woman out of her own sense of insecurity. Brittany Runs a Marathon loses some steam in its middle section

Review by Phil de Semlyen What director Gurinder Chadha’s Bend It Like Beckham (2002) did for soccer and female empowerment stories, her effervescent latest does for Springsteen. And Sony Walkmans. And double denim. For viewers of a certain age—e.g., if you ever owned a Level 42 cassette—there’s loads of easy ’80s nostalgia to feast on in Blinded by the Light’s high-school corridors, crammed with Wham! boys and Salt-N-Pepa girls. It’s a coming-of-age movie about connecting with music in a way that finds you a tribe and, temporarily, a respite from your worries—even when they’re as grave as the racist thug stalking you from across the courtyard. The film is set in a specific Britain rife with tension: the town of Luton during the National Front–stained end of Margaret Thatcher’s reign, marked by mass unemployment. But Chadha gives her visuals a Hollywood sheen and a Bruce-heavy soundtrack to banish the minor-key moments that come in the form of jarring verbal abuse and family meltdowns. Our hero, Javed (the fresh-faced Viveik Kalra), is a British-Pakistani teen who writes poetry, dreams of escape and gets his spirits crushed daily by his ultra-strict dad. But when his new school friend Roops (Aaron Phagura) sneaks him a couple of Springsteen tapes, salvation arrives in the form of some uncannily relatable blue-collar anthems. “Bruce knows everything I’ve ever felt,” marvels Javed, quickly moving on to posters, T-shirts and speaking truth to power. (Springsteen lends 12 song

If you like your space odysseys brimming with formula-filled blackboards and quantum mechanics, consider this a trigger warning: Ad Astra is not that kind of sci-fi. Unlike 2001: A Space Odyssey or Interstellar, two obvious points of parallel, there’s no Arthur C Clarke or Kip Thorne behind the scenes to bring Nobel-worthy science to the fiction. This is a movie where a man travels to Neptune, a distance of 2.7 billion miles, without aging a day—a reach even when that man is Brad Pitt. It features killer baboons in zero gravity. At one point, Pitt jacks a spaceship—while it’s taking off. On paper, at least, it’s just Moonraker with a PhD. Leave any disbelief at the door, though, and you’ll be rewarded with an often gorgeous, soulful sci-fi that’s charged with emotion and bursting with spectacle. It has meaningful things to say about letting go, dads and their sons, and the challenges of reconciling with the past. Sure, it’s set in “the near future” and mostly against the endless solitude of space – captured by Interstellar cinematographer Hoyte Van Hoytema with lunar greys and Martian ochres – and it boasts possibly cinema’s first moon-buggy chase (as awesome as it sounds), but director James Grey and his co-writer Ethan Gross never lose sight of its intimate heart. They’re aided in that by a terrific, nuanced performance from Pitt. For the most part, Ad Astra wears its near-future-ness with a light touch. Exactly what’s happening on Earth is kept deliberately murky, beyond

Even in our Stranger Things–dominated popscape, no one was expecting 2017’s It—a second attempt at a ponderous 30-year-old novel—to become such a huge phenomenon. A monster hit? Sure. No one likes a clown, evil or otherwise. But the highest-grossing horror movie of all time? To understand that outcome, one would have to consult the dark forces trapped in Stephen King’s typewriter. Finally, though, the hype is justified: It: Chapter Two improves on its predecessor in nearly every way. King’s book was bifurcated into halves, one hefty chunk going to its 1950s preteens living in a fictional Maine town, and the other to these tiny warriors grown up into equally haunted ’80s adults. It: Chapter Two follows suit, but the movie doubles down on the deeper, metaphorical nature of losing one’s innocence and discovering a world full of real-life pain. Disturbingly (and boldly), the film opens with a scene of vicious gay bashing, as modern-day Derry has become a place similar to so much of today’s hate-brimming America. Like autumn leaves, those menacing red balloons reappear—the movie does a beautiful job of bridging its natural and supernatural elements—and it’s up to an older, lonely Mike (Isaiah Mustafa), now the town’s librarian, to call his buds. They include Bev (Jessica Chastain, a persuasive sufferer), trapped in an abusive marriage; Bill (James McAvoy, a little stiff), now a Hollywood screenwriter and crafter of “bad endings”; a slimmed-down Ben (Jay Ryan); the hypochondriac

An independent-minded heroine (Moore) longing to experience the outside world; a dashingly handsome male counterpart (Levi) in need of companionship; some humdrum Alan Menken--penned musical numbers. Welcome to 1989! The House of Mouse's retelling of the Rapunzel fairy tale might as well be titled Little Mermaid Redux---a transparent attempt to fill the Disney coffers by repackaging the masses-pleasing formulas that led to the studio's early-'90s resurgence. A few things have changed, from a heavy reliance on CG that makes every character look frighteningly plastic to an occasional fallback on Dreamworks-style self-awareness (Levi's Flynn Ryder narrates the story oh-so-knowingly). But almost everything else remains the same, and the familiarity breeds equal levels admiration and contempt. Credit neo-Katzenberg executive producer John Lasseter for porting over his Pixar-honed talent for snappy narrative and memorable imagery. Rapunzel's flowing golden locks---which bestow eternal youth on the show-tune-belting villain (Murphy) who kidnapped the lass as a baby---are thrown around like Tarzan's vines, allowing for several delirious flights of fancy. The animal sidekicks (horse Maximus and chameleon Pascal) are adorable and action-figure ready, and there's an especially wonderful sequence where thousands of floating lanterns light up the night sky. Disney knows how to bewitch a crowd, but the sense that Tangled was made more by corporate mandate than artistic spark remains const