I caught some flak for trashing Barbarian (2022). I’m not surprised. I hated the pilot of The Last of Us (2023) too. I’m not exactly a Pez dispenser; I seem to have more vinegar these days than honey. Just the day before I wrote that review, I taught a class on reboots, revivals, and adaptations. Our case study was The Twilight Zone (original run, 1959-1964), which has been revived for TV three times (never mind the short story collection, feature... Read more
You can rip his pair of striped pants off and slash away his mustache, but I guess the barbarian always remains. Or at least that’s how I feel after watching Zach Cregger’s Barbarian (2022). I had hope. It was well reviewed, seemed pulpy, even promised to bring in contemporary issues without just throwing in the “uh, all the cell phones just don’t work right now” excuse. My hopes were dashed, my paltry desire to see a good horror movie come... Read more
In 1959, bit TV actor and anti-Lee Strasberg workshop founder John Cassavetes filmed a 16mm, largely improvised movie about race relations in contemporary New York. That work, Shadows (1959) seems to attract admirers mostly because it ends with a (then-surprising) note about its improvisation—a triumph of independent cinema, the ill-attended foundation for Marty Scorsese and New Hollywood. It’s, the consensus is, an artefact for contextualization, a bauble to be praised by weirdo enthusiasts and snooty cinephiles, a 20th-century Ormulum. It... Read more
When I went to summer camp in New Jersey in the late 90s and 2000s, we heard about Cropsey. The legend left only a broad impression—a man, a fire, a daughter, the woods. We learned the story on Initiation Night, when the oldest campers slept over in the woods behind what we so-lovingly called “The Pavilion,” a large wooden bandstand with a roof, surrounded by forest on one side and a large grassy field on the other. Many of us... Read more
Before there was Superbad (2007), there was The Daytrippers (1997). Director Greg Mottola’s debut feature feels like a predecessor to Juno (2007), not a movie with a major character who calls himself McLovin. The dialogue is ironic and self-effacing. The characters embody generational conflict, rather than the harmony of twenty-something cops partying with an errant teenager. Whit Stillman probably likes this movie. And so do I (mea culpa)—at least up to a point. The titular trip concerns five relations: Jim... Read more
Imagine if Kevin Smith made Dogma (1999) but in the flat, unaffected style of Clerks (1994). Add in a self-professedly nymphomaniacal nun who has never had sex but who has visions of the Virgin Mary telling her she’ll make a terrible convent community member. While you’re at it, throw in some amnesia, the porn industry, human trafficking, and the perfidious Dutch. Even Parker Posey and Dwight Ewell have bit parts. Fold to combine and you’ve got yourself Hal Hartley’s Amateur... Read more
The thesis of John Cassavetes’ Minnie and Moskowitz (1971) is that most people are a bit looney. “Normal” is a comforting lie we tell ourselves—an implicitly understood charade masking dark secrets or, at best, harmless idiosyncrasies. Most conversations between people are but monologues given in impolitely staked-out turns. We see this in the film’s opening, when Seymour Moskowitz (Seymour Cassell) and his bushy blonde mustache sit across from a slack-jawed drunk of a fellow diner named Morgan Morgan (Timothy Carey).... Read more
In recent years, I have mostly avoided weighing in on specific religious issues or controversies. I’ve preferred to spend my time reviewing films, reading, and passing time with my wife and friends while quietly going about the practice of my faith. Recent news about the former Fr. Hilarion Heagy (now Mr. Troy Heagy) apostatizing and becoming Muslim seems to have broken from the bounds of my little Byzantine Catholic world. Coming from this small tradition and having seen people take... Read more
At the risk of sounding like de Maistre or Kierkegaard, “genius” is a bad word in our (brace for it) leveling age (not that I don’t stand for leveling). When drafting histories of their relationships to TV, my students agreed that one quality kept them glued to the tube: relatability. Standing out through sheer force of talent (honed and trained to be sure) now often alienates. Singin’ in the Rain (1952) is a crime. How dare Donald O’Connor dance up... Read more
Bob Balaban. The name’s enough really. If I had seen it on a page before I’d seen the man himself on a screen, I’d have liked the cut of his jib. His parents named him “Robert.” He was smart enough to go with the alliteration; on name alone, he’s got my trust. Like Philip Baker Hall or F. Murray Abraham, he haunts the edges of your favorite media. You could swear you’ve seen him before, but you aren’t sure. Indeed,... Read more
Ad-Free & Subscriber Log-In