Kicking the Tweets

It Comes at Night (2017)

Were it not for televised news reports, it's entirely possible that Ben, Barbara, and the other doomed travelers in Night of the Living Dead might have believed they were combating an outbreak of violent mania, rather than a pandemic of resurrected corpses. Remove those two minutes, and it's a completely different story. Trey Edward Shults' It Comes at Night is that story, sort of. A family barricades itself in a wooded house, fending off an illness/supernatural (hyper-natural?) malevolent force. Supplies are as limited as trust in strangers, and oxygen masks and gloves are mandatory when stepping outside. Shults and company present danger, paranoia, and infrequent moments of hope subjectively--a technique that will leave some shaking their heads in frustration (who or what "It" is remains a mystery), and have others applauding the filmmakers' ability to focus our attention on fears so primal they'd make the bogeyman dive for the covers.


Star Wars: The Last Jedi (2017)

In the aftermath of The Force Awakens, Star Wars fans were left with myriad burning questions: “Who are Rey’s parents?” “Where did Snoke come from?” “Will the next movie be a retread of The Empire Strikes Back?” Though Rian Johnson’s The Last Jedi may or may not have the answers viewers want, the film is just what we didn’t know we needed—a loving but brutal deconstruction and reassembling of the sacred Jedi/Sith mythos that have bound up sci-fi/fantasy geeks’ imaginations for more than four decades. The eighth installment is too long in places, too derivative in others, but most of it sparkles with the unbridled emotional energy that fused George Lucas’ original franchise with our pop culture DNA. This isn’t an obligatory “middle chapter” packed with disposable missions and tedious seed-planting. In fact, it feels oddly like a fond farewell—which begs an entirely different kind of question: “Where to next?”


The Shape of Water (2017)

I’m done with cinematic “love letters”. Master filmmakers have every right to create dazzling homages to the movies that inspired them, but I’d rather see that passion funneled into innovation, instead of overlong indulgences that put the “old” in “old fashioned”. Guillermo Del Toro’s The Shape of Water is a technically perfect, very well acted Cold War fairy tale, a mash-up of Creature from the Black Lagoon and Hidden Figures,* starring Hellboy’s Abe Sapien. It also bursts with the same spaghetti-on-the-wall narrative carelessness that sank Pacific Rim. The screenplay's myriad distractions from the paper-thin and dreadfully predictable (for Del Toro fans) central story--such as a black-and-white musical sequence; movie-palace porn; and golly-gee social-justice smugness--are so on-the-nose they’re practically zits. Years from now, I hope someone apes the Del Toro of Pan’s Labyrinth (or, hell, Crimson Peak), and not whoever this un-checked nostalgia whore is.

*Complete with Octavia Spencer!


The Disaster Artist (2017)

Tommy Wiseau may be the last hold-over from pre-Internet society. Despite having achieved global status as one of the worst filmmakers alive, he maintains an air of mystery as impenetrable as his ubiquitous black sunglasses. In adapting the book about the making of Wiseau’s defining (and terrible) relationship drama, The Room, writer/director James Franco embraces the auteur’s enigma. Instead of trying to out-do the quirkiness inherent in his subject’s truly alien persona, Franco steers into territory both meta* and base (foreign accents are funny!). The Disaster Artist isn’t as start-to-finish-hilarious as you’ve heard. But, like Ed Wood, it is a surprisingly tender and inspiring call to action for creators everywhere. No innate talent required.

*He plays Wiseau. Brother Dave plays aspiring actor Greg Sestero, who not only starred in The Room and co-wrote the Disaster Artist book, he became Tommy's surrogate brother in real life (complete with epic, crushing rivalries).



My Friend Dahmer (2017)

Three-quarters of the way through My Friend Dahmer, I made the mistake of pressing "Pause" and looking up crime scene photos of the titular serial killer's apartment/meat locker. The images are horrific but darkly compelling, like Francis Bacon paintings realized as sculpture wrought from impossibly contorted human bodies. In adapting John "Derf" Backderf's graphic novel about his awkward high-school relationship with Jeffrey Dahmer, co-writer/director Marc Meyers doesn't employ such imagery--choosing instead to push actor Ross Lynch to the very limits of a tortured character study. The crumbling family life, repressed homosexuality, and razor-thin tightrope walk between peer approval and revulsion make Dahmer such a sympathetic character that it becomes easy to forget how the rage boiling up behind his sheepish eyes and dorky glasses ultimately manifested. A lifetime of being ignored taught Dahmer the art of hiding in plain sight, which gave him the freedom to pursue other arts, too.