FILMS from AFAR

The teen girl buddy movie is having a moment -- from Booksmart to Never Rarely Sometimes Always to Unpregnant, the latter two with premises not dissimilar to this film's. What Plan B brings to the genre is more diversity and a gleeful urge to push the boundaries. Its two charismatic leads (played by newcomers Victoria Moroles and Kuhoo Verma) face a variety of stereotypes and ethnically-insensitive comments. Most of these are played for laughs, like the idea of an "Indian mafia" that young Indian Americans can't escape, or a character's secret penchant for Christian rap. At one point, one of the stars deadpans, "Is this what White privilege feels like?" There are also subplots about a lesbian character fearing the repercussions of coming out, and the pressures teens feel to live up to their parents' and peers' expectations. Unfortunately, the characters don't reveal these inner feelings and motivations until more than an hour into the movie. For its first half, Plan B feels more like a series of ideas and situations strung together. Some of these are very funny, but others are decidedly less so. Rachel Dratch has a cameo as a clueless sex ed teacher promoting female abstinence, and an overachieving teen mind-melds hilariously with a drug dealer when they're both high. Sequences like one involving grown men frightening two teen girls with racist sexual taunts, young adults drugged out of their minds at a house party, or a playground drug dealer dropping his pants for oral sex all feel a bit aggressive for a high school movie. Read the full review at Common Sense Media.

There's something reassuring about Pink's presence, and this latest entry to the rock documentary genre hits that point home in multiple ways. Directed by The Greatest Showman's Michael Gracey (who also executive produced Rocketman), Pink: All I Know So Far skillfully combines video from the performer's 2019 "Beautiful Trauma" world tour with significant film of her in hotel rooms with her husband and two young kids. There’s also first-hand interview material, spliced in as voiceovers and black-and-white footage, and a limited amount of archive material. Two segments are particularly memorable. One is when Pink is talking about the day her kids will see through her tough, world-famous exterior to the fragile human she really is, a voiceover set to images of her in a harness and flying free during rehearsals high above an empty Wembley Stadium. Another is when she reads tweets and emotional letters from fans, for whom the persona of Pink clearly provides inspiration and encouragement (one says Pink is the reason she didn't commit suicide). The gist of the film comes in precisely that contrast of the mega-production Pink and her team of 250 are putting on, and the not-so-quiet family moments, where we see "Alecia" and her husband, former motorcross competitor Carey Hart, grappling with their whirlwind of a 2-year-old son and their more introspective 8-year-old daughter. The kids don't care if Mommy has just put on an exhausting, sold-out show for 80,000, or if Mommy catching their fever would shut down a multimillion-dollar venture; they just want her attention. Pink memorably pinpoints how mothers never stop worrying about their kids, even while they're at work, and we see her juggling that with the "mega-responsibility" of being "the boss" on a massive tour. According to this documentary, she’s excelling at and enjoying both, though of course most moms don't have private jets and full staffs, and the documentary doesn’t show us the people making everything run smoothly behind the scenes -- those carrying and expertly unpacking her 17 suitcases at each stop along the tour, for example. Still, Pink comes across as hard-working, talented, and fully dedicated to both her fans and her kids, and as far as pop icons or rock-umentaries go, it's a unique combination that makes for a compelling watch. Read the full review Common Sense Media.

With obvious nods to Hitchcock, this film creates suspense through a blend of unpredictable characters, plot twists, ominous music (by Danny Elfman), and gloomy settings seen from odd angles. Like so many psychological thrillers before it, The Woman in the Window wants to make us question who and what is real. The actual violence is less important (or interesting) -- and comes later in the story -- than the palpable sense of menace and the uncertainty of who presents what threat. The tale turns on Anna, an unreliable witness with psychological problems whose abuse of alcohol and medications fuzzes her perceptions. The always-versatile Adams offers a solid performance that fuels the film and compensates for other, less-developed characters. Her Anna is at once heartbreaking and infuriating, a believable Everywoman who has lost her will to live, but the essential details of what drove her to the life of a recluse are kept from us for more than half the movie. There are also themes in the film concerning motherhood and a mother's role, adding to the emotion and contributing to our uncertainty about Anna's state of mind. The men are mostly there to menace, except for two (perhaps coincidentally both Black): her apparently-estranged husband, and the kind detective assigned to her case. The story is structured by days over the course of one autumn week, with Anna repeating rituals (including passing out each night and awaking startled each morning) and only halfheartedly seeking help. There's mention of a previous suicide attempt. The film's production design is all about the mood: Anna lives in a cavernous, jewel-toned brownstone where she keeps the lights constantly dimmed. She's often glimpsed from peculiar angles and reflected in mirrors as she wanders the dark house in her pink bathrobe. The structure and setting are effective enough to put you on edge, uncertain how events will unfold but sure something bad will happen. When it does, it feels almost anti-climactic; proof again that the waiting is the hardest, but maybe also the best, part. Read the full review at Common Sense Media.

This drama may start from a familiar premise, but it quickly evolves into a thought-provoking, suspenseful, and skillfully acted drama. By interlacing Steve's pre-prison life with the unfolding of his court case, Monster proposes meta-narratives about truth, perspective, storytelling, and memory. Steve, a film student, begins narrating the movie as if reading from a script ("Interior. Holding room -- Day"). It's a clever concept and fortunately not overused. This is his story, but the fact that he's telling it -- as his film teacher notes in a discussion of Rashomon -- means we're only getting his perspective. We know we should perhaps question his reliability as a narrator, but that's not easy considering what a sympathetic character he's made out to be. "He looks like your son," he assures us himself. When we hit a scene where even his loving father looks uncertain about Steve's innocence, it's jarring. There's suspense in how 17-year-old Steve and his loving, comfortable, highly-educated family will hold up under the stress of the accusations and the terrifying conditions of life in prison. In a panic, Steve asks himself, "Who would you have to become to survive 25-to-life in here?" There's suspense in trying to grasp how the facts of what happened on the night of the crime will unfold. And there's suspense, of course, in the trial, particularly considering Steve is a young Black man -- he "looks the part," as the prosecutor chillingly puts it. The film has an obvious message about the presumed guilt and unfair prosecution of Black men, though it's careful not to generalize innocence either. In a movie about a wannabe movie-maker, symbolic choices of lighting and framing are also to be expected. Steve's life before prison is captured in warm autumnal tones, a contrast to the cold grey of the courtroom scenes, where White and Black characters are dressed in white and black. There's no space for grey in the court of law, we're told, yet this film works precisely because it exploits the grey area between fact and fiction, memory and truth, guilt and innocence. Read the full review at Common Sense Media.

This film effectively creates a sense of malaise and provides at least a couple of jump scares by combining a dramatic storyline with layered characters and an evocative setting. The spirits haunting the Claire family in Things Heard & Seen are sufficiently spooky, and there is one chillingly violent scene, but viewers should expect more of a complex, character-driven slow boil than an edge-of-seat thriller. The characters and ambience are what give this film its soul and ultimately its suspense. Charming and handsome college professor George looks perfect on paper, but the film doesn't take long before raising doubts about him and the young couple's marriage. The floppy-haired, khakis-clad Norton is perfect for the role, but Seyfried is the film's real star. As the wide-eyed but world-weary main character, she does a skillful job expressing Catherine's emotional evolution over the course of the film. There are layers to Catherine that complicate and deepen the character, such as a history of disordered eating and a bristling against gender expectations of 1980, including the impetus for her marriage, the abandonment of her career, the gradual distrust of her husband, and a timid exploration of feminism. Another rationale behind the film's period setting is to allow for a time before cell phones or internet research, absences which further isolate the characters and keep them in the dark. Catherine begins unraveling the mystery of their seemingly-haunted house by visiting the local historical society, going to the library, talking with neighbors. This is where supporting cast come in, to provide explanations, support, and warnings. F. Murray Abraham and Rhea Seehorn, who play two of George's colleagues drawn to a deeper connection with Catherine, bring gravitas to the cast. The younger locals, played by Stranger Things' Natalia Dyer and Colony's Alex Neustaedter, are sketched more superficially and used mainly as plot devices; Dyer's character practically disappears mid-film. Academic life also feels a tad stereotyped here, but George's specialization in the work of nineteenth century painter George Inness, who flirted with the mystical ideas of Swedish theologian Emanuel Swedenborg, provides the entrée for supernatural themes. These inform the film's ending, which could disappoint some viewers, especially after such a patient, detailed build-up of story and characters. Read the full review at Common Sense Media.

Spencer plays straight woman to McCarthy's goofball antics in this fun, female take on the superhero genre. New ground is broken in terms of representation, but otherwise Thunder Force follows familiar formulas of "good guys vs. bad guys" with a comic twist, meaning its appeal to audiences will rest almost entirely on its stars. McCarthy invariably delivers the funniest lines and has the best pratfalls of Thunder Force, and her fling with Bateman's crab-man is priceless. She and Spencer, who seems a little less comfortable with the physicality of her role, make a great pair, and the script does a sufficient job of setting up their deep childhood bond and divergent paths. Memorable scenes include the duo crooning '80s ballads, squeezing in and out of their too-tiny Lamborghini, and reacting to Emily's grandma's conviction that they're secretly a couple. When Grandma Norma (Marcella Lowery) produces a wedding cake topper with two women, one Black and one White, Lydia cracks a joke asking which one is supposed to be her -- which is really the script's only reference to the two friends' different races. The fact that they're heavier, older, and a different gender from standard-issue movie superheroes is also treated as somewhat of a non-issue, outside of the Lamborghini gag and a couple of one-liners. That doesn't mean that the film, which was written and directed by McCarthy's husband, Ben Falcone (who also has a small role), avoids issues of identity or representation. Thunder Force sends a clear female empowerment message, including having a woman named Gonzales as the mayor of Chicago, and it pokes gentle fun at older generations' attempts to be respectful of changing social norms, like when Lydia stumbles over her words trying to ask Emily's daughter the gender of the people she dates. McCarthy's blue-collar, beer-guzzling, hard rock-listening, pro sports-watching Lydia is perhaps the film's biggest stereotype, and it wouldn't be hard to draw connections between real-life fear-mongering politicians and Cannavale's The King, but both comic portrayals are played for laughs, not jabs. And with purposeful mention of the villainous mastermind being captured alive at the film's close, Thunder Force leaves open the possibility of a sequel. Read the full review at Common Sense Media.

This optimistic, well-meaning coming-of-age film will leave feminist viewers cheering. Fans of co-star/director Amy Poehler are also likely to flock to Moxie. Poehler and her scriptwriters clearly tried hard to reach a diverse audience, learning from the mistakes of the 1990s Riot Grrrl movement that provided some inspiration for the film. Characters specifically talk about being more intersectional. It's a worthy goal, but there are moments when the film risks devolving into a grab bag of grievances. Still, just when you think Poehler may have cast her net too wide, she flicks it back with a self-aware wink, like Vivian's insistence that her mom give up milk, Lisa's prominently-placed NPR tote, or Claudia's polite concern that a Hawaiian-themed party doesn't feel "culturally sensitive." Poehler also knows to step out of the way and let the teen actors carry the film, which they do with plausibility and confidence, particularly leads Robinson, Pascual-Peña, Tsai, and Nico Hiraga as Vivian's love interest. Schwarzenegger is appropriately smarmy as the "mediocre White dude" bully with a "chokehold on success." And it was a smart idea at the script level to start the film with Vivian mulling over her college application essay, that rite of passage for college-bound high-schoolers who are expected to both summarize their lives and show themselves to be wholly unique. The problem introverted Vivian faces is writing about a "cause" she feels passionate about when she has thus far just gone with the flow, even when the flow may have felt wrong. Moxie is, at heart, a coming-of-age tale, and maybe also a generational one, since transitions are generally marked by eye-opening experiences and change. The film visualizes this in young women finding their voices, literally and figuratively. Despite Moxie's imperfections, those voices will speak to many. Read the full review at Common Sense Media.

Even with two riveting performances at its core, this dialogue-centered film organized around an arguing couple over the course of one night will either speak to you or not. And that will depend entirely on how interesting you find the two characters, Malcolm & Marie, and their stories and concerns. Their sparring over the course of the entire film can feel tiresome, and there are moments of real emotional cruelty and name-calling that could turn some viewers off. Yet the script also deftly reveals new layers of information bit by bit, explaining the roots of their rage as well as the contours of their deep mutual devotion. Malcom and Marie are flawed, scarred, and selfish. They're also smart, driven, and in love. As closing lyrics suggest, they're toeing a thin line between love and hate; the tagline deadpans they're "madly in love." In a film stripped down to the core of just two people expressing emotional turmoil, Washington and Zendaya are mesmerizing. The black-and-white cinematography is meant to convey elegance and sophistication, as is the modernist house, sexy black-tie attire, and the stylish cool of the movie's score. It may also carry some symbolism. The Black Malcolm is deeply, at points comically, concerned with the mostly White film critics' reactions to his film. He knows he needs their approval, but he bristles at the guilt-driven, elitist, pedantic, "academic nonsense" they spout. As Marie likes to point out, he's a walking contradiction: He worships "revolutionary" Spike Lee but comes from a privileged, intellectual family. "Not everything I do is political because I'm Black," he shouts, but Marie points out he's working on an Angela Davis biopic. He explodes in a lengthy diatribe about artistic freedom, railing against the boxing-in of filmmakers and their perceived ability or legitimacy to tell stories according only to static identities -- White, Black, male, female, trans, gay, and so on. "Cinema doesn't need to have a message. It needs to have a heart and electricity," he vows. Malcom & Marie has all three. Read the full review at Common Sense Media.

Sylvie's Love is a sweet, well-acted but overly packaged film that consciously reimagines mid-century Douglas Sirk-style melodramas with a Black cast and a Harlem setting. It's an interesting updating that many viewers will welcome, so long as they're comfortable suspending a certain amount of disbelief to be swept into its manicured world. The film's romanticized rendering of late 1950s and early 1960s New York has scrubbed the city so clean there are no pedestrians and the streets permanently glisten. Characters are always impeccably dressed, and Robert's smoky jazz milieu is as improbably clean-cut as etiquette-trained debutante Sylvie's world. This idealized portrayal is only finely cracked in a few specific scenes where the racial barriers and bigotry Black people still faced in the 1960s are referenced. As Sylvie and Robert begin to grapple with more grown-up troubles in the second half of the story, the film gains depth, even despite a general lack of subtlety (see Sylvie reading a copy of The Feminine Mystique soon after she's declared her independence). Thompson and football pro-turned-actor Asomugha bring a pleasing wholesomeness to their characters and carry the film with sincere performances. The soundtrack has its own starring role: this film is about love, but it's also about love for music, and it captures music's power to define eras, evoke memories, enchant, and enamor. Read the full review at Common Sense Media.

Sometimes a film manages to completely capture a specific place and time, yet simultaneously feel universal -- a story that is so relatable and true you sense it could happen anywhere, to almost anyone. This is the case with the captivating Norwegian movie "Oslo, August 31st," currently available on Netflix. From writer-director Joachim Trier ("Louder Than Bombs"), the film is at once a meticulous portrait of 20- and 30-somethings in modern-day Oslo, and a poignant psychological drama that viewers of any background can identify with. In a recent phone interview, "Oslo" First Assistant Director and Producer Hans-Jorgen Osnes acknowledged this duality was intentional. "We knew that we wanted to make a local story," Osnes said. "We wanted to describe the city we live in and that was a strong wish. But we knew that there were some real universal aspects to it." One of those universal aspects was that the film is based on a 1931 French novel, Pierre Drieu La Rochelle's "Will O' the Wisp" ("Le Feu Follet"), and was previously brought to screen by legendary French filmmaker Louis Malle in 1963's "The Fire Within" ("Le Feu Follet"), available as part of The Criterion Collection on Hulu. A Portrait of Loneliness The story follows a young man on his first day out of rehab as he revisits old friends and slowly spirals back into addiction and, eventually, suicide. In Malle's version, alcoholic playboy Alain (a charming Maurice Ronet) announces he will kill himself and spends his last day bidding adieu to friends in swinging 60s Paris. ​​Trier's protagonist, Anders (insightfully played by Anders Danielsen Lie right), surrenders after a series of dishearteningly frank reencounters reminds him of the opportunities he squandered and the relationships he left in tatters while on drugs. ​​Both men are tortured, vulnerable and entirely alone even when surrounded by people, parties and noise. A memorable scene played out to equally moving effect in each film sees the protagonist people-watching at a cafe, a resigned outsider eavesdropping on the hopes and dreams and everyday affairs of regular people. Another scene from both films has Alain/Anders attend a party with old friends where he is tempted by alcohol and women but filled with ennui over the pseudo-intellectual conversations of his bourgeois peers. Neither man seeks the sympathy of others, but each seems to be searching for a reason to stick around, to keep living. It's part of the story's lingering melancholy that neither finds one. Like the character's closest friends and loved ones, you hold out hope until the end that something or someone will change that destiny. Love Letters to Paris and Oslo Still, neither film wallows in gloom, a testimony to the appeal of the lead actors and the honesty of the tale, as well as to the elegant look of the two productions. Both films were shot on location, giving their cosmopolitan settings a prominent role. We follow the characters through city streets, cafes, apartments and parks. "Oslo" opens with snapshots of the capital city accompanied by voiceovers recounting memories of place, a foreshadowing sequence that ends with the controlled implosion of a central building.​​ The story takes place over the course of a single 24-hour, end-of-summer period. "For 'Oslo,' our main challenge was how to create a feeling of one day in a shoot that had a duration of six weeks," Osnes said. The crew raced against changing seasons. "We were working our way towards yellow leaves, so we shot daytime and exterior scenes first and then nighttime last." Many of the extras in "Oslo" were locals already on site who agreed to be filmed, according to Osnes. This infuses the movie with greater realism than its predecessor which, in true 60s Euro art film fashion, hosts a cast of eccentric supporting characters. Malle's black-and-white version flaunts the stylistic influence of the edgy, mold-breaking French New Wave cinema of its era. As a whole it feels more theatrical than Trier's film, the settings and characters more flamboyant than their Nordic counterparts, reflecting different styles, time periods, personalities and perhaps cultures as well. Trier, too, makes some unforgettable technical choices, including allowing dialogues to carry on after scenes have ended and positioning the camera so we're often looking in on Anders' life through frames created by tunnels, windows and doorways, underscoring his journey as well as his growing detachment. Haunting opening and closing images in "Oslo," for example, are shot through the fluttering white curtains of an anonymous hotel window overlooking a busy freeway. It's a view that conveys loneliness, transience and a certain peril all at once. It's the crux of the story, and the character's existential experience, in a single image.

Over the Moon combines magical locations, impressive animation, memorable musical numbers, sweet characters, and positive life lessons in a fairy tale about the boundless love of family. There are some flaws, including not enough screen time for the adorable Gobi, played by comedian Ken Jeong, and especially the abrupt change in tone and pace when Fei Fei leaves her immaculate, golden-hued Chinese village and rockets to the moon. Here she enters an imaginary space kingdom made up of candy-colored "lunarian" creatures and a goddess (voiced by Hamilton's Soo) who appears unexpectedly as a kind of pop artist. It's all a bit disconcerting, and can feel at first like you've stumbled into an entirely different movie. Things eventually even out as Fei Fei's adventures in the lunar wonderland begin to make sense. Secondary characters are also entertaining, especially humorous, defenseless sidekick Gobi (think Sven in Frozen) and incorrigible tag-along little brother Chin. The title of Over the Moon may have multiple meanings for this film: It can be an expression of love or excitement, and it's also the place where Fei Fei travels to open up her heart again (production design was partially inspired by Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon album cover). The title also hints at Georges Melies' early film adventure, A Trip to the Moon, an image alluded to in the movie. Lastly, it makes reference to the Chinese festival known as the Autumn Moon Festival. All of these aspects and inspiration combine in a layered production that feels in more ways than one like a labor of love. Read the full review at Common Sense Media.

The Midnight Sky is a film that tries to be epic but doesn't quite spend enough time with any of its characters to generate sufficient emotion. The two parallel storylines do have some interest. In one, a dying, grey-bearded Clooney evokes a combination of human frailty and save-the-species determination. His weary face and physical motions reflect the potential futility of the near-impossible journey he's set out on. It's unusual to see the leading man look so infirm, and this alone creates some intrigue to keep the otherwise slow opening scenes of Clooney shuffling around alone at an Arctic Circle observatory interesting. Ethan Peck also looks and sounds a lot like Clooney as the younger Augustine. In the parallel story, a group of astronauts steer their spaceship through unchartered space regions to get back to earth. We're meant to connect with each member of the crew through their relationships with each other and their individualized holograms of family life back home. But it's not quite enough to generate the emotion desired when the crew members suffer accidents or put themselves in harm's way. What films like this do have (and is likely better enjoyed on a big screen) is the creative and often quite beautiful invention of other worlds, or our own world made other. T he Midnight Sky has one other major facet to it, which is a prominent musical score by Alexandre Desplat that goes way beyond indicating moods and aims to inspire emotion all on its own. Read the full review at Common Sense Media.