Absolution Review

Director Hans Petter Moland and Liam Neeson, who made the very, very funny black comedy thriller "Cold Pursuit" way back in 2019, reteam for a decidedly more morose crime thriller "Absolution," and one only wishes they continued to find silly reasons for the now seventy two year old actor to go around and kill people.

Oh sure, they're very bad people, in a way that always seems to exist so brazenly in a movie like this, but this is a dour experience, with Liam, playing who IMBD just calls "Thug," struggles with chronic traumatic encephalopathy, which I of course had to look up the spelling of. He sulks around Massachusetts with a most Charles Bronson of mustaches on payroll for his boss Charlie (Ron Perlman), usually of which results in the death of some background character, dependent on a little notebook full of names, addresses and other things we all remember with ease. Him, on the other hand, is given "a few years, maybe less," as soon as he learns of his diagnosis. 

If all this reminds you of another one of Liam's films, "Memory," where he plays an aging assassin with dementia, then just remember this time plays an aging gangster with CTE. See, totally different.

Anyway, in true "crime thriller" tradition, "Thug" has an estranged daughter (Frankie Shaw) who wants nothing to do with his, despite his newfound interest in reconciliation, as well as a new lover played convincingly by Yolonda Ross; neither of which know about his condition until it's well into the runtime.

The plot's all boilerplate. Writer Tony Gayton hasn't the foggiest about what to do with a story like this; is this a serious character-study about a dying man or another late-career thriller for its star? It tries to be both but doesn't know how to do either; that's an awkward place to be and the whole thing just collapses under it's own grungy weight.

It's a rote movie, filled with cliche dialogue, a brothel, very little action, a double-crossing, at least two dream sequences, this persistent, pensive sadness and a lethargic pacing that I'm sure almost put at least one of the elderly couples in the surprisingly populated theater to sleep for a bit. And that's a real shame, since Liam really goes all-in with playing a diseased man; you can see a man lost when he stars off in the distance blankly, or feel his intense anger as he rages in response to not wanting to admit he doesn't know what's going on. He really is good here, committed to material that isn't committed to him.

Terrifier 3 Review

Written and directed by Damien Leone, the "Terrifier" films have a cult following unlike any other of recent memory; you're just as likely to see the series' slasher icon "Art the Clown," played in absolute silence by David Howard Thornton, merchandise next to more mainstream villains like Jason Voorhees or Chucky at those popup Halloween stores that disappear November 1st.

But by virtue of being an entry in a franchise, the other films unseen by me, the plot had a considerable amount of, well, plot. In fact, to someone new to these movies, it was basically incoherent, sometimes being your basic (albeit extremely gory) slasher and other times involving a sacred sword and spirits. Or demons. Or something like that. Guess that's on me for not having done my horror movie homework.

But no, it's not entirely my fault- why does Art sometimes kill innocent bystanders and other times not? Why is one Santa explicitly targeted and not another? Why do some killings happen off screen in a series famous for its bloodshed fetish? Or, perhaps the best question of all, why am I even bothering with a review?

The story mostly follows Sienna (Lauren LaVera) right before Christmas, who leaves the hospital to spend the holiday with her aunt Jess (Margaret Anne Florence), uncle Greg (Bryce Johnson) and their young daughter Gabbie (Antonella Rose). Sienna, who's explained to have killed Art in a previous movie (or did she??), still suffers what is clearly some type of PTSD from the events, who soon becomes convinced the clown is back.

We the viewers, of course, know he is; we watch him slice through nameless tertiary and background characters as he makes his way to her, using everything from hammers to bombs, filmed with a sensual thirst as every ounce of blood is drained from his screaming casualties. But the police never seem to care that bodies are piling up; the world of the "Terrifier" exists in a most make-believe world where only cruelty exists.

Damien knows that the series' whole appeal is its unflinching mayhem, but even he seems to be operating with some level of restraint; the opening, which depicts a seemingly random slaughter of some random family, lingers over the onscreen murders of two adults, but cuts away from showing the slashing of children. Why?! This is a gross film, unfettered by morals and frequently logic, but if he's willing to show male genitalia being chainsawed, the victim's body jiggling against the blade's vibration, then why are kids off-limits? I'm not in anyway shape or form saying I want to see that, but clearly the fans would eat it up. It seems like a surprisingly chaste decision in light of two-plus hours of otherwise absolute depravity. You're telling me this guy has any ethics? Please!

Seen in a relatively packed theater, the audience laughed at nearly every act of violence, no matter how nasty, which aligns with Art's frequent exaggerated facial expression and gestures. Filled with cameos and callbacks, the interwebs tells me this had the highest budget out of franchise, clocking in at two million, so Damien clearly has found, and knows, his audience, mainstream be damned, but I sat mostly unfazed, not that I'm showing off- the abhorrent rampaging is disgusting and very-much intended, but so what? He fails to have a single piece of clever dialogue in this dense story, scenes between killings are talky and downright boring, and Art's goofy antics as he shoots, slices, and dices come off as a big joke, staged without menace or atmosphere, lacking the surreal punch of giallo films or the visceral dread of George A. Romero's work, just to name a few. He lays it all out there, and it just sorta lies there as a giant lump of rotting flesh.

Not to try and defend myself, but I'm not cinematic prude: "Zombi 2" and "Bone Tomahawk" are just a few of my top gory picks, but they have personality or interesting characters to help give impact to the brutality. Not here; at one point the music's lyrics include "a Terrifier Christmas," as if that makes it a satire.

Maybe that's the point, perhaps this is all an attempt at some sort of exploitative comedy act? That or the others in their own reclining seats of worn leather next to me were all sickos.

Beetlejuice Beetlejuice Review

"Beetlejuice Beetlejuice" lacks any reason for being outside making money. Sure, it's amusing to see one's favorite characters portrayed by the same actors as in the 1988 original, but so what? If you're fan, just, I dunno, watch the first one again. And if that doesn't do it, well then neither will the sequel.

Or maybe it will- the rather empty theater I saw this in had a small crowd who laughed at every gag as if they were paid to chortle, and when the credits rolled around, I half-expected them to give it a standing ovation. They didn't, but they certainly enjoyed it, but on what grounds?

I thought about this as I drove home from the cinema, but I couldn't place what they loved so much. Maybe there are folks out there who think watching a teen romance between Astrid (Jenna Ortega) and mysterious local boy Jeremy (Arthur Conti) is not cringy and forced? Or maybe they felt her mom Lydia (a returning Winona Ryder) hosting a show about ghosts wasn't totally out-of-character?

The story is way too complicated here, but lemme try to explain it in as simple terms as I can: Lydia's father has died (by a shark attack, no less), so she takes Astrid and her mother Delia (Catherine O'Hara) back to the home of the first film to have a funeral. His body is lowered to the earth with a child choir singing "Day-O (The Banana Boat Song)," which probably played well in commercials, but it is only one of probably over a dozen different nostalgic-fueled moments that serve as winks at the audience. If you read the script, it probably says "hey, remember this" a bunch of times.

Anyway, at the same time Betelgeuse's (Michael Keaton) ex-wife Delores (Monica Bellucci) is resurrected accidentally by an awkward cameo of Danny Devito, who we later learn only married him because she was the leader of some cult. She poisoned him on their wedding night, but before he died, he killed her with an ax, so now that she's back, she wants revenge. Detective Wolf (Willem Dafoe) warns him that she'll suck his soul out of his body, leaving him "dead dead," and advises him to lay low. A life-of-the-party like him lay low? Please!

But back to the mortals: Astrid ends up meeting Jeremy, and the two have an immediate attraction, they even kiss, on Halloween night I might add. But there's a problem, one which I won't spoil, but it does demand Lydia say that frightful word three times, ask for help to illegally get her into the afterlife, sign a contract, and, well, that's about it. And that's ignoring all the side-stories, which involve shady producers, totally-not-dangerous snakes and real estate agents dressing their kids as fruit.

Of course, it's just an excuse for a lot of wild sets, sight gags and lots of visual effects, some looking practical and others distractingly digital, but a lot are just repeats of the first "Beetlejuice," from the desert sandworms to the famous red-roofed bridge. The entire production feels like a "greatest hits" of the franchise, which sucks since it's only the second movie.

Out of the principal cast, only Keaton seems to know how stay afloat amongst all the special effects, carefully balancing actual acting and comedic shtick perfectly. He's so good you wish it was just about his many misadventures, but maybe the studio or writers or director Tim Burton himself felt that couldn't support an entire movie. But then give me a story I should give a damn about! Ortega only mopes around, O'Hara overreacts and Ryder just stands around looking confused, as if she doesn't understand the story either.

Take, for instance, when at one point Wolf points a gun at Betelgeuse, since he's a wanted man, what good is that supposed to do? Isn't he already dead? Or how Wolf plans to try him once he's under custody; just what does the criminal justice system look like in the "afterlife?" (Would he get the "life" penalty?)

The film ultimately is a mixed bag, working only when Burton ignores the story for a moment and embraces the inherent silliness of the entire concept, the best part easily being a wedding where the main cast lip-sings to, of all songs, MacArthur Park. He has a sense of humor to his visuals that immediately falls apart when it's bogged down in plot, because with plot you begin to introduce logic, and he is a filmmaker who defies it.

The Killer Review

John Woo's "The Killer" (2024) is a remake of "The Killer" (1989), also by John Woo, with no relation to David Fincher's "The Killer (2023). And I'm sure a half dozen other films with the same name exist too, but I'm too tired to get into that 

Whether this remake is better than the original (or the same-named but unrelated one) is an irrelevant comparison I'm disinterested in making: "The Killer" (2024) is a decent time waster surprises no one by debuting on the streamer Peacock instead of in theaters. The action is stylized, well-staged and frequent, but since the rise of "John Wick" in 2014, it seems every Hollywood action film wants to also have action that is stylized, well-staged and frequent. Where's the originality?!

I will say this, though Woo uses slow-motion throughout, he understands when and why to use it, unlike, say, Zack Snyder and his "Rebel Moon" movies, who uses it to bludgeon the audience with its arbitrariness. You, Mr. Woo, know how to direct.

But where he fumbles is in the story, which, look, I get it, this is a remake, but the material was musty then too! Tell me if you've heard this one before: an incredibly talented hit(wo)man Zee, played by Nathalie Emmanuel, is sent on a job to take out "everyone in the room." Only she declines to kill a woman (Diana Silvers), a singer named Jenn who ends up blind due to the mayhem. Her boss (Sam Worthington) is pissed she let the girl live, and ends up entangled with an honest cop (Omar Sy), dirty cops, a setup, double-crossing, drug dealers, stolen heroin, missing heroin, kidnapping, hospital shootouts, an abandoned church, and a pet fish.

The plot ends up being simultaneously threadbare and complicated, thanks no doubt to its France setting, necessitating subtitles for certain characters (some real heavy accents don't help the matter), but that's not really what I'm talking about. When you deconstruct the narrative, there's practically nothing here that you won't find on some basic cable cop drama (only the streets of Paris and not Chicago or Brooklyn, etc.,), only, you know, quite bloody.

I knew the seemingly random girl was important because, why else would she be spared (or given a name)? I knew during the fights that Zee wasn't really in danger because there's still half a movie left. At one she has a gun pointed to her head, and the villain just talks and talks instead of just shooting her. Why antagonists keep doing that is the real mystery here. The real mystery is how this is all the three credited screenwriters (Brian Helgeland, Josh Campbell and Matt Stuecken) could come up with.

While I can commend the performances (specifically Omar, who balances world-weariness and authority quite well), there isn't a single piece of clever dialogue or interesting character development, hollow vessels we watch shoot, kick and punch each other in set-pieces that failed to stick with me by the time the credits rolled.

The Union Review

Mark Wahlberg stars in this lightweight romantic comedy as Mike, a New Jersey construction worker who misses his friend's bachelor party when his old flame Roxanne (Halle Berry) walks through his favorite bar one night. Oh the shenanigans that could happen!

Actually no, "The Union" isn't a romantic comedy - it's really an unremarkable, unfunny, unexciting and unoriginal action spy comedy, but it's never an unpleasant one. This Netflix original comes and goes through you as passively as one wants background noise to.

The two are former lovers, and though I won't say whether or not they'll rekindle their love, but boy howdy do they have all the chemistry as a kindergarten's homework. They're fine performers individually, but neither their flirting nor bickering feel like anything other than actors reading a script in different auditions. As partners, sure I could buy it, but as romantic partners? I've said sexier things to a vending machine.

But the plot, you might be wondering, and you're right to ask that. But it's built from scraps from discarded James Bond stories. Roxanne works for "The Union," a secret organisation who's only personality comes from them hiring blue-collar workers over college graduates. That and it's headed by J. K. Simmons, who plays bossman Brennan, sleepwalking through his role delivering terse dialogue with familiar intensity.

Mike's recruited because a recent job went south, when they lose a briefcase with "intel on everyone from cops to the C.I.A.," so you know, the same thing that tops the Christmas list of every bad guy, right after nuclear weapons. Then we cut to shady auctions, murders, double-crosses, and of course, evil Russians. It's all just an excuse to have big name stars fire guns, throw punches and drive recklessly through international scenery and greenscreens.

The major problem is just how unstimulating it all is; even the action just sorta hangs there, it happens then it ends. Much like the movie itself.

Jackpot Review

I sat in disbelief at Amazon Prime's latest would-be comedy "Jackpot," a film so disgustingly nihilistic involving, in the near future that looks absolutely no different from the present day, a lottery in California where losers of jackpot have until sundown to kill the winner and keep the money for themselves. It's "The Purge" with one-liners, but director Paul Feig and writer Rob Yescombe fail to inject the story with any meaningful satire. So people die, we watch the blood squirt from wounds, but don't worry, John Cena will make a joke about Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, so it's all good.

Cena plays Noel, a "lottery bodyguard" if you will, who happened to spot winner Katie (Awkwafina) right as people begin attacking her with shoes, knives, axes, purses and pretty much everything this side of a gun. See, firearms are forbidden by the terms and conditions of the game, which is odd considering the filmmakers don't even bother tying with the country's fetish for them, I dunno. I mean, the material was right there. I suppose the filmmakers felt excessive vulgarity, in both language and visuals, was not just what the audience needed, but all they needed 

The entire city of Los Angeles is after Katie, as Noel tries to keep her alive so he can collect 10% for his services. but eventually he needs to call in a favor to Louis (Simu Liu), an ex-friend of his who runs the "most popular lottery protection agency around." In case you couldn't guess it from the trailers, Louis is bent and well, there you go. Along the way bodies hit the floor with a level of violence that would make Arnold Schwarzenegger proud, whether it be a low-rent wax museum, Machine Gun Kelly's panic room, a dojo, or an abandoned theater, it all boils down to lots and lots of mayhem. And for what? Because people are greedy? Because they're OK with killing someone just for money? Is that what "Jackpot" thinks of us as a society?

Even if it's true, it's a pretty heavy concept for what ultimately amounts to an inconsequential action comedy, just using it as an excuse to show an old lady swear and attempt murder. Har he har har.

The action is competently staged, if a bit unremarkable; the only big chase scene involves a rundown building and an alleyway, so it's hard to sit at the edge of my seat in excitement. There's a lot more hand-to-hand combat, which is also filmed rather well, but so what? Am I supposed to feel good that John Cena just tossed some guy through a wall because he's protecting some soon-to-be billionaire? What if that poor chap was broke beyond all means and desperately needed the dough? There is this underlying and unrelenting sadness here, and it does nothing with it.

More egregious though are the attempt at the characterizations, with Katie struggling to cope with her dad abandoning her and her mom's recent death, and Noel probably dealing with PTSD. It's all just so melancholy, and a tonal and total shift from the dour worldbuilding and innocuous sense of humor. It's all just so awkward.

Speaking of comedy, while a few zingers were amusing, I never let out a big ol' belly laugh; and I mean, look at the cast! Awkwafina, John Cena, Simu Liu, these are funny performers, and the best this mean-spirited script can do is have them trade one or two witty barbs?

Trap Review

"Trap" gained some traction ahead of release by seemingly having a twist in its debut trailer. This is of course par for the course for writer/director M. Night Shyamalan, who is known for this sort of thing. In it, we watch Cooper (Josh Hartnett) as he takes his daughter Riley (Ariel Donoghue) to a concert. Concerned over all the security guards, cops, swat, etc., he asks souvenir clerk Jamie (Jonathan Langdon) what's up- turns out, the whole show is a trap for a serial killer known as "The Butcher." Oh I'm sorry that's not the twist- that's that Cooper is the killer.

It's a great premise, even if it doesn't make a ton of sense when you stop and think about it. For one, we see an FBI profiler (Hayley Mills) throughout, telling her men to screen every male at the venue upon exit. You're telling me that they're going to screen thousands of men as they leave? I question the logistics of that plan, but it gets sillier: at one point Cooper acquires a police radio and listens in to their conversations, which is wild to me that they'd speak so freely over the air, which a quick interwebs search tells me is open to the public in Pennsylvania where this film takes place, surely they know he's smart enough to get a hold of that. (They also aren't smart enough to notice their equipment missing, but whatever.)

More unbelievable things happen without getting into spoilers, such as how Cooper lurks around the stadium looking for an exit. At one point he triggers a contained oil explosion to burn a food worker, distracting the guards so he can scope out the roof. He's stopped, and lucks into knowing the password (thanks Jamie) and having the right keycard (thanks apron left by chance nearby), but apparently this is not suspicious enough, even with his lies. That'd be fine once, but another time he's seen "checking" the coffee while the swat team is briefed. He talks to everyone like he's their friend, which again, sure whatever. But later on, when the singer "Lady Raven" (writer/director's own daughter Saleka Shyamalan, in some classic Hollywood nepotism) picks an attendee to go up on stage with her, literally putting Cooper in everyone's eye. Somehow, all these men and women in uniform just somehow don't see or remember him. Or how they don't bother checking all the cameras everywhere to see if, oh I dunno, he's done anything unusual. What a funny convenience I'd say.

A lot has been said about Hartnett, with some calling this his "comeback" picture, but I walked away unimpressed. He's clearly trying too hard to be charming and then too hard to be creepy, without it feeling natural. He's serviceable I suppose, but since the whole film, warts and all, rests on his performance to convince us that it's all really happening, his shortcomings are all the more disappointing.

Then there's the ending, which leading up to the climatic reveal, I had made my own guesses. I was wrong, of course, but that's only because I was coming up with actual narrative switcheroos. Instead, we watch the film come to a conclusion by matter of chances so outlandish that I could almost hear the audience groan. But wait, the film keeps going, only for another incidental moment to happen. And then another, and I think one more after that. It is all so convoluted that it all fails to register as an actual twist, with things happening like an episode of Murder She Wrote, only without Mrs. Potts and one F-word dropped as allowed by its PG-13 rating.