Den of Thieves 2: Pantera Review

The first "Den of Thieves" escaped me back when it was first released in 2018; only once it inevitably hit Netflix years later did I see it. And it was alright, but I couldn't really tell you what happened; in fact, star Gerard Butler was all I could remember. Well, seven years later comes the sequel, subtitled "Pantera," for some reason, and it is equally forgettable. I certainly enjoyed my time on my local theater's crappy, antiquated cloth seats, but here I am, mere hours later, only really able to recall that, again, Gerard Butler stars.

Writer/director Christian Gudegast collects all the usual ingredients, with exotic locations (such as Nice, France), alcohol, tobacco, fast cars, big guns and women with even, eh let's not finish that thought. Gerard returns as, checks internet, Nick, a gruff, chain-smoking LA detective who, still burnt from the events of the first film, is obsessed with finding Donnie (O'Shea Jackson Jr.). 

Can't remember what happened in the last one? Neither did I! Thankfully, this pedestrian film reminds us of what happened during its equally pedestrian predecessor: Donnie was able to rob the Federal Reserve without any money showing up as missing. It takes Nick about halfway through the sequel for him to figure out the events of the first one!

Anyway, is chase leads him to Europe, where Donnie meets up with Jovanna (Evin Ahmad), the leader of a group of thieves who are planning their next hit: diamonds.

Nick smokes and drinks his way to Donnie, telling him that he wants "in" on the mission, or else he takes him into custody. But there's a catch, to get into diamond exchange (you know, to learn the ins-and-outs of the building), he needs diamonds, and whoopsie, Donnie robbed them from the mafia. But whatever, it's hardly a plot point until it is. (And then it isn't, then it is, etc.) The narrative is unexciting, overly complex and, quite simply, silly.

What I liked about "Den of Thieves 2: Pantera" is how the caper is done, the preparation, setup, execution and, yes, the few bumps that always happen here (some pesky employee always unknowingly enters a room the crooks didn't expect). These scenes are tense, filled with class and style by Gudegast; the few shootouts and vehicle chases are equally well done. But as a writer, he fails to give us people to root for- his script is populated personalities, not people. 

Sonic the Hedgehog 3 Review

I have seen a lot of crap live-action animated kids films, and "Sonic the Hedgehog 3" stands out as one of the much better ones. It doesn't achieve the level of cinematic impact as "Who Framed Roger Rabbit," which is unloved by me but certainly appreciated, but so what? It's fast moving, silly, illogical, irrelevant, not-quite-funny but consistently amusing time at the movies and a hell of a lot better than, say, the god-awful "Tom & Jerry" movie.

"Sonic the Hedgehog 3" is marginally better than "Sonic the Hedgehog 2," which in turn was marginally better than "Sonic the Hedgehog." In other words, it's far better than it has any right being. This is of course the third film based on the popular video game, and I'm not sure if you need to be at all familiar with the franchise to get enjoyment out of this closing chapter of the Hollywood trilogy, but I was most definitely thoroughly entertained.

The plot, if you could call a third film about a super-fast, wise-cracking CGI hedgehog and his CGI friends having anything but a threadbare narrative, finds Sonic (voiced nicely by Ben Schwartz) and his pals Tails (Colleen O'Shaughnessey, returning from the video games) and Knuckles (a perfectly cast Idris Elba), who are celebrating the titular animal's "beEarth day" (recognizing his first "day" on Earth, or however it's spelled) when they're called into action to stop a mysterious new threat: Shadow the Hedgehog. Keanu Reeves lends his voice here, an actor who's physical presence is usually better than his actual voice. He's fine, I suppose, but no one watches "John Wick" to hear Keanu speak.

He also needs to contend with Jim Carrey in a dual role, playing both Dr. Robotnik AND his grandfather Professor Robotnik, and he is as unhinged as ever. He's given free-rein to walk funny, talk funny, say funny things and pretty much, relive his glory days from the 90's. I love watching his flexible body slink around in ridiculous poses, contorting his face like a live-action cartoon; frankly, he's got a head more expressive than any of the actually animated ones. And having him play two different characters, gosh, it's wonderful. The world is a darker place when Mr. Carrey isn't goofing around onscreen.

But the plot, yes, see, it's explained that Shadow was found by scientists fifty years ago, and befriended the professor and his late granddaughter until G.U.N., the Guardian Units of Nations, try to take him away, which results in her death. It's a depressing detour from an otherwise candy-colored and coated story, but whatever; Shadow is thusly more "anti-hero" than villain, though that doesn't stop him and the old man from returning to exact revenge on humanity via space lasers.

It doesn't matter though- Jeff Fowler's direction is crisp and films the large quantity of action clearly so you can actually see what's happening, be it in Green Hills, Montana or London or even the moon. The superhero genre should be taking notes here. And the script, which somehow has three credited screenwriters (Pat Casey & Josh Miller and John Whittington), is lighthearted enough that a child's death isn't too much of a downer. It actually gives just enough humility to an otherwise saccharine experience, one where Jim Carrey has a duet with himself and occasionally speaks French.

Carry-On Review

While watching "Carry-On," it became clear this is the best Christmas action movie I've seen since "Die Hard 2," the kind where I found myself pausing the Netflix original, stressed, so I could exhale "I hate airports too!"

And it's funny, since on paper, the Jaume Collet-Serra directed thriller has almost nothing going for it: it lacks any big stars, set-pieces and, one would think most crucially, anything original, but it works. Taron Egerton stars as Ethan, an unmotivated and bit of a screw up LAX TSA worker, who's girlfriend Nora (Sofia Carson) is recently pregnant and both of them have to work at the airline on Christmas Eve. I know I know, how festive.

After Nora pleads with Ethan to try out again at the police academy, he persuades his boss (a usual crusty performance by Dean Norris), he's given a chance to run the computer at the baggage scanner, eying a promotion. But this last-minute employee swap causes a slight headache for totally-not-a-terrorist terrorist, played Jason Bateman, who's team was just about to kidnap the family of who was supposed to be running the scanner today. But this a scrappy terrorist, and through an earpiece, tells Ethan he was to let a man in a red hat and black suitcase with a little red ribbon on it through, no matter what the X-rays shows. Or what? His expecting partner will be killed.

Oh what a day to ask for a promotion.

The rest is the usual collection of cliches commonly found in not only action movies but also films containing scenes of airports, such as lines of frustrated travelers, legions of stressed workers, and no fewer than two scenes of where groups of people in nice looking clothing talk about how many people fly that day. But if the script by T.J. Fixman is rudimentary, then the direction, pacing, editing and performances are are effective, swift and most critically, exciting. It doesn't matter that the whole film depends on specific people having and not having access to their phones, but I didn't care in-the-moment.  What the villain wants is less important than the gobbledygook device he's trying to smuggle on, which is itself less important than the act of watching people on-screen care or not care. Even familiar situations like the hero seemingly out-smarting his foe, where anyone who knew the runtime was barely half over, I wondered "is this it, did he really do it?" It's ridiculous how potently suspenseful the filmmakers have made of this musty material.

And I haven't even mentioned Elena, the police detective (played well by Danielle Deadwyler), who at first one thinks assumes the role of the usual incompetent cop in these kind of pictures, only for her not only to be the smartest character here, but also have her own story trying to piece together the plot. It's really good stuff; I sat glued to my moderately sized TV, wishing the room was darker so I could soak up more of the movie real estate streaming so wrongly places upon the consumer. A few decades ago, this would have attached some audience opening weekend, but alas, here we are in late 2024, wondering what the hell is going on with the world.

There's a sense of urgency as Ethan runs through crowds of people all draped in coats and scarfs, Christmas music on the speakers, and he's more than capable to, ahem, carry an action film. When he moves, his slender frame calls to mind that of Robert Patrick, and yet when he talks, be it to his superiors, lover or bad guy, there's a sense of exhaustion, bewilderment and naivety.

Bateman makes for a pretty good antagonist too, a bit smarmy but calm and collected, ordinary enough looking not to draw attention to himself but a good enough actor to come across as arrogant and distrustful. He lacks the suave command of "Die Hard" baddie Alan Rickman, but honestly, he's more than enough qualified to make late-career playing adversaries.

I lifted my satisfied body from the couch, fully prepared as to what to say here, but then as a few hours went and my fingers finally got down to collect my thoughts, something strange happened: I couldn't remember a damn thing about it! The plot, characters, the thrills, all lost, "Carry-On" remaining but a tile on my Netflix home page, the app suggesting other titles ostensibly similar. Still, I do remember liking it, even if I can't remember it itself, suppose that's something.

Our Little Secret Review

Look, I've watched a lot of dreck, holiday dreck to be precise, especially around Christmas thanks to the likes of Hallmark and Lifetime, but Netflix's latest Lindsay Lohan romantic Christmas comedy "Our Little Secret" is leagues ahead of anything you'd find on either of those two cable channels. Hell, it's better than the streamer's own previous collaborations with the star ("Falling for Christmas" and "Irish Wish"), and infinitely more watchable and charming than the company's competitor Paramount+ and their recent "Dear Santa." 

Really, "Our Little Secret" is just one or two script polishes away from being something that could do moderate business theatrically. If only, if only.

Lohan stars as Avery, a business person who hasn't quite gotten over the loss of her mother, her father's (Henry Czerny) retirement and attempts at selling her childhood home and, more importantly to a romantic comedy, her ex-boyfriend Logan's botched proposal from years prior. He's played nicely by Ian Harding, able to straddle the line somewhere between being aloof and intelligent.

Avery is worried to meet her new boyfriend Cam's (Jon Rudnitsky) family for Christmas, especially his mom Erica. She's portrayed by the always-wonderful Kristin Chenoweth, who plays her as a something of a villain. She won't accept her dating her son, for whatever reason, criticizing everything from the wine she brings to the jeans she wears. Erica isn't supposed to be a nice person, and Kristin slips into the role of snarky matriarch like hands in a warm glove on a snowy December day.

Logan's moved on too, dating Cassie (Katie Baker), who spends most of the film making "swooshing" noises on her phone. She's taking him to meet her folks as well and, wouldn't you know it, Cassie and Cam are siblings! Oh the shenanigans that follow.

Should Avery and Logan just tell the family that they used to date like ten years ago? Or, just hear me out, maybe, they should lie and pretend they never met. Lying never causes any problems in the movies!

So yeah, the plot is ripped straight from every other TV rom-com and honestly, a lot of the situations that happen, like a botched secret Santa gift-exchange to blaming the dog on eating all the cookies, play out like sitcom storylines, but that's not what's important. There's a comedic sense of energy here, thanks in no small part to a good cast of principal actors, and even bit parts from the likes of Tim Meadows to Chris Parnell; everyone here seems to be having, I dunno, fun

Veteran director Stephen Herek handles the obvious chaos with a sure touch, and the script by Hailey DeDominicis, who IMBD shows is her first and only writing job, keeps the story moving along at a good pace, giving us an actual plot! And jokes! With setups beforehand! It might not be all that funny, but it's charming and a huge step in the right direction for Lindsay Lohan and her very welcome comeback.

Dear Santa Review

Most Christmas movies are disposable, thanks to Hallmark and Lifetime; they leave the collective pop-culture as fast as they arrive. But at least once a year, Hollywood steps under the mistletoe, and the results are usually harmless but just as forgettable. They often (somehow) attract one or two big names and a competent director, but almost always are sanitized from anything memorable by a hokey script. 

But then, eeeeeeeeeeevery once and a while, Tinseltown lets out a real turkey, a cinematic travesty that is remembered only as "that" film, that awful, terrible, and I mean truly terrible film people watched, once, that one chilly winter day that one year. 2004 had "Christmas with the Kranks" (and "Surviving Christmas-" what a bad year for jolly ol' Saint Nick), 2006 had "Deck the Halls," and 2024 has "Dear Santa." And it's not even December yet.

Starring Jack Black and directed by Bobby Farrelly (and co-written by his brother Peter, alongside Ricky Blitt), "Dear Santa" stuns for over an hour and a half as mean-spirited and, more importantly, unfunny jokes limp out of its desperate cast's mouths. Lying about cancer? What about a kid with bad teeth? Or how about the death of a child? All game and all played for laughs, only there isn't ever, and I mean ever, a laugh that anyone could give up. Must all be saving them for a rerun of "Christmas Vacation."

Robert Timothy Smith stars as Liam, an eleven year old new kid at school who's parents Molly and Bill (Brianne Howey and Hayes MacArthur, respectively) are introduced arguing, and continue to do so almost the entire time. His dad thinks he's a bit old to be writing to Santa and that his mom coddles him. She, of course, is worried Liam is struggling to adjust to a new town and all that jazz, especially since he's dyslexic. How very festive.

She takes him into town to mail in his letter, but, since we gotta work that learning disability into the script, somehow, misspells "Santa" as "Satan," who is all too excited to be getting a letter, shows up one night in Laim's room and, well, there you go. There's the plot. It's a great idea for a plot, at least, especially since they got Jack Black to play him, but so what? It's all concept and no execution, as the film labors from one awkward scene about the devil trying to trick the boy into his "three wishes," like making the popular girl (Emma, played well by Kai Cech) go out with him to the next. Oh, sound too rote for you? Don't worry, Satan will concur up a few backstage passes to a Post Malone concert, so you get a movie and a show! BOGO? What a deal!

For his second wish, Liam chooses to fix his best friend's teeth (Gibby, played by Jaden Carson Baker), which is a nice gesture yeah, but what kind of message is that? Liam is white, Gibby is black; a white boy needs to fix his black friend's problems? Oh too topical? Then how about how instead of someone overcoming their physical limitations, just change your appearance? I mean, he needs those perfect chompers so he can get a girlfriend too. Ho, ho, ho.

I would tell you what his third wish is, but that would be mean, and I'm trying to stay on the "nice list" this year. 

Jack Black, who is usually a fun actor to watch, is buried behind makeup, hair and clothing, and looks bored as he forces out lines about poop and creepy uncles. But the worst actor here is our star, Smith; and I get it, he's a kid and I don't mean to be cruel, but he just don't have the charisma to carry a movie. His delivery is awkward and uncomfortable, and I felt icky watching him; eventually anytime he was onscreen, I just stopped looking at him and focused on the subtitles. Problem was, I then was focusing on the inane dialogue.

I guess my real problem with his character was how he just accepts this whole "Santa/Satan" thing far too easily. If a strange man showed up in my room one night when I was young, then I would have ended up on one of those "missing persons" posters instead of here, writing sassy things about terrible movies. Hmmm...

Gladiator II Review

Leave it to director Ridley Scott make a big-budget sword-and-sandals film in 2024. No other director could have made such an indulgent, grandiose, dumb, nostalgic, loud, operatic, luxurious and expensive sword-and-sandals film. It succeeds purely based on its scale, visual design and a handful of truly fun performances, but that doesn't make it one worth remembering.

Paul Mescal stars as, checks internet, Hanno, who's home of, checks internet again, Numidia, the "last city not under Rome's control." We barely get to know him and his wife Arishat (Yuval Gonen) before Rome and it's humongous army of ships launches an attack, let by General Acacius (Pedro Pascal). Pedro is a fantastic actor, able to be simultaneously stoic and sympathetic, and every time he's onscreen I wish the film was about him.

Arishat is killed in battle, Numidia falls and Hanno is enslaved. But it only takes a few minutes of runtime before he's fighting crazed bamboos alongside other prisoners of war. Of course, our protagonist wins not only the er, the match, but also the eye of Macrinus, the head of the gladiators who promises the head of Acacius to Hanno if he keeps fighting. Keeps winning. To never lose his rage, so Marcinus says. He's played by Denzel Washington, an actor the camera just loves. He moves and speaks with swagger and sexuality, speaking like he's always half-soused, (and frequently does have a drink in hand) encrusted with robes and jewelry. Both him and Pascal completely outshine Mesca, who has all the superficial qualities of an actor except charisma. He looks like a background who's accidentally reading the star's lines.

I can't understate how big an issue this is; he lacks any presence, swallowed up by the surrounding scenery and performers. He is convincing in the many fights but so what? Mesca wouldn't even make it in the WWE, except maybe as referee.

Connie Nielsen also stars, as Lucilla, wife of Acacius, but she's given nothing to do except look scared or concerned; she exists purely to move the narrative along to the next bombastic scene. Given Scott's history of strong female characters, it's a shame to see not only just one main woman character but also for her to function squarely to serve the plot along for the boys to play.

Rome is ruled by twin emperor's, Greta (Joseph Quinn) and Caracalla (Fred Hechinger), brothers who are pale and look sickly as they bark orders for their own amusement. They make great villains, with this erotic energy towards not just women and men but also each other. I don't know how historically accurate they are, or anything in this lavish production is, but man, does it make for a great cinematic time.

The rest of the plot is arbitrary gobbledygook, ripped right from other, similar, films, but aside from the traumatic miscasting of the main character, it can't shake this feeling that there isn't much of a point to "Gladiator II," even to someone like me who's never seen the first one. The only thing onscreen, aside from literally millions of dollars, was Scott's fetish for excess. And I absolutely ate it up. There's not one ship, but dozens. Not one army, but three. Why? Why not!? There's even sharks! Everyone walks around with flowy clothes in fantastical sets, the kind meant to keep your eyes entertained for hours. And at just under two and a half hours, just be happy that it doesn't take that long before the credits roll.

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.