Playing Catch-Up — Cop Car; The Predator; The Case Against 8

cop car

Cop Car (Jon Watts, 2015). Like the product of a mysterious third Coen brother who got some of Steven Spielberg’s DNA spliced into him in utero, Cop Car begins with a simple premise, predicated on the wonderstruck and cloddish decision-making of young boys. While running away from home, Travis (James Freedson-Jackson) and Harrison (Hays Wellford) come across an empty police cruiser on the side of a remote road. They decided to take it for a joyride, which causes consternation for the crooked law enforcement officer (Kevin Bacon) who should have locked his doors before wandering out to engage in some foul doings in the woods. Director Jon Watts (who’s co-credited on the screenplay with Christopher Ford) demonstrates a smart, clear storytelling style, and he does well with the young actors. Bacon leans on the villainy of his character a little too hard, but there’s an effective supporting turn from Shea Whigham, who continues to build an impressive repertoire of mildly cloddish men in over their heads.


the predator

The Predator (Shane Black, 2018). The compulsion to reanimate every last cinematic property from the nineteen-eighties that has even a shred of name recognition comes around, yet again, to the marauding space monsters with a talent for blending into their surroundings. There are a few fun passages in the first half, mostly due to Shane Black’s whole Joss-Whedon-with-a-dirty-mouth approach to scripting. Mostly, though, I want to concentrate on the performance of Olivia Munn, as Casey Bracket, an evolutionary biologist plucked off the campus of Johns Hopkins to help study the fearsome creature. In addition to the multitude of well-documented indignities she faced during the shoot and the later press rollout, Munn is laden with line after line of absolutely impossible dialogue, including:

  • “Guys, guys, guys, guys, I get it. I get it. You wanna know if someone fucked an alien.”
  • “New rule: No one shoots my fucking dog.”
  • “Getting the fuck out of here is my middle name.”
  • “He’s right. It’s their M.O. Grow a dick, will ya?”

Munn doesn’t exactly make any of these lines work, but they don’t sink her either. And fighting to a draw seems the best possible outcome under the circumstances. So bravo to Munn, the one true hero of The Predator.



The Case Against 8 (Ben Cotner and Ryan White, 2014). This finely constructed documentary benefits enormous from candid access to the four plaintiffs who came together to legally challenge California’s regressive, bigoted Proposition 8 after it passed in the 2008 election. Directors Ben Cotner and Ryan White also give a significant amount of screen time to off couple attorneys David Boies and Ted Olson, who were on opposite sides of the deeply destructive Bush v. Gore before improbably teaming to fight on behalf of same-sex marriage. For all its admirable qualities, The Case Against 8 can often come across as only surface-deep, in part because it assumes an automatic political alignment between the filmmakers and the viewers. The theory is probably sound, but it’s just as deadening a filmmaking choice here as it is in one of those pieces of offensive agitprop made by right wing nuts. There’s undeniable value in simply capturing the steps taken by everyone involved on the correct side of this litigation, and the film does that with a keen attention and an honorable sympathy. The documentary stands as a useful piece of a larger lesson.

Playing Catch-Up — Clouds of Sils Maria; 13 Rue Madeleine; Mr. Smith Goes to Washington


Clouds of Sils Maria (Olivier Assayas, 2014). In this wryly funny and wise rumination on aging and celebrity, the grand Juliette Binoche plays Maria, a movie star who is coaxed into a production of the play that made her a star, albeit now playing the older role while her former ingenue part is giving to a credibility-seeking starlet (Chloë Grace Moretz). As Maria goes through oscillating moods on the way to the production, she confides in her ever-present assistant, Valentine (Kristen Stewart). Assayas indulges in some arthouse pretension here and there, but Clouds of Sils Maria is mostly a set of straightforward character studies, each a gift to the performer. Predictably, Binoche is strongest, working little marvels in every scene.


13 rue

13 Rue Madeleine (Henry Hathaway, 1947). An espionage drama produced while the memories of World War II were still mighty fresh, 13 Rue Madeleine is about a group of agents developed under a new U.S. military initiative. As it happens, one of the trainees is an undercover German spy, and an European mission gone awry forces instructor Ray Sharkey (James Cagney) to dispatch himself to solve it. Henry Hathaway brings an admirable sturdiness to his direction, striking the right balance between stern seriousness and pulpy glee. Cagney brings his trademark intertwining of deft and brutish qualities to the lead role, giving the proceedings a grand boost. And the ending, in its rare and peculiar celebratory grimness, feels like it’s straight out of the Cagney guidebook, too.



Mr. Smith Goes to Washington (Frank Capra, 1939). Frank Capra’s film about a regular gentleman appointed to the U.S. Senate with the mistaken expectation that he won’t disrupt the order of slippery ethics in the U.S. capitol building is often tagged as an exercise in aw-shucks patriotism. The actual mechanics of the narrative are far trickier than that, especially in a tone that slaloms into earnestness, bustling comedy, and half-hearted romanticism. James Stewart is in his comfort zone as the titular character, especially when it comes time for the famed filibuster scene, which Capra plays out with impressive patience. The best performance, though, belongs to Jean Arthur, playing Smith’s office manager who’s grown jaded with Washington until she gets a dose of her new boss’s brand of sterling integrity. She strikes the exact right balance, showing how sardonic appraisals of the world can still leave room for glimmers of hope that can transform an outlook. The film’s trajectory can easily stir skepticism, but she makes it believable. And she has a great drunk scene, too, itself a minor master class in crafty comedic acting.

Playing Catch-Up — Get Low; Ex Libris: New York Public Library; What We Do in the Shadows

get low

Get Low (Aaron Schneider, 2009). A wry comic drama all baled up in folksy charms, Get Low is so thoroughly pitched toward star Robert Duvall’s strengths that its difficult to imagine the film existing in a universe without him. Duvall plays Felix, a curmudgeonly man living a hermit’s life in the woods outside small Southern community in the nineteen-thirties. He emerges from his seclusion in order to stage an early funeral, presumably so he can hear what the townsfolk might say about him. Eventually, it becomes clear that Felix is really using the event as a means to edge toward a confession about the dire mistake that sent him guiltily into solitude in the first place. Aaron Schneider presents the material with a personality-free base capability that makes the already drab material settle into a misty Hallmark Channel doze. There are some nicely lived-in performances among the supporting cast — Lucas Black and Sissy Spacek are the strongest — but the lead role too often invites Duvall to resort to colorful indulgence, a tactic Schneider clearly welcomes.


ex libris

Ex Libris: New York Public Library (Frederick Wiseman, 2017). On the basis of the grumbling reactions of the viewers around me at the completion of Frederick Wiseman’s latest direct cinema documentary, I feel compelled to emphasize that the venerable filmmaker’s lengthy, firmly unadorned approach to depicting the workings of the New York Public Library might not be to everyone’s liking. It’s effectively the polar opposite of Michael Bay: all substance, no bombast. To me, Ex Libris is an object of near-endless fascination as it quietly, insistently makes the case for libraries as vital hubs for communities. They are founts of learning, erudition, support, and engagement in an era of hollowed-out spectacle and venomous anti-intellectualism in the broader culture. With methodical care, Wiseman observes the myriad ways the New York institution bolsters the citizenry, including after-school programs, senior citizen engagement, and implementing a municipal program to provide internet access to people who would otherwise be in digital darkness. Because Wiseman simply points his camera and avoids edits for as long as he can, interest is always prone to waning if he spends too much time in an area the viewer finds dull. I had no problem with the repeated and necessarily repetitive administrative meetings, but the slam poem — which usefully demonstrates the diversity of library programming — felt endless to me. A recent Twitter dust-up about the viability of libraries ended with the dimwitted pundit who initiated the whole thing conceding defeat in the face of heated counterarguments. He could have saved himself a lot of grief had he watched Wiseman’s documentary before opening up his tweet-hole. It’s inconceivable to me that anyone could sit through the film’s three-plus hours without coming to the iron-clad determination that the enduring institutions are a pure public good.



What We Do in the Shadows (Jemaine Clement and Taika Waititi, 2014). I had to do a little homework before my weekend moviegoing, you see. This comedy — structured as a rundown Real World with vampires sharing a flat — is understandably adored by many. I find it hit-or-miss, but the hits are plentiful and usually strong enough to make the clunkers wholly forgivable. Co-director Waititi is especially funny as the sweetest, most vulnerable member of the blood-sucking household. Waititi and co-director Jemaine Clement also deserve praise for actually building discernible, engaging storylines into a comedic approach that usually default to scattershot plotting designed to leave room for whatever random assemblage of gags are generated during the filming process. The clearest comic victory, though, comes from the crew of werewolves led by a genially insistent alpha played by Rhys Darby. The humor derived from the roaming pack of lycanthropes is the most inspired realization of the film’s merging of the fantastical and the mundane.

Greatish Performances #32


#32 — Essie Davis as Amelia Vanek in The Babadook (Jennifer Kent, 2014)

In some ways, actors in horror movies have it easy. There is a clear vernacular to the art of duplicating terror, honed through decades upon decades of the genre. For many viewers, the unsettling tone, the sudden jolts, the bursting grotesqueries do all the dramatic heavy lifting. Actors merely have to react in a manner reasonably aligned with those of countless predecessors. Having a good, hearty scream in the tool kit helps. Even in accomplished, innovative horror films, actors are often locked into archetypal escalating woe and agony rather than pushing towards inner truths of the character, the situation, the individual scenario.

I’ve long been impressed by those rare performances that transcend the readily available shorthand, instead carefully settling into the tumult of emotions that someone would experience when confronted with the unfathomable.  The turns by Barbara Hershey in The Entity and Annette Bening in In Dreams come to mind. Distinctively, those two performances — and their brethren — create characters who are thinking through their predicaments, trying to make sense of the metaphysical confusion that’s descended upon them. Horror film protagonists too often accept their strange circumstances. Stronger performers realize the value in not abdicating the character’s determination to achieve equilibrium, even in the face of ghastly, harrowing threats.

In recent years, no performance exemplifies this quality as potently as that given by Essie Davis in writer-director Jennifer Kent’s marvelous The Babadook. Even so, part of the insight of Davis’s acting is the way she embodies the exhaustion of her character, Amelia Vanek. And that weariness that reaches all the way to the bone starts to build even before the malevolent figure of the title begins wreaking havoc from the pages of a desperately unpleasant children’s book.

Ahead of the most insistent incursions of the Bababook (Tim Purcell), Amelia’s fortitude is frayed by the challenging behavior of her young son, Samuel (Noah Wiseman). He’s unable to sleep and is prone to careening moods that are typified by tantrums and vicious meltdowns. A single mother, Amelia is barely able to keep the family homestead afloat and is pushed beyond her limits by sleepless nights and emotional chemical explosions that make it nearly impossible to discern between love, empathy, and frustration.

When the narrative builds — as it must — to pinnacles of wailing and desperate bravado, Davis gives it her all. Well ahead of that, she inks in a more complicated, more heartbreaking portrait of a woman seconds away from conceding defeat in the face of the universe’s random cruelties. Rarely has a shattered spirit been depicted on film with such brutal authenticity. The Babadook is a scary fellow, but Davis shows exactly how the grinding trudge of Amelia’s daily life carries its own unyielding darkness. Sure, a murderous shadowy figure who defies physics and logic is tough adversary. Have you ever dealt with a kid who won’t stop kicking the back of the your seat as he screams from the back of the car, though?

Not every major performance in a horror film needs to follow this model. In fact, it might be counterproductive in the same way that cinematic malpractice would usually be perpetrated by instilling vintage Mametesque intensity into a frothy romantic comedy, even if it would technically be logical in a given moment. Though inherently confrontational, horror films are also quintessential escapism, thrill rides with a body count. There’s wisdom to hitting familiar, reassuring beats. Not everyone can replicate the feat of Davis’s performance in The Babadook. Of course, that’s another reason it’s so splendidly singular.



About Greatish Performances
#1 — Mason Gamble in Rushmore
#2 — Judy Davis in The Ref
#3 — Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca
#4 — Kirsten Dunst in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
#5 — Parker Posey in Waiting for Guffman
#6 — Patricia Clarkson in Shutter Island
#7 — Brad Pitt in Thelma & Louise
#8 — Gene Wilder in Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory
#9 — Jennifer Jason Leigh in The Hudsucker Proxy
#10 — Marisa Tomei in My Cousin Vinny
#11 — Nick Nolte in the “Life Lessons” segment of New York Stories
#12 — Thandie Newton in The Truth About Charlie
#13 — Danny Glover in Grand Canyon
#14 — Rachel McAdams in Red Eye
#15 — Malcolm McDowell in Time After Time
#16 — John Cameron Mitchell in Hedwig and the Angry Inch
#17 — Michelle Pfeiffer in White Oleander
#18 — Kurt Russell in The Thing
#19 — Eric Bogosian in Talk Radio
#20 — Linda Cardellini in Return
#21 — Jeff Bridges in The Fisher King
#22 — Oliver Platt in Bulworth
#23 — Michael B. Jordan in Creed
#24 — Thora Birch in Ghost World
#25 — Kate Beckinsale in The Last Days of Disco
#26 — Michael Douglas in Wonder Boys
#27 — Wilford Brimley in The Natural
#28 — Kevin Kline in Dave
#29 — Bill Murray in Scrooged
#30 — Bill Paxton in One False Move
#31 — Jennifer Lopez in Out of Sight

Branagh, Brooks, Leigh, McGrath, Trank

Cinderella (Kenneth Branagh, 2015). It’s grading on the most generous of curves, but as a crass attempt to develop a new revenue stream for a beloved Disney animated class, the live action Cinderella isn’t so bad. It’s certainly a damn sight better than the grotesque senses assault of Tim Burton’s Alice in Wonderland, which basically established this type of cinematic tomb raiding. Similarly, Kenneth Branagh’s directing is more tightly controlled and snappily efficient than anything else he’s done in ages, the stricter corporate oversight perhaps taming his penchant for dragging indulgence. Most of the acting is merely perfunctory, save for the occasional ravishingly overcooked line reading of Cate Blanchett as the title character’s unkind stepmother. (To his credit, I couldn’t place Richard Madden as I watched, which indicates he carried his performance as the Prince admirably far from the resolutely charmless Robb Stark.) The surest value in this Cinderella comes in its showcase of costume design, art direction, and other deep credit technical artistry. The film pays only glancing attention to capturing the heart or stirring the mind, but it continuously dispenses gifts for the eyes.

Fantastic Four (Josh Trank, 2015). I think my affection for the Fantastic Four is exceedingly welldocumented by now. Even I’m prepared to admit that the characters effectively repel any attempt, earnest or otherwise, to transfer them to the big screen. They probably belong on the comic book page and nowhere else (and it’s entirely possible that even their time there has passed, just as Marvel Comics has evidently decided, even if it is motivated as much by churlishness protest over their disconnection from movie rights as any sound editorial judgment). The most recent stab at making Marvel’s first family into into a viable movie franchise is a confused and confusing mess. There’s interesting but misguided elements to the film, led by a body horror explication of the characters’ superpowers that a younger David Cronenberg could have juiced up to unsettling minor masterpiece levels. In the hands of director Josh Trank, though, it’s just one more notion that he doesn’t have the patience or narrative focus to turn into a full-fledged idea.

The Catered Affair (Richard Brooks, 1956). Adapted by Gore Vidal from a teleplay written by Paddy Chayefsky, The Catered Affair represents the sliver of time that Hollywood was interested in honest but unpitying depictions of those who lived on the lower rungs of the economic class ladder. In its plotting, the film feels like a unapologetic counter to the conspicuous consumption of the original Father of the Bride, which was released a few years earlier. Jane Hurley (Debbie Reynolds) gets engaged to her longtime beau (Rod Taylor). Their original plan to simply pop into the courthouse in the middle of the week is complicated by the intense desire of Jane’s mother (Bette Davis) to provide her daughter with the sort of proper wedding that can stand in for years of denied luxuries. The story artfully acknowledges all the ways such aspirations cause undue complications, while also shrewdly getting at the underpinnings of disappointment, extending even beyond financial security, that motivate the mother’s devotion to providing Jane the very best, just this one time. Brooks brings the steadiest of hands to direction, eliciting especially strong work across the cast. It’s no surprise that Davis turns in rich, rewarding work, but I’d also venture to say this contains the strongest acting I’ve ever seen out of Reynolds. Ernest Borgnine, one year past the performance in Marty that nabbed him a Best Actor Oscar, is especially good at conveying the wounded dignity of the family’s cab-driving patriarch. Only the closing moments — delivered in too much of a rush, leading to some mildly regressive messaging — feel compromised. The rest is well thought out, both ruefully comic and dramatically heartfelt.

Becoming Mike Nichols (Douglas McGrath, 2016). Putting a narrow spotlight on the very beginning of Mike Nichols’s storied career, this brief documentary illustrates the revelation and the shortcomings of a such an approach. Going no further than the director’s first two films, Becoming Mike Nichols suggests a slice of a mini-series version of Inside the Actor’s Studio, with every production afforded the generous hunks of time required to really dig into them. When a montage from The Graduate is discussed, for example, director Douglas McGrath cuts in the entire sequence instead of settling for an indicative few seconds. It makes a significant difference in understanding the craft being examined. However, going no further that 1967 leaves decades of important work relegated to nothing more than a coda of movie posters and Playbill covers, giving the film a sadly shortsighted feel. Additionally, Jack O’Brien proves to be a dismally inadequate interviewer, floundering with a lack of insight and an overabundance of chummy eagerness. His assertion that he only recently realized the ending of The Gradate wasn’t purely celebratory is such an embarrassment that McGrath would have been kind to undertake an editing room excising of the disqualifying admission.

Mr. Turner (Mike Leigh, 2014). Mike Leigh’s biopic of the British painter J.M.W. Turner (Timothy Spall), known for almost painfully beautiful landscapes, covers roughly the last twenty years of is life. Leigh collaborates with cinematographer Dick Pope to give the film an elegant visual resplendence that evokes the artist’s most famed works, a truly astonishing accomplishment. For me, that comes sadly close to being the beginning and end of the film’s charms. Mr. Turner is a remarkably dull affair, dominated by scenes made sluggish through heaving dramatic duty. Little of Leigh’s trademark rambunctious — his dedication to capturing the messiness of life — is present in the film. Instead, it clicks ponderously from one moment to the next. Even the few effective set piece scenes — Turner striding imperiously through a  gallery showcase of his work, the painter confronted by the newfangled technology called the camera that’s destined to minimize the value of his realistic paintings — are impaired by a tendency to stretch them until they’re flaccid. Leigh obviously means for the film to be a showcase for his regular troupe member Spall. It’s painful to begrudge him a rare meaty lead, but Spall rarely moves beyond one sharply-played note. He relies on the physical brutishness of Turner, playing him like a wild boar made human, right down to the agitated grunts.

Landis, McDonagh, Nichols, Parks, Trevorrow

The Blues Brothers (John Landis, 1980). I routinely think of this musical-action-comedy as the strongest film of the many that have been spun off from Saturday Night Live recurring characters, though we’re admittedly looking at a shallow, fetid pool. A recent fresh viewing suggests I might have been inflating in, undoubtedly on the basis of how freely I and my cohort of dopey high school friends quoted it, as if reciting a bar order of “three orange whips” at a purportedly clever moment would position us as comic geniuses. The movie is more slapdash than I remembered and spotted with painfully flat line readings across the cast. It’s not unreasonable that, say, lifelong musician Matt Murphy might not flash the chops of a great actor, but even co-leads Dan Aykroyd and John Belushi drift through certain scenes with amateurish indifference. Director John Landis stages the varied material — not too many other films have both musical numbers and densely populated car chases — with reasonable deftness, but he falters in the pruning process. Stretching comfortably past the two hour mark, the film is overlong. It’s hampered by trying to do too much, as if everyone involved was defensively trying to prove the worthiness of spinning a feature out a couple sketch comics’ vanity tribute to their favorite music.

Midnight Special (Jeff Nichols, 2016). At the time of its release, this tricky drama from Jeff Nichols got attention as a indie-sensibility corrective to superhero movies. The strange powers exhibited by young Alton (Jaeden Lieberher) aren’t exciting or inspiring. They’re terrifying, a symptom of an existence out of control. Maybe even more potently, the film offers up a more realistic depiction of a Spielbergian story pitting small-scale people imbued with sudden fantastical threads to their life against forbidding authorities. It is grim and pained, offering a pointed assessment of humanity’s rapidity in collapsing all empathetic camaraderie in the face of a threat. Rod Serling would undoubtedly find it satisfactory. It’s a strong film, but the mechanics sometimes grind too loudly. And most of the actors, including Michael Shannon as the boy’s father, seem to operate at a slight remove from the inner layers of their characters. The best performance comes from Adam Driver, playing a scientist who is simultaneously wary and intrigued, which is precisely the right combination of reactions facing the circumstances with the film.

Calvary (John Michael McDonagh, 2014). I’m lukewarm on John Michael McDonagh’s follow-up to The Guard, but I suspect my disconnect is a result of the film’s greatest strength: a deep immersion in the culture it depicts. Brendan Gleeson plays Father James, an Irish priest who’s somewhat worn down by hiss community’s fraying connecting to the church, and that’s before he receives a threat on his life from the other side of the confessional. The film depicts the fraught few days leading up to the named time of the murder, exacted on this priest because he’s a good man, meaning the shock will be greater. McDonagh weights the film with the mood of burden, often letting it play with dreamlike shimmers of sensation rather than grounded narrative. This approach almost excuses some of the creakier elements of the drama  — like a tendency towards callousness among the townspeople that rings false – but not quite. If McDonagh wants to make Calvary carry the numbing feel of moving hopelessly through an existential dilemma, he accomplishes it. Me, I could have used a little more attention to the rigors of narrative.

The Super Cops (Gordon Parks, 1974). Man alive, did filmmakers in the nineteen-seventies love making movies about honest police officers who chose to not play by the rules in orde to buck a corrupt system or what? One year after Serpico mined similar territory, screenwriter Lorenzo Semple, Jr. and director Gordon Parks adapted the nonfiction book  The Super Cops: The True Story Of The Cops Called Batman and Robin into another brusquely dismaying and wryly comic police drama. The film has its charms, but it’s also fairly indistinct, save for the performance of Ron Leibman, who maybe never had a better showcase for his unique brand of fuming, amused self-regard.

Jurassic World (Colin Trevorrow, 2015). Putting aside that the human characters who populate the films that follow Steven Spielberg’s original Jurassic Park are problematically  committed to not learning a thing from a carnage-filled past, the revival of the franchise that taught average moviegoers about chaos theory makes for a decent entertainment. Reminiscent of Roland Emmerich’s underrated White House Down, Colin Trevorrow’s first stab at big, big budget filmmaking hits extremely familiar notes, but does so with just enough verve and commitment to make the finding of flaws in the proceedings feel like part of the fun instead of evidence that everything’s gone terribly wrong. Unlike other recent efforts at restarting old franchise engines, Jurassic World touches on its cinematic history lightly and with occasional flashes of welcome wit. If nothing else, it’s a damn sight better than either of the other two Jurassic Park sequels, the worst of which, don’t forget, was directed by Spielberg,


Then Playing: Unfriended


I usually reserve the longer reviews for films still playing in theaters, but sometimes a title I’ve caught up on later merits a few extra words.

Appropriately, the conversation took place on Facebook Messenger. I was discussing Unfriended with my friend Khaetlyn, who had recommended the film in the first place, offering the assurance that it was far more than the trashy, cheapo found footage horror film it appeared to be from all the floridly urgent promotion around it. Shortly after seeing it, I was about to let her know that she was correct, when she framed her curiosity about my reaction in a way that felt familiar from our days working together.

unfriended chat

I work with college students, so I’m routinely dealing with individuals at least a generation younger than me. For a stretch, Khaetlyn and her cohort on the summer work crew I supervised amused themselves by taking a moment each and every day to announce the shared year of their individual births to me, causing pinging in my temple because it corresponded with a calendar I lived through when comfortably into my adulthood. Initially, this invocation of my ancient memory seemed like that same old ribbing, but then Khaetlyn explained precisely why it was pertinent for this conversation. As a result, I started thinking about my own limitations in evaluating film.

First, it’s worth laying out the particulars of Unfriended. In proper modern horror movie fashion, it centers on the murderous revenge of a cruelly persecuted teen. The youth in question is Laura Barns (Heather Sossaman), who committed suicide after a deeply unflattering video of her disastrous drunkenness at a party was posted anonymously and without her consent. On the anniversary of her death, a mysterious figure using Laura’s various social media accounts begins needling the group of friends who were collectively suspected of responsibility for the offending upload.

In some ways, the film is conventional as can be, with the pending victims all sketched out in the simplest manner and defined with such broadly divergent personality traits that it’s difficult to imagine the circumstances in which they tolerate one another much less operate as a friendly clique. More problematically, the inevitable gruesome deaths are exacted through methods that are meant to be novel but are instead dull-witted and set up in a painfully obvious fashion. The kid who holds up a nonsensically out-of-place blender early in the film is sure to become unhappily acquainted with its whirring blades before the final credits. In the horror genre, this sort of bleakly dispatched comeuppance is too often what passes for wit.

What sets Unfriended apart, though, is the sneakily ingenious realization of its central conceit. The whole film plays out on one laptop screen, as Blaire (Shelley Hennig) interacts with her increasingly worried then panicked friends, as well as the fearsome figure digitally harassing them, entirely through online resources, such as Facebook, Skype, and various chat functions. In an especially valuable touch, the filmmakers use actual digital products, rather than some phony stand-in like facelOOk, creating greater authenticity through familiarity. When they intend to stir minor but effective anxiety through delayed communication — the absence of response potentially meaning the more dire of outcomes given the situation — the fully recognizably pulse of little dots, or lack thereof, has a fiercer impact than the cliched horror movies rhythms of absence followed by a jolt.

Director Levan Gabriadze and screenwriter Nelson Greaves stage the action expertly, using the fidgety interactions of a screen-fixated teen to help alleviate any tedium that may come from the limitations of operating on a single desktop. In particular, they shrewdly use their technique to delve into the thought process of the main character, as she taps out a response only to think better of it and backspace her first instinct into oblivion or is triggered by some fresh taunt to click on new browser tab so she can research a theory she’d previously dismissed. At its most intriguing, the movie is a map of one anguished mind.

I can assess and intellectualize all of these facets of the film, but I question whether or not I can truly feel them. As I grew up, the wilds of the World Wide Web weren’t available to me. Hell, it wasn’t even invented yet. The agreed upon date of Tim Berners-Lee’s technological conjuring of the internet-reliant communication platform is one year after I graduated high school. My friend Khaetlyn grew up with it, and the social media juggernauts it spawned, as a part of life as ubiquitous and necessary as landline telephones when I was a kid. For her, certain moments in Unfriended had an entirely different resonance, particularly those that exploited fears around a lack of control of one’s public persona. The painful knot of uncertainty upon discovering someone else has posted a picture of you is something I’ve never experienced, not really. For people twenty years (or more — sigh) younger than me, the gap between the notification of the picture and confirming its contents is pure threat. Hell, the fact I posted a fragmentary screenshot of one of our conversations will likely give my friend momentary heart palpitations.

My lack of directly relatable experience isn’t automatically a damning flaw. I don’t feel the need to be a Jedi or a Wookiee to weigh in on Star Wars. Even so, it feels different in this instance. Horror movies, after all, play to base emotions, deeply embedded fears. Many of the dangers featured in such fare play upon my own survival instincts, whether or not I can directly related to the heightened dilemma. Even though I don’t have kids, for example, I’ve been culturally indoctrinated to react a certain way if I see one in danger. With Unfriended, I entirely missed one piece of it that was a significant driver of its clicking disquiet. That doesn’t make me feel unqualified to assess the film, but it does get me thinking about the how the borders of my experience shape my reaction to it. As I continue to put fingers to keyboard to tap out my opinions, it’s a worthwhile reminder.

Auer, Bateman, Halperin, Nelson, Newley

Bad Words (Jason Bateman, 2014). The feature directorial debut of Bateman has a nifty story hook and an admirable nasty streak. It’s especially nice to see Bateman fully tap the vein of dark consternation that pulses through his best, smartest comedic work. Unfortunately, the screenplay by Andrew Dodge also relies on a adult-child friendship that feels patently phony and is also fairly hackneyed for this sort of dark comedy. That there are a few slightly more clever notes played between Bateman and Rohan Chand (playing a more appropriately-aged rival in a national spelling bee that Bateman’s disgruntled adult has pushed his way into via a loophole) doesn’t forgive the familiarity of the basic structure of the relationship. Still, Bateman demonstrates strong enough filmmaking chops that it’s no surprise he was able to parlay this into more intriguing opportunities.

Can Heironymus Merkin Ever Forget Mercy Humppe and Find True Happiness? (Anthony Newley, 1969). Ah, yes: the sort of glorious mess that only the late nineteen-sixties could deliver, as a bolstered commitment to directorial authorship converged with rapidly loosening content controls and the external influence of psychedelic free-for-alls to produce garish visions of baffling excess. In the case of Hieronymus Merkin, the poisoned candy mix has the added ingredient of a big star’s unchecked ego. Newley reportedly worked on the screenplay while suffering through the Doctor Doolittle film shoot, ultimately collaborating with Summer of ’42 writer Herman Raucher to arrive at an autobiographical story of an entertainer whose toxic lifestyle includes levels of sex addiction that skew toward the deviant (it is sad marker of both the era and the level of vile privilege held by celebrities that Newley essentially confesses to a sexual relationship with a child with only the slightest iota of guilt or regret). It’s also a musical, with numbers cowritten by Newley, many of which sound as though they could have emanated from the songwriting team of Clarke and Rogers. Included among the ostensible showstoppers is a lurid donkey fairy tale and a big, theatrical ballad about embracing narcissistic atheism. The film is awash in indulgent meta flourishes and inane, broad satire, led by the presence of Milton Berle as satanic stand-in Goodtime Eddie Filth. Newley cast his then-wife Joan Collins as the main character’s spouse, a callously deceived woman named Polyester Poontang. Collins credited her viewing of the film, at least in part, as the motivating factor in her choice to divorce Newley, which surely gives the film a fairly unique place in the annals of cinema.

The Crime of Dr. Crespi (John H. Auer, 1935). Adapted from an Edgar Allen Poe story — loosely, no doubt — follows the titular physician (Erich von Stroheim) whose resentment for a fellow medical practitioner (John Bohn) gets expressed in a devious manner, when he’s called upon to perform a surgical rescue following a car crash. The film is nicely creepy and tiptoes into highly gruesome concepts, especially for the time. Auer creates a nice sense of mood, even as the film was obviously assembled in a rush (there are reports a mere eight days was devoted to filming). The performance by von Stroheim has particular markings of a rushed, necessary indifference to polish. He’s sharp and inadvertently amusing. It can’t be called a great performance, but it’s surely entertaining.

White Zombie (Victor Hugo Halperin, 1932). A seminal enough film that it provides the foundation for the pervasive presence of the living undead in pop culture while also inspiring a pretty rotten rock outfit. While it’s indeed striking at times, and it features one of those performances of looming menace that made Bela Lugosi justly famous, the film is also disappointingly dull. Though the running time only just slips past the the hour mark, the story of zombies in Haiti is padded like a plush, mouldering pillow. 

Black Panthers: Vanguard of the Revolution (Stanley Nelson, 2015). This documentary tracks a group in American history with a mandate that is especially relevant today, forcefully filling in the willfully ignored gaps in most historical considerations of the Civil Rights organization. Nelson does an admirable job of packing in insightful, telling information, especially in the expert assemblage of archival footage. At a time when broadcast television was surging, the Black Panthers made great television. The contrasting depictions Nelson unearths, coupled with more modern reminiscences from individuals with strikingly different views of the Panthers, makes for a fascinating mosaic of dissent and demands for fairness in the United States. Nelson is also frank about all the ways the organization and its members descended into self-destructiveness. If anything, the film is only hampered by the challenge of fitting in all the pertinent material. Nelson makes the implicit argument that the Black Panthers are complex enough to merit one of those documentaries of a Burnsian length, easily stretching out for hours and hours.

Abrams, Benson and Moorhead, Fosse, Jones, Roach

Star Wars: The Force Awakens (J.J. Abrams, 2015). As a piece of nostalgic reclamation, the latest “Episode” of the Star Wars saga does its job so efficiently that its hard to get overly enthused about it as cinema. In a strangely fitting turnabout, the film series that fundamentally changed the business of U.S. moviemaking has turned into a follower, adhering closely to the mighty Marvel model. There’s little indication that The Force Awakens is laying the groundwork for vaster, interconnected stories, but it’s all introduction and reassurance, a tapping of the baton before commanding the symphony to life. The sense of perpetual pending is reinforced by the choice of Abrams to lean as close to a remake of the original Star Wars as possible, while still offering a new story, a trick he pulled off far more successfully with his initial Star Trek film, in part because that soft sci-fi playground is more accommodating to trump cards like time travel and multi-dimensional switcheroos. It bears all the hallmarks of its director, qualities that are engaging and flawed in equal measure. He has a gift for dreaming up clever concepts and a cursed inability to develop them into deeper drama or to resolve them in a satisfying manner. There’s no more frustrating example than the character Finn (John Boyega), introduced as a stormtrooper gone AWOL. It’s a great notion that doesn’t resonate in the slightest through the remainder of the character’s journey. Instead, Finn becomes a vessel for whatever Abrams the writer needs in any given scene, mostly the recipient of exposition from others. Those reservations noted, I can’t deny that there’s pleasure to be had in simply seeing this fertile fiction reengaged in a positive, affectionate manner. And the table-setting feel of the film also leads directly to the strongest compliment I can pay it: moving forward, I’m far more interested in the possibilities of the new characters (especially Rey, played by Daisy Ridley) than continuing to see the old ones dragged out for respectful applause.

Spring (Justin Benson and Aaron Moorhead, 2014). It only took one tiny plot detail to motivate me to see Spring, a novel horror-romance hybrid from the directorial team of Benson and Moorhead. When an emotionally reeling young man (Lou Taylor Pucci), in Italy on an impromptu escape from the United States, is forthrightly offered strings-free sex by a gorgeous woman (Nadia Hilker), his reaction isn’t eager acquiescence but instead a far more realistic skepticism. This is so thoroughly at odds with currently storytelling convention, which holds that mindlessly horny men are quick to meet their doom, that I needed to see what other worthy innovations Spring might hold. In general, the film is solid and shrewd, tracking through its more fantastical elements with care and developing its metaphors about the various challenges of new romantic relationships, including fear of commitment, in a way that is clear without being pushy or self-congratulatory. It helps immeasurably that both leads are charming and real in their portrayals.

Trumbo (Jay Roach, 2015). This biopic about blacklisted screenwriter Dalton Trumbo is a rickety piece of disingenuous nonsense, displaying none of the commitment to narrative structure and emotional integrity that won the work of its subject two screenwriting Academy Awards during the course of his partially cloaked career. By the evidence here, Roach has no capability of shaping individual scenes, much less entire films. The film skids along through its flummoxed recounting of one of the most regrettable periods in Hollywood history. The tenor of the performances are equally haphazard, with Bryan Cranston’s turn in the title role especially problematic. He regularly lapses into a mildly cartoonish cadence that suggests he’s delivering a stealth audition to play Thurston Howell III in a big screen Gilligan’s Island remake.

Hitchcock/Truffaut (Kent Jones, 2015). This documentary about the famed multi-day interview with Alfred Hitchcock conducted by fellow director François Truffaut, in 1962, manages to be consistently fascinating without really distinguishing itself as a particularly smart or even capable piece of filmmaking in its own right. Jones, who previously worked closely with Martin Scorsese on documentary appreciations of Val Lewton and Elia Kazan, has an expert way with deploying selected film clips to make his points about the delirious creativity of his subjects, a quality in full effect here. With Hitchcock/Truffaut, he’s less adept at building his case with supporting interviews and the archival photographs and recordings of the original interview sessions. Luckily, the foundational work that feeds into the documentary — the interview itself and the films of the two men — is convincing enough all on its own. Jones might not illuminate its collective value, but nor does he obscure it.

Sweet Charity (Bob Fosse, 1969). The feature directorial debut of Fosse understandably springs from a Broadway hit that also bore his fingerprints. Based on the film Nights of Cabiria, with the main character transformed from a sex worker to a dance hall girl (making her more palatable to nineteen-sixties audiences shelling out for a bubbly musical), Sweet Charity offers the melancholy tale of the perpetually unlucky in love Charity Hope Valentine (Shirley MacLaine). Though Fosse had great films in him, his first outing finds him still feeling his way, caving in to some structural uncertainty that the plot’s episodic nature only accentuates. As anyone would expect, the film is strongest in the segments that sit squarely in Fosse’s wheelhouse, notably the production numbers “Big Spender,” “There’s Gotta Be Something Better Than This,” and the relentlessly marvelous “Rich Man’s Frug,” the last offering the best demonstration of Fosse’s ingenuity with the myriad possibilities of the human form. The handful of numbers staged on location in New York City are the weakest, as the wide open spaces ironically make Fosse’s choreography feel more confined, the rigors, pitfalls and built in time limits that come naturally with shooting outdoors preventing him from driving toward the level of painstaking perfection he usually demanded.

Carey, Harvey, Hill, Maloof and Siskel, Shepard

Carnival of Souls (Herk Harvey, 1962). The film begins with a car crash, the vehicle careening off a cliff into the murky drink. Though the authorities are unable to find the vehicle’s female occupant (Candace Hilligoss), she eventually emerges, carrying no memory of how she survived. She proceeds with her plan, traveling to Utah for a job as a church organist. From there, writer-director Harvey, along with co-screenwriter John Clifford, comes up with downright ingenious ways to build scenes with unsettling layers with an obviously meager budget. The movie is ticklishly amusing given some of its more dated elements and amateurish acting, but it’s also almost moving in its pure conviction, standing as a sterling example of unabashed independent filmmaking.

Foxy Brown (Jack Hill, 1974). Originally conceived as a sequel to the hit film Coffy, this scruffy revenge saga settles Pam Grier into yet another no-nonsense character with a spot-on name. Like a lot of films that hinge their stories on acts of retribution, there’s a certain amount of laziness to it, relying so heavily on the primal appeal of the instinct that any attempts at nuanced motivation are set aside. Grier is blessed with charisma and hampered by a dearth of acting craft, compounding the sense of the film as a grinding, empty exercise. The film’s primary merit is as a useful artifact of a certain sliver of American cinema, when the sudden swell of content freedom was applied with equal vigor to the aspirational art and the sputtering trash.

Finding Vivian Maier (John Maloof and Charlie Siskel, 2014). This documentary works incredibly well as a act of specific advocacy, but falters as nonfiction cinema. The likely culprit for the flawed execution is the direct involvement of Maloof in the creation of the film. He was the person who unearthed the treasure trove of the title figure’s photographs, largely snapped while she was serving as the in-house help for a series of well-off Chicago families. Where the film could have used a touch of journalistic distance, Maloof keeps nudging it toward his own righteous passions about the established art world’s reluctance to belatedly embrace Maier’s work. It starts to play less like genuine concern about the artist getting a fair shake and more Maloof pitching a tantrum that the discovery hasn’t played out to his full benefit. I’d wager Maloof’s status as co-director is also instrumental in the film largely side-stepping the introduced notion that Maier would have despised her art being shared so freely after her death. It’s an especially rich conflict to set aside, because Maier’s photography, as selectively curated for the film, practically demands to be seen, earning favorable comparisons to masters of the art form such as Walker Evans and Rebecca Lepkoff.

Dom Hemingway (Richard Shepard, 2013). Maybe it’s the specificity of the genre. Dom Hemingway proves there’s a clear limit to how many films about comically colorful British gangsters the cinematic firmament can bear. The screenplay and direction, both by Richard Shepard, are soundly constructed, and Jude Law delivers admirable in precisely the sort of shift from sexy centerpiece to ragged character role that should be the prevailing course of his career from here on in. And yet it all feels drab and familiar, banging artistic pots that have made more notable noises in the hands of Martin McDonagh or even Guy Ritchie. The film does provide the blessed sight and sound of Khaleesi covering the Waterboys, and for that I will be eternally grateful.

The To Do List (Maggie Carey, 2013). Maybe there will eventually be an inclination to round up, just as is the current norm with loads of nineteen-eighties films aiming for laughs, but I suspect instead that retrospective surveys of comedies from the current era will take note of how many could have achieved greatness were there a little more discipline. The feature film debut of Carey cannily hit a slender mark, appropriating the tropes and rhythms of the dopey sex comedies of the eighties and nineties while simultaneously deconstructing and slyly mocking them. Aubrey Plaza stars as Brandy Klark, uptight valedictorian of her graduating high school class who decides she needs to catch up on her sexual experiences before diving into the deep pool of higher education. She approaches it with the same meticulous organization that earned her top grades. When the character is locked down, Plaza is quite good, showing how confusion and curiosity go hand in hand. But there’s inconsistency across the board, including the outlook of her character, defined by awkward innocence one moment and barbed self-assurance worthy of April Ludgate the next. It’s consistently amusing and just insightful enough to be disarming, but it also lets sloppiness undercut its smarts to a unfortunate degree.