Roger Ebert

There are two main types of stories about smalltown people finding themselves: ones where they move away from the suffocating place where they grew up, and ones where they come back. “Close to You” is the second kind of movie. Written and directed by Dominic Savage, starring Elliott Page in his first lead performance as a trans man, and based on a story that Page co-wrote, it’s about a trans man going home to the small town where he grew up to visit his family after four years of finding himself in a big city. It’s raw and often powerful—less of a carefully shaped drama than the equivalent of a series of boxes filled with explosive material being slung about. It’s less concerned with winning points for neatness than in letting scenes unfold in an unflinchingly immediate way. Sometimes it hurts, and it’s supposed to.

Page’s character, Sam, leaves the small flat in Toronto that he shares with a roommate and takes a train back to his hometown near Lake Ontario because his dad Jim (Peter Outerbridge) is having a birthday party. Jim is happy to see Sam, calls him “son,” and is generally warmer and supportive than you might have anticipated given Sam’s dread. Sam’s mom Miriam (Wendy Crewson) is overcome with emotion at having Sam back in the house but also afflicted by attacks of guilt and shame over having failed him. 

Sam’s sisters Kate (Janet Porter) and Megan (Alex Paxton-Beesley) and brother Michael (Daniel Maslany) are also supportive. But there are moments where their theoretically sensitive questions and chit-chat have a passive-aggressive undertone, or perhaps a sense that they’re trying too hard or overcompensating. It’s a performance of liberalism or “tolerance” whose primary audience is themselves, not Sam. (There may also be an unexamined defensiveness on the part of the sisters for having stayed put and embraced a classic heteronormative smalltown lifestyle rather than going off to the big city like Sam to take risks and have adventures.) Some of Page’s most eloquent and multilayered close-ups capture that grin-and-bear-it double-bind that people in Sam’s situation find themselves in, where it’s not appropriate to jump on another person for failing to react in precisely the correct way at every given millisecond because they are only human, and, in their own minds at least, they mean well. Whatever the flaws, their behavior is preferable to the alternative. 

The alternative—at least a nonviolent version of it—is represented by Sam’s brother-in-law Paul (David Reale). He seems to think he’s being curious and welcoming and “just asking questions” to understand things, but he comes across as a resentful, fearful person. There’s an angry undertone to his attempts at connection. He behaves as if the mere presence of Sam is an accusation of bigotry against him. He’s obsessed with how Sam’s identifying as a man forces the rest of “them” (mainly him) to change and adapt—as if it were fair to ask Sam to perform femininity under an old name so that Paul would feel comfortable? Is that what Paul wants? It’s hard to say, and Paul probably doesn’t know either. 

There’s an ugly truth to Paul’s interactions with Sam, who tries his best to let the microaggressions roll off his back but eventually has to stand up for himself and point out the obvious: He just wants to be treated as a human being whose very existence doesn’t require explanations and reassurance, just like everyone else at the gathering. Anybody who is the “odd person out” in a family for reasons of gender identity, race, nationality, or disability is going to feel very much seen during the Sam-Paul exchanges. It sucks having to be an ambassador delivering personally tailored lessons on what the culture and weather is like in a foreign land. It’s like being handed a whole other job, with no paycheck.

The movie is considerably less successful in its secondary plot, which is about the strong mutual attraction between Sam and a former high school classmate named Katherine (Hillary Baack), whom he meets again on the train home. The movie doesn’t go into much detail about exactly what kind of relationship the two had previously enjoyed, but it’s obvious that it was deep. This is a problem for Katherine because she’s married with children now, and is dealing with a lot of conflicted feelings and reactions at seeing an old flame in a new body. There’s a wrenching moment at the end of their first conversation on the train where Katherine gets out of the conversation abruptly, and we come to realize that it’s because she wants to escape those uncomfortable feelings more than she wants to make Sam feel loved and accepted. There’s a whole other movie in this relationship, possibly an excellent one, but while both actors are agonizingly honest in their interactions, the scenes aren’t as carefully imagined and emotionally triangulated as the family scenes. (Cinematographer Catherine Lutes’ mostly handheld camerawork elevates the weaker moments; she and Savage have a provocative sense of when to show the person who’s speaking and when to hold on the person listening, and this lends depth and surprise to interactions that might’ve played more superficially if they’d been covered in a more traditional way.)

In all, “Close to You” can feel contrived and inelegant at times. The first few minutes setting up the premise are especially rough going because they’re so packed with blunt expository declarations. The rest has a certain patchiness and is a bit too reliant on close-ups of the star walking and thinking, often anxiously (with good reason). But it’s filled with scenes of great compassion and sensitivity that rarely play out on movie screens, and its faces its chosen subject head-on, which gives it historical significance as well as a baseline integrity. There were dramas about racism released in the 1960s, often but not always starring Sidney Poitier, about which many of the same things could be said. Many of them are still watched today for their historical significance and because the situations and performances ring true. Humanity itself is not done transitioning.

“You change your energy and allow another person to haunt your house, so to speak. It’s like being a medium. It left me exhausted and depressed-feeling. Some of the time, when you’re walking out there where the air is thin, you just hope you can walk back again.” – Gena Rowlands on playing Mabel in “A Woman Under the Influence”

In the early years of Gena Rowlands’ career, there was no sense that she was “walking out there where the air is thin”. She was a beautiful blonde playing beautiful blonde roles, but she lived on our plane of existence. If you watch closely, though, other qualities leak through the conventional material. Maybe there’s a glimpse of her bad temper. You could imagine her throwing a tantrum. Maybe it’s a grumpy eyeroll, snuck in between lines. There’s a latent unruliness there, somewhere. Rowlands was not cast as wise-cracking dames early on, but the wise-cracking dame had a way of making herself known. 

Whether or not this is retrospect talking is an interesting question. Are we projecting onto her things that were only apparent later when she awed the world with her performances in the films directed by her husband, John Cassavetes (“Faces,” “Minnie and Moskowitz,” “A Woman Under the Influence,” “Opening Night,” “Gloria,” and “Love Streams“)? If she hadn’t met and married Cassavetes, what would have happened? Speculation is pointless, but it helps contextualize what happened, and her equal part in it. 

There will always be a place in Hollywood for beautiful blondes. Rowlands wasn’t a Marilyn-Monroe type. She was one of those “chilly” blondes, the kind Hitchcock loved. Rowlands was not a haughty person, but she often played characters with a whiff of standoffishness. Hollywood isn’t known for its sensitive handling of beautiful talented blondes, but it’s easy to imagine that Gena Rowlands, who loved acting (“I never wanted to do anything else. This was it.”), would have had a respectable career, with or without her husband. Cassavetes didn’t lift her out of obscurity. Nevertheless, she wasn’t being seen the way she needed to be seen. The world didn’t yet know what it was missing. 

Rowlands was born in 1930 in Madison, Wisconsin. Except for a somewhat mysterious “breakdown” when she was around twelve years old, she had a fairly happy time of it. After graduating from the University of Madison, Rowlands moved to New York City to attend the American Academy of Dramatic Arts. She was determined to not let her dream get derailed: “In those days, if you got married, you had children and quit what you were doing. I wanted to be an actress bad enough that I would forego the comfort of love. I was going to be very careful. So I went in to lunch and put my books in my locker and I saw John Cassavetes. And I thought, Oh damn, not this. This is just exactly what I don’t want.”

They married in 1954. She performed in repertory companies and made her Broadway debut in The Seven Year Itch. Her performance on Broadway as Betty, in Paddy Chayefsky’s Middle of the Night, opposite Edward G. Robinson, made her a New York theatre star. Both she and Cassavetes were busy working actors through the ’50s. Their son, Nick, was born in 1959, the same year Cassavetes’ first film, “Shadows”, was released. In Cassavetes’ third film, “A Child is Waiting,” starring Judy Garland and Burt Lancaster, Rowlands played another chilly blonde, but the material has some depth, and she brings a tightly-coiled restlessness to the part, a sense of this woman’s guilt and shame. 

“Faces” in 1968, was the game-changer. For Rowlands, for Cassavetes, for American movies. “Faces” opens, startlingly, with a huge closeup of Rowlands, looking like she’s caught in the middle of a moment, alert and startled. Her Jeannie has a sharp edge, and there’s something hard in her eyes, a wary toughness. Her laughter is forced, almost hysterical. The man she’s with (Val Avery) asks her to “stop being silly”, and to just “be herself”. An abyss opens up. What does “being herself” even mean? Her beauty is part of the problem, and she knows it. She’s a “looker” but no one sees her. Jeannie perceives the man’s flaws and unhappiness in one glance, and her smile is tender and pitying, almost maternal. With Rowlands, a moment was never just one thing. It – and she – was always in flux. 

She sometimes drove a scene, dancing and kicking up her heels, her thick blonde mop of hair swinging around her face. There are moments where she almost looks directly at the camera in “Faces”. Rowlands does versions of this in other performances, and it’s always unexpected. In “A Woman Under the Influence”, Rowlands’ Mabel makes all of these weird sounds and gestures, and these often read as being asides for an invisible audience – i.e. us. She’s practically rolling her eyes at us. In “Opening Night”, Myrtle (Rowlands) breaks the fourth wall during the actual opening night, turning to the audience to react to whatever was just said. Rowlands got lost in a role, but she brought us with her. 

There was a “camp” tendency in her, but it was a boozy raucous camp, a wild grasping at surfaces she wished she could rely on. Rowlands was not about kitchen-sink realism, and she didn’t try to “underplay” things. (Underplaying is the current house style of most American film actors, and it has led to muted unexpressive performances. One yearns for a big gesture!) Rowlands’ favorite actress was Bette Davis, who would never be accused of “underplaying” anything. (In 1979, Rowlands and Davis played mother and daughter in an excellent television movie called “Strangers: The Story of a Mother and Daughter.” It’s on YouTube!) There was always something of the old-school Classic Hollywood Dame about Rowlands. 

“Minnie and Moskowitz” (1971) is a rom-com, Cassavetes-style, meaning sparked with loneliness, chaos and dread, and it paired Rowlands with Cassavetes regular Seymour Cassel. When we first meet Minnie (Rowlands), she is drunkenly telling her co-worker how much she loves going to the movies, and how much she wishes Humphrey Bogart and Charles Boyer were real. Minnie wears sunglasses the size of manhole covers and has no skill in dealing with Cassel’s volatile extroversion. Rowlands does the chilly blonde thing again, but finally it’s in a context rich enough and free enough to let her explore it. In the final scene, she sits in the backyard, wearing massive pink sunglasses, grinning from ear to ear. She is surprised by the unfamiliar sensation of happiness. 

Mabel Longhetti in “A Woman Under the Influence” (1974) is the role for which Rowlands will forever be known. It makes other very good performances look merely skilled. Whatever Rowlands did in “A Woman Under the Influence,” it wasn’t about skill. Mabel is first seen hustling the kids out of the house for school, and her energy ramps everyone up into a state near hysteria. Once they’re all gone, Mabel wanders from room to room, emptied out of energy, adrift. Mabel’s husband Nick (Peter Falk) is a simple guy, who loves his wife, but has no idea how to handle her. Mabel stalks out into the busy traffic to wait for the kids’ school bus, and she is a spectacle in a mini skirt and floppy sweater, walking up and down the sidewalk, blowing raspberries at people, jabbing her thumb in the air, talking to herself. 

Rowlands goes so far here it feels dangerous watching it. She’s out where the air is thin. Will she be able to come back? She shatters over and over, until there is no discernible “self” left. By the end, she is nothing but terror and paranoia, powered by adrenaline surges and panic. Peter Falk looks truly distressed during the confrontation in the living room when the doctor tries to give Mabel a sedative. Rowlands, like a cornered animal, pushes her arms out in front of her, making a little cross with her fingers to ward off evil. She looks unreachable. 

Mabel’s behavior is unacceptable mostly because she makes people uncomfortable. What’s the “influence” Mabel is under? It was “read” at the time (1974) as a feminist statement, with Nick – patriarchy – as the “influence,” a fair but uninteresting interpretation. Cassavetes didn’t tell stories in a binary easily dissected way. Nick is a man, but he’s not “at home” in the world either. He’s got some loose marbles himself. He married Mabel, after all. No conventional man would marry Mabel. One of the reasons why the film sticks with you forever once you’ve seen it is its questions are implicit, and the answers are irrelevant. Even Mabel doesn’t know why this happened to her. Years after Cassavetes’ death, Rowlands was asked about what she thought happened to Mabel and Nick, and she said she thought they were still out there somewhere, still kooky, still in love. It was a very moving answer. 

Making the film depleted Cassavetes’ resources, and they had a hard time finding distribution. They finally distributed it themselves. Even without a studio backing them, Rowlands was nominated for an Oscar. The film caused a furor when it premiered at the New York Film Festival, with thunderous ovations for them both.

“Opening Night” (1977) is a love letter (albeit tormented) to actors and the theatre. Rowlands plays Myrtle, a famous alcoholic actress, swamped by fans at the stage door. Myrtle is a pain in the ass during rehearsals. She makes a spectacle of her acting process. She remembers being a younger actress when her emotions came freely. She can’t do that anymore. In this very eerie film, Rowlands has a couple of moments that defy description. In one scene she beats herself up using a door frame, knocking her head against the wood until her glasses break. There’s another moment where she smiles and mouths “Hello” and it’s hair-raising. Coincidentally, I just wrote about Opening Night for my new column at Liberties Journal.

“Gloria” (1980) is the first Cassavetes film I saw (the only one with regular television rotation) and my introduction to Rowlands. It’s a good way in. There she is, in a tailored pink suit, waving a gun around, running down the sidewalk in her high heels, sneering at subway thugs like a 1930s gangster, dragging a little kid behind her. “Gloria” allows Rowlands to lean in to the classic Hollywood thing she understood so well (not as a style, but because she IS it). “A Woman Under the Influence” and “Opening Night” take place in the belljars of the characters’ worlds – Mabel and Nick’s house/the theatre – but “Gloria” takes place out in the world. Rowlands was nominated again for Best Actress.

Cassavetes’ final film, “Love Streams” (1984), is a strange melancholy movie, with Rowlands and Cassavetes playing eccentric siblings. Rowlands’ Sarah is akin to Mabel, but Sarah is even more untethered. At least Mabel has her kids! Sarah lost custody of hers and her ex-husband (Seymour Cassel) is making things difficult. There are a couple of very memorable scenes, like Sarah deciding to bring home a herd of animals, exhilarated at the thought of caring for them. There’s the scene where she goes bowling by herself, wearing a glamorous gown, and gets her fingers stuck in the bowling ball, eliciting kindness from the people sitting next to her. My favorite scene is a dream sequence where Sarah is forced to make her ex-husband and child laugh, and they refuse, watching her increasingly wild shenanigans with poker faces. There’s a table of novelty joke toys, and Rowlands tears through them, waddling around wearing Groucho Marx glasses, clown noses, making funny noises. (It is a mystery how Cassel could watch all this without laughing!)

The collaboration of John Cassavetes and Gena Rowlands changed the world, although I wish its influence were more felt in the films being made today. It’s hard to imagine a time when we didn’t have these films as part of our archive and collective memory. What Cassavetes and Rowlands did was unique to them and can’t be replicated, at least not in the same way, because art is a soul and heart thing. It comes from the individual. Still, it is an awe-inspiring body of work. We are so lucky to have it. 

Rowlands appeared in a few ground-breaking television movies tackling controversial subjects. “A Question of Love” (1978) told the story of a lesbian couple (Rowlands and Jane Alexander) raising three children from their former marriages. One of the ex-husbands sues for custody and the case goes to court. Their sexuality is on trial and it’s ugly. Rowlands is superb, and there are moments during the court scenes, particularly when she listens to her teenage son on the stand, ranking with her best work. In 1985, she appeared in “An Early Frost”, the first movie to deal with the AIDS crisis, at a time of misinformation, fear, and hatred. The success of “An Early Frost” – its ratings, its award nominations and wins – was extremely important in raising the visibility of the AIDS crisis, as well as humanizing it. 

Rowlands gave another major performance in Woody Allen’s “Another Woman” (1988). (I wrote the booklet essay for an Arrow Film release of the film in a box set.) “Another Woman” features a murderer’s row of talent: Ian Holm, Mia Farrow, Gene Hackman, Sandy Dennis, Betty Buckley, Martha Plimpton … but this is Rowlands’ movie. She plays philosophy professor Marion, the ultimate chilly blonde. Marion is drawn back into the past, and confronted with the damage she has done to others. Allen is in full Bergman mode here, the film’s structure similar to “Wild Strawberries”, with Allen hiring Bergman cinematographer Sven Nykvist to shoot the film. “Another Woman” is told mainly through intense Bergman-esque closeups on Rowlands’ face. These closeups are unlike anything else she had done before. They’re riveting and uncomfortable. Roger Ebert’s review of “Another Woman” is well worth a look, particularly his insightful comments on Rowlands:

“There is a temptation to say that Rowlands has never been better than in this movie, but that would not be true. She is an extraordinary actor who is usually this good, and has been this good before, especially in some of the films of her husband, John Cassavetes. What is new here is the whole emotional tone of her character. Great actors and great directors sometimes find a common emotional ground, so that the actor becomes an instrument playing the director’s song.

Cassavetes is a wild, passionate spirit, emotionally disorganized, insecure and tumultuous, and Rowlands has reflected that personality in her characters for him – white-eyed women on the edge of stampede or breakdown. Allen is introspective, considerate, apologetic, formidably intelligent, and controls people through thought and words rather than through physicality and temper. Rowlands now mirrors that personality, revealing in the process how the Cassavetes performances were indeed “acting” and not some kind of ersatz documentary reality. To see “Another Woman” is to get an insight into how good an actress Rowlands has been all along.“

I’ve written a lot about Rowlands over the years. In 2014, Criterion released the long-unavailable “Love Streams” on DVD and Blu-Ray, and I wrote and narrated a video-essay on Rowlands for the special features. You can watch it here:

In 2015, I was hired by the video-production arm of the Academy Awards to write the script for the tribute reel to be played at Gena Rowlands’ Lifetime Achievement Award ceremony. The video team did a gorgeous job, weaving together extant footage and film clips, and Angelina Jolie read my narration. In my first speakerphone meeting with the video team in Los Angeles, the head of the project gave me my marching orders: “For your piece, I just have two instructions.” “Okay, what are they?” “One: focus on her, not him.” “Got it. And the second?” “Don’t be afraid of hyperbole.”

I wasn’t afraid of hyperbole then and I’m not afraid of hyperbole now. Gena Rowlands was one of the greatest to ever do it. She has few peers. 

Let’s paint a picture: You’re wandering through a local grocery store, and you hear a familiar tune softly playing through the old speaker system — it’s Kenny Loggins’ anthem “Danger Zone.” The sounds of the store fade away, and you’re back to the moment you first heard the song in Tony Scott’s “Top Gun.” You can remember sitting in the darkened theater, popcorn and soda in hand, as the jets practically fly off the screen. It’s only one example of how music and movies can intertwine to make for a more powerful memory.

When Mack Bates and Michael Viers first met, they bonded over a mutual love of Matthew Robbins’ “The Legend of Billie Jean” and its hit song “Invincible” by Pat Benatar. Bates, an award-winning journalist, former freelance critic for the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, and contributor to this site’s Black Writer Week, found a kindred soul in Viers, the producer/host of the podcast “Shame List Picture Show.” They understood that music is an essential part of the cinematic experience, a lifeline for discovering new music.

Music in film shapes our tastes, and we both wanted to share one film apiece that influenced our musical interests. As coincidence would have it, both films feature Christian Slater.  

Michael Viers on “Pump Up the Volume” (1990)

I knew whatever I chose had to be something that spoke to what music I still like today, and one filmmaker immediately came to mind: Allan Moyle. While he may not be a household name, his movies — particularly “Pump Up the Volume” and “Empire Records” — have left a lasting impression on me and the music in constant rotation on my turntable. I had seen these two movies so close to each other that it’s impossible to pinpoint which I had seen first. For the sake of this discussion, let’s say it was “Pump Up the Volume.”

It’s hard to imagine what my musical tastes would be without this film. I saw it during that exciting transitional period between middle school and high school, which was a time when I was still trying to find myself and figure out who I was and what I liked. My exposure to music was pretty much what came on the radio or what my parents liked. At this point, I only owned three CDs — Eiffel 65’s Europop, A*Teens’ ABBA tribute record (thanks, Mom), and Weird Al’s Running With Scissors. 

I was very uncool, so it’s not a shocker that a film with as distinct a voice as “Pump Up the Volume” spoke to me so profoundly. Christian Slater plays Mark, a shy and overlooked kid navigating a new school. Despite his lack of a social life, he finds his voice by launching a pirate radio show under the alias “Happy Harry Hard-on,” where he finds his confidence and his voice.

Reflecting on my own music preferences, I can trace a direct line back to this film. The opening credits feature Leonard Cohen’s haunting baritone as he belts out “Everybody Knows,” a powerful anthem that serves as a mirror to the darker aspects of society (covered well on the soundtrack album by Concrete Blonde). The song’s lyrics serve as an overture for the film’s themes of disillusionment, individuality, and the angst felt by its teenage characters. The song is woven into the film so that I can’t hear it without picturing Christian Slater in his dimly lit basement, passionately ranting into his microphone for all to hear.

“Pump Up the Volume” introduced me to a host of influential artists besides Leonard Cohen. Names such as Richard Hell (“Love Comes in Spurts”), Bad Brains (“Kick Out The Jams”), Descendants (“WeinerSchnitzel”), Sonic Youth (“Titanium Expose”), Ice-T (“Girls L.G.B.N.A.F.”), and the Beastie Boys (“Scenario”). Many of these musicians still dominate my playlists, and my love for loud, fast music infused with raw emotion can be linked to Allan Moyle and the soundtracks he creates.

However, the unforgettable needle drops aren’t the only auditory experience I responded to in “Pump Up the Volume”. The score, composed by Cliff Martinez, features electronic soundscapes that would later shape films such as “Spring Breakers,” “The Limey,” and “Drive.” Martinez is one of my favorite working composers, and my deep appreciation for electronic film scores likely has its roots in this under-appreciated gem.



Mack Bates on “Untamed Heart” (1993)


Music has been a staple in my life for as long as I can remember, from TV theme songs and commercial jingles as a kid to homemade mixtapes in the ‘90s as a teenager. And like countless others, I took full advantage of all those “free” mail-order music clubs, like Columbia House.

My musical tastes were pretty eclectic. Still are. If it sounds good, I give it a whirl. The artist and genre don’t necessarily matter all that much. Though, like most people, I do have my go-to favorites.

At the same time that I wanted my MTV in the ‘80s and ‘90s, I was also a movie-obsessed teenager who practically lived at the multiplex. The movie theater was my home away from home. I’d go see anything that piqued my interest. I routinely watched coming attraction trailers before the main event got underway. Not only did it help me to stay on top of what was coming down the pike, but it also helped me decide which films were a priority to see on the big screen.

The first time I saw the trailer for director Tony Bill’s 1993 romantic tearjerker “Untamed Heart,” starring Christian Slater, Marisa Tomei, and Rosie Perez, it intrigued me in a way I had never experienced before. Usually, a film’s premise, cast, director, or a combination of those things grabs my attention and prompts me to want to see it.

In the case of “Untamed Heart,” it was the absolute banger that played during the film’s trailer: DNA’s still-ingenious, club-infused remix of Suzanne Vega’s “Tom’s Diner,” a bona fide earworm if there ever was one.

Thanks to MTV, I was somewhat familiar with folk singer Suzanne Vega’s work, namely her hit single “Luka,” featured on her sophomore studio album, Solitude Standing (1987). That album also featured the original acapella version of “Tom’s Diner.”

It was the first time I had ever heard the remix in all its glory, booming through the theater’s speakers. I was instantly hooked. That beat was as smooth as fresh-churned butter, and I wanted more.

It hipped me to the artistry of a well-constructed remix, which artists like Mariah Carey and SWV, to name a few, certainly helped to cement as a legitimate art form in the years that followed. It also turned me onto electronica, where I would later discover artists like Bonobo, Deep Forest, and Philip Glass.

“Untamed Heart” is about an aimless young waitress named Caroline (Tomei) who’s perpetually unlucky in love. That is, until Adam (Slater), an awkward, shy busboy who’s secretly in love with her, comes to her rescue one fateful night after work. Soon afterward, the requisite sparks fly, culminating in an entertaining melodrama armed with a charming romance at its center.

Upon breaking the news of her budding workplace romance to her best friend and fellow waitress Cindy (Perez), who instinctively questions her about the “why” of it all, Caroline delivers a zinger for the ages: “He doesn’t make sense. I don’t make sense. Together, we make sense.”

DNA’s remix of “Tom’s Diner” is put to exceptionally good use near the top of the film during a musical montage when Tomei’s character, Caroline, literally comes running into the picture. She’s hurrying home from work in order to prepare for a night out with her boyfriend. It’s clear that Caroline’s a woman on a mission with little time to spare. As soon as she hits the front door, she bolts upstairs and readies herself in a flurry of manic activity. You’re in Caroline’s corner, rooting for her right out of the gate.

It still ranks as one of the most inventive introductions to a film character I’ve seen to date.

DNA’s remix of Suzanne Vega’s “Tom’s Diner” is so intrinsically linked to “Untamed Heart” that I can’t help but think of it whenever I hear the song. Thirty-one years later, it remains the only song featured in a film’s trailer to inspire me to go see a film.

The film’s soundtrack features a mix of standards and contemporary fare by the likes of Brook Benton (“This Time Of The Year“), Nat King Cole (“Nature Boy“), and Los Lobos (“Try Me”), among others. Cole’s beautifully melancholy song plays during the end credits; the pitch-perfect capper for such a bittersweet love story.

Ever hear the old adage about music being “the soundtrack of our lives?”

I was a child when I first heard somebody famous say that. Perhaps it was Dick Clark or Casey Kasem. Both men were wildly popular and influential disc jockeys with huge radio & TV audiences at the time. I didn’t have the life experience then to know what that meant.

What I came to realize was that music isn’t just a form of entertainment; it can serve as a tangible reminder of an experience or a cherished memory. It can instantly transport you back to another time and place. The power of music is infinite.

When you have a name like Hope Goldman, two words lacquered in shiny aspirational vibes, you probably know it’s ought to be shared with the masses. Indeed, who wouldn’t want someone named Hope to bring exactly that into their lives; their one-way journey towards the inevitable? In frequent music video director Austin Peters’ nifty and gleamingly cinematic LA exploit “Skincare,” that name belongs to an agile Tinseltown aesthetician played by Elizabeth Banks and decorates the minimally designed containers of her upcoming skincare line—products that collectively offer a sense of hope for the future. Maybe they’ll give you back that gone-too-soon glow of youth. And if used persistently, they’ll perhaps slow down your aging. You can only hope…

If the splendid cinematic tradition of LA-based movies has taught us anything in the past century, it is that everyone hopes for something grand in the perennially sunny City of Dreams. Hope is no different, after years of building a reliable stable of beauty and wellness clientele in her image-obsessed city of bare-midriffed hikers and aspiring screen sirens. But on the verge of her big launch, she is short on cash (though still inexplicably generous with those full-sized product samples she dishes out to everyone in her orbit), in trouble with her landlord, and increasingly intimidated by that brand-new beauty parlor that opens up right across the street from her shop. Its owner, Angel Vergara (a spirited Gerardo Méndez), seems nice enough at first. But how dare he steal her clients and parking spots and claim something even more miraculous with his products: not just to battle but to reverse the signs of aging on one’s skin.

Steadily, writer-director Peters (along with his co-writers Sam Freilich and Deering Regan) dial up the film’s sunny noir intentions. Once Hope receives a random text message one day (of a video filmed by someone spying on her), you might wonder if something akin to Michael Haneke’s “Cache”—a paranoid thriller with a quiet register—is in the cards. Then, Peters reveals he has something else in mind. This lighter psychological Los Angeles caper proves its maker has seen and genuinely internalized some of the greats of cinema with a proud La La Land backdrop where the city plays itself, from “Sunset Boulevard” to “Mulholland Drive.”

To be clear, the contemporary pleasures of “Skincare” don’t claim to be on par with these all-timers. But Peters is nonetheless here to show everyone a good time at the movies, whether you’re a fellow lover (and experienced cynic) of the vast and sparkling movie town he knows like the back of his hand or someone who just grasps that crime stories that track inexperienced criminals with no good options (think, “Fargo”) will always yield to something wild and compelling. It’s truly impressive how Peters braids together all the components that make LA great, unique, and sometimes despicable enough to shatter one’s dreams. For every wide-open vista, there is a claustrophobic corner in “Skincare.” For every aggressively sunny day, there is a dark and dingy room with a window placed so high on a wall that it reinforces a sunken feel. And for every wealthy enclave with smooth surfaces, there are those left alone to brave their own wrinkles.

A hardworking entrepreneur who’s well-earned good things for herself and her ambitious right-hand person Marine (MJ Rodriguez), Hope is trying damn hard not to belong to that latter group. But she is left with no choice but to enlist the help of the slimy life coach Jordan (a hilarious Lewis Pullman) and, on occasion, her smitten mechanic when her email, website, and client list get hacked, with the hacker posting sexual images on her accounts, creating personal ads on her behalf and sending seedy spam to her contacts from Hope’s address. Is it Angel doing all this, or are other forces at play to bring Hope down?

The answer isn’t necessarily that hard to figure out, but that suspense isn’t the ultimate point of “Skincare” anyway. Instead, the film assertively tackles questions around how our youth-obsessed culture aims to rattle the confidence of an aging woman with well-earned accolades in her field of work (that “Sunset Boulevard” reference again) and that there will always be opportunists around to exploit our diminishing sense of self-worth.

The film’s greatest asset, along with a sun-dappled cinematography, Banks is certainly game for every shade of Hope in her journey of poor decisions, escalated by bad luck and an eerie city that couldn’t care less about who falls down or survives the elements unscratched. In that, “Skincare” nails a routine well worth investing in.

More than 900 days since Russia first launched its invasion and unprovoked war of aggression against Ukraine, aimed at annexing territory and erasing Ukrainian identity, the conflict rages on — but in terms of achieving his strategic objectives, President Vladimir Putin has already lost.

In seeking to topple Ukraine’s democratically elected government, dismantle its statehood, and assimilate any surviving civilians into Russia, the Kremlin made its war an existential conflict for Ukrainians, who’ve demonstrated extraordinary resilience, passion, and unity in defending their sovereign nation. In threatening to impose its autocratic regime, Russia has succeeded only in deepening Ukrainians’ determination to protect their democracy and forge a political, economic, and cultural identity outside of a post-Soviet Russian sphere of influence. 

Ironically, it is the folly of Putin’s imperial ambition that has most effectively rallied leaders and civilians to the cause of Ukrainian nationalism and the unrelenting brutality of his assault that has most strengthened solidarity for Ukraine from Western and European powers. It speaks to the spirit of resistance still motivating Ukrainians in the present moment that, for all those who fled their homes and lived outside the country as refugees, millions of civilians defiantly chose to remain in Ukraine, fighting to defend their homeland.

When he flew to Warsaw in April 2022, a little over a month after Russia’s full-scale invasion, Ukrainian-American documentary filmmaker David Gutnik intended to make a film about people displaced by the conflict. After learning of artists who’d stayed behind in the western city of Lviv, near Poland, his focus shifted, and he found himself crossing the border with a camera in hand. 

“Rule of Two Walls” started shooting that month and finished production in Kyiv that November, amid blackouts caused by attacks on Ukraine’s power supply and other critical infrastructure. In that early stage of the conflict, as Russian forces bombarded cities and laid waste to urban areas, the wailing of air raid sirens became so commonplace that civilians would often choose not to seek refuge in bomb shelters. If each day might be their last, they reasoned, they did not want to spend it running for cover, bracing for impact. 

The title refers to this fatalistic thought process and the liminal reality that gave rise to it: to stay safe without leaving home and maintain at least two walls between oneself and the blast impact. Living in war, distinct from simply surviving it, makes such difficult-to-imagine compromises inevitable. What’s extraordinary about Gutnik’s film is what he captures of daily life under such conditions: how, even as bombs fall and missiles arc overhead, life goes on. How can it not? 

To Lviv, even getting up in the morning is a form of resistance, and a beautiful one — which is why Gutnik, who blends narrative and documentary techniques throughout his film, chooses to open “Rule of Two Walls” with a scene of two lovers in bed, sharing a lighthearted moment before the sirens sound. In his focus on musicians and artists who’ve found a way to create amid the destruction, processing their anger and grief through making art, Gutnik’s main exploration is of the continued role that Ukrainian culture plays in sustaining its society and national spirit, of the manner in which staying true to one’s artistic instincts is a signifier of profound dedication to Ukrainian cultural identity; of individual expression as collective resistance. 

“Culture is an action and product of a people,” explains Lyana Mytsko, the director of the Lviv Municipal Arts Center, which has functioned as both a shelter and an exhibition space during the conflict.  “So it is not possible to have a nation and not have a culture. When Putin says we have no culture, he means we have no nation.” It is for this reason that Russian military forces have repeatedly targeted churches, museums, and monuments during their assault on Ukraine, aiming to erase the country’s cultural heritage along with its history as an independent state, in violation of international law. 

Gutnik’s film shows us the Donetsk Regional Drama Theatre in Mariupol, destroyed in Russian airstrikes that killed the 600 people sheltering there, despite “Дети,” the Russian word for children, painted on the ground at its front and rear entrances, large enough for satellites to see. Diana Berg, one actress and activist who’d studied there, speaks about continuing her work in Lviv, struggling to depict through her art “a different Mariupol” than what ruins of it still exist. For many of them, she explains, making art is a means of “regaining control,” of asserting the right of Ukrainians to exist in defiance of Russia’s violent efforts to not only wipe them off the map but blot out their history.

Another remarkable sequence, without a word of dialogue, visits Kyiv’s city center, where civilians gradually surround a statue of Taras Shevchenko, Ukraine’s national poet, with sandbags so as to protect it from Russian missile strikes. The effect is haunting and strangely hopeful , as if this monument is temporarily ceding ground to a more modern art installation established in its honor. This mirrors an earlier sequence where artists explain that walls of Ukrainian buildings were once detailed with interior murals before they were covered up with white plaster during the Soviet era. It’s only amid the recent destruction that many such murals have been uncovered and restored, a process of literally chipping away at colonialist historiography.

Gutnik’s ensemble soon expands to include members of his crew. Like others interviewed in “Rule of Two Walls,” the film’s cameraman, producer, and sound recordist are artists working to make sense of the war, and their inclusion in the narrative feels once honest and compelling. Rather than identifying each of the interviewees or introducing locations as they first appear, Gutnik keeps the film’s narrative progression steady and unsettled, positioning his film as a ground-level dispatch from the conflict’s frontlines. 

Volodymyr Ivanov, the film’s director of photography, met Gutnik after traveling from Bucha, where he had been transporting and taking bodies out of bags; near Kyiv, this commuter town was the site of the mass murder of Ukrainian civilians and prisoners of war by the Russian Armed Forces. War is “an absence of everything,” Ivanov explains, confessing he has seen too much to feel anything but senseless. “Rule of Two Walls” travels to Bucha and shows us what he’s seen, photographing burnt and tortured corpses; such images are both horrific and essential to grasping the reality of the death and destruction inflicted on Ukraine, the courage of those fighting to defend their country, and the inescapable nature of such atrocity for all those who bear witness to it. 

Amid all the tragedy, Gutnik finds triumph as well through the artists whose potent and often painfully beautiful work he showcases, such as drawings by the anonymous Kinder Album that turn the war-time terrors inflicted upon women and children into grim, outraged storybook illustrations or the anguished lyrics (ex. “Didn’t get to love enough, to live long enough, and I’m not sorry”) that metal rapper Stepan Burban (aka Palindrom) unleashes during a studio recording session. 

The film climaxes at a concert in the fall of 2022, where Burban and his band perform for a packed audience of young Ukrainians who not only echo his songs of protest but amplify them in a galvanized chorus of collective defiance. But its final shot is perhaps even more striking: involving a little girl on a bicycle, making her way past burned-out freight train tankers, it’s a quiet, matter-of-fact moment that speaks volumes about Ukraine’s resilience, its history, its reality, its people, and their promise. 

“Rule of Two Walls” opens at DCTV’s Firehouse Cinema in New York on Aug. 16; Monument Releasing will then roll the film out to select cities ahead of its VOD release on Nov. 12. 

Director Julian Farino’s “The Union” follows Mike (Mark Wahlberg), a construction worker content with his job, dive bar outings with his friends, and sleeping with his former seventh-grade teacher (an awkward joke that remains a punchline over the course of the film’s entirety). When his adolescent flame, Roxanne (Halle Berry) returns to the east coast after decades of no contact, what he thinks is a meet cute down memory lane turns into an international intelligence operation. 

Hackers have accessed the personal information of all of the Western world’s government employees, from soldiers to cops and the FBI. Agent Roxanne and her cut-to-the-chase boss Tom (J.K. Simmons) are spearheading the mission to retrieve the hack to prevent it from getting in the wrong hands. Their titular organization, The Union, is a small, highly secretive agency within the government, akin to the operations of the CIA. They’re “an invisible army that keeps the world running,” an agency that looks for street-smart, blue collar individuals who fly under the radar. Kidnapping Mike from New Jersey to London, Roxanne enlists his help for this high-stakes assignment for one sole reason: “He’s a nobody.” It’s a flimsy premise that precedes an equally thin film.

There’s no driving force when it comes to the characters. We suspend disbelief that Mike would be remotely interested in this life-threatening operation for which he has no true technical skills solely out of nostalgic romance and maybe a hint of patriotic duty (the latter of which is not far off but assumed more for Wahlberg’s habitual social sentiments than anything in-script). On paper, the plot seems to be the sole consideration of the film, while character development and world-building this criminal underbelly falls to the wayside. 

Everything about “The Union” is painstakingly familiar. Wahlberg kicks back and lounges comfortably in his habitual role: a laid back, kinda cocky east coaster who juggles punchlines and machismo. Berry, who is fully capable of being a compelling action star, (most recently in the third installment of the John Wick franchise), attempts her best with the film’s shoddy script. “The Union” hits bullet points on its outline with an overwhelming sense of tired obligation and stunted creativity. Its leads have no chemistry and being that their will-they-won’t-they serves as the story’s main attempt at depth, the emotive capabilities of the film sputter and shut down. 

“The Union” delivers tonal whiplash on account of its failure to exceed at either end of its genre attempt at action-comedy. The action is mostly unremarkable, with a few key set pieces that pump the pace, but ultimately neglect to put anything exciting on display. Rebounds of exposition and non-committal world building fudge the film’s flow, making the 105-minute runtime feel like a fight to the finish. 

Its ham-fisted comedic attempts incite semi-indignant smirks and exasperated chuckles rather than genuine, inspired laughter. Most of the jokes hit with the punch of a half-deflated whoopee cushion, and the sneaking feeling that the script was written on the basis of cheap laughs creeps further up your back as the minutes tick on. “The Union” is unspecial and unengaging. It lacks charm and excitement, clutching to simplicity and a lazy script that relies on star power that’s not bright enough to save it.

When “Caligula” arrived in theaters in 1979, it came in on a tidal wave of hype, most of it on the negative side. The production of Penthouse Magazine publisher Bob Guccione’s grand experiment in creating an adult film that included the elements innate to a typical Hollywood spectacle was filled with such strife that both screenwriter Gore Vidal and director Tinto Brass attempted to remove their names from the project. The big-name actors involved—including Malcolm McDowell, Peter O’Toole, John Gielgud, and rising star Helen Mirren—disavowed themselves from it when they discovered that, after firing Brass and taking over the editing for himself during post-production, Guccione went back to the still-standing sets with a skeleton crew and a group of Penthouse models to shoot some hardcore sex scenes. These were added into the mix without their knowledge and threatened the film with legal challenges worldwide.

The final film received universally horrible reviews — Variety described it as a “moral holocaust,” and the progenitor of this very site dubbed it “sickening, utterly worthless, shameful trash. If it is not the worst film I have ever seen, that makes it all the more shameful.” Despite, or perhaps because of, such critiques, the film would go on to be a success, especially when it arrived on the then-emerging home video market. Over the years, it has developed a cult following, to be sure, but that’s almost entirely due to a morbid fascination regarding its bizarre confluence of artistic ambitions and pornographic content. Although Guccione had discussed producing other films in the wake of “Caligula,” he never did—since one of these projects was rumored to have been about Catherine the Great, this is perhaps not that big of a loss.

And yet, what might have resulted if the film kept its initial conception? Is it possible that somewhere in the reported 96 hours of footage shot during its production lay a movie that was actually … good? These are the questions raised by “Caligula: The Ultimate Cut,” one of the oddest reclamation projects in cinema history. Producer Thomas Negovan has gone through all that footage and reconstructed an entirely new version of the film — using alternate takes and cut scenes and removing all of the hardcore footage — that hews closer to what it was intended to be. This renovation is so elaborate that, although it now clocks in at just under three hours, it does not contain a single frame of footage seen in the original version.

The result is different from what came before and is, in many instances, a marked improvement. This time around, viewers can have a better appreciation for the often-stunning costumes and production design contributions from the legendary Danilo Donati (who had worked with the likes of Zeffirelli and Fellini and who would go on to do the sets and costumes for “Flash Gordon”) that were inexplicably given short shrift the first time around. By selecting more nuanced takes instead of the over-the-top ones used before, McDowell’s performance displays more of an actual arc, making his characterization far more interesting than the flat-out loon seen the first time around. He still has plenty of moments where he struts around like a cross between Alex from “A Clockwork Orange” and Mick Jagger, but he also has moments that allow a bit of humanity to shine through.

This also has the secondary effect of allowing the work of Teresa Ann Savoy, who plays Caligula’s doomed sister/lover Drusilla (replacing the originally cast Maria Schneider, who reportedly bailed after objecting to the sexual content), not to get steamrolled in their scenes together. Although she doesn’t quite capture Drusilla’s combination of tragedy and transgression, her work here comes closer to hitting the mark. Perhaps the biggest beneficiary of this new edit is Mirren, who only appeared in the original cut for about 20 minutes but whose role is greatly expanded here and remains both the film’s best performance and the one asset that successfully embodies its artistic and prurient ambitions. (Her work also makes you wonder how much better the film might have been if she had been cast as Drusilla.)

Yet, while “Caligula: The Ultimate Cut” is a marked improvement over the previous incarnation, it still has several fundamental problems so baked in that no revision can overcome them. One of the reasons that Vidal and Brass began feuding during the production is because they had an irreconcilable disagreement regarding the depiction of Caligula and his subsequent reign of depravity — Vidal saw him as a decent person driven to madness after having absolute power bestowed upon him. In contrast, Brass saw him as a madman long before he was given his position of ultimate authority. These differences were never resolved, and as a result, the film never quite seems sure of what it is trying to say about the man and the madness that he inspired during his short reign. While the narrative has a better flow this time around, there are still many instances in which it lurches around as though important scenes are either still missing or were never filmed in the first place.

While I cannot say that I genuinely miss any of the overtly pornographic material that Guccione clumsily inserted into the original version, that stuff was, for better or worse, a key part of what made the film so notorious in the first place and discarded it entirely feels like an awkward attempt at making it all seem more tasteful, even though the project as a whole remains steadfastly removed from most accepted notions of what constitutes good taste. That said, this is not to say that this version of “Caligula” has been neutered — this is a film that still opens with Caligula in bed with his sister, takes us on a tour of an elaborate multi-level sex dungeon, and eventually finds Caligula forcing the wives of the Roman senators to work as prostitutes on an enormous landlocked ship that has been turned into a brothel to replenish the state’s depleted coffers. The equally startling levels of violence are still on display as well, including a demonstration of an elaborate decapitation machine and the still-notorious scene in which Caligula barges in on the wedding night of one of his soldiers and proceeds to rape both the bride and groom. Put it this way: this is not the kind of movie where you want to load up at the snack counter before watching it, though it does make you wonder what kind of commemorative popcorn bucket it might inspire.

In the end, despite the extensive reworking, “Caligula: The Ultimate Cut” does not reveal the film as some kind of unjustly disparaged masterpiece deserving of revaluation along the lines of once-maligned works as “Heaven’s Gate” or “Ishtar.” This is not a film for everyone by a long shot. Still, those willing to take a chance and embrace it on its own very distinct and occasionally deranged terms are likely to find themselves agreeing with the ultimate assessment of Mirren, who once described it as “an irresistible mix of art and genitals.”

There’s something radical about the old-fashioned approach of “My Penguin Friend.” It’s an earnest, crowd-pleasing family film – nothing snarky or self-referential, no on-the-nose needle drops – just a sweet, beautifully made movie that earns the emotion it’ll surely draw from its viewers. 

Director David Schurmann tells the true story of the unlikely bond between a penguin and a fisherman, which lasted over several years and thousands of miles. The penguin would migrate every June from Patagonia at the tip of Argentina, along the Eastern edge of South America, to Ilha Grande off the coast of Brazil. It’s like “Same Time, Next Year,” with a flightless bird in place of Ellen Burstyn. 

In the script from Kristen Lazarian and Paulina Lagudi Ulrich, the fisherman, João, has suffered a devastating loss at the beginning of the film, making the surprising arrival of the penguin that much more poignant. Jean Reno gives a vulnerable, moving performance as João, a simple man broken by tragedy transformed by the thrill of this unexpected connection. He shows great range here, from sorrow to joy to an impish sense of playfulness, and his openness is captivating. And as João’s wife, Maria, Oscar nominee Adriana Barraza is a sturdy anchor, a steady source of calm no matter the highs and lows. She’s also not too thrilled at first about having a penguin pitter-patter around the kitchen of her modest, beachfront bungalow. 

But DinDim is too darn cute. That’s the name a little girl in the village gives the penguin, and it sticks. And part of what’s amazing about the film is that it features actual penguins rather than animatronics or CGI creations. The press notes inform us that we see live penguins 80 percent of the time, with some wire-controlled dummies and digital effects. The result is a hugely compelling feeling of intimacy and authenticity. Working with the great cinematographer Anthony Dod Mantle, Danny Boyle’s frequent collaborator, Schurmann shoots much of the film at low angles and from the penguin’s point of view. This gives the movie an exuberant feeling of childlike wonder, especially as DinDim gets into mischief. 

That’s a great example of how “My Penguin Friend” works on multiple levels for various viewers. Kids will love the silly energy while adults can appreciate the craftsmanship behind the chaos. From vibrant sunsets to endless ocean vistas to quiet moments in the family’s kitchen, Dod Mantle repeatedly offers wondrous images that buoy the film along.  

This is why it’s such a letdown whenever “My Penguin Friend” cuts away from this heartwarming story and returns to Patagonia to see what the researchers there are doing. Alexia Moyano, Nicolás Francella , and Rocio Hernández play the scientists who study these cuddly creatures, taking notes on their migration patterns as well as their activities in Argentina. DinDim stands out for his friendliness and curiosity, although Francella’s one-note character is a consistent naysayer who doesn’t think this particular penguin is anything special.  

Once a viral video emerges of DinDim being adorable with João and his fellow villagers, and it dawns on the researchers that he might be one of theirs, the back-and-forth of tracking him down becomes especially tedious. Given the international nature of the cast and the production, everyone speaks English to make things easier. Still, the dialogue and delivery in the Patagonia sections feel dull and stilted, particularly in contrast with the warmth of the rest of the movie. 

Still, the bond between João and DinDim ultimately prevails. A climactic rescue toward the end that mirrors the tragedy at the film’s start might feel like a bit too obvious of a parallel, but it provides a necessary moment of redemption and closure. The camerawork is so immersive here and Reno’s moist-eyed tenderness is so touching that it’s hard not to feel swept up in the emotion. You might not think you need “My Penguin Friend” in your life, either, but you do. 

There’s a great high-concept premise at the start of “Consumed,” an otherwise frustrating creature feature about a married couple who go camping and then fall apart. A rift has already formed between Beth (Courtney Halverson) and Jay (Mark Famiglietti) before they set out on a long hike, so tension only continues to grow once they’re attacked by a crazed outdoorsman (Devon Sawa) and what may or may not be a flesh-eating monster.

There’s more than enough situational peril baked into Beth and Jay’s marital problems to sustain a brisk 97-minute runtime, though Sawa’s haunted and generically standoffish antagonist provides a welcome dramatic complication. Still, it’s way more interesting to see Beth realize that she and her partner are no longer in sync, especially given how thoughtlessly overbearing Jay can be.

Beth’s a breast cancer survivor, and Jay doesn’t really know how to talk with her about what she went through. She’s also plagued by nightmarish, PTSD-style images of her body rebelling against her, either during or following a traumatic medical procedure. Jay clearly wants to make Beth feel seen and appreciated but doesn’t seem to understand or be particularly receptive to Beth’s feelings. For him, this trip is a victory lap; for her, it’s maybe the end of their time together. Then, they discover animal tracks filled with what looks like creamed spinach. A bear trap, a monster, and a raft of expository dialogue further complicate matters.

Like a lot of recent trauma-focused horror movies, “Consumed” eventually settles on its most troubled protagonist. The filmmakers’ focus on Beth might not have felt so confining if Jay was either further developed or reduced to a more convincing foil for Halverson to play off of. At first, Jay seems like a real enough problem, especially when he hovers and then smothers Beth with attention. Famiglietti makes it easy for you to believe that this type of well-meaning but unlikable personality might exist, particularly when he tries to make a ritual of burning Beth’s hospital ID bracelet. If you’ve ever been reluctantly admitted to a hospital, you know how difficult it can be to not want to scream at your uncomprehending friends and/or relatives. This preliminary section of “Consumed” credibly evokes that struggle.

Quinn, Sawa’s deranged hunter, then eclipses Jay as the main focus of Beth’s anxiety. He withholds crucial information from Beth and Jay for reasons that are somewhat obvious, but still unfold in their own time. Quinn’s also dealing with his own trauma, as you can see by the way he puffs on Beth’s cigarettes or mutters in sentence fragments. Sawa’s commitment to his role is undeniable, but Quinn never seems more than an obstacle in Beth’s path.

Still, once Quinn shows up, “Consumed” becomes more about surviving a “The Twilight Zone”-worthy threat that’s mostly implied but also occasionally visualized through suggestive, modestly-budgeted creature effects. Fans of Glass Eye Pix founder Larry Fessenden’s horror movies will already be familiar with the voracious fiend at the heart of “Consumed.” However, its identity is never as well considered here as in Fessenden’s soulful low-budget chillers.

Instead, “Consumed” becomes more about the tension between Beth and Quinn, leaving Jay to fade into the background. That sort of shallow focus might have been forgivable in a movie where Beth and Quinn share or at least talk to each other in a way that teases out their respective hang-ups. Unfortunately, the dialogue in “Consumed,” credited to screenwriter David Calbert, focuses more on pushing the plot along than unpacking either Beth or Quinn’s feelings.

It’s always hard to know why on-camera performances don’t play well off of each other, especially when their characters are at cross purposes with each other. Based on what’s on-screen, both “Consumed”’s dialogue and the direction fail to expand on the movie’s distinguishing concern with Beth’s emotional turmoil. Too much conversation weakens the impact of the monster attack scenes that will presumably hook most viewers in the first place. Some pseudo-folksy dialogue also rolls off of Sawa’s tongue like a wad of sandpaper, like when he clocks Beth’s post-cancer infirmity: “You’re sick, ain’t you?” That sort of line needs a bit more context to land properly, and “Consumed” doesn’t have nearly enough padding to make it stick.

A sense of rhythm or frustrated chemistry might have made a difference in “Consumed,” at least enough to stick to the movie’s by-the-numbers conclusion. Unfortunately, clumsy and mostly inert dialogue often pre-emptively steps on Beth and Quinn’s actions, making it even harder to anticipate whatever comes next. It’s also hard to shake the feeling that we’re watching inexperienced or simply ungrounded performers struggling to enhance threadbare material. Some exciting moments are scattered throughout “Consumed,” but they’re never as compelling as the movie’s initial promise. 

“Are you lost?,” an old lady at the mall asks sad-sack Renn Wheeland (Nick Jonas) during one of his omnipresent bouts of millennial ennui. It’s the kind of innocuous statement that, when revealed in stark close-up, is meant to convey a broader thematic underpinning in Robert Schwartzman’s weepy indie dramedy “The Good Half.” You see, Renn is lost, in the way so many sad white boys in movies like these are: His mom (Elisabeth Shue) has recently passed, and he’s too emotionally stunted and cynical to deal with it in any sort of healthy way. So, too, is Brett Ryland’s script, sadly, Schwartzman’s limp direction guiding a listless Jonas through a half-baked meditation on grief that feels too twee by half.

The bastard stepchild of “Garden State” and “Elizabethtown,” “The Good Half” feels too measured to work as melodrama and too mannered to be mumblecore. From its opening minutes, featuring Jonas lying expressionless in bed as the opening titles appear, Schwartzman lacquers this whole thing with a syrupy haze of melancholy, as if channeling Zach Braff on a hefty dose of Benadryl. Renn, you see, is your prototypical Disaffected White Boy, an obnoxiously passive stand-in for the screenwriter’s obviously autobiographical journey. He’s an aspiring screenwriter plugging away in LA, fighting off overtures from his boss to take a modest promotion (“you’d be supervising the payroll,” he offers) because he fears it’ll make him lose his dream. But naturally, his mother dies, and he takes the first flight out to his hometown of Cleveland, Ohio to deal with his family and bury her.

Renn’s relationship with his family, and his mother specifically, is complicated in that first-draft screenplay kind of way. In flashback, we see his mother as the kind of free-spirit that’s fun to be around but dangerous to trust: a formative memory for Renn is being abandoned at the store while Mom stole trinkets and tried on clothes she’ll just end up returning. He’s avoided seeing his family for months as Mom wasted away from cancer. So his father (Matt Walsh), stepfather (David Arquette), and sister (Brittany Snow) are all various flavors of angry at him. And his snarky, cynical attitude doesn’t help, Ryland sneaking one obnoxious quip after another in Renn’s mouth, Jonas delivering them with all the conviction of (ironically) a eulogy. Sure, he’s supposed to be masking his grief through humor, but neither him nor his family enjoy it, so we don’t either. 

One of his few lifelines outside his well-meaning but thinly drawn family is Zoey (Alexandra Shipp), a quirky girl he meets on his flight home, where they bond over whether or not all ’90s action movies are masterpieces. She’s the kind of Manic Pixie Dream Girl archetype you’d think we’d left behind in the late 2000s, yet here she is with her infectious personality (she’s so likable that she makes two new best friends that morning who follow her to karaoke) and oh-so-charming witticisms (e.g. referring to their current locale as “the land of Cleve”). On top of all that, she’s a therapist, thus serving double duty as Renn’s romantic and emotional support. She’s literally tailor-made in the script to fix him, and Shipp gets little to do besides that. 

Schwartzman’s approach is sluggish and poorly-paced, the film color-corrected to within an inch of its life and unable to balance the delicate tightrope act of comedy and drama that good examples of this kind of movie can attempt. Instead, it’s didactic and miserable, one scene after another hammering home the bone-simple idea that it’s not easy to grieve a loved one. The flashbacks serve little purpose but to undercut Renn’s contention that his mother “hated” her life, and the occasional slow-motion needle drop sequence feels like a limp attempt to throw a Wes Anderson or Zach Braff flourish at the film to impose some kind of style on the whole thing. It feels derivative, and just doesn’t work. 

Early on, Walsh’s put-upon father confesses to Renn that he has no idea how to help his kids through their grief: “I feel like I should tell you something profound, like quoting Thoreau or something.” This line is more revealing than you’d think; “The Good Half” is desperate to say something profound about the thorny nature of grief and how it forces us to confront the scary future we face without that person we love most in the world. But there’s nothing new here that hasn’t been cribbed from better, or even just earlier, texts. Instead, like Renn himself, Schwartzman and Ryland keep themselves (and us) at a distance from the material and our characters, keeping any of us from getting any closure or finding something new to say about such a universal experience.