“Don’t be confused. It’ll only make things worse for me.” There are an estimated 8 million people living in New York City. The Safdie Brothers’ vicious, rollicking, desperate Good Time is a dread-inducing, stomach-churning kind of modern classic, which chains itself to one person. Following a bank robbery gone wrong, Connie Nikas (Robert Pattinson) attempts that night to get his brother out of jail, the film is as claustrophobic as it is sprawling, as crushing as it is awe-inspiring, as reactionary as it is necessarily deconstructionist, as grounded as it is otherworldly.
The score pulsates throughout the entire film, unlike Hans Zimmer’s score in Dunkirk, which feels awkwardly coated atop the film, all bombast and authoritarian, Oneohtrix Point Never’s elegant work for the film seems grown in tandem, like the staking for a tomato plant. The aesthetics of Good Time waiver on the precipice of science fiction, with the score reminiscent of Blade Runner’s indulgent diegesis, a wheelchair lift synthesized and distorted, and the clammy neon, a welcome revision after the oversaturated, objectifying hues of Gaspar Noe and Nicholas Winding Refn, forming the sense that Connie’s world is isolated akin to a bully’s, abusive and solitary, a con life.
The film is tense and brisk and brusque, the sort that’s nearly inevitable with such close, jarring cuts. But the fast editing doesn’t account for the perverted genius of its imagery, such as a bright red paint tag car crash, or the double-sided Adventureland opus.
Pattinson has long been one of our great underrated performers, but here he exhibits a life, an energy beyond his strange magnetism. The human calculation as a performance that has been such a gift, that empathetic, maniacal precision, is put into overdrive, an overheated iPhone glitching out. His work ranks only against Jean-Pierre Leaud’s work in The Death of Louis XIV among the year’s best male performances. The surrounding actors, an orbit of unfortunate side characters, are universally great. Buddy Duress damn near steals the show in a centerpiece flashback, a blurry 7/11 slushie of a heist folly. Jennifer Jason Leigh continues to have the most interesting, diverse body of work for any American actress working today.
Much of the criticism propped against the film has to do with Ben Safdie’s performance as Nick, Connie’s mentally disabled brother, but I wager that this is misguided. Though his severe debilitation may register as a bit trashy (a common tendency throughout the film that I find more piercing than lazy), his treatment is questionable. Among other things, Good Time is the anti-Of Mice and Men, suggesting Nick a victim of toxic love; on a walk through a mental ward, Connie. There are intimations of domestic violence from both Nick and Connie’s grandmother and Connie, but rather than featuring as explicit reference points, they inform the silence of Connie’s tight grip on Nick’s shoulders in an alleyway or Nick’s momentary pauses in the final scene. The treatment of Ben Sadie’s character feels nothing if not totally respectful; He gets aggressive but not ragingly so when he gets sad, or cannot comprehend something, and the film never asks for pity or to excuse his obliviousness. The Safdies offer a realistic depiction of mental disabilities, brimming with humanity and support, never once relegated to a plot device by anyone except his own brother.
The film’s cultural criticism extends further. The tabs of LSD on Pepe cartoons, the stunning use of the N-word towards the end of the film, the black masks, the money laundering service, the comforting atmosphere of Leigh’s mother’s apartment, all signify a dimension of honesty and basically daring bravura machismo in its underpinnings. Labeled somewhat correctly as trolling, akin to von Trier’s formal gibberish in Nymphomaniac, the Safdies refuse to ignore socio-political backdrops, pushing the queasy implications of Connie’s indiscriminate actions brilliant through the dimensions of Leigh’s fallen class, or Rose Gregario’s Lauren’s mere happenstance, shifting from a stranger’s kindness to a girl uselessly jailed because of her race. The Safdies nudge and encourage a sort of savage pleasure in Connie’s increasingly desperate antics, even as the film grows increasingly sickeningly, vague kindness exploited by context. Connie’s vicious beating of Barkhad Abdi’s security guard is tinged with subconscious bias and a horrific layer of nervous sweat, but more disturbing is the police’s. The film is peppered with narrow escapes and plot devices, but they are deliberate; Connie gets by because of his manipulation and his identity, easily slipping through. The Safdies view class as a major limitation, but one further complicated and far surpassed by those of racial conflict.
Far from a metaphysical meditation on how society guides morality, Good Time physically embodies New York on a geographic and individual so profoundly, and fluidly. The camera traces the city from the ground level, only shifting during several transport interludes, where zooms to monitor a car, revealing an empty street, then a block occupied by so many damn people. That a film can have so tight a narrative but encompass in such a distinctly contemporary fashion one of the most iconic cities in the world is one of the central magic paradoxes of this micro-tragedy epic.
Like the recent Nocturama, Bertrand Bonello’s sexy French terrorist masterpiece, which opened the same week beside Good Time in New York and Los Angeles, Good Time’s power is built on a mixture of impeccable craft, a deep sense of place and contradictory philosophical impulses.
Connie is a bad person, and yet we allow his point of view because the film allows our engagement and horror to reflect a certain helplessness. Connie has never been taken to task, never gone to prison, and the audience garners futile hopes to escape free as well. The film is gross and ugly, to be sure, but there is a beauty to its embrace of every moment of stillness, and its realization of how destabilizing capitalism can be when even one person abuses their position of power. That Nick finds help from social workers feels as uplifting as it is a cynical comfort, that the system has worked out for a single person, with so many other still reeling from its faults. Good Time moves too fast to fully register all these questions on initial impact, but they latch hooks into the brain for days afterward.
Good Time is a great crime film because of how gleefully its submerges itself in the problems of the genre and the generosity with which it treats its own trolling. Through Connie, the film offers an anthropological X-Ray of New York antithetical to the tenants of any film in its class. Early Michael Mann would never let his affection sour as it does here. Connie’s fatalistic course of action is inevitably greeted with punishment, but the arrest is neither moralizing nor comforting. His privilege is enabling, above all else, the collateral damage he inflicts on the lives of those with whom he comes in contact is infinitely more damning than Pattinson’s last scene. Surely, that same scene shifts its focus, finding a frame with the closest thing to a wiser perspective, to the tragic events outside the cop car. This is not the story of Connie, but a Romance Apocalypse tour of New York City. It’s just pretty darn easy for Connie to run his shit here. Healing comes from the system healing the people, and the people healing the system. Pulling one over on the audience is not a victimless crime, but that’s sort of what you sign up for. Walk across the room if you ever feel powerless. End credits. Pet the crocodiles.
‘Aladdin’ review: Guy Ritchie’s live-action remake of the Disney classic isn’t exactly a whole new world
At this point, we’ve seen enough live-action reimaginings of Disney’s animated canon to know they don’t always concern themselves with breaking the mold. Their classics are classics for a reason – so if it ain’t broke, right? It should come as no surprise then that their adaptation of 1992’s Aladdin, for the most part, is very content to color inside the lines. Most of the proceedings will feel very familiar to fans of the original, so if you’re looking for a totally different take on it, you’re going to have to temper expectations. What we do get is a visually impressive, energetic adventure that could have spent a little more time on what new it does bring to the table.
Disney had a huge challenge out of the gate in conceiving this movie – how the heck do you recast the Genie, a role so iconically played by the late Robin Williams? Will Smith’s turn as the Genie, for all of its blue-tinged pre-release controversy, is largely a success. Crucially, Smith avoids the one thing that would have derailed the performance: trying to recreate the inimitable Robin Williams’ iteration of the character. Williams’ Genie was an amplification of the actor’s signature chaotic personality and Will Smith wisely steers far clear of trying to match that. This Genie relies on Smith’s charm, bravado, and the clear amount of fun he’s having playing the role. The story does give Smith’s Genie a little more depth than just being blue and hilarious, affording him a surprisingly fun and grounded subplot.
But does Smith get by on charm alone? It’s going to depend a lot on your opinion of Will Smith. While Robin Williams breezed through dozens of different voices and personas to bring the Genie to life, never letting us know what to expect, this version of the character very much feels like blue Will Smith (blue Hitch may be closer), so your mileage with the character is going to vary a lot based on how willing you are to accept that. While Smith does fine work, how reliant this Genie is on Smith’s personality does make you wonder if an actor pushing farther out of their comfort zone would have gotten us closer to the boundless creativity that made Robin Williams’ performance so memorable.
The one area that does feel like a clear improvement over the 1992 version is the characterization of Naomi Scott’s Jasmine, to the point where at times the movie feels like it’s more invested in her story than Aladdin’s. The princess feels more three-dimensional (pun not intended… nor apologized for) and she is given far more interesting ambitions this time around. Scott gives the character a dignity and drive that makes it easier to root for her than poor old Al. Both Jasmine and Genie’s newly fleshed-out arcs are welcome additions, but they do draw attention to how predictable and dated Aladdin’s story feels by comparison.
The supporting cast is hit-or-miss. While Nasim Pedrad and Billy Magnusson’s new characters end up being reliable for laughs, Marwan Kenzari’s take on Jafar is a letdown. Aside from a quick exchange about hating second place, it’s never very clear why Jafar is scheming for the Sultan’s throne, other than the fact that he’s just generally evil. The animated Jafar had real wickedness and darkness to him, but Kenzari trades that in for a creepy, ill-defined lust for power that never really excites. But he’s the one standing in Aladdin and Jasmine’s way and, dang it, we want them to be together!
Fans will be glad to know that Aladdin’s catalog of great songs are well represented here. Though “One Jump Ahead” proves to be a bit of a misfire early on, featuring a heavy emphasis on chase and action that doesn’t quite work, the rest of the numbers are a good time. “Friend Like Me” is the movie at its visual peak, and probably the closest the movie gets to recreating the magic of the animated film. One of the most pleasant surprises on the soundtrack is the new number written by Benj Pasek and Justin Paul (Dear Evan Hansen), “Speechless”. Scott’s an able singer, and “Speechless” is a great showcase for that talent. The song won’t win any awards for subtlety, but in the context of Jasmine’s story, it really works.
On the visual front, Aladdin rarely disappoints. Agrabah feels vibrant and alive, most of all during “Prince Ali”’s grand entrance, and the surrounding desert is beautifully shot. The Cave of Wonders sequence in particular shows off Guy Richie’s skill at crafting an action set-piece, and everything from the mystical danger of that scene down to Aladdin’s parkouring all over Agrabah really moves with great pace under his eye.
One of the most pleasant surprises on the soundtrack is the new number written by Benj Pasek and Justin Paul (Dear Evan Hansen), “Speechless”. Scott’s an able singer, and “Speechless” is a great showcase for that talent. The song won’t win any awards for subtlety, but in the context of Jasmine’s story, it really works.
‘Game of Thrones’ finale review: An epic final episode that corrects some major wrongs
Spoiler warning: this article is for people who have watched the Game of Thrones finale. Do not read on unless you have watched season eight, episode six: The Iron Throne.
And so, at last, after 73 episodes, untold millions of dollars and an estimated 200,000 slayings, it is all over – bar the shouting on the internet. Death came to Game of Thrones and everyone involved in its making threw up their hands and shouted “Yes! Finally! Today!”
We began the finale with Tyrion wandering the ash-strewn ruins of King’s Landing, scene of Daenerys’ handbrake turn into full-blown lunacy last week, lifting fallen bricks and confirming for himself, and viewers still clinging to hope, that the Lannister twins were indeed deceased beneath them. Having the Imp cry “This is an ex-Lannister! If it wasn’t buried under rubble it would be pushing up daisies!” would have been only fractionally less subtle a way to confirm what we all needed confirming before we could get on with the true business of the day; deciding who gets the Iron Throne, who gets to die and who gets a spin-off series.
Daenerys was looking confident about her position, with a jaunty speech to her followers (“Blood of my blood! You have given me the Seven Kingdoms!”) and the speedy arrest of Tyrion for treason. Jon looks pained. Possibly because of the mindless destruction and mass murder carried out by his lover-aunt. Possibly because he’s trying to do a sum involving odd numbers in his head. Dear, sweet, useless Jon. People have berated the writers for many things over the show’s run, but they surely deserve some recognition for managing to sell Kit Harington as a convincing candidate for kingship.
Jon visits Tyrion in prison, where the Last Lannister tries – as Arya does just before – to convince Jon that as a fellow Targaryen with a claim to the throne, the woman atop the dragon might just attempt to do him harm in the near-future. “That’s her decision,” says Dumbo. “She is the queen.” Tyrion adds that she’ll probably go after Sansa and Arya, too, which seems to cause scales to fall from Jon’s eyes, and prompts just about the only bit of action in the finale.
In this generation’s Buffy/Angel moment, Jon kills Daenerys for the greater good. Drogon makes his feelings about this development clear by melting the Iron Throne with dragon fire and flying off with her corpse. “That’s no good!” shouts Jon after him. “T’throne’s just a symbol. Tha’s got a lot more work to do before tha can usher in an age of representative democracy!” No, he doesn’t. But the actual script doesn’t try much harder. After Jon is arrested offscreen by the Unsullied, the lords and ladies of Westeros convene to decide what must be done. They decide to … choose a ruler from among them. Just like that. Grey Worm, made Dany’s Commander of All War Things in the wake of her dragon nuking King’s Landing, makes no objection. No word on who gets to tell the Dothraki. Bagsy not me.
Samwell wonders whether the people should have a say in who gets to govern them. Oh, but the guffaws can be heard across the Narrow Sea! So that’s that possibility as dead as a White Walker run through with Valyrian steel.
Tyrion nominates –
Bran. Or Bran the Broken, as he is dubbed. Westeros is very ableist, as you might have suspected after the six seasons it took for anyone to cobble together a wheelchair for him. It’s a callback to the ancient figure of Bran the Builder, who raised The Wall, founded Winterfell and was the first King of the North, but still. Bran. Bloody Bran. He will rule over only six kingdoms, because Sansa declares the North will become independent once more. Which again, everyone seems fine with. Tyrion becomes Bran’s Hand but Grey Worm insists that Jon be punished by returning to the Night’s Watch. Fair does. Might as well look permanently pained somewhere; it makes sense. And he’ll never realise there’s no reason for the Night’s Watch to exist any more.
Arya is taking a gap year to go travelling “west of Westeros”, an unmapped region rumoured to contain the Mountains of Spin-Off Potential. Our last sight of the whole shebang is Jon setting off into the super-north with the Free Folk.
There’s no doubt this season has been a rushed business. It has wasted opportunities, squandered goodwill and failed to do justice to its characters or its actors. But the finale just about delivered. It was true to the series’ overall subject – war, and the pity of war – and, after doing a lot of wrong to several protagonists last week, did right by those left standing. Whether the million signatories to the petition to remake the entire final season, or the majority of the estimated 45 million around the world due to watch the last episode, will agree – who knows. When you play the Game of Thrones, you win or you die. Overall, I think, it won.
‘John Wick: Chapter 3 – Parabellum’ review: A wildly fun kick-shoot-fight-repeat spectacular
“Prepare for war,” someone who knows Latin will tell you, if you ask about that subtitle, though it’s hardly necessary intel: In these gloriously dumb—but remarkably well-staged—gun-fu flicks, the war is already here, and it lasts for an entire film.
Maybe others prefer it when Keanu Reeves talks; for me, he’s more effective when he moves. John Wick’s somber suit-clad NYC assassin has become his signature role, stripping down Speed and The Matrix into something John Woo sleek. Mob thugs killed his pet pit bull in the first installment. Those guys are long gone. Though this latest John Wick adventure brings on the usual distractions—Ian McShane’s fastidious boutique-hotel proprietor, Lawrence Fishburne’s booming king of the Bowery underworld, Halle Berry’s lady with vicious dogs that leap straight for the crotch—mostly these characters stay out of the way of the main attraction.
Instead, we’re here for the rigorously conceived, blessedly coherent action showdowns, the work of director Chad Stahelski (also Reeves’s longtime stunt double and choreographer). Stahelski is a fight-scene Fosse and Reeves is his Gwen Verdon: Parabellum takes the hall-of-mirrors high style of the second film and pushes it into overdrive. (Those who live in glass-walled galleries shouldn’t throw anything at Wick.) The level of hard-R-rated bloodletting is so delirious, you’ll ignore how bad it is for you.
A closed Manhattan Bridge is the perfect site for a sword duel on speeding motorcycles. Put Wick on a horse and he’s more of a menace than John Wayne on a grouchy day. In one battle, so many knives are flung, a corpse is used as a pincushion. It’s the golden age of…something—please don’t make us explain it.