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‘Good Time’ review: The Safdie Brothers’ hypnotic New York crime-thriller is more like a great time

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“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.

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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.

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‘Film Stars Don’t Die in Liverpool’ review: Annette Bening shines in this flawed Gloria Grahame biopic

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Annette Bening and Jamie Bell

Annette Bening is captivating in the role of former Hollywood starlet Gloria Grahame in Film Stars Don’t Die in Liverpool, which follows the Oscar-winning actress in her later years as she develops a relationship with Peter Turner (Jamie Bell), an aspiring actor from England who falls head over heels for the fading star the moment he lays his eyes on her in the North London guesthouse where they are both lodging.

Based on the memoir of the same name by Turner, Film Stars Don’t Die in Liverpool, which first premiered at the Telluride Film Festival last year, is as stunning as it is romantic, though, beyond the wonderful performances by Bening and Bell, whose chemistry sparks the moment they begin to interact with each other, there isn’t much here that we haven’t seen before—the film just feels too basic and too generic.

Perhaps its Matt Greenhalgh’s script or Paul McGuigan’s direction, but there’s something about Film Stars Don’t Die in Liverpool that causes the first hour or so of the film to feel unbearably boring, making it difficult to feel invested or even care about its rather predictable story that ends with inevitable tragedy. It feels as if the actors are doing most of the work in this film, and they do the best they can with what they have available.

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That being said, the film is still magnificent from a visual standpoint. Ula Pontikos’ magical cinematography, which utilizes lighting and color so effectively, is wonderful to soak in, while editor Nick Emerson flawlessly takes us back and forth between flashbacks and the present with such efficiency. And, oddly enough, despite the unauthentic look of the rear-projection used to transport Bening and Bell to cities such as New York City and Malibu, it makes Film Stars Don’t Die in Liverpool feel like one of the old Hollywood movies the real Grahame would’ve starred in back in the day.

By the time the film is over and the end title track, “You Shouldn’t Look At Me That Way,” written and performed by the great Elvis Costello, begins to play, you’ll probably wish that Film Stars Don’t Die in Liverpool had more to offer than just powerhouse performances and nice filmmaking techniques rather than a typical, by-the-books premise; especially one about someone as interesting and eccentric as Grahame.

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‘Call Me by Your Name’ review: Luca Guadagnino’s intoxicating gay love story is one for the ages

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Call Me by Your Name

From the moment the opening credits appear in Luca Guadagnino’s intoxicating new film Call Me by Your Name (scored to the sweet, melodious sounds of “Hallelujah Junction – 1st Movement” by John Adams), you know you’re in for a very special treat; a treat that will leave you thinking about the film you’ve just watched for hours upon end, like it did for me. It’s lush, erotic, riveting and, above all, simply delightful.

Based on the acclaimed first novel by André Aciman, and adapted for the screen by James Ivory (who cameos in the film, alongside producer Peter Spears), Call Me by Your Name transports its viewer to a sun-soaked Northern Italy in 1983 and follows Elio Perlman (Timothée Chalamet), an awkward, horny, not-so-average 17-year-old who enjoys transcribing music, reading books, swimming at the local river, and going out at night, as he describes to Oliver (Armie Hammer) in one scene. The latter is a chiseled, charming 24-year-old American graduate student staying at Elio’s parent’s (Michael Stuhlbarg, Amira Casar) gorgeous 17th-century villa as the annual summer intern tasked with helping Mr. Perlman, a professor specializing in Greco-Roman culture.

Elio appears dumbstruck by Oliver’s charisma early on in the film, invoking feelings of fascination, or perhaps even obsession, drawing him closer to the tall, sophisticated blond man that just seemingly waltzed into his own tiny little lazy world, surrounded by the walls of his parent’s villa. However, soon enough, we realize Elio isn’t the only one plagued with these feelings—Oliver feels just the same—and they share an amorous kiss on the side of a dirt road, surrounded by towering green grass and no one but themselves.

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“No, no, no. I know myself,” Oliver says after pushing Elio away when he comes in for a second kiss. “We’ve been good. We haven’t done anything to be ashamed of and that’s a good thing. I want to be good, OK?” Though, Elio doesn’t take this too seriously, as he places his hand on Oliver’s crotch, grabs it a few times, and asks him, “Am I offending you?” It’s a cutesy, playful moment, and is really just the beginning Guadagnino’s masterful tale of first love.

Oh, how wonderful it is to watch Sayombhu Mukdeeprom’s (who also shot Guadagnino’s upcoming Suspiria remake) stunning 35mm cinematography as he captures a summer that will change the lives of Elio and Oliver forever; riding bike rides around the town square, indulging in luscious breakfasts under the sun, engaging in secret meetings on the villa’s balcony, smoking cigarettes while discussing European history, and, yes, for those of you who’ve read the book, making love to peaches. It’s a relaxing, peaceful, spellbinding film with no real antagonist other than time and Oliver’s impending departure.

Chalamet, a young, new, fresh face in the world of Hollywood, who also appears in this year’s Lady Bird and Hostiles, delivers what is undoubtedly the best performance of the year in Call Me by Your Name as Elio, while Hammer, perhaps best known for his work in The Social Network and The Man from U.N.C.L.E., proves just how much range he truly has an actor in the role of Oliver; the two are an impressive dynamic duo, and it’s hard to even imagine anyone else playing as their characters. And, just when you’ve thought Stuhlbarg’s wise Mr. Perlman has stolen the show with a riveting, heartfelt speech to his son during the final act of the film, Chalamet swoops in with a silent, delicate close-up under the end-credits that will, undeniably, give you chills, if not tears.

Call Me by Your Name is a modern gay love story for the ages.

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‘Star Wars: The Last Jedi’ review: Rian Johnson delivers a riveting intergalactic spectacle

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The Last Jedi Mark Hamill

Star Wars: The Last Jedi begins just like any other installment in George Lucas’ long-running intergalactic franchise: A static blue text that reads “A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away,” followed by that rousing, iconic theme song composed by John Williams and a brief, yet informative opening crawl, teasing the adventures to come over the course of the next 150 minutes (making it the longest Star Wars movie to date).

But look a little closer and you’ll see that The Last Jedi is as unique and special as the diverse cast of characters it showcases, and writer-director Rian Johnson looks to take this series to a whole new level with the latest chapter in the seemingly never-ending Skywalker-saga that finds not one, but two central characters grappling with the Light and Dark sides of the Force.

As we see in that unforgettable The Force Awakens finale (the best part of a rather lackluster film), Rey (Daisy Ridley) has traveled to the gorgeous, Porg-infested island of Ahch-To to deliver Luke Skywalker’s (Mark Hamill) long-lost blue-bladed lightsaber and to convince him to join the Resistance in order to help defeat the First Order. However, a weary, worn-out-looking Luke doesn’t seem to have much interest in doing so, telling Rey that “it’s time for the Jedi to end” once and for all.

Meanwhile, the First Order, led by General Hux (Domhnall Gleeson), hot on the tail of the Resistance, is ready to strike again in retaliation for the destruction of its Starkiller Base. With General Leia Organa (Carrie Fisher) and Vice Admiral Holdo (Laura Dern) calling the shots, the Rebel army must act quick, as both time and fuel are running out fast. However, Poe Dameron (Oscar Isaac), takes matters into his own hands and enlists the help of Finn (John Boyega) and Rose (Kelly Marie Tran) to help carry out his rather dangerous plan of infiltrating the First Order’s fleet and disabling their tracking system.

Though the pacing could certainly be a bit tighter at times, Johnson does a more than impressive job of balancing multiple storylines in The Last Jedi (three, to be exact), and they all eventually come full circle by the time the credits start to roll and the age-old mysteries of the Force and shocking revelations of the past have finally been unlocked. Chances are, though, fans will be too lost in this riveting, visual feast of a film to even notice (or care about) something such as minor pacing issues or out of place humor.

Much like he did in The Force Awakens, the scar-faced Kylo Ren (Adam Driver) practically steals the show and reveals a much different side to his character than we’ve previously seen. “Forget the Jedi! Forget the Sith! Forget the First Order!” he exclaims at one point in the film, revealing his desire to start an entirely new order. But it’s whether or not he can convince Rey to join him that will keep audiences on the edge of their seat for the duration of the film.

A dazzling, gorgeously put-together sci-fi action extravaganza, The Last Jedi was obviously handled with much love and care by Johnson in both his writing and direction and that certainly translates on screen. The multiple storylines are exciting, while the characters, both the newcomers and the veterans, are simply wonderful to watch develop over the course of the film.

It’s no wonder why Walt Disney and Lucasfilm decided to give Johnson an entirely new Star Wars trilogy to create; the franchise is in exceptionally good hands as indicated by The Last Jedi.

AROUND THE WEB

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