'Logan Lucky' review: Steven Soderbergh's heist comedy is endlessly pleasurable
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‘Logan Lucky’ review: Steven Soderbergh’s hillbilly heist comedy is endlessly pleasurable

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Steven Soderbergh is quite possibly the smartest person in the film industry. Ever since Sex, Lies, and Videotape blew up the Sundance Film Festival 28 years ago, the director has been undermining and indulging and exploring the multiplex with rigorous, original, high-quality adult cinema (while still maintaining that charmingly juvenile radical streak). Though his last theatrical release may have technically been half a decade ago with the shoddy 70s imitation game of Magic Mike, his true previous work of cinema, The Knick, was a masterpiece of shapeshifting, body horror, materialism, medical historiography, and cultural anthropology. Logan Lucky, in contrast, is a much simpler, streamlined, a heist film that dances with the goofy dissonance of white America. That it’s still quite good is as much a relief as it is more or less the status quo now. Each new Soderbergh offers an updated annexation of capitalism and American art, and if Logan Lucky isn’t his most incisive, it’s certainly one of the more fun. 

Logan Lucky still tends towards some of that 70s cinema aping, with its egregiously heated color palate and altruistic masculinity, and the goof on morality in crime rings trite and dull. But mostly, the film is just a total joy. These people, sandwiched on the border between West Virginia (whose governor recently flopped back over to the Republican party) and North Carolina (which is, as last year’s Little Sister proved, our nation’s most politically weird state). The film is structured so tightly, but Soderbergh’s shots breathe, each environment given proper weight and spatial awareness.

Logan Lucky is a film so pristinely assembled, finely tuned to the way of America, rich and satisfying and so warmly funny. The film skips and glides, so naturally, towards its conclusion without the fatalism of overwriting. Logan lucky carries the inimitable, unassuming aura of a Soderbergh production from the very first frame. The intelligence carries through every moment. Every gesture is inspired, so fully-developed and in-line. Much could be said on the peculiar disheartening transition from maverick experimental filmmaker to populist workman, but there’s a gentle air here that dissuades the audience from any cynical reading. Soderbergh’s talent lies in bringing that inventive energy to even the simplest of scenarios.

Channing Tatum holds the film aloft so instrumentally and with grace and technical maturity, expanding the common gauge for someone already established as one of the great actors of his generations (that’s common consensus, right?). Adam Driver is a miracle worker of underperforming. His deadpan buffoonery, love for his brother, obsession with a family curse, all of it is neither deadened nor overzealous; It is odd and human and real. Daniel Craig’s Joe Bang looks tired. This is a compliment. His zany energy in the marketing for the film threatened overperforming. Thankfully, Joe Bang is an odd duck, contemplative, amusingly neurotic bottle rocket. It’s not just that Daniel Craig is smiling onscreen for the first time in a decade; it’s the first time in ages his disaffection felt so welcome. Minor players like the magnificent Riley Keough, Hilary Swank, Sebastian Stan, and, hell, even Seth MacFarlane, are all so wonderfully employed throughout.

The last fifteen minutes are so inexplicably perfect. The screenplay (allegedly and hilariously ghostwritten by Julie Asner under the pseudonym Rebecca Blunt), moves beyond the heist, beyond even an Ocean’s Eleven style epilogue con, to a communion of progress under capitalism. Though the film plays bipartisan as hell, Soderbergh captures the raucous ennui of the middle-class white south. It luxuriates in the ease and wit of the heist but refuses to give into the lens of a class based conflict. This is a film that gives voice to those who feel underrepresented without disavowing their privilege. It’s frustrating to see a film so nearly approach such vital satire, especially considering the ripe contemporary setting, but that cognisance allows its humanism to flower even further; the goodness of these people is real, if not that of the world they inhabit.

It’s hard to overpraise the film, though it is small and minor. Soderbergh is a great director with a startlingly short supply of truly great films. Rather, he prefers to produce weird, wonderfully personal works of exploration, refinement, indulgence, and moderation. He explores the American working class with humanism that it’s easy to forget that at the core of all his work, he’s pretty much just fucking around. Like Jack London, the movie is as damning of the limits of poverty and Americana as it is infatuated with the charms that restrict the nation. If the film falls short of greatness, (a fact of which I am still unsure), it is due only to its lightness, its ability to spring effortlessly from moment to moment, prioritized to the point where scenes occasionally lose density, sliding through plot or wicked gaffs. Regardless, such is a small price to pay for such a wonderful movie. Logan Lucky is a damn magical object, pure, and endlessly pleasurable.

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‘Game of Thrones’ finale review: An epic final episode that corrects some major wrongs

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Game of Thrones finale
HBO

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.

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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 –

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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.

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‘John Wick: Chapter 3 – Parabellum’ review: A wildly fun kick-shoot-fight-repeat spectacular

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John Wick: Chapter 3 - Parabellum
LIONSGATE

“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.

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‘Us’ review: The latest horrifying nightmare from the mind of Jordan Peele is his best one yet

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Us Jordan Peele
UNIVERSAL PICTURES

A little more than two years after the release of Get Out, the Oscar-winning directorial debut from Jordan Peele that served as a creepy, satirical social commentary about race relations in America, the writer-director is back again with Us, his audacious sophomore effort that so desperately wants us to know that, despite what we may think, we are our own worst enemies.

The film opens with a brief, chilling prologue set in 1986 before fast forwarding to the present day where we meet the Wilsons, an upper-middle-class black family visiting their Santa Cruz beach house for what is expected to be an idyllic summer getaway.

Santa Cruz also happens to be the hometown of Adelaide (Lupita Nyong’o), who is as charming as she is overprotective of her family, which includes the fun-loving Gabe (Winston Duke), phone-tethered teenage daughter Zora (Shahadi Wright Joseph), and mask-wearing young son Jason (Evan Alex).

Perhaps it’s her motherly instincts that cause her to be the way she is, but it’s probably more so due to the fact that she experienced a traumatizing incident as a child that still continues to haunt her to this day. And you can’t really blame her for that.

So when Gabe offers to take the family to the beach for the day, the site where Adelaide experienced her childhood trauma, she understandably refuses. But after some convincing from Gabe, she agrees to go, but only under the condition that they leave before nightfall.

Oddly enough, though, the moment the Wilsons arrive at the beach, a number of strange events and coincidences begin to unfold; we see a dead body being loaded into the back of an ambulance, a frisbee with a pentagram-like design land perfectly aligned with a polka dot on a beach towel, and a bloodied man standing motionless in the middle of the beach, hands out, as if he’s waiting for someone to come and join him.

These strange occurrences, in addition to Jason wandering off without telling Adelaide, put her on edge. And when the Wilsons arrive home that night, things don’t necessarily get any better. There’s a family standing in their driveway. Four of them. Who is it? It’s the Wilsons themselves.

While the concept of the evil doppelgänger is certainly nothing new to the horror genre, Us always feels wholly fresh and original, and never once dares to fall back on the typical genre tropes or clichés that audiences have grown so very tired of over the years.

Peele’s script, much like the one that won him an Oscar for Get Out, is wickedly smart, funny, and witty, and is packed with so many genuinely shocking surprises that you never fully know for certain when he’s going to be throwing another curve ball your way.

The cast acts it all out in such incredible fashion too, especially when you consider the fact that they’re pulling double duty here with dual performances. Nyong’o is particularly impressive though. Whether she’s playing the charming superheroine that is Adelaide or her terrifying, raspy-voiced doppelgänger, it’s hard not to rank her up there with Toni Collette in Hereditary as one of the best horror performances in recent memory.

By the time the Us is over, things may not be clear right away. And that’s OK. With all of the various imagery and symbolism spread throughout, there’s no doubt that this is a film that demands more than just one repeat viewing. But the main message at the heart of the film is evident, and it’s as important as ever—especially in Trump’s America.

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