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‘The Fate of the Furious’ review: Big, dumb, fun action with a lot of heart

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When the first trailer for The Fate of the Furious was released back in December, I thought it looked like the most pointless, ridiculous movie of all time. I was convinced that a franchise that I once loved had finally run out of ideas and that this would be the installment to drive it into the ground. And, I suppose I was right about one of those things: The Fate of the Furious is absolutely ridiculous. But, boy, is it a hell of a lot of fun.

Dominic Toretto (Vin Diesel) and his wife Letty (Michelle Rodriguez) are on their honeymoon in Havana, Cuba, a place where it “doesn’t matter what’s under the hood” and street races take place on a beautiful oceanfront looking out onto the Gulf of Mexico. With Brian and Mia officially retired from the game they had once loved, and the rest of the team now off doing their own things, a normal life seems to have found its way to this globetrotting team.

Unfortunately, Dom’s honeymoon is cut short one morning by a beautiful, mysterious known only as Cipher (Charlie Theron), one of the world’s most notorious cyber-terrorists and soon-to-be love interest of the man she is about to entice. Somehow, someway, Cipher manages to seduce Dom into an underground world of crime he can’t seem to escape while ultimately turning his back on the people he loves the most: his family. Shit begins to go haywire in Fast 8 pretty darn quick and it’s hard not to love every moment of it.

The star-studded cast of The Fate of the Furious features the busiest man in Hollywood right now, Dwayne Johnson, as Hobbs, the DSS agent who organizes the initiative to stop Cipher’s plan of global annihilation, as well as Jason Statham as Deckard Shaw, the slick Black Ops assassin with the British accent that shares quite a bit of back and forth banter with his associates, particularly Hobbs, in what has to be one of the most well-written action movies I’ve seen in a very long time. However, despite all of the shit-talking, it turns Deckard may share something more in common with Dom and his crew than he originally thought.

While the addition of Scott Eastwood’s Eric Reisner, or, as Tyrese Gibson’s fast-talking ladies man Roman calls him, Little Nobody, the supporting cast feels stronger than ever in this movie. It’s hard not to love Ludacris as Tej, and Kurt Russell is incredibly charismatic as Mr. Nobody, who carries himself in a way that others in this movie simply cannot. Though, while everyone in The Fate of the Furious gave exceptional performances, it was Theron’s badass Cipher that truly was the icing on the cake in this action-packed adventure.

The character development in The Fate of the Furious is well enough to distract us from the fact of how ridiculous it truly was. One scene in particular that stuck out to me was when Cipher commands one of her hackers to begin controlling all of the cars in New York City in order to stop a limousine transporting a duo of Russian officials who just so happen to have a nuclear football with them, as well. It’s a moment so ridiculous that you’ll be rolling your eyes the entire time—but you can’t stay mad at the movie for long. There’s always something new, fresh, and exciting around the corner, which leaves for a film complete little to no dull moments (except for a few moments in the first act).

While watching The Fate of the Furious, it’s hard not to be thinking about the top-flight creative team director F. Gary Gray must’ve put together for this big, dumb blockbuster that carries a lot of heart. Stephen F. Windon’s cinematography is stunningly gorgeous, while the editing skills of Christian Wagner and Paul Rubell were careful enough to masterfully craft each frame of this movie together into something that, while silly, is intelligent and exciting to watch unfold. Sure, it can be a bit predictable at times, but you never truly know what’s waiting for you around the corner in Fast 8.

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

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The Last Jedi

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, 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.

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PFF 2017 review: The 4 best movies from this year’s Philadelphia Film Festival

Our own Sam Mauro reviews the four best films they saw at the 26th annual Philadelphia Film Festival earlier this month.

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WOLFE RELEASING

Princess Cyd

A Chicago-set neo-folktale of queerness, Princess Cyd marks itself with both lightness and assurance. The film feels novelistic in its structure, sprawl, and sense of rhythm. Yet, its levels of performance, allowing for different scenes to register as presentation. It’s the rare humanist film to not only have clear aesthetic choices, but also a sense of composition, a visual sophistication beyond well-intentioned empathy. The film’s editing is straight fire, moving at a clip that still allows individual moments to expound upon themselves. Jessie Pinnick is a revelation, with the maturity and wisdom of a hundred lives, sprawling outwards, into this fully realized, organic, true sense of Buffalo Grove’s humanism. Despite the title, this is a dual-helmed film. Though, in actuality, this is a work of so many lives, colliding at all levels of intimacy. Cone’s last work, Henry Gamble, showed how the rigidity of religion and so much of White American suburbia conflict with the fluidity and empathy humans crave. Princess Cyd is near utopian by comparison, without abandoning the hardships and trauma of existence. It is healing, empowered art. Despite its safe exterior, Cone’s near-radical rejiggering of the American indie feels like the amicable cousin to Nathan Silver or the less ostentatious Rick Alverson.

TIFF

Let the Corpses Tan

A total fetish object. Comparisons to Quentin Tarantino seem misguided; the latter interrogates loosely through dialogue and structure, repurposing grindhouse optics without shifting them. Helene Cattet and Bruno Forzani’s cinema is composed almost entirely of inserts, an affront to the coy smarminess of Ben Wheatley’s horrendous, regressive Free Firewith the warm, hallucinogenic parade of demolished stimuli. Admittedly a mild step-down from the Eurocore purgatory of The Strange Colour of Your Body’s Tears, this moves beyond their last work’s metatext phantasmagoria, to all kink, a vicious bombardment that never lets its political aesthetic rest or wither. Gnarly and beautiful stuff, this is a brusque, magical alt-porn rush.

A24

Lady Bird

Greta Gerwig’s first solo directing outing (though debut is too fine a point—even if it was not for her co-directing with Joe Swanberg on 2007’s The Dish and the Spoon, Gerwig’s collaborations with Baumbach have long established her voice) is rich, if not as daring or complicated a work with which she’s been involved in the past. A fine, unexemplary high school film (Saoirse Ronan plays the age wonderfully, and its structure strikingly mirrors the rhythms of senior year). But further, this is a fantastic mother-daughter film, a great Sacramento film, a great film about 2002, interrogating its cultural touchpoints and influences further. It is perhaps too generic, less unbridled. Of all people, Gerwig should be one of the few permitted to adapt Sondheim, with as little music as possible. I would love for her to work with Diane Keaton.

MERRICK MORTON

Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri

Not particularly enamored with In Bruges, and even more irked by Seven Psychopaths, Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri is a wicked sort of trauma. Though, its sense of humor still feels both glib and down-trodden, and its sentimentality too easy (by structure, not by the magnificent details). It is a desperate, rough work of mourning, but confuses formula, pattern, and genre with almost willful disregard. Frances McDormand transforms the adjective of “stout” into a collection of torso movements and half-gestures; if hacks produce only posture when acting, McDormand seems so deep within her character, so receptive to the world, that her body’s movements feel like an afterthought, a total powerhouse of Midwestern grit. Though Three Billboards flirts with the Southern Gothic and the noir, its roots serve as a more authentic Greek tragedy than Yorgos Lanthimos would dare dream up.

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‘The Florida Project’ review: Sean Baker’s latest effort is humanist exploitation pop art realism

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Props to Sean Baker, at least, for shooting The Florida Project on film. With 2015’s bottle rocket screwball breakthrough Tangerine, the festival circuit labeled the film with the unfortunate informal tagline of “the iPhone movie,” though the dialogue eventually circled around to the meatier discourse on representation in cinema. A blitzkrieg Christmas comedy following two trans women of color on the Sunset Strip’s sex work industry, the film received equal parts praise and backlash for its spotlight on the L.A. nobody talks about.

Fast forward to this past May, when The Florida Project stormed the Cannes Film Festival. Though it failed to scoop up any awards, the film was showered with glowing reviews. Set around an Orlando motel filled with a collection of extremely poor outcasts, the film follows Mooney (newcomer Brooklynn Prince) and her friends on a wandering, tangential journey through a world never given its own iconography, its own recognition.

As a Tangerine agnostic, the marketing leading up to The Florida Project kept expectations in that same limbo. (As smart as it was to flip the script on the follow-up by making such a visually gorgeous work distinctly classical.) Alexis Zabe lights the film so perfectly, plaster walls and muted, damp climates, communicating the weather as truly normalized to the character’s interior expectations. This is some of the showiest work of the year, to be sure, but it is also some of the best.

Here’s the thing: this is social realism disguised as pop art, so why not just make it pop art? The imagery of the Magic Kingdom, the sense of place, is irrevocably tied to the capitalist institutions, yet the movie chooses to visually root its more somber moments in the palette of arthouse poverty porn. The most striking elements of Tangerine were the aimless, flourishing interludes, where the simple act of walking down the street was fully voyeuristic, and thus reclaimed and brought to life the kind of attention paid to the sex workers in real life, glaring L.A. sunset and all. The issue with combining the quotidian and gritty with such vibrancy is clearly meant to reflect the tone, but the aesthetic awareness of the surroundings proves, inversely, too cute for Baker’s central conceit. The kids have no idea what’s going on around them.

Willem Dafoe, as the motel’s manager, soars above the entire film. One of the most skilled and innately personable actors in Hollywood, Dafoe’s performances appear to be siblings, all akin to one another in their distinctively shared mannerisms and operations, yet so wildly disparate in their emotional range and dramatic function. Though Bobby is written essentially as the motel’s patron saint, Dafoe renders him parts civil servant, father figure, nuisance, hardened wise-ass, stage manager, and ringmaster.

The kids are adorable, acting out obnoxious, shrill, totally cute interludes, the non-actors led by the magnetic Brooklyn Prince. Baker’s main contradiction, that empathetic objectification, works best and most interestingly here. The innately compelling notion of observing children as they go about the world is so endearing, and Baker’s commitment to keeping the children as dynamic and egocentric as possible puts the film’s visual language to use with what many critics have called the “entertainment” of such a relentlessly bleak film. 

The film’s greatest disservice falls upon Mooney’s young mother Hailee (Bria Vinaite). There’s a fascinating interview from the festival circuit where Baker describes looking at Bria Vinaite’s Instagram, wanting to capture that “free-spirited” attitude onscreen. Baker sees her for an individual quality, a single trait which defines a character so fully it rings hollow, from a performer who shows such produce if, under different circumstances, were allowed to flourish and operate in a more varied range. Hailee serves as both a maternal and sororal figure for Mooney, and although the film is especially intelligent on her temporal space in the film – the effect her mother’s schedule, specifically, has on Mooney is the closest the film comes to structural sophistication – Baker has no real sense of their interactions; Unlike the spontaneity of the kid’s interactions, Hailee and Mooney’s feel railroaded, speaking not to shared experiences but rather the most overwritten and underdeveloped parts of the film’s skeleton. The mirroring between the two’s attitude only comes across as a function of the script’s paring down of Hailee to her impoverished standing, defined only in that context, even for herself.

For all the film’s focus on class, it has no interest in interrogating late capitalism, racism, or media, which, admittedly, caters to a very specific audience. Consider the people of color who inhabit the film, gesturally outside any sociopolitical climate. So much of the film looks like the greatest collection of Tumblr posts, VSCO filters, Instagram stories, any number of soon to be outdated forums for a quintessentially modern vision (and most of which are dominated by specific visions of whiteness). That this is guided by some vague, ill-defined sense of humanist cinema, a genre which itself was borne out of privilege, arrogance and a lack of context for various cinematic forms, where the film’s political concerns are broad and caricatured, its characters loose nothings, a window dressing against which actors struggle aided only by personality. Baker never comes close to capturing even the multi-faceted display of iconography on Vinaite’s Instagram feed, let alone a more intimate assemblage of portraiture.

The ending feels like the inevitable evolution – an aesthetically divergent, manipulative, moving, artistically dubious finale that feels like a pure fantasy on a visual and dramatic level. The desperation of the catharsis is perhaps not wise enough, thanks to the film’s guiding commitment to childish subjectivities, but it is worth noting that this near-satirical ending (or perhaps it feels as such just because it’s the only time the film’s thesis proves biting) does not conflate the children’s ignorance with resilience. The system will swallow these kids up whole, both Hailee and Mooney alike. Baker holds a generic but resonantly shrill documentation of a childhood oblivious to its own dire, poverty-stricken backdrop. The work’s fatalism is at least pointedly opposed to glib contrast, but The Florida Project fails to synthesize the two beyond a naive sort of exploitation and representational displacement.

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