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Closing Thursday: Like Father Like Son
Held Over: Bad Words
Opening Friday: Under the Skin
Thurs. - April 17 - 7:15 pm AFri. - April 18 - 7:00 - 9:00 pmSSat. - April 19 - 4:30 - 7:00 - 9:00 pm SSun. - April 20 - 2:30 - 5:00 - 7:00 pm S/AMon. - April 21 - 7:15 pm STues. - April 22 - 7:15 pm AWed. - April 23 - 7:15 pm SThurs. - April 24 - 7:15 pm A
QUICK SYNOPSIS: Jason Bateman makes his feature directorial debut with the subversive comedy Bad Words. Mr. Bateman stars as Guy Trilby, a 40-year-old who finds a loophole in the rules of The Golden Quill national spelling bee and decides to cause trouble by hijacking the competition. Contest officials, outraged parents, and overly ambitious 8th graders are no match for Guy, as he ruthlessly crushes their dreams of victory and fame. As a reporter (Kathryn Hahn of We're the Millers) attempts to discover his true motivation, Guy finds himself forging an unlikely alliance with a competitor: awkward 10-year-old Chaitanya (Rohan Chand of Homeland), who is completely unfazed by Guy's take-no-prisoners approach to life. (c) Focus
SELECTED REVIEW: For a guy who often plays nice, Jason Bateman sure knows how to wrap his lips around invective. He doesn’t have an especially rubbery mouth, the kind that Jerry Lewis could stretch until it almost snapped, nor does it curl with the puckered elasticity displayed in the poster for “Bad Words,” a comedy about a guy who crashes children’s spelling bees. Sometimes, he just opens wide, and out pops an expletive. At other times, he turns his nice-guy face toward the target, pauses for a beat or two while he sizes up the opposition — maybe sends out a decoy, like a faint smile or a deceptively inviting word — and then he slashes and burns. The kids take it hard.
One of the givens in “Bad Words,” a would-be gonzo comedy with a tough exterior and a marshmallow center, is that there’s something funny about making children cry. Squeezing tears is a talent that Mr. Bateman’s bullying 40-year-old, Guy Trilby, has perfected as the unwelcome participant and universally loathed champion in a national spelling bee where everyone else is decades younger. He has his reasons, because, well, everyone does. (He’s wormed his way in through a loophole by claiming to have never graduated from the eighth grade.) Guy is a smarty-pants even if he’s not as clever as he thinks. By the time he comes clean about his dirty words and deeds near the end, you may have already spelled O-e-d-i-p-a-l and moved on to p-s-y-c-h-o-b-a-b-b-l-e.
It scarcely matters, because the point of a movie like “Bad Words” isn’t psychological nuance or philosophical profundity, but the secondhand pleasures that are supposed to come from irresistibly disreputable characters engaging in socially unacceptable behavior. That, at any rate, is the idea, as the movie, which Mr. Bateman directed, takes Guy from contest to contest, and he spells and smarms his way to another victory. Along the way, the recipients of his broadsides start to seem so specifically targeted that they could join any number of antidefamation groups. He jokes about one boy’s weight, tells a girl that she’s leaking menstrual blood before she takes the stage to compete, and quiets a hectoring mother by, among other digs, comparing her vagina to a “blown-out sweat sock.”
By then, the movie has already started to soften, and Guy has begun hanging out with a chatty, sociable 10-year-old competitor, Chaitanya Chopra (Rohan Chand, a scene-swiping moppet). They meet cute aboard an airplane to the spelling bee finale when Chaitanya introduces himself, and Guy tells him to point his “curry hole” elsewhere. This is followed by some back-and-forth, slap-and-tickle as Chaitanya, with what seems like pathological obstinacy, insists on befriending the surprisingly willing Guy. It’s an odd-couple hookup that, at least from a distance, could set off alarms, or would, if the movie, written by Andrew Dodge, were testing the borders of mainstream comedy instead of staying within its acceptable parameters. Ugly vagina jokes are O.K.; man-boy love jokes, ew, not so much.
It would be something to see Mr. Bateman go authentically dark (perhaps not that dark), but it’s also enough just to watch him as he widens his eyes, furrows his brow and shows off his excellent timing. He does fine behind the camera, as well, even if with too many slow-motion interludes. But it’s a fluid feature-directing debut, and he pulls the ensemble together smoothly: The performances are funny, appealing and, in the case of Allison Janney, as a spelling bee official, wonderful. A dowdied-down Kathryn Hahn has it tougher as Jenny, a reporter who’s chasing Guy for his story and occasional sex. It’s a pathetic role, largely because she’s a sad piñata made for the whacking simply because, it seems, the only thing worse than making kids cry is being a journalist. Review by Manohla Dargis, nytimes.com
Fri. - April 18 - 6:30 - 8:45 pm ASat. - April 19 - 4:00 - 6:30 - 8:45 pm ASun. - April 20 - 2:30 - 5:00 - 7:00 pm S/AMon. - April 21 - 7:00 pm ATues. - April 22 - 7:00 pm SWed. - April 23 - 7:00 pm AThurs. - April 24 - 7:00 pm S
QUICK SYNOPSIS: A voluptuous woman of unknown origin combs the highway in search of isolated or forsaken men, luring a succession of lost souls into an otherworldly lair. They are seduced, stripped of their humanity, and never heard from again. Based on the novel by Michael Faber, this film examines human experience from the perspective of an unforgettable heroine who grows too comfortable in her borrowed skin, until she is abducted into humanity with devastating results. (c) A24 Films
SELECTED REVIEW: Is "Under the Skin," in which Scarlett Johansson plays a mysterious woman luring men into a fatal mating dance, a brilliant science fiction movie—more of an "experience" than a traditional story, with plenty to say about gender roles, sexism and the power of lust? Is it a pretentious gloss on a very old story about men's fear of women, and women's discomfort with their own allure? Does it contain mysteries that can only be unpacked with repeat viewings, or is it a shallow film whose assured style and eerie tone make it seem deeper than it is? Is there, in fact, something beneath the movie's skin? Why is every sentence in this paragraph a question?
I can answer that last one: "Under the Skin," Jonathan Glazer's first film since 2004's "Birth," is special because it's hard to pin down. It doesn't move or feel like most science fiction movies—like most movies, period. It's a film out of its time. Its time, I think, is the 1970s, when directors like Alexander Jodorowsky ("El Topo," "The Holy Mountain") and Nicolas Roeg ("Don't Look Now," "The Man Who Fell to Earth") made viscerally intense features with subjective visuals and sound effects and music and dissociative editing. Certain modern filmmakers still work in this mode occasionally—for instance, the Iranian director, Abbas Kiarostami, whose 1998 film "A Taste of Cherry" shares some odd similarities with "Under the Skin." As you watch any of those films, you think about what they're trying to say, or what they "mean," or on a much simpler level, what the heck is happening from one minute to the next. But at a certain point you realize that on the simplest level, such films are saying: "Here is an experience that's nothing like yours, and here are some images and sounds and situations that capture the essence of what the experience felt like; watch the movie for a couple of hours, and when it's over, go home and think about what you saw and what it did to you."
The opening of "Under the Skin" might remind you of the openings of "2001," "Blade Runner" or "Close Encounters of the Third Kind," or certain movies by Paul Thomas Anderson: an immersive, hypnotic gambit that feels like the mental equivalent of a palate cleanser. As Mica Levi's score buzzes like an otherworldly hornet's nest, we see a black screen with a tiny white dot in the middle. The dot grows incrementally larger, or closer, before shaping itself into a pattern of rings that simultaneously suggests a birth canal dilating, the stages of a rocket separating, and a lunar eclipse as seen through a telescope's lens. What's happening? The movie doesn't exactly tell us. Maybe this is the heroine, Johansson's character, falling to earth, or landing on earth. Maybe. Then see a man on a motorcycle retrieving the body of a young woman (also Johansson) and the woman donning her body as one might don a set of clothes. Who is the motorcyclist? Is he her mate? Her procurer? Her handler? Who is she? An astronaut? The vanguard in an alien invasion? An intergalactic sex tourist visiting Earth as an American might visit Amsterdam or Bangkok? The opening is the first of many sequences in "Under the Skin" that feel more figurative than "real"—moments in which we suspect we're seeing the poetic representation of a thing, not necessarily the thing itself.
Most of the movie does, however, feel "real," particularly scenes of the woman driving around Glasgow, Scotland, enticing men to get into her white van and follow her to an abandoned flat where, it is implied, they have sex. The men (shot by hidden cameras in a series of improvisations) seem like real men. They aren't movie star handsome. They're young, alert and engaging. Some are funny and seem like they might even have a chance with an attractive young woman who was not an extraterrestrial looking for a hookup. The unnamed heroine seems genuinely intrigued by their banter, sometimes amused, never in a condescending way. She seems to be learning about this new environment and the people in it, and enjoying herself when she isn't anxious about passing for human.
But once we join the woman and her men in the vacant apartment, the film turns figurative again. The men follow the heroine through a pitch black doorway that's yet another symbolically charged portal; it's as if, by stepping through it, both she and they are being born, or reborn. Once the couples step through, we don't see any sex, just nudity plus movement, in what might be a musical number choreographed by performance artists. The frame is completely black except for the woman and her prey. They both take their clothes off, item by item. The woman always backs away from the man, slowly, confidently, but with an eerily blank expression (most of Johansson's expressions are eerily blank, except when she's unexpectedly laughing or showing confusion or fear). The man walks forward, but seems to trudge lower and lower into a black pool. The heroine, meanwhile, continues to walk backward on the pool's undisturbed surface.
The leading lady gives a performance different from any you've seen from her. It's keenly attuned to the movie's aesthetic. It's more about intuition and gesture than dialogue. Johansson has to be at once achingly specific and so general that you can hang symbols on her. She pulls it off. And somehow Johansson, Glazer and his cinematographer Daniel Landin transform how we think of this star. They've taken one of the most glamorous actresses of the modern era—a woman whose looks have been abstracted into hubba-hubba caricature in most films, and on awards shows—and ironically restored her earthliness by having her play a creature not of this earth. They've made her beautiful in a real way, with hips and blemishes and folds in her skin.
There are hints of an unspoken psychic bond between the woman driving around in the white van picking up men and the mysterious motorcyclist zipping around Glasgow, hugging the curves of hilly roads that dip and snake like the ones in the opening sequence of "The Shining"—but we never find out precisely what the connection is. There are times when the heroine is a vessel emptied of meaning. Other times she seems like a human struggling to learn the subtle everyday details of a new culture. She speaks in an English accent, the men in thick Scottish accents. The absence of subtitles adds to the feeling that she's a stranger in a strange land, and makes us empathize with her as we try to understand the men. We study their facial expressions and gestures to plug gaps in meaning.
She's the woman as Other, yet she's also "just" a woman, or "just" an alien creature. She is everything and nothing. There are times when the film seems to be too freighted with meaning, as if inviting scholars to write thesis papers analyzing its masculine and feminine symbols. At other times it seems to be deliberately mocking such impulses, giving false clues to literal-minded viewers who insist on trying to "solve" movies like equations. But the film's disturbing finale goes beyond such simplistic "this=that" analysis. First it removes all doubt as to who the heroine is—what her "secret" is. Then goes beyond such questions, so that you feel a mix of despair and wonder not unlike what you'd feel at the end of a melodrama, or a Grimm fairy tale whose ending, however dreadful, is not depressing because it feels right.
Movies like this don't find their way into commercial cinemas very often. When they do, they don't tend to star anyone you've heard of. When a film comes along that doesn't fit the usual marketplace paradigms, such as "The Tree of Life" or "Upstream Color" or "Spring Breakers," you take notice. "Under the Skin" is a film in that vein. Right after it ended, I argued its merits with a friend who didn't care for it, and I jokingly referred to it as "what would happen if Michelangelo Antonioni directed 'Species.'" It sounds like a glib joke, but I meant it as a compliment to the movie's mix of horror film menace and intellectualized control. It seems to hard to believe today, now that the pantheon of great directors has hardened into consensus, but there was a time when people thought there was less to Antonioni than met the eye, too. On the basis of this film, "Birth" and his debut "Sexy Beast," Glazer strikes me as a director in the same weight class as Antonioni and all the other great filmmakers I've name-dropped in this piece, including Kubrick, the artist Glazer most often evokes. (Like Kubrick, Glazer takes his time—this is only his third feature in 13 years—and like Kubrick, he becomes more formally audacious, technically innovative, and inscrutable with each new work.)
I wanted to watch "Under the Skin" more than once before I reviewed it. Life got in the way of that. No matter: I feel secure in saying that it's going to end up on my list of the year's best movies. I saw it almost a week ago and it has never been far from my mind. Is it perfect? Probably not. It might be too much of something, or too little of something else. Time will sort out the particulars. But I do know that the movie's sensibility is as distinctive as any I've seen. "Under the Skin" is hideously beautiful. Its life force is overwhelming. Review by Matt Zoller Seitz, rogerebert.com
Thurs. - April 17 - 7:00 pm S
QUICK SYNOPSIS: Ryota (Masaharu Fukuyama) is a successful Tokyo architect who works long hours to provide for his wife, Midori (Machiko Ono) and six-year-old son, Keita. But when a blood test reveals Keita and another baby were switched at birth, two very different families are thrown together and forced to make a difficult decision while Ryota confronts his own issues of responsibility and what it means to be a father. LIKE FATHER, LIKE SON extends the Japanese cinema tradition of familial exploration to deliver a gentle and moving story of personal redemption that playfully navigates its way through the drama. *In Japanese w/ subtitles* (c)IFC Films
SELECTED REVIEW: The Japanese melodrama “Like Father, Like Son” turns on the kind of cruel twist — children switched at birth — that’s the stuff of tear-wringing headlines and fiction. It begins with the revelation that two 6-year-old boys were given at birth to the wrong families, which now need to decide on the best thing to do. For one set of parents, Ryota (Masaharu Fukuyama) and Midorino (Machiko Ono), a comfortably middle-class couple nestled high in a glass tower, the revelation that their only son, Keita (Keita Ninomiya), isn’t a blood relation is a blow to their tiny family. It’s also a wedge that — day by day, hurt by hurt — transforms these loving parents into sparring partners.
Family ties wind through the work of the Japanese director Hirokazu Kore-eda, whose films include “Nobody Knows” (about four children abandoned by their mother) and “Still Walking” (about a family grieving for a dead son). In his last film, “I Wish,” he tells the story of two seemingly unsinkable young brothers separated by their mother and father’s bad marriage and choices: Each child lives with a different parent, having been divided up as if they were household possessions. In “Like Father, Like Son,” Mr. Kore-eda again creates a pair of irresistible charmers whose lives are, with increasing emotional violence, upended — with polite bows, civilized conversations and hollow-sounding rationalizations — by the very adults meant to take care of them.
The movie opens like a whisper with Ryota, Midorino and Keita being cordially interviewed by some school officials. The three are seated and facing the camera with Keita — a small, serious, reserved child with enormous, startled-looking eyes — tucked between the adults with almost symmetrical precision, as if they had been perfectly lined up with a measuring tape. Dressed in sober, formal clothes, they look like variations on one another, like an idea that has been repeated in altered form. (The use of Bach’s “Goldberg” Variations throughout the movie underlines this theme, also telegraphed by the title, almost too forcibly at times.) The officials ask questions, but only later is it revealed that the interview is part of an entrance exam for what appears to be a high-end school.
Mr. Kore-eda never overly explains his stories through the dialogue, preferring to tease out their meaning visually. The pictorial precision of the interview dovetails with the family’s reserve and air of hushed privilege and continues once the three return to their comfortable, modern apartment with its big windows and teak details. About the only things disrupting the space’s graphical harmony are the toys and Keita’s artwork scattered around the home, emphatic reminders that while he is exceptionally well behaved he’s still very much a child. And if that seems obvious enough to anyone watching, it’s a point that, Ryota in particular, loses sight of as the narrative unfolds, and the adults begin negotiating with one another over the fates of children, sometimes within tiny earshot.
The story’s meticulously arranged initial calm is disturbed by a phone call that changes the family’s life: For reasons revealed only later, Keita had been swapped at birth with another boy, Ryusei (Shogen Hwang). With the help of hospital officials who serve as self-interested brokers (it’s all for the good of the children, they intone), Ryota and Midorino arrange a meeting with the other parents, Yukari (Yoko Maki) and Yudai (Lily Franky). A somewhat disheveled, nicely matched smiley set, Yukari and Yudai live with the rambunctious Ryusei and their two other young children in a small, cramped apartment tucked next to their sleepy appliance store. Slowly, over the course of months, the families meet, circling each other as together they try to figure out the future.
Mr. Kore-eda’s leisurely pace can sometimes feel overly deliberate here, and the obvious differences between the families, who initially seem to embody order versus chaos, at first register as excessively schematic. Once the pieces are in place, though, and he begins shifting your attention elsewhere — say, to a child secretly listening to his parents arguing — these differences recede, which is precisely to the story’s greater meaning. For all their obvious differences, the children and adults fit together simply because they love one another. It takes Ryota, who emerges as the central character, a long time to catch up to this essential, plaintive truth, which makes him a frustrating, at times appalling and finally perfect hook on which to hang this persuasively human story. *In Japanese w/ subtitles* Review by Manohla Dargis, nytimes.com
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