film reviews, interviews, features | BRWC

Author: Matt Conway

  • Sharp Stick: The BRWC Review

    Sharp Stick: The BRWC Review

    Sharp Stick Synopsis: Sarah Jo (Kristine Froseth), a naive 26-year-old living on the fringes of Hollywood, begins an affair with her older employer (Jon Bernthal) and is thrust into an education on lust, loss and power.

    Girls creator Lena Dunham takes her distinctive sensibilities to the big screen in her directorial debut Sharp Stick. My exposure to Girls is relatively limited, but I greatly respect Dunham’s creative approach. The writer/director never feels confined by contrived narrative devices, often embracing a more loose, naturalistic style that explores human sentiments with genuine insight. 

    Transitioning from the freeing perimeters of television to a theatrical feature poses some unique challenges for Dunham. With Sharp Stick, her knack for meandering yet reflective conversations and breezy plotting create some inconsistencies, but the film still elicits a humorous and uncomfortably honest journey. 

    Coming-of-age narratives are a dime a dozen – so much so that even adolescent films centered around sexual discovery could represent their own genre at this point (Yes, God, Yes and Pleasure mark a few recent examples). Instead of leaning upon familiar genre tenants, Dunham crafts a film that is as aimless and uncertain as her central protagonist. 

    Her choices will undoubtedly alienate some viewers. For me, embracing a more lackadaisical narrative is a fitting canvas for Sarah Jo – who juggles her fragmented home life and her even more dysfunctional affair with her boss. Amidst the chaos, Dunham frames Sharp Stick as an oddly affectionate journey of self-acceptance through the unlikely prism of sexual discovery. Both narrative arcs throw Sarah through the wringer of abandonment, toxicity and emotional trauma, but the character utilizes these road bumps as learning lessons in defining authorship over her life. 

    A cast constructed of assured performers also heightens the material’s free-form strengths. Star Kristine Froseth transforms Sarah Jo’s unassuming presence into a lively central protagonist – gradually uncorking the character’s naivety as she discovers her true identity. Likewise, Jon Bernthal forgoes his traditionally charismatic persona with winning results as Sarah Jo’s unfaithful boss. The actor lays on a thick bravado that cleverly masks the childless and raging insecurities underneath his shtick.

    Sharp Stick boasts an undeniable charm even through its moments of uneven execution. While frames grounded around Sarah Jo resonate emotionally, Dunham deploys one too many subplots in a screenplay that does not give all of its characters purpose. The home sequences are particularly droning, straddling the talents of Jennifer Jason Leigh and Taylour Paige in uneventful roles as two vapid forces in Sarah Jo’s life. Ultimately, Sharp Stick volleys between moments of brilliance and frames that go nowhere in their talky antics. 

    Sharp Stick showcases the distinguished strengths and weaknesses of Dunham’s oeuvre. For me, it’s an odyssey worth losing yourself in due to its humorous and uniquely authentic qualities. 

    Sharp Stick opens in select theaters on July 29 before a VOD release on August 16.

  • Thor: Love And Thunder – Another Review

    Thor: Love And Thunder – Another Review

    After years of besting foes in combat, the God of Thunder Thor undergoes a personal quest for inner peace. Unfortunately, his odyssey is soon sidetracked by the sudden arrival of a god-killing entity and an even scarier presence; his one true love and ex-girlfriend Jane Foster in Thor: Love and Thunder.

    Thor represents a fascinating presence in the Marvel Cinematic Universe. As one of the few characters still standing from the universe’s Phase One heyday, the character endured years of transformation as the executive team tried to find the right approach. Neither 2011’s Thor nor 2013’s Thor: The Dark World inspired much fanfare, but acclaimed writer/director Taika Waititi discovered an appealing avenue with 2017’s Thor Ragnarok.

    Packed with vibrant colors and Waititi’s distinct comedic energy, Ragnarok re-discovered Thor as a man bursting with charisma and genuine vulnerabilities. The same creative team makes their long-awaited return with Thor: Love and Thunder, yet that once-bright creative spark feels noticeably absent here. Love and Thunder trips over its ambitions in a bloated and conceptually underbaked sequel.

    If you loved Ragnarok, there’s still a good chance you’ll find enjoyment in Love and Thunder. Waititi doubles down on his comedic hijinks and lively imagination while pushing his auteur sensibilities to new limits. On paper, I appreciate Waititi and Marvel for embracing this level of auteurship. Allowing superheroes to come to life under the guidance of inspired directors is a much better decision than embedding the same blah flavoring into each MCU film.

    Unfortunately for Love and Thunder, that level of open-ended creative control does not pay off. Waititi and co-screenwriter Jennifer Kaytin Robinson pack Thor’s coming-of-age story in a dense narrative experience that rarely receives breathing room. Alongside Thor’s search for personal solace, Love and Thunder tries to build more detailed backstories for Jane Foster, the villainous god-killer Gorr, and Thor’s friend King Valkyrie – all in an under two-hour narrative.

    As you can guess, the narrative combusts from its sheer bombast. The screenplay dances between ideas and character arcs without developing a succinct identity, often coming off as a series of vignettes lacking a core foundation. Each character shares a symbolic connection in their search for love and self-acceptance. Unfortunately, frenetic pacing truncates a majority of those arcs into unfulfilling journeys. There is some promise in the film’s attempts to imbue a more character-driven and emotionally vulnerable approach amidst the superhero genre’s penchant for chaotic violence. Those sparks of vitality ultimately exist as remnants of what this film could have been with proper focus.

    The breathless plotting rests all responsibility on melodramatic speeches and unprompted montages to carry the heavy lifting – a choice that coats every frame in a hackneyed sense of emotion. Mixed with half-baked attempts to ruminate on class divide and legacy, Love and Thunder spins a chaotic tornado of ideas and feelings that compounds itself into a weightless blur.

    Even the elements that made Ragnarok a refreshing breath of fresh air feel noticeably absent here. Visually, the film undergoes a nightmarish night-and-day transition from Ragnarok’s opulent imagery. There’s never a moment when the film looks like a grandiose blockbuster. Despite the film’s $250 million price tag, cheaply-integrated CGI backdrops and unimaginative action setpieces are surprisingly commonplace. Waititi’s movies typically look vibrant – it’s really a bummer to see his usual visceral craft suffocate under the Marvel blockbuster train.

    Other Waititi quirks also struggle to gain traction. Ragnarok built a sharp comedic voice from its mix of self-referential one-liners and quirky setpieces. With Love and Thunder, the eccentricities feel more like an annoyance. Tired running gags and cheesy references populate the screen without drawing the genuine laughter that made Ragnarok so dynamic.

    Love and Thunder takes some earnest risks, but the experience lands with an oppressive sense of fatigue. The movie is over-stretched and underdeveloped as Waititi struggles to build upon his solid foundation. Even with my misgivings, I credit Marvel for trusting in the talents of a distinctive filmmaker compared to running another studio-assembled product.

    Thor: Love and Thunder is now playing in theaters.

  • The Gray Man: The BRWC Review

    The Gray Man: The BRWC Review

    A convict-turned-government agent becomes the target of an unhinged bounty hunter in The Gray Man. The latest Netflix big-budget tentpole is their most expensive yet, charting a globe-trotting espionage yarn embedded in several familiar film staples. Think the spy intrigue of Jason Bourne meets the machismo energy of an old-school 80s action movie.

    The Gray Man also marks another step away from the Marvel brand for Anthony and Joe Russo. After steering the historic success of Captain America: Civil War and Avengers: Endgame, the duo struggled out of the gate in their overbaked award hopeful Cherry. Their struggles unfortunately continue with The Gray Man – an insipid spy thriller that confuses big-budget spectacle for an engaging experience. 

    Ironically enough for a spy feature, The Gray Man constantly remains an enigma to its audience. Joe Russo and Marvel staples Christopher Markus and Stephen McFeely collaborate on a lifeless screenplay that never finds its rhythm. Tonally, the writing jumps between the hard-wired realism of a gritty spy feature and the cheeky goofiness of a summer blockbuster. 

    I don’t think the trio pulls off either sensibility effectively. They spend most of the screentime spouting useless plot jargon and flat one-liners as a substitute for an arresting personality. If you did not like the Russo comedic sensibility in the Marvel films, you’re likely in for a grueling experience with the number of ineffective gags forced throughout. The narrative is also as generic as it gets – rarely stretching past the safe confines of routine spy mechanics. There are also brief moments where the film touches upon government malpractice and bureaucracy’s kill-now-ask-for-answers-later mindset, but these frames are too thankless to register an actual impression. 

    The focus on by-the-numbers plotting leaves The Gray Man’s characters (and cast) in the dust. Master spy Six and the blood-thirsty contract killer Lloyd Hansen are supposed to serve as a compelling rival duo. Instead, the two wallow as flat, one-dimensional caricatures given little purpose aside from a lust for bloodshed (attempts at making Six more affectionate receive little attention). Not even the subdued charisma of Ryan Gosling or the snarky charm of Chris Evans enriches the bland action figures who rarely pop off the screen. Ana de Armas, Jesse Henwick, and Regé-Jean Page also receive little purpose outside of standing around and looking self-serious. It’s frustrating seeing an acclaimed cast wasted in uninteresting material that lies far below their talents. 

    The Russos’ directorial efforts feel equally unfulfilling. I at least credit the duo for embracing a grandiose scale in their latest big-budget effort. Aside from a few laughably CGI-driven setpieces, The Gray Man delivers the type of alluring spectacle Netflix is desperately vying to provide. Roaring bike car chases and close-quarters shootouts are all captured with a steady hand by the directors as the film offers enough variety in its explosive setpieces. 

    At the same time, The Gray Man presents a restrained and unimaginative visceral profile. Several frames are well-composed and dramatically lit, yet these moments rarely come to life in a film that progresses without significant momentum. The Russos struggle mightily in unearthing the nail-biting tension or evocative mood that an enthralling spy piece should develop. An inclusion of cheap stylistic gimmicks, like several sloppily executed drone shots and green screen backdrops, only cheapens the attempts at an atmospheric approach. Additionally, I don’t understand why several blockbusters continue embracing a washed-out color scheme. Why drain the appeals of a 200-million dollar movie with scenes mucked in flavorless aesthetics? 

    The Gray Man is serviceable enough for viewers looking for a few blockbuster jolts, but I could never get past the film’s voiceless final product. Like a poorly drawn imitation, the film rests in the shadow of the superior films it aspires to build upon.

    The Gray Man is now playing in select theaters before releasing on Netflix on July 22. 

  • Paws Of Fury The Legend Of Hank: Review

    Paws Of Fury The Legend Of Hank: Review

    Paws of Fury The Legend of Hank Synopsis: A down-on-his-luck hound (Michael Cera) finds himself in a town full of cats who need a hero to defend them from a ruthless villain’s evil plot to wipe their village off the map. With help from a reluctant trainer (Samuel L. Jackson), the underdog must assume the role of fearsome samurai and team up with the felines to save the day. The only problem is — they all hate dogs.

    After being bullied in a dog-eat-dog world, Hank undergoes an unlikely journey to become a master samurai in Paws of Fury: The Legend of Hank. What appears as a seemingly unremarkable animated family film possesses a surprisingly intriguing backstory. The film was initially conceived as Blazing Samurai – a reinterpretation of Mel Brooks’ classic comedy Blazing Saddles (it’s not every day that Mel Brooks has a screenwriting credit on an animated movie).

    Following years in development hell,  Paws of Fury arrives in theaters with little fanfare. Yet, under the surface of the film’s generic marketing materials and inconsistent execution lies a project that boasts winning results for the family film genre. Paws of Fury successfully treads its own inspired wave-length in a humorous and self-referential underdog story.

    Who would’ve thought a 2022 animated film would pay sincere homage to an uproarious 1974 Mel Brooks feature? Amidst the seven screenwriters with credits on the film, Paws of Fury still extracts a comedic voice sharpened by a more thoughtful perspective. The film intentionally paints a familiar narrative roadmap driven forward by a helping of contrivances. That said, the script finds every chance to satirize the cliches in its self-aware spirit. 

    Your typical training montages and tense fight sequences are all reimagined in a humorous comedic context. Comedic barbs mocking the film’s disposable existence dawn the Mel Brooks comedic spirit with surprisingly effective results (several fourth-wall breaks and references to the film’s 85-minute runtime are sprinkled throughout). Paws of Fury generates a certain moxie from its pointed comedic voice, showcasing a family film that isn’t afraid to engage a typically-disinterested older audience. 

    Paws of Fury also works effectively as a child-friendly romp. Directors Rob Minkoff, Mark Koetsier, and Chris Bailey make the most of their limited budgetary assists with a mix of alluring fight sequences and a hearty spoonful of pratfall gags. The trio’s gag-a-minute approach and breathless plotting create a well-paced odyssey that knowingly sprints past its numerous cliches. The talents of a well-tailored ensemble cast additionally improve the experience. Michael Cera’s timid persona and oddball comedic energy are perfect tools for the likable underdog Hank, while Samuel L. Jackson’s aged samurai master, Ricky Gervias’ wicked villain persona, and Mel Brooks in a cameo role serve as colorful supporting personas. 

    Other aspects of Paws of Fury suffer from the film’s disposable design. The story here is admittedly thankless, borrowing from superior samurai stories without an understanding of what made those features effective in the first place. Any attempt at developing memorable characters or moments of reflection fall by the wayside as the film sprints toward the finish line. The film holds a similar thematic message as Blazing Saddles in its tale of accepting differences, although its delivery lacks much thought or nuance to say anything of note with the concept. I also can’t praise the film’s comedic successes without mentioning the several gags that fall flat in their over-worked design. 

    Paws of Fury will never be mistaken for a comedic classic, but the film mines enough inspired avenues to provide a satisfying family-friendly experience. 

    Paws of Fury: The Legend of Hanks is now playing in theaters. 

  • Where The Crawdads Sing: The BRWC Review

    Where The Crawdads Sing: The BRWC Review

    Living in the marsh outskirts of her small town, Kya Clark grows into a self-sufficient outsider after her family gradually abandons their once-toxic home. Kya endures years of belittlement from the small town she inhabits, but she eventually finds solace in two men who she sparks relationships with. When one of the men is found dead, Kya becomes the central murder suspect in the young adult drama Where the Crawdads Sing. 

    Based on a controversial Delia Owens novel (the wormhole of troubling aspects centered around the book could make for a movie), Crawdads marks a change of pace for the big-screen marketplace. While young adult dramas once populated screens at a rampant rate, an overabundance of failed franchise starters (Mortal Instruments, Divergent and Beautiful Creatures) and the advent of streaming diminished the subgenre to its irrelevance. 

    Part YA drama, part Nicolas Sparks-esque romance, Crawdads charts an intriguing narrative pathway that bustles with promise. Unfortunately, the experience combusts into a maudlin melodrama – a shallow and overstuffed yarn that never connects on a human level. 

    I credit the Crawdads creative team for at least taking some risky swings at the plate. Kya’s journey through the rigid social standards of the 1960s presents a relevant canvas of division and suppressive mob mentalities. The material never fears dredging into the muck of traumatizing realities, boldly painting Kya’s coming of age journey as a trial by the fires of agonizing tragedies. Upcoming star Daisy Egar-Jones also provides a captivating center as the rugged “Marsh Girl.” Under her soft-spoken persona, the actress imbues conviction and moving vulnerabilities as she unearths the character’s pained history. 

    Any promise Where the Crawdads Sing boasts eventually evaporates in befuddling ways. The concept of Kya developing authorship over her life before discovering her voice as a painter should make for an inspirational odyssey. Instead, Crawdads flounders into a soap-opera love triangle of Twilight portions. Lucy Alilbar’s script adaptation paints every character beat in broad emotional strokes, a choice that awkwardly conveys romance with stilted heavy-handedness. Each attempt at romance swoons for moving sentiments before tripping into awkward foreplay and lackluster chemistry. I wish the film allowed Kya to explore her strengths outside the confines of her somewhat problematic relationships (both characters put her through challenging situations). 

    Crawdads is far too simplistic for its own good. When handling challenging themes, it’s hard to excuse a film that belabors itself in inauthentic melodrama. None of the reflective character moments or stirring dramatic scenes register past Hallmark-level dimension. Olivia Newman’s flat direction does not help matters. She and Cinematographer Polly Morgan portray the gritty marsh as an over-lit, atmosphere-free landscape surrounded by unappealing CGI backdrops. 

    The overwrought experience concludes with a woefully executed twist ending. A sudden revelation changes the film’s context into a far murkier experience despite the film’s sentimental approach. Reminiscent of the Nicholas Sparks romps this film embodies, the narrative bellyflops as it tries to provide a roaring crescendo. This conclusion looks even worse in hindsight when considering the author’s questionable past. Ultimately, it does not send the most empowering of messages to its core audience. 

    Judging Where the Crawdads Sing without reading the source material leaves me unsure of where the film went wrong. Whether it’s the result of a flat adaptation or a faulty story destined to fail, Crawdads drowns under its bloated ambitions. 

    Where the Crawdads Sing is now playing in theaters.