Author: Matt Conway

Netflix has manufactured an impressive assembly line of content, churning out a melody of original material on a weekly basis. Considering their vast library, the platform’s unheralded international films rarely get the attention they deserve, with projects like Atlantics and The Platform ranking among Netflix’s most accomplished endeavors. While the same can’t be said for their latest international project Lost Bullet (or Balle Perdue), this French-made actioner still packs a jolt of kinetic thrills despite its straight-forward approach.

Lost Bullet follows Lino (Alban Lenoir), a skilled driver serving time for a heist gone wrong. After task force leader Charas (Ramzy Bedia) decides to utilize Lino’s mechanical know-how for his team, Charas is murdered, with a pair of dirty cops framing the crimes on Lino’s hands. Lino finds himself on the run trying to prove his innocence.

Throttled forward with a lean-and-mean pace, director Guillaume Pierret constructs an assured debut working inside the low-rent actioner framework. Ordinary action beats are elevated by Pierret’s creative mindset, with the director implementing audacious, crowd-pleasing stunt work with reckless abandon. Whether Lino’s driving a burning car or fighting off a foe with shotgun swordplay, Pierret’s slick handheld camerawork frenetically highlights each hard-hitting frame, while Andre Duziezuk’s pulsating, synth-inspired score further accents each set piece.

Instead of cheekily wearing genre influences on its sleeve (a cross between the machismo freneticism of Fast and Furious with the small-scale realism of Drive), Lost Bullet sincerely executes its familiar narrative trappings. Pierret’s script clearly understands the genre it’s operating in, self-awarely building a narrative that keeps the action moving while sprinkling in some welcomed plot change-ups. Star Alban Lenoir helps in elevating his archetype actioner role, while Nicolas Duvachelle makes for a delightful mustache-twirling villain as a double-crossing cop.

While I admire the film’s comfortably simplistic design, it does severely limit Lost Bullet’s ceiling. Pierret’s script feels like it’s missing a first act, stalling in its attempts to develop intriguing character dynamics. It all seems fairly barebones, which would be more forgivable if the film didn’t lean into deeper dramatic aspirations (the death of Charas is suppose to have a lingering effect on Lindo, an arc that’s largely brushed over until the closing frames).

It may not reinvent the standard action formula, but Lost Bullet’s relentless pursuit of genre thrills offers a satisfactory low-rent diversion.

Back in the 2010s, Young Adult novel adaptations riddled big-screen marketplaces, with studios placing their bets on the next trendy franchise. Instead of creating the Twilight or Harry Potter, failed endeavors such as The Host and Mortal Instruments exemplified the challenge in establishing a zeitgeist property, released amidst a flurry of franchise-starters that also crashed upon entry. After a languid journey to the big screen, Disney has dumped their latest YA port Artemis Fowl onto their streaming service Disney+, a deservingly unceremonious release for the latest lackluster YA adaptation. 

Based on Eoin Colfer’s novel series, Artemis Fowl follows Artemis (Ferdia Shaw) a young prodigy learning the relic-collecting family craft from his distant father (Colin Farrell). When his father is kidnapped, Artemis discovers a new world of magic creatures, including an eager fairy soldier Holly Short (Lara McDonnell), and a dwarf who doesn’t fit in with his much-smaller counterparts Mulch Diggum (Josh Gad). These three outcasts must work together to save the day. 

Artemis Fowl may not be an outright disaster, mainly thanks to Kenneth Branagh’s zippy and generally competent direction, but its joyless pursuit of slick thrills robs the endeavor of any unique pleasures. Sandwiching the series’ first two works into one briskly paced film (88 minutes before credits), screenwriters Conor McPherson and Hamish McColl are assigned the impossible task of constructing the franchise’s first act in a limited number of frames.  

Even considering those restrictions, a barebones screenplay wastes the creative playground Eoin Colfer’s words created. The narrative leans heavily on fantasy lore to do the leg work in establishing its different factions, doing little on its own accord to personify each unique race. Before any impactful world-building is even accomplished, McPherson and McColl’s script whisks audiences along without creating a genuine reason to invest.

With little to work with, Artemis Fowl places substantial weight on its cast to liven up the proceedings. Character actors Judi Dench and Josh Gad are up for the task (Gad dedicates himself fully to his goofy role as a misplaced dwarf), but the young stars rarely feel comfortable onscreen. Ferdia Shaw’s flat performance as Artemis rarely captures the character’s quick-witted intellect, while Lara McDonnell is given nothing to do aside from being a chipper presence as Holly. Veteran stalwarts Colin Farrell and Nonso Anozie are left dully watching from the sidelines, with no one involved appearing to have much fun with the material. 

It’s hard to blame anyone on screen, as they are stuck in a sinking ship from the start. Ignoring the novel’s meditations on morality (Artemis’ journey from mean-spirited brat to finding a sense of good is completely ignored), the Disney production instead focuses on checking boxes to appease family audiences. This clinical approach is devoid of heart and inventive spark, with both being necessary ingredients in creating a new franchise.  

Closing with a cliffhanger that will leave most shrugging, Artemis Fowl’s creatively-bankrupt delivery wastes the potential Eoin Colfer’s work has on the screen. 

Biopics continue to garner significant attention from Oscar voters, but most adhere to a simplistic formula to highlight a singular marquee performance. Labeled as “Oscar Bait”, several (vaguely) true tales like Judy and The Darkest Hour failed to muster much passion from audiences despite bolstering commendable, award-winning performances at their core. While the latest biopic Shirley is unlikely to draw voter’s interest, it’s hypnotic and surrealist bend successfully subvert the tried and true genre. 

Shirley follows Rose (Odessa Young), a young professional stuck as the submissive wife to her aspiring husband Fred (Logan Lerman). When the couple moves to the house of Fred’s professor boss Stanley (Michael Stuhlbarg), Rose finds herself as the caretaker for his reclusive wife Shirley Jackson (Elisabeth Moss), an acclaimed author who discovers newfound inspiration from Rose’s company. 

Madeline’s Madeline Director Josephine Decker broke out with her uniquely audacious experimental edge, with her well-tuned perspective enhancing Shirley’s slight narrative. Decker’s camerawork intimately captures perspective, with freehand movements encapsulating emotion with impact. It’s great to see a filmmaker freely explore her central subject without adhering to a specific formula, using her unique techniques to tap into Shirley’s distorted mindset. 

The subversive edge Decker implements is visually vivid while also working effectively to capture Shirley’s writing process. Working in tandem with Sarah Gubbins’ thoughtfully-constructed screenplay, the duo offers interesting insights into Shirley’s relationship with Rose, whose lingering discontentment produces an ideal artistic muse for the acclaimed writer. Gubbins’ script is able to explore the complex relationship artists have with their inspirations, shrewdly leaving audiences guessing the legitimacy of Shirley’s attachments. 

Continuing her impressive streak of winning performances (Her Smell and Invisible Man), Elisabeth Moss encapsulates Shirley’s unique quirks to a tee while still portraying a sense of humanity under the surface.  Few actors utilize a sense of physicality like Moss, with showy, yet grounded, displays of emotion being endlessly captivating to witness. Dedicated character actor Michael Stuhlbarg paints Stanley with a biting acidic edge, evoking a charming disposition that conceals a creepy possessive edge. The chess matches that Moss and Stuhlbarg share on-screen are intoxicating, with Stanley trying (and failing) desperately to control Shirley’s cunning intellect. 

It’s bizarre to think that Shirley’s weakest link lies in its central protagonist. Odessa Young provides a sturdy performance as Rose, but the character (along with Lerman’s Fred) feels too-much like a symbolic archetype rather than a lived-in person. The moments where Young shares the screen with Moss are magnetic, but I was left wanting more time for their relationship to render (particularly in the third act, which features a jarring time jump before its inevitable conclusion). 

By defying standard biopic conventions, Shirley offers an inspired portrait well-turned with its protagonist’s inventive mindset.   

Social media’s superficial embrace of confectionery realities often dominates millennial’s attention, as well as garnering the interest of some well-tuned filmmakers. Indie efforts like Ingrid Goes West, Assassination Nation, and Disconnect have aptly encapsulated the shallow thrills of these platforms, developing thoughtfully-constructed critiques that are equally timely and impactful. The latest venture to utilize the fame-obsessed culture of social media is Infamous, a twist on the Bonnie and Clyde formula that proves to be just as vapid as the generation it condemns.

Infamous follows Arielle (Bella Thorne), a wistful teen who spends her days glued to her phone hoping to become a famous fixture. When she meets ex-convict Dean (Jake Manley), the two find themselves on the run after an accidental crime, robbing their way across America while posting their exploits on social media.

Star Bella Thorne has displayed glimmers of acting ability, but Infamous is the first feature where she grabs the reins. Playing Arielle as a vivacious teen discontented with her simplistic life, Thorne imbues the role with a rebellious spirit and sharp edge that grabs the screen, energetically chewing the scenery while keeping audiences on their toes. Her abrasive persona is well-matched by director Joshua Caldwell’s stylistic bend, with the inclusion of frenzied camerawork and wistful pop tracks capturing Arielle and Dean’s sporadic rise to fame.

Infamous has style and energy to spare, but it lacks the wherewithal to execute its conceptually promising nucleus. Unlike 2019’s emotionally moving Queen and Slim, Caldwell’s screenplay does little to reinvent its narrative origins, following the “lovers on the run” plotline with no interesting deviations. It doesn’t help that the dialogue feels excruciatingly obvious, with the characters awkwardly spelling out their every whim and desire.

This over-simplification also impacts our controversial central figures. While I give Thorne credit for making Arielle entertaining to follow, the character is derived from any complexion or emotionality, with her psychotic pursuit of fame and attention making her read as a cartoonishly bitter edge lord. Jake Manley holds his own as Dean, but his role as Arielle’s wet blanket voice of reason gives the actor very little to work with. I am fine with central characters being wholly unlikable, but Caldwell misses the opportunity to densely analyze the conditions that form their personas.

It’s clear to see where Infamous attempts to indict social media culture, but Caldwell seems over his head in creating a thematically enriched message. Any attempt to poke fun at media’s penchant for titillating actions fails to connect, with his established world being too far-fetched from the world we live in. To act as if brutally violent crimes against innocent people would become a celebrated phenome rather than a condemned reality feels diluted, with Caldwell’s script viewing the platform from the most jaded light rather than having a nuanced take.

Infamous has the bones to be the next searing portrait of our social media-obsessed culture, but its stylistic presentation fails to hide the film’s meager substantive value.

Comedic directors rarely morph into established auteurs in modern cinema, yet Judd Apatow has accomplished just that with his storied career. Along with producing and writing some of the millennium’s most beloved comedic works (Bridesmaids and Superbad come to mind), Apatow has also established a distinct, improve-heavy directorial approach with winning crowd-pleasers like Knocked Up and Trainwreck. With his latest venture The King of Staten Island, the comedic stalwart offers a satisfying evolution of his craft, creating an endeavor that feels equally grounded and personal. 

Based loosely on Saturday Night Live star Pete Davidson’s life story, The King of Staten Island follows Scott (Davidson), a burnout stuck in a state of arrested development from his firefighter father’s passing. When his supportive mom Margie (Marisa Tomei) begins to date another firefighter Ray (Bill Burr), Scott is confronted with his lifelong grief as he connects to his father’s past. 

Apatow’s filmography features a plethora of projects that extenuate the talents of their uniquely-fitted lead star (Adam Sandler in Funny People), with Pete Davidson joining that impressive lineage with ease. Playing off his real-life persona as Scott, an affable, quick-witted slacker who quietly carries his overwhelming emotional baggage, Davidson shines in a performance that is simultaneously humorous and revealing. It’s a joy to see the actor operate in an intimate platform that allows him a therapeutic opportunity to explore his grief and traumas, with his adept performance signaling a bright future in the film industry. 

Marisa Tomei dials her performance to perfection as Margie, acting as a supportive pillar in Scott’s life that desperately tries to shake his life into motion. Perhaps the actor that shares the most screen time with Davidson is provocative Bostonian comedian Bill Burr, with the two developing a natural rapport that starts from a place of mutual distaste before altering into a genuine connection. Burr can draw laughs with impressive ease, while thankfully morphing Ray’s New Yorkian attitude into a genuine character. 

The King of Staten Island not only portrays the evolution of Davidson’s acting career, but also a decidedly more grounded effort on Apatow’s part. Working with acclaimed DOP Robert Elswit, Apatow paints Staten Island in a loving, yet honest manner, capturing a suburb that bristles with life despite its modest appearance. The camera work is fluid and free-ranging, with its grounded, Sundance-indie approach fitting the project to a tee. Even the aspects of the director’s style that some criticize fit this project like a glove, with its meandering pace being an ideal fit for Scott’s aimless journey of self-discovery.  

Rarely is there a dull moment buried in King of Staten Island, but opportunities are missed to make this grounded coming of age portrait even more impactful. It’s a shame that the script sanitizes some of its more intriguing topics, with mentions of Scott’s mental illness and criminal wrongdoings having little dramatic payoff.  I also wish that some of the film’s colorful supporting players got more of an opportunity to shine, especially Bel Powley as Scott’s charming on-again-off-again girlfriend.  

Bookended by two cathartic Kid Cudi tracks, The King of Staten Island proudly encapsulates Pete Davidson’s distinct sensibilities on its sleeve in a winning coming-of-age crowd-pleaser.