Author: Matt Conway

Auteur directors leave their distinct stamp on every endeavor they’re attached to, injecting their stylistic flavor in a movie that becomes synonymous with their unique perspective. While the term is largely attributed to acclaimed craftsman, some auteurs are singular for their negative qualities. That’s where Olivier Megaton comes in, a Luc Besson prodigy who left his incoherent shaky-cam mark on the disappointing Taken sequels. After a five-year reprieve, Megaton is back with The Last Days of American Crime, a shockingly tone-deaf and bloated experience that ranks among the year’s worst projects. 

Set in a near-future dystopia where crime is about to be eradicated by a government signal, The Last Days of American Crime follows Graham Bricke (Edgar Ramirez), a jaded criminal looking for revenge for his deceased brother. He soon teams up with the reckless Kevin Cash (Michael Pitt) and his elusive girlfriend Shelby (Anna Brewster) to commit one last heist before time runs out. The film is an adaptation of a graphic novel written by Rick Remender and Greg Tocchini.

Inside its utterly-baffling 148-minute run time, Last Days of American Crime offers very little to endorse, with the sole highlight being Michael Pitt’s performance as Kevin. The underrated actor taps into manic energy as the smarmy cocksure crook while keeping audiences captivated with each bizarre personality quirk he imbues into the role. Under his abrasive façade, Pitt portrays an emotionally deranged emptiness that makes the character a menacing wildcard, elevating a role that would be cartoonish in the wrong hands 

While Pitt throws his all into the role, his contemporaries seemingly sleepwalk through their poorly-written roles. Edgar Ramirez’s talents are wasted as generic action hero Graham Bricke, solemnly uttering his machismo dialogue without expressing any range of dynamic qualities. Anna Brewster is straddled with one of the most thankless female roles in recent memory, portraying a femme fatale that lacks any real dimension or humanity. It’s also quite bizarre seeing District 9 star Sharlto Copley briefly appear as an over-eager police officer, lacking an opportunity to render a complex character with what’s on the page. 

The craftsmanship in The Last Days of American Crime reeks of clichés and ranges on borderline incompetence. Action screenwriter Karl Gajdusek offers the bare minimum with his by-the-books effort, establishing the most simplistic of motivations despite the high-concept premise. Olivier Megaton’s herky-jerky camerawork is more of a hindrance than an enhancement, showing an inability to create steady imagery in a desperate attempt to create a sense of style. His action setpieces are largely a bore, with an overuse of edits and lack of creativity preventing any sense of excitement. 

There’s being bad, and then there’s being downright tone-deaf. Considering our society’s current unrest over racial injustices, the careless handling of the narrative’s social implications ends up being in poor taste. A critical eye could have used the film’s constant portrayals of police brutality as an indictment of America’s overly-militant state, but these moments are used as window dressing to create its senselessly machismo action landscape. 

Equal parts dated and tasteless, The Last Days of American Crime fails desperately at its attempts to become a stylized genre hallmark. 

With high-concept science fiction narratives seldom getting the spotlight in mainstream cinema, some directors have focused on re-living the genre’s glory days by harkening back to past eras. Films like Super 8, as well as the hit TV series Stranger Things, embraced an 80’s aesthetic in their telling of Spielbergian sci-fi-horror tales. The latest to join the sci-fi nostalgia lineage is The Vast of Night, which cleverly utilizes its 1950’s setting to tell an earnest and engaging radio serial brought to the screen. 

The Vast of Night follows Fay (Sierra McCormick), an eager aspiring radio operator working alongside her wise-talking host Everett (Jake Horowitz). While the town is preoccupied with the school basketball game, the two uncover an idiosyncratic radio signal that could lead to something far more sinister. 

Operating with a shoestring budget and a relatively unheralded cast, the success of Vast of Night’s unique approach is attributed to writer/director Andrew Patterson’s stellar debut (also served as editor and producer). Patterson displays rare patience in his shooting techniques, utilizing smoothly-constructed tracking shots seamlessly while creating a taut sense of momentum. This approach fits the slow-burn tale to a tee, dulling out nuggets of information throughout while keeping audiences on their toes. 

Many films have utilized a nostalgic approach to wear an era’s zeitgeist qualities as a cheap pastiche, but Patterson’s screenplay cleverly weaves 50’s culture into its presentation. As well as capturing the zippy vernacular of the time, Patterson plays off the era’s mixed emotions of the impending future, wistfully embracing the potential of technological advancements while holding a deeply-seated paranoia for what could be out there. 

These conceits are baked into every frame of the film, playfully capturing a sense of discovery and danger with impressive results. Credit to stars Sierra McCormick and Jake Horowitz for balancing this tonal high-wire act, with their easy-going chemistry and sharp banter creating an instantly likable duo on screen. McCormick adeptly captures Fay’s longing for a grander life, while Horowitz elevates the wisecracking archetype with a clever embodiment of that persona. 

There’s so much to admire about The Vast of Night, yet its slight missteps constraint the effort from reaching genre classic territory. Patterson’s script features familiar debut faults, including a framing device that goes nowhere despite its intriguing introduction. While I appreciate the slight approach to its singularly macabre vision, the third act ultimately feels rushed and unsatisfying, with the destination being far less absorbing than the journey that proceeded it. 

The Vast of Night is a unique low-budget surprise, with Andrew Patterson’s inspired 50s serial approach displaying his bright future in the film industry. 

The music industry’s complex marriage between artistic expression and business intentions has been ripe for cinematic exploration, with crowd-pleasing vehicles like A Star is Born and La La Land standing tall amongst their peers. The latest in the genre’s long-running lineage is The High Note, which packs a soulful narrative about two women fighting against the industry’s dated standards. Despite its timely premise, the equally hackneyed and superficial approach restricts this venture throughout.

The High Note follows Maggie (Dakota Johnson), an aspiring producer who works in the shadow of musical superstar Grace Davis (Black-ish star Tracee Ellis Ross, daughter of Supremes icon Diana Ross). To get her boss’s attention, Maggie teams up with David Cliff (Kelvin Harrison Jr.), trying to prove herself worthy of aiding Grace on her comeback album.

Akin to Grace Davis’ swaggering personality, The High Note packs a punch in star power. Tracee Ellis Ross steps into the shoes of Davis masterfully, portraying the diva sheen of the character while unearthing sincere insecurities about her waning career. Paired up with Dakota Johnson’s wide-eyed optimistic light, the two highlight the film’s most noteworthy moments, bonding over their shared embrace of music’s emotional and connective qualities.

Kelvin Harrison Jr. has shined as an indie favorite (last year’s Waves and Luce made for a breakout year), but it’s a joy to see the rising star step into the spotlight here. Imbuing David with an easy-going charm and captivating energetic spirit, he commands the screen effortlessly, soaring to new heights when he reveals his impressive vocal talents. Ice Cube is also having a blast here as Grace’s gruff manager, utilizing his deadpan comedic persona to great effect.

It’s a shame to see the impressive performance work restricted by artificial execution. At the core of this film is a meaningful tale on female’s inequitable battle for authorship in a male-dominant industry that only cares to cultivate their popular tracks. Screenwriter Flora Greeson merely uses this compelling conceit as a backdrop for confectionary romantic comedy pleasures, having little to say about the industry aside from a few light-hearted barbs about its innate superficiality.

Even from the perspective of a straight-forward rom-com, The High Note fails to hit the right notes. Greeson’s screenplay packs a heaping of contrivances that only work to create forced conflicts, including a third act twist that is blown past in an almost comical fashion. Fleeting moments of sincerity are brushed past in favor of dull montages and predictable plot beats, with director Nisha Ganatra’s effort unable to liven up its familiar delivery.

There’s a winning crowd-pleaser buried somewhere amid The High Note’s runtime, but standard-issue execution derails its worthwhile creative spark. 

Romantic Comedy: The BRWC Review.

Romantic comedies have remained as an equally celebrated and criticized staple of mainstream cinema, with the genre offering a plethora of superficial happy endings for its thinly-constructed characters. In Elizabeth Sankey’s bluntly-titled documentary Romantic Comedy, the filmmaker captures the genre’s unique, long-standing complications throughout its existence, crafting an admirable thesis despite its notable limitations in scope. 

With Romantic Comedy, Sankey takes a view at her own relationship with the genre, growing up as an earnest fan of the films before discovering their noticeable blemishes. The doc accomplishes its dissection of the tried and true formula by mixing critical perspectives with footage of the genre’s most noteworthy entries. 

Even in its slim 78-minute running time, Sankey and her well-curated contributors tackle a plethora of the romantic comedies’ problematic tendencies. By taking aim at celebrated offerings like Garden State and Jerry Maguire, Sankey effectively breaks down the systematic disillusionment that has been present in modern mainstream romantic comedies, films that are primary byproducts of white-male figureheads whims and desires. 

Whether it’s criticizing the lack of diversity, constant objectification of women, or superficiality of romantic bonds, Romantic Comedy tackles its social themes with earnest appraisals. Sankey thankfully doesn’t turn this feature into an all-out hit piece on the genre’s noteworthy problems, rather analyzing how these tropes work with audiences in their enjoyment of confectionary movie-going fantasies that promote emotional staples like love and connection. The addition of Summer Camp’s SoCal original music is also a welcomed touch, cleverly breaking down romantic comedies’ hopes and expectations with an effective wistful tone. 

While Sankey can be applauded for her earnestly subjective approach to her experiences with romantic comedies, that singular perspective limits this documentary’s potential. Ripe subject matter like the devolution of female authorship throughout cinema’s history is merely brushed over, with the doc lacking the depth and research to convey why enduring systematic problems still exist today. 

There’s also a major lack of appreciation towards the genre’s substantial independent offerings, which have operated as an authentic counterbalance to superficiality present in mainstream cinema. There isn’t much that Romantic Comedy teaches that isn’t already well-regarded, with its lack of technical flash failing to elevate familiar moments (it’s bizarre to see the speakers, including actor Jessica Barden, not credited for their remarks). 

Sankey’s offering may operate better as an impassioned video-essay rather than an objective expose, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t merit in Romantic Comedy’s well-tuned observation about Hollywood’s fantastical staple. 

The zeitgeist subject matter of police brutality and abuse has created a sizable open-wound for the general populous, a wound that some filmmakers have captured with much-needed catharsis. Whether it’s well-realized true stories like Fruitvale Station or inventively constructed thrillers like Black and Blue, it’s been refreshing to see how directors critically capture this lingering real-world issue. The latest film to join that lineage is Body Cam, a midnight genre thriller with a supernatural bend, that despite its clever conceit, can’t convey the weight of its material. 

Body Cam follows Renee (Mary J. Blige), a veteran cop returning to action while dealing with the lasting pain of her son’s death. Along with her eager rookie partner Danny (Nat Wolff), the two work to uncover the answers behind a fallen officer’s death, but they begin to discover that greater forces may be at work. 

Conceptually-speaking, Body Cam delivers a thoughtfully-designed premise that marries our real-world setting with horror elements. Horror scribes Nicholas McCarthy and Richmond Riedel cleverly design the supernatural entity as a representation of the vengeful anguish and rage held by victims of senseless police abuse. This critical take is well-balanced with earnest depictions of police life, capturing the sizable weight that officers carry as they risk their lives to do what’s right for a community that treats them with dismissive disdain. 

Director Malik Vitthal has operated as an underrated craftsman, with his directorial debut Imperial Dreams offering a well-realized portrait of a reformed gangster trying to make a better life for himself. With his latest effort, Vitthal displays his range as he soundly conducts the film’s blood-soaked thrills. He excels at developing a sense of unease throughout, letting still camerawork hold until revealing imaginative and fittingly brutal kills. I especially enjoyed the mixture of filmmaking styles, transitioning from mannered shots to clever uses of handheld police cams that keep the audience on their toes. 

Considering how much Body Cam does right, it’s exceedingly frustrating seeing where the film falters. The premise is truly inspired, but McCarthy and Riedel’s script fails to follow-through with its conceit. The film rarely digs deeply-enough to capture the nuance of its relevant subject matter, ultimately having little to say aside from surface-level statements about the pain police brutality leaves. The genre hybrid approach is also not well-balanced enough, trying to manage both tonal identities instead of blending them as one. 

Perhaps the offering’s biggest sin lies in its stilted dramatic backbone. Stars Mary J. Blige and Nat Wolff have proven their adept abilities, but their performances come off as stiff as they are stuck in thankless one-dimensional roles. I wish Vitthal had an opportunity to deliver the intimate emotionality of Imperial Dreams to this project, with every personal aspect feeling oddly distant despite its ripe potential. 

Body Cam offers thrills that should please genre-enthusiasts, but the project sadly misses the boat in capturing its grander conceptual design. That being said, I have a lot of faith in Malik Vitthal’s career and am excited to see where the director goes from here.