For no apparent reason save their rapid appearance on Netflix, I’ve been devouring large quantities of turn of the millennium teen movies. While many have charmed and entertained me, most tend to fall in line and preach the same kind of message. Popularity is a sham, inner beauty is what matters, yada yada…
Then, after the tragic accident that claimed the life of Anton Yelchin, I took a detour to the mid-2000s for “Charlie Bartlett.” It was one of the actor’s first of far too few star turns, and despite my professed fandom for Yelchin, it remained a blind spot for me. That all changed within hours of learning he was no longer with us.
And wow, what a refreshing break this was – heck, is – from most high school movies. “Charlie Bartlett” tackles a key aspect of today’s youth culture that has been elided or entirely omitted from movies to date: overprescription. Though I thankfully never needed drugs to help with my mood or focus, I know plenty of people who struggled to find the right balance of medication. I also know a fair share who used those same pills for less than noble purposes. This important corrective to a whitewashed narrative makes for an ideal “F.I.L.M. of the Week.”
Yelchin’s titular character possesses a lethal combination of access to such stimulants and the brazen gall to resell them to students at his new high school. Thanks to his wealthy and largely absent mother, Charlie essentially has a family pharmacist to prescribe anything he wants. Armed with an outsized self-confidence, he settles into his role as the benevolent campus drug dealer with ease after getting largely rejected upon first foray into his latest private school.
Charlie could easily have devolved into a snarky, sniveling jerk or just become insufferable to watch as he goes more Walter White on us. But that’s not the case at all; in fact, quite the opposite occurs. Yelchin makes Charlie more humane with each passing scene as he becomes increasingly aware of the deeper psychological needs of the student body. He is always present in a scene – listening, responding and playing off the other actors. Yelchin clearly did not just memorize lines to be shot in close-up. He was there to make the other actors, and the film itself by extension, the best they could be. Here, he succeeded wildly.
Many people, it seems, saw the title of Hannah Fidell’s “A Teacher” and focused almost exclusively on … well, the teacher. Perhaps as they should. It’s certainly easy to get drawn into the confused, muddled mind of high school professor Diana Watts (Lindsay Burdge) given that she is having an affair with one of her students.
The recent hiring trend for studio tentpoles has been to pluck indie directors from obscurity, combining their strong imaginative knack with their weak negotiating power and strong incentive to roll over and obey for the career boost. Some of these moves make a lot of sense (Duncan Jones, Gareth Edwards) while others still feel strange, like transitioning Colin Trevorrow from “
More movies than you’d like to know are reviewed in a daze, particularly out of festivals. Seeing and listening to Cannes coverage from the past week reminds me of this sad fact. Just think – if you were a filmmaker with your reputation on the line, would you want sleep-deprived critic to write about your movie? Worse yet, in a festival environment, it’s practically impossible to go back and revisit a film once the credits roll.
I’m not sure I could give you a plot summary of Emily Bronte’s novel “Wuthering Heights” based on the 2012 film adaptation by Andrea Arnold. High school English students looking for the newest movie version so they can avoid reading this classic tome of British literature will find themselves sorely disappointed. Film lovers, however, ought to rejoice.
From the opening archival photos in “Neighboring Sounds,” writer/directorKleber Mendonça Filho positions the story in a long history of extreme wealth inequality. We see the construction of palatial estates for the wealthy, which were of course built on the backs of workers who made practically nothing.
May has arrived, which means the lineup for the Cannes Film Festival is officially out. Each year, the official selection provides an extra impetus for me to catch up with the work of world filmmakers whose previous features might have eluded me. Admittedly, I am still working my way through the lineup from the years I attended the festival. Whoops.
The British cinema scene is full of people doing lots of interesting work, but it still gets reduced quite frequently to familiar genres: the black comedy, the kitchen sink melodrama, the suburban crime saga. In his debut feature, “Down Terrace,” Ben Wheatley has the gall to meld all three into one audacious genre-mashing movie. The result is something spry and altogether wonderful, so much so that it is my selection for the “F.I.L.M. of the Week.” (In case you’re just joining this six year old column, that’s a contrived acronym for “First-Class, Independent Little-Known Movie.”)
A new subgenre of criticism seems to have spouted up in the past few months eager to find things in culture and society to blame for the rise of Donald Trump. To be fair, I too
Personal attacks. Passive-aggressive jabs. Sexist insinuations. Classist assumptions. What a campaign, am I right?
I’ve been pressed (in person) by two loyal readers who want to know the rationale behind my aversion to period pieces, in particular the so-called “costume drama.” I do try to elucidate when I hold an entire genre or subgenre in contempt – see my pans of “
“They’re sending people that have lots of problems, and they’re bringing those problems with us,” Donald Trump
Most romances focus on the passion, the heat, the sparks and the sweet nothings. Barry Jenkins’ “Medicine for Melancholy” is not a typical romance. In an effort to seek out diverse voices in filmmaking, I stumbled into this 2009 film. Jenkins is only just now finishing up his follow-up feature, “Moonlight,” set up for production and distribution by A24. How it took 7 years for someone to give him a second chance in the director’s chair is unfathomable to me. (Well, actually, I have some idea why…)
Realism in cinema has a habit of rubbing people the wrong way, given that many directors who practice the style tend to pummel their audience with an abundance of brutally mundane details. But this is not a necessity, as Chad Hartigan shows in “This Is Martin Bonner.” His tender, affectionate touch throughout demonstrates how filmmakers can evoke the rhythms of the everyday without recourse to deliberate inducement of boredom.

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