Christmas Day always brings a spate of new releases, some of which are feature-length gifts and some of which are lumps of coal.
The best of this year’s offerings is Nosferatu, which will be Friday’s regularly scheduled review. If you’re wondering which of the other releases is worth a trip to the multiplex — or, in the case of the last movie mentioned here, the arthouse — consider this guide your present from Movie Brief:
If you give a mouse a cookie, he’ll ask for a glass of milk. If you give a high-powered CEO a glass of milk, she’ll drink the whole thing despite not necessarily wanting to. Such is the plight of Samuel, a first-day intern at a tech conglomerate who will soon begin a torrid, kink-based affair with that very CEO. Halina Reijn’s follow-up to Bodies Bodies Bodies is considerably more accomplished than its predecessor, though it would be difficult not to be with Nicole Kidman and Harris Dickinson as the age-inappropriate lovers. Dickinson is every bit his co-star’s equal here — quite a feat, if not a surprise to anyone familiar with his work in Beach Rats, Triangle of Sadness, and The Iron Claw.
A bold character demands a bold performance, and the ascendant young performer embodies Samuel’s out-of-pocket advances with rare confidence. The actual sex scenes are tamer than you might expect, but they’re also more tender. This, more than anything else, makes it clear that Reijn is going for more than just shock value and isn’t content to merely titillate. And while the narrative arc won’t surprise anyone who’s seen Fatal Attraction, making an A-list erotic thriller at a time when younger audiences are increasingly (and bizarrely) prudish about sex in movies counts as a ballsy move.
Bob Dylan hasn’t been a complete unknown for about 60 years, but this account of his early years deserves kudos for taking its title from a lyric rather than going the usual route and being named Dylan. (Likewise director James Mangold’s prior biopic, the Johnny Cash picture Walk the Line.) Timothée Chalamet plays the folk singer who went electric, and though his serviceable turn as Dylan is the headliner, Elle Fanning and Monica Barbaro steal the show as the openers: Sylvie Russo and Joan Baez, the former based on the musician’s girlfriend at the time.
It’s hard not to think of Walk the Line, and not just because they share a director. The dynamic between Dylan, Russo, and Baez here echoes that of Johnny and June Cash there, a comparison that does this film no favors. What little drama there is centers on Dylan’s controversial decision to go electric at the 1965 Newport Folk Festival, a watershed moment that feels more like spilled milk in this retelling. Dylan devotees will get a kick out of seeing yet another movie about him, especially since his story has usually been told in documentaries before now, but those who’ve always wondered what all the fuss is about won’t have that question answered here. Among the singer/songwriter’s many accolades is the Nobel Prize in Literature — maybe he should have written the screenplay?
Boxing movies are formulaic for a reason: Rocky's template works, and all involved have seen little reason to alter it. But while our understanding of concussions has improved dramatically since the Italian Stallion went the distance with Apollo Creed, the genre itself is stuck in the third round. There are exceptions every now and again — the Creed movies are winners, and Million Dollar Baby was a knockout — but most new entries are lucky to score a split decision. The Fire Inside is based on the true story of Claressa “T-Rex” Shields, a two-time Olympic gold medalist who’s held world championships in five different weight classes; since dramatizing her laundry list of accomplishments would take far too long, the film focuses on her first Olympic campaign and its aftermath.
It distinguishes itself with a third act that shows what follows the climactic glory with which most other sports dramas would end — Shields is so dominant in the ring that most of the drama is to be found outside of it. The film marks the directorial debut of cinematographer Rachel Morrison, whose work on Mudbound earned her an Oscar nomination (the first for a woman in the category) and who also lensed Black Panther. She’s uniquely suited to tell Shields’ story, having broken a few barriers herself, but the movie is ultimately less memorable than its subject.
“Only cowards run from war,” one of Vermiglio’s townsfolk says early in Maura Delpero’s understated drama. The patriarch of a humble family’s response: “If only they were all cowards, there would be no war.” Winner of the Grand Jury Prize at this fall’s Venice Film Festival, the film feels like a dramatization of a long-buried family secret from generations past that your grandmother would allude to before being hushed by one of her daughters. Taking place in the eponymous Alpine village as World War II nears its end, the plot hinges on the arrival of a deserter to whom one of that patriarch’s daughters takes a fancy — a romance that results in more than just a pregnancy.
Delpero, like her characters, leaves much unspoken, wisely allowing us to fill in the blanks ourselves. Issues of class, loyalty, and faith are implicit in nearly every scene, as are the logistics of feeding yet another mouth when the ground is cold and times are lean. Some think the Germans are coming, while others are aware of a more troubling truth: that everyone in this village is fundamentally alone.
