 Love Lies Bleeding is probably the single coolest queer pulp-thriller since the Wachowskis released Bound back in 1996. Rose Glass’s sophomore feature doesn’t just exude style - it pulses with it, like blood coursing through a swollen bicep vein. Set in the Southwest during the neon swelter of 1989, the story follows Lou (Kristen Stewart), who spends her days overseeing a craphole gym with barely disguised indifference… until the impressively sculpted drifter Jackie (Katy O’Brian) fatefully arrives in town and strikes romantic sparks with her. An aspiring bodybuilder, she’s looking for a place to train in anticipation of a major Vegas competition… and takes a job waitressing at the gun range owned by Lou’s estranged father (a wildly reptilian Ed Harris, looking an awful lot like the geckos sunning themselves on the New Mexico rocks). The crime-thriller elements are a tad disappointing in their familiarity. Lou’s father is a local crime kingpin and her brother-in-law JJ (Dave Franco) is an oily twerp with a porn mustache and ponytailed mullet (the film all but roils with male odiousness). When things take a dark turn and quickly go from bad to worse, the story beats reside comfortably within the film’s neo-noir pocket. It hardly matters though, as Love Lies Bleeding is the cinematic equivalent of molten steel; its radiance is white-hot. K-Stew truthers have known for years that the erstwhile Twilight starlet is one of the most talented actresses of her generation, but O’Brian is the real revelation here. With her brontosaurus thighs, vascular physique, midriff-baring tank tops, and frizzled hairstyle, she’s like a comic book superhero crossed with an 80s aerobics instructor… but there’s also a sensuality to her performance - particularly around the eyes - that’s disarming. She pops on-screen in a way that feels utterly inimitable - I don't know where exactly she goes after this movie, but someone in Hollywood better figure something out fast (thankfully, she’s already landed a role in the next Mission: Impossible). As a director, Glass understands the undercurrents of bodybuilder culture, infusing it with a mutant strain of body horror DNA. Lou hooks Jackie up with steroids, and we watch as her muscles ripple and expand to Hulk-like dimensions. At its best, the end result is a sultry and violently fanged, synth-fueled head trip that’s dope as fuck. Near the end, Glass takes a massive creative swing into magical realism and frankly not everyone will be willing to ride with it, but in its own way, it makes perfect sense - sometimes love is so great, it’s almost too big for the world to contain.  Margaret Qualley has been flirting with major stardom for several years now (those who saw her in the Netflix limited series Maid might argue she’s already there). In Drive-Away Dolls, she chews on an oversized Texas twang slathered thick with Southern molasses. The choice is mildly grating and yet - paradoxically - it validates her loopy fearlessness as a performer. She plays Jamie, a lesbian whose life is one of those cheeky hurricanes of personal drama, who decides to tag along with her buttoned-up best friend Marian (Geraldine Viswanathan) on a road trip to Tallahassee. The two of them sign up for a drive-away service (run by Bill Camp - instantly the best thing in the movie), but a comedic misunderstanding results in them driving off in the wrong vehicle… one that contains a certain briefcase containing certain items that a certain group of unsavory customers want back pronto.
Drive-Away Dolls has a certain puppy dog charm, but it evokes the strained quirkiness of far too many indie comedies from the 90s. If anything, it feels like a Coen Brothers movie that’s tonally out-of-joint… which makes sense, since it was - in fact - directed by a single Coen Brother. While Joel is off trafficking in Shakespearean moroseness, Ethan, it would seem, is intent on extracting the idiosyncratic marrow from their prior filmography and distilling it into its most concentrated form. Both well into their 60s now, and having made eighteen features together, an artistic reconciliation is - perhaps - not altogether necessary… but the evidence already feels incontrovertible that the duo balanced each other out creatively. Barely 80 minutes in length, the plot of Drive-Away Dolls feels entirely beside the point; its narrative noodling is a far cry from the finely calibrated, genre-splicing crime comedies the Coens once specialized in. It’s a good thing Qualley and Viswanathan have such a genuinely oddball rapport… they’re almost like a Vaudeville duo - Jamie, slouched and uninhibited, and Marian, repressed to the point of social paralysis (she reads Henry James to unwind). But the movie is much better off when it’s reveling in the natural tension of their mismatched buddy chemistry… as soon as it pushes them into romantic territory, the alchemy falters. The film is so slight, a modest breeze could blow it away. Eventually we do learn of the very specific cargo the girls are transporting and it’s a prankish payoff, but then again - maybe we were all better off *not* knowing what was in the briefcase in Pulp Fiction.
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 It’s not particularly hard to grasp the underlying reasons for Sydney Sweeney’s meteoric rise over the past several years… but for all her obvious sex kitten potential, she clearly has designs on establishing herself as a legitimate actress. She certainly gives a committed performance in Immaculate, a fitfully gripping religious thriller that, for all the predictably pearl-clutching cries of “blasphemy,” might as well come affixed with training wheels - particularly for Zoomers with a budding interest in horror. Sweeney plays Sister Cecilia, who enters a picturesque Italian convent where sinister happenings are plainly afoot. Not long after arrival, she discovers that she’s pregnant - in spite of an ixnay on any sort of sexual congress with a man - and is heralded as the next Virgin Mary. But miracles are never quite that straightforward and as the months tick past and she enters her third trimester, Cecila begins to suspect something other than the Hand of God might be involved in her condition (for those excited about the casting of breakout star Simona Tabasco from The White Lotus… well, don’t be. She only appears in the opening scene - which is too bad, since she’s exactly the sort of nun who’d inspire a crisis of faith). The first half of Immaculate is relatively plodding (it’s a slow burn without much of a burn), but there are some clever contextual clues sprinkled in - such as the charismatic Father Tedeschi (Álvaro Morte) mentioning off-hand his original background in biology, or the chapel supposedly housing one of the Holy Nails from the Crucifixion. It’s not difficult to put two and two together, but when the reveal comes - a twist that’s like Rosemary’s Baby by way of Jurassic Park (no, really) - the film does ignite with a certain sacrilegious zeal. The third act kicks up a galloping pace that doesn’t relent. Up until this project, Sweeney’s heavy-lidded gaze frequently contributed to an acting style that could kindly be described as narcoleptic, but the final frames - depicting her in frenzied close-up, wild-eyed countenance smeared with blood, her flawless teeth flecked with spittle, guttural cries of anguish clawing their way from her throat - are revelatory, like something out of the most far-flung madness of 70s Italian cinema. That might not be enough to recommend the movie, but it does hint at a potential movie star emerging auspiciously from behind the placid curtain of an objectively pretty face.  In Late Night with the Devil, David Dastmalchian stars as Jack Delroy, host of the 1970s talk show Night Owls. Once regarded as a rising star in the late-night arena, Delroy’s seen his popularity plateau amidst an increasingly futile quest to catch Carson in the ratings… which leads to him attempting a live, occultism-themed episode on Halloween night as a last-ditch effort to bolster his sagging numbers. The movie itself is presented as salvaged footage previously unavailable to the public. This is a deeply rad premise (the 70s setting, a time when late-night TV felt largely unregulated, is particularly inspired) as we watch this “lost” episode unfold in real time, with behind-the-scenes interactions taking place during the commercial breaks. Delroy welcomes the colorful psychic “Christou” and the magician-turned-skeptic Carmichael the Conjurer (a marvelously curmudgeonly Ian Bliss), but the star of the evening is parapsychologist June Ross-Mitchell (Laura Gordon) and her ward Lilly (Ingrid Torelli) - the lone survivor of a Satanic death cult - who supposedly shares a connection with a demon known as “Mr. Wriggles.” Delroy wants to summon the demon in front of his studio audience as a live TV stunt - which June insists is an extremely bad idea - but it would seem he’s in thrall to his own dark master… one that goes by the name of “Nielsen.”
Late Night with the Devil is a movie powered by that most precious of resources - a genuine spark of originality. The period detail and overall production design (making allowances for the controversial use of a few brief, AI-generated interstitials) are first-rate. The film is a gimmick, but it’s a gratifying one. The on-air footage spliced with jittery backstage energy lend the story an accelerated and absorbing rhythm. One feels that distinctly pleasurable tingle of being in confident hands. Still, one can’t help but wonder if directors Colin & Cameron Cairnes have made things needlessly complicated - rather than a straightforward tale of hubris, they hint at Delroy having participated in some sort of fuzzy Faustian pact that never quite makes sense. Dastmalchian (in a long-deserved upgrade to lead actor) is outstanding - his genial demeanor is tinged with just the right level of smarm - but it might have been better if Delroy were a bit of a bastard. His comeuppance, when it occurs, doesn’t cut as cleanly or as sharply as it should. That being said, this is fresh and vibrant horror moviemaking. The genre often feels akin to flipping through hundreds of interchangeable cable channels, but Late Night with the Devil - to use the parlance of its era - is one program worth putting down the clicker for. 4/3/2024 0 Comments ghostbusters: frozen empire I’ve seen Ghostbusters: Afterlife four times now and I feel like my overall regard for it has diminished a little more upon each viewing. Initially, filtering the components of the beloved 1984 original through the more family-friendly lens of an Amblin-style feature felt like a pretty winning combination… thanks in no small part to the film’s genuinely likable cast. It gets increasingly difficult, however, to overlook the story’s hollow center; an aggressively nostalgic retread that almost borders on the shameless by the third act (also, while fashioning the story as a tribute to the late Harold Ramis feels sincere, there’s no getting around the fact that this is a version of Egon who simply didn’t exist in the previous movies). It all feels a bit too calculated in its pandering to the fandom. Ghostbusters may be my all-time favorite movie, but I’m not crazy with how it’s become the poster franchise for weaponizing the almost feral reverence for one’s childhood.
Ghostbusters: Frozen Empire - which sees Jason Reitman pass the directing reins to his co-writer Gil Kenan (who made the underrated animated pic Monster House and that Poltergeist remake that seems to have been scrubbed from cinematic history) - marks a welcome return to New York City (Sony was seemingly willing to loosen the purse strings a little more after Afterlife’s respectable box office showing). Picking up three years later, ghostbusting is now a family business for the Spengler clan - mom Callie (Carrie Coon), surrogate dad Gary (Paul Rudd), older son Trevor (Finn Wolfhard), and younger daughter Phoebe (Mckenna Grace), who remains arguably more competent than the other three combined. But a run-in with New York’s mayor Walter Peck (the returning William Atherton, whose officious edge has slightly dulled with age) leaves the underage Phoebe benched… driving a wedge into the familial operation just as a fresh crisis presents itself in the form of an orb that contains an ancient demonic god capable of unleashing an ice age upon the city. At its best, Ghostbusters: Frozen Empire evokes the vibe not of the original film, but of the franchise’s equally beloved animated series… it’s the sort of lore-heavy supernatural adventure that Dan Aykroyd seemed to originally envision when he was first developing the concept, before Ramis and Ivan Reitman helped ground it (whereas Bill Murray appears mildly embarrassed to still be suiting up in his 70s, Aykroyd can barely repress his glee - particularly when tasked with any convoluted, ghost-related exposition). Those complaining that what began as an irreverent comedy with a distinct mixture of SNL and National Lampoon DNA in its veins now treats its inner-mythology with solemn reverence fail to grasp how malleable the premise is. Evolution is more than welcome. The issue is that the humor once did the heavy lifting - the paranormal balderdash only had to provide basic narrative propulsion (the brilliance of Ghostbusters was that the premise, at heart, was about starting a business… and that business just happened to be poltergeist removal). Frozen Empire has ample charm, but the laughs are milder… and the plot feels exposed, its basic thinness better suited to a half-hour cartoon. This is also a film that clearly suffers from casting bloat. The entire lineup from Afterlife is essentially run back - and that includes Phoebe’s pal Podcast (Logan Kim, who clearly and jarringly experienced puberty between productions), who’s been appointed Ray’s sidekick in the occult bookshop, and Trevor’s onetime love interest Lucky (Celeste O’Connor), who’s interning at a paranormal think tank bankrolled by Winston (she might still be Trevor’s love interest - who can tell when they exchange all of two lines?). With the original Ghostbusters taking a more central role and new characters to integrate (including the likes of Kumail Nanjiani and Patton Oswalt), it’s a lot to juggle. Coon, Rudd, and Wolfhard all get sidelined to various degrees, though the talented Mckenna Grace thankfully remains the star of the show. As Phoebe, her social discomfort has been supplemented with a spiky dose of teenage sullenness (at one point she tells Callie “If you weren’t a Spengler, you’d be answering our phones”). But her friendship with a teenage ghost named Melody (played by Emily Alyn Lind) doesn’t really make much sense (the movie hints at a romantic spark, but mostly dances around it). Phoebe keeps saying Melody is the only person who understands her, but all she seems to offer is a sense of haughty cool. Gary struggling with the desire to be Phoebe’s pal and the need to be a father figure to her is far more compelling, but Rudd’s arc is given short shrift, frustratingly (Coon, sadly, is given even less to do - a truly wasted asset). Thankfully, the paranormal spectacle still has the capacity to dazzle. Kenan shows a much surer hand with the FX work than Paul Feig ever did in the calamitous 2016 version. The film’s opening chase sequence - which sees Ecto-1 pursuing a spectral “sewer dragon” through the streets of Hell’s Kitchen - is a low-key banger. There are plenty of fun flourishes - such as when one of the iconic marble lions outside the New York Public Library comes roaring to life. Nostalgic callbacks are once again plentiful (Slimer returns; Ray has another run-in with the Gray Lady in the stacks), though not quite as aggressive as the trailers seemed to indicate. Garraka - an elongated wraith with massive demon horns and no personality to speak of - isn’t much of a villain though. The climax is crying out for its own version of the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man, a creative curveball designed to galvanize the audience with giddy delight. Given its lack of reliable IP, Sony seems determined to milk the franchise for all its worth. I have mixed feelings. Bustin’ will always make me feel good, but that doesn’t mean I want to spend the rest of my life doing it. |
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