MaXXXine

Director: Ti West
Starring: Mia Goth, Elizabeth Debicki, Moses Sumney, Michelle Monaghan, Bobby Cannavale, Halsey, Lily Collins, Giancarlo Esposito, Kevin Bacon, Simon Prast, Chloe Farnworth, Sophie Thatcher, Toby Huss
Running Time: 104 min.
Rating: R

★★★ (out of ★★★★)   

After much anticipation, the third and possibly final installment of Ti West's X trilogy, MaXXXine arrives to deliver exactly what the the trailers and teasers hinted it would. If X paid homage to 70's grindhouse slashers like The Texas Chainsaw Massacre and Pearl drew inspiration from golden era Technicolor classics like The Wizard of Oz, this is pure 80's VHS sleaze with a nod to Giallo horror. And while it's strangely the most conventional of the three in terms of plot, it still diverges enough from those to terrorize.

Even when it's easy to telegraph where the story's headed, from purely an aesthetic standpoint, West's neon-infused interpretation of this down and dirty era is worth the price of admission alone. Of course, the obsessively ambitious title character's goal was always to be a huge star, and after escaping X's bloodbath, nothing could stand in her way. If there's a thematic through line, it's Maxine's desire to attain the life she knows she deserves, instilled in her by a televangelist father at an early age and reinforced with the chilling black-and-white home movie footage that opens this picture.

It's 1985 Los Angeles and six years after Maxine Minx (Mia Goth) survived the slaughter of her friends on that Texas farm, she's searching for stardom under the bright lights of Hollywood. With the Night Stalker murders all over the news, Maxine has been making a splash in low budget adult films while working at a dingy strip club. But her big break comes when she lands the lead role in cold, no-nonsense British auteur Elizabeth Bender's (Elizabeth Debicki) horror sequel, The Puritan II. 

Soon after sharing the good news with her loyal agent Teddy Knight (Giancarlo Esposito), colleagues Amber (Chloe Farnworth) and Tabby (Halsey) and friend Leon (Moses Sumney), Maxine receives a VHS tape of the ill-fated porn filmed at the farm house in 1979, along with a visit from bombastic private investigator John Labat (Kevin Bacon). Hired by a mysterious man responsible for Maxine's friends now turning up dead in Night Stalker inspired slayings, Labat demands she meet with his boss or have her criminal past exposed. But just as LAPD detectives Williams (Michele Monaghan) and Torres ( Bobby Cannavale) close in on these murders, Maxine decides to take matters into her own hands.

West exploits the period setting to maximum effect, using the seedy early 80's L.A. atmosphere to make a bold, visually stylish statement about how Hollywood swallows its young starlets whole. And in doing so this joins a long list of noir mysteries made in a similar vein, such as Brian De Palma's The Black Dahlia. But if West's interested in exploring the dark underbelly of Tinseltown as a natural next chapter for fame hungry Maxine, he's also committed to giving us another moody retro slasher that also carries faint echoes of Once Upon a Time in Hollywood. 

Better paced and structured than X but lacking the dramatic flair of Pearl, this lands squarely in the middle, subverting expectations that it would be the most shocking and outrageous of the three. In doing a lot of small, simple things extremely well, the plot itself often taking a deserved backseat to the performances and visuals. The grungy sights and sounds of L.A. function as the story's mirror, and while it's cliché to call the city another character, the depiction would have definitely earned a mention in that great 2004 documentary Los Angles Plays Itself. It may not be the West Coast equal to what countless 70's films did for New York, but what West pulls off is still pretty impressive.

When the opening titles roll and we see Maxine driving her white convertible to this audition as ZZ Top's "Gimme Me All Your Lovin'" blasts over the soundtrack, the countdown to carnage may as well begin. But it's officially underway when she gets an unexpected visit from Bacon's wacky detective. Clearly underestimating her, Labat has no idea what he's gotten into, regardless of the anonymous leather gloved killer giving him his marching orders.

The term "Scream Queen" gets thrown around a lot, but Goth is the only contemporary actress who can legitimately lay claim to that crown, even if it oversimplifies just how much she's raised the bar for this genre. And it's a testament to Goth's grasp on the material that even her subtlest, straightforward performance in the trilogy still feels out of left field amidst these new surroundings. Sporting a Louisiana drawl, Bacon's a comedic highlight, as is Esposito, who shines as the shady talent agent that's more Saul Goodman than Gus Fring. 

Certain moments leave big impressions, like a beatdown featuring John Parr's "St. Elmos Fire (Man in Motion)" and a chase through the Psycho house. Or really anything related to the filming of The Puritan II, especially Maxine's interactions with Debicki's classy, controlling director and the original's star Molly Bennett (Lily Collins), who has some words of wisdom for her replacement. The former casts a strong presence, dishing out a blunt, icy mix of sarcastic cruelty while attempting to keep Maxine on the straight and narrow.

The killer's identity isn't exactly the best kept secret, nor is it necessarily intended to be. But anything the plot lacks in surprise it makes up for when Maxine finally comes face-to-face with this monster, culminating in a finale cleverly set against the most famous of landmarks. Strangely enough, with all its religious underpinnings, the West project this most resembles might be his 2013 found footage film, The Sacrament, based on the 1978 Jonestown Massacre. 

Unlike that, this isn't exactly about a cult, but it does share key elements, including another real life crime case that helped define an era. Given the trilogy's lofty reputation, it would be easy to take MaXXXine for granted, but Goth still carries the load as she did the others. And for fans already willing to follow this character to the ends of the earth, a depraved dive through Hollywood's so called "dream factory" proves too enticing a proposition to pass up.                     

Blonde

Director: Andrew Dominik
Starring: Ana de Armas, Adrien Brody, Bobby Cannavale, Xavier Samuel, Julianne Nicholson, Evan Williams, Toby Huss, David Warshofsky, Caspar Phillipson, Dan Butler, Lily Fisher, Sara Paxton, Rebecca Wisocky, Tygh Runyan, Scoot McNairy
Running Time: 166 min.
Rating: NC-17

★★★ ½ (out of ★★★★)  

Before you even get to the rape, physical abuse and talking fetuses, writer/director Andrew Dominik's pulverizing fictional biography of Marilyn Monroe, Blonde, starts at the very beginning. With Norma Jeane's mentally ill mother driving straight into a raging fire with her terrified daughter in the front seat. It may as well be a metaphor for the vitriol that awaited Dominik upon the release of Netflix's NC-17 adaptation of Joyce Carol Oates' 2000 novel, which is less an account of Monroe's life than speculative fantasy assembled from fractured puzzle pieces of it. None of those aforementioned events occurred as presented, whatever truth existing in them sensationalized and reshaped to facilitate Dominik's descent into the star's troubled psyche. 

Far from a straightforward biopic that could share a double bill with Baz Luhrmann's Elvis, it's closer to a surrealistic Lynchian nightmare many have already categorized as a cross between some lost Marilyn snuff film and The Last Temptation of Christ. She's victimized throughout, and though it's not based on historical fact, the specificity of events and unflinching manner in which her suffering's presented could lead some to falsely assume it was. Even if it doesn't endure as the definitive word on the star, she'll always be associated with it, shining the spotlight on a filmmaker's moral responsibility when tackling a real person's life.   

No one can watch this and say it isn't well made or that Ana de Armas doesn't give the performance of her career, empowering Marilyn with a depth and complexity everyone always suspected she had, even when Dominik seems to be going in an entirely different direction. But more than any other examination of the star, we really get inside her head, heavily exploring that marker separating Norma Jeane from her manufactured Hollywood alter ago. When the cameras aren't rolling, Monroe's still the wide-eyed, innocent we see at the film's start, playing make believe as a blonde bombshell. Her helpless upbringing required this survival mechanism, a detail Dominik drills into us for almost 3 hours with scenarios that reflect a sort of truth that's aggressively discomforting

Opening as she turns seven years old in 1933, a young Norma Jeane Mortenson (Lily Fisher) is shown a framed picture of a man her mentally unstable mom Gladys (Julianne Nicholson) claims is her father, a big shot Hollywood mogul. But when the police halt Glady's delusional plans to bring Norma Jeane up to see him in the middle of a fire, she snaps, leading to a violent breakdown that sends Gladys to a mental hospital and her daughter to an orphanage. Norma Jeane reemerges in the 1940's as pinup girl "Marilyn Monroe," aspiring to break into acting despite not being seen for anything other than her looks. 

After being raped by a studio president referred to as Mr. Z (David Warshofsky), Marilyn soon turns all the inner pain and childhood trauma toward acting, and as her film career ascends, she becomes romantically entangled with Hollywood offspring Cass Chaplin (Xavier Samuel) and Eddy Robinson Jr. (Evan Williams). Unsuccessful marriages to an ex-athlete (Bobby Cannavale) and a playwright (Adrien Brody) leave her emotionally shattered, while she's later dehumanized by an eventual affair with the The President (Caspar Phillipson). Through this, Marilyn still clings to the hope of meeting her mythical, estranged father, an increasingly unlikely prospect amidst the abuse, humiliation and mistreatment she endures from nearly every man who enters her doomed life.  

Since the entire film revolves around fictional events people already believed could be true, seeing it depicted on screen runs the risk of further substantiating them. The fact that the actual names of some major players weren't used (likely for legal reasons) does speak to a certain double standard, reinforcing the idea that's she's still being exploited long after her death. But as unfair as it may seem, the creative license Dominik takes isn't far off from what was seen in something like The Social Network, with the only difference being that the subject here is deceased and and has a history of being dragged through the mud by the media.

Dominik isn't making attempts to alter any preconceived notions, instead taking a fever dream approach to the material that was bound to polarize. In certain instances, his timing couldn't have been worse given the current climate, especially those scenes involving abortion and miscarriage. But while he invites these controversies with his "anti-biopic," little of that has any relevance to the film's actual quality, as it's beautifully made and compulsively watchable. Dominik's no stranger to celebrity deconstruction, having already helmed The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford, a movie as long as its title. This is even longer, and even while flirting with repetitiveness, it's edited well enough not to feel at all like a slog.

None of that makes this any easier to watch, not that it's intended to be. It leans further into the idea of men viewing Marilyn as a sex object than was even anticipated, no matter how much trauma and genuine emotion she poured into her craft. The moments where she's portrayed as a student of the game with unlimited intellectual capacity are fleeting since everyone saw "Marilyn Monroe" instead. The framing device involving her estranged, Clark Gable lookalike father is another fabrication, but it's Blonde's best, intrinsically tied to a stuffed animal that emerges as the film's answer to Citizen Kane's "Rosebud." And for anyone who didn't get the memo she has daddy issues, her incessantly calling all her lovers "daddy" should quickly clear that up. 

Alternating between monochrome and color and shifting aspect ratios, cinematographer Chayse Irvin gives the film a stylized look that compellingly reflects the dueling identities of its subject, with Nick Cave and Warren Ellis' hypnotic score matching that disorientation. An early Marilyn audition scene is enthralling to watch, before turning painfully uncomfortable and hopeless when we see the male studio executives' reaction to it, reaffirming that even behind her back she's enduring some form of abuse. Dominik also comes up with some unnerving visual tricks that further convey Marilyn's  objectified existence, with ogling, cackling, distorted faces leering her down, horrifyingly transforming the Some Like it Hot premiere into a lost Twilight Zone episode.

Dominik covers a lot of ground with Marilyn's relationships and marriages, while impressively needing only a few scenes to convey how they develop and quickly end. She probably seems "happiest" and least burdened with the celebrity twins, at least before the tidal wave of fame comes crushing down. If first husband DiMaggio (well played by Cannavale), reveals himself to be a controlling, abusive brute, Arthur Miller's an anomaly for being the only kind male figure in Marilyn's life who outwardly recognizes her humanity. Brody's performance as the hyper intellectual Miller is subtly exceptional and there's something special about this section that even the film's most vehement opponents would admit is its high point. Unfortunately, by the time Marilyn weds him, she's already drowning in prescription pills and alcohol, prone to wild mood swings. 

While the talking CGI fetus has been heavily criticized for pedaling in tasteless shock value, the circumstances and fallout surrounding Marilyn's decision to abort aren't brushed under the rug and it's highlighted as a traumatic, life-altering event she understandably can't move beyond. The plot would be offensive only if the screenplay relegated it to an afterthought, even as it's easy to recognize none of this is a pleasant sit. Equally unpleasant is Marilyn's affair with JFK, here is encapsulated in a one night rape when she's literally dragged to the President's suite like a slab of meat by Secret Service. 

On content alone, this doesn't deserve an NC-17 (it's easy to name check numerous film titles with more nudity, sex, violence and language), but you needn't look further than the JFK scene to understand why. It's just a bridge too far for the MPAA, whose members probably scoff at consensual sex scenes, much less a non-consensual one as discomforting and disturbing as this. But few directors would have the guts to even fictionally depict the 35th President as a rapist, dispelling accusations that the movie is some kind of Marilyn hit job. Still, it's not hard to believe the rating designation is at least partially responsible for throwing gasoline on the furor that was already erupting over the picture.

Under different circumstances, Ana de Armas would be a strong Best Actress contender, and still could be. Strangely enough, it's the Marilyn performance everyone's always wanted, just not in the film we envisioned it would occur. It's hardly noteworthy when her Cuban accent occasionally slips through, but amazing how she simultaneously captures the breathy, seductive qualities of Marilyn and the insecurity and pain tormenting Norma Jeane, sometimes within a single scene. And it's also surprising how much de Armas does physically resemble her in certain iconic Monroe moments where you nearly have to do a double take. As disturbed mother, Gladys, Julianne Nicholson is haunting, going on an absolute tear in the film's opening section, then again later when her character returns in a far different capacity. 

A more extreme escalation of the horror and isolation of last year's Spencer than a snapshot along the lines of My Week With Marilyn, Dominik vaguely operates within the guardrails of an acceptable chronological timeline while incorporating the sensationalized events of Oates' novel. The biggest bone of contention will be that Marilyn had a troubled life, just not this troubled, and there are aspects to her that go ignored. But the film's an adaptation so any argument regarding its truthfulness should probably be settled in an actual court rather than one of public opinion. It succeeds in painting a nightmarish, hypnotizing portrait of the star's hellish existence from her own perspective, leaving no doubt how far this intends to go in its final, unrelenting minutes. 

If all Marilyn wanted was to be was respected for her intellect and acting skills, it's cruelly ironic that this film's release may have just permanently derailed that, no matter how impressive the filmmaking. There seems to be a disconnect amongst viewers regarding what they felt the goals should have been going in, as this is undeniably difficult and definitely not for everyone. But a safer, more grounded approach that's superficially respectful to Marilyn's memory could have easily resulted in the kind of safe biopic everyone complains about anyway. Blonde is far less forgettable, taking the gloves off and in the process starting a controversial conversation about how celebrities are perceived and consumed.     

I, Tonya

Director: Craig Gillespie
Starring: Margot Robbie, Sebastian Stan, Allison Janney, Julianne Nicholson, Bobby Cannavale, Paul Walter Houser, Caitlyn Carver, Ricky Russert, Mckenna Grace
Running Time: 119 min.
Rating: R

★★★ ½ (out of ★★★★) 

There's this moment that comes in Craig Gillespie's biopic, I, Tonya, when disgraced figure skater Tonya Harding, years removed from the infamous event that would define her life and career, turns to the camera to tell us this is part of the story we've been waiting for. It's why we're here. Or the "incident," as it's referred to. More time is spent on it than you've been lead to believe, which includes everything from the planning to the botched execution and even more seriously botched cover-up. But I, Tonya isn't about any of this, while still also managing to be completely about it at the same time.

It becomes nearly impossible to separate the accompanying media narrative pushing Harding as this victimized anti-hero from the film itself. If the full extent of Harding's involvement in the 1994 attack on rival Olympic figure skater Nancy Kerrigan will always be subject for debate, what isn't is the fact that her actions and associations did lead directly to it. And with all that being true, it also needs to be acknowledged that she lead a mostly terrible life defined by physical and psychological abuse.

The toughest aspect of the movie is how it uncomfortably forces all those aforementioned elements to co-exist in a way they haven't before, perhaps in the end landing at the conclusion that Harding, no matter how you feel about her, never stood a chance. That any success she had was indirectly bred from misery and that feeling of never fitting in would persist, regardless of her talent or accomplishments. If you're Team Kerrigan, as I was at the time and still remain, there's relief in knowing that it's okay to empathize with the title character of this film, while not extending that same courtesy to the real person on whom it's based.

While filled to the brim with its fair share of detestable losers, it's also really cleverly conceived, told in a fourth wall-breaking, quasi-documentary style that suits the twisted subject, featuring flashbacks and interviews that carry a satirical tone, assuring the absurdity of the situation and its delusional characters is rarely lost. That combined with the two perfectly calibrated performances make for one of the more intriguing entries into the sports movie genre, as if there's even a correct way to categorize this. But whatever it is, it's definitely not what anyone expected.

It's the 1970's when three-year-old ice skating prodigy Tonya Harding is pushed by her abusive mother LaVona (Allison Janey) to train in her hometown of Portland, Oregon under the guidance of coach Diane Rawlinson (Julianne Nicholson). Seeing her daughter's astounding talent as merely a quick cash-in, Tonya (Margot Robbie) continues to rise up the ranks into her teen years, rapidly becoming one of the best figure skaters in the country. But even as she does this on pure skill alone, she faces resistance from those within the skating committee who take exception to her "poor white trash" reputation, which manifests itself on the ice with her costumes and rock music choices, not to mention the constant swearing at judges over scores.

Off the ice, Tonya does herself even fewer favors, associating with the likes of Jeff Gillooly (Sebastian Stan), whom she began dating at 15, and eventually marrying, much to LaVona's disapproval. It's a relationship that proves to be nearly as destructive and toxic as that with her mom, who continues to verbally cut her down as a failure well into young adulthood, while Gillooly's volcanic temper soon leads to violent beatings. The better Tonya's skating gets, the more hellish her personal life becomes, with all roads leading to the 1994 attack on Olympic rival and teammate Nancy Kerrigan (Caitlyn Carver) by Gillooly stooges Shawn Eckhardt (Paul Walter Hauser) and Shane Stant (Ricky Russert). Unfortunately, the rest is history.

While it's easy to accuse Gillespie and writer Steven Rogers' screenplay of piling on the trauma that followed Harding throughout her life, too much of it actually occurred to effectively hurl that criticism. And all of it came from her mother, who's played here by Janney in her Oscar-winning supporting turn as just about the most detestable parent and human being one could imagine existing, constantly lashing out at her daughter for no good reason other than to mitigate her own failures.

Making Tonya feel as worthless as possible isn't just an everyday occurrence with the vulgar, chain-smoking LaVona, but her life's mission, poorly disguising it under the mask of "tough love" as she brags about the sacrifices she's made for her disappointment of a daughter. As driving force and chief antagonist of this entire story, I'd love to report she's a deeply complex, nuanced character, but the fact is she's just plain awful. This comes as a relief in some ways, completely in line with the film's darkly comic viciousness, as the script makes no apologies or excuses for her monstrous behavior.

Many detractors are right in assessing that Janney is hitting one note and LaVona is a caricature, but anyone who's seen footage of the real woman (who actually does have a pet parakeet on her shoulder) would tell you that's exactly what she is. And given the semi-ironic tone the picture's going for, any attempt to humanize her would probably be a major mistake. It's a telling moment when during one of the many videotaped confessional moments, Harding expresses confusion as to why so many people would care about Nancy Kerrigan getting hit once when she was beaten her entire life. It takes a second to realize the statement is true, before realizing what that says about Tonya for making it. And none of it's flattering.

In addition to completely transforming her physical appearance, effectively adapting her mannerisms and style of speech and believably inhabiting the figure skater from her early teen years into nearly middle age, the biggest accomplishment of Margot Robbie's outlandishly great lead performance is how it gives you peeks into this tragically troubled athlete's psyche. If her mother has no hint of humanity, Tonya does, putting the work in to reach the top only to have her demons destroy the only thing she ever loved and excelled at: skating.

Despite possessing considerably more raw talent than her rivals and becoming the first woman to nail the triple axel (in one of many believable, masterfully edited competition scenes) it still wasn't good enough because she couldn't "play the game." And that's important in a sport that revolves around class and elegance, something ice princess Kerrigan had in spades but Tonya's upbringing made it impossible for her to fake, even if she was willing to. And she was never willing to, in so many ways setting up this dichotomy that existed between Harding and Kerrigan that went beyond sport and competition, serving instead as media catnip.

The genius of the screenplay is how their feud isn't explicitly explored (Kerrigan hardly appears), but its cultural implications nonetheless permeate through every frame of the film, even reaching back to when Tonya's a little girl. It's crass vs. class. The smoking, swearing rebel vs. the sweet girl next door. And as skilled as Hollywood writers are, none of them could have crafted a better story than the real one that took viewers into Lillehammer in 1994 when for a few short months figure skating became bigger than the Super Bowl. Wisely, Gillespie doesn't attempt to replicate that, instead focusing on its most controversial participant, with even the classic rock soundtrack selections inseparable from Tonya's head space, as well as the lowlifes she surrounded herself with.

Most of the picture's second half revolves around her relationship with Gillooly, played by Sebastian Stan in an underappreciated performance. Initially presenting himself as meek and quiet, he eventually assumes the mantle of the new chronic abuser in Harding's life, as their toxic on-again, off-again relationship is filled with nonstop verbal and physical altercations, including a particularly memorable one involving a firearm. And it's in a pathetically desperate last ditch attempt to prove he "loves" her that Gillooly calls in a favor from his buddy Shawn Eckhardt, perhaps the most pitiable and inept character in this entire saga, with actual assailant Shane Stant running a close second.

What begins as an anonymous threat against Kerrigan careens wildly out of control, and what's most surprising about how Gillespie depicts the infamous incident is how it's hilariously played as total farce. And that's exactly what it was. An episode of "World's Dumbest Criminals" that happened to have very real, deadly serious consequences. Did Tonya know?  Does it even matter? While the script doesn't present any additional information to come to a concrete conclusion one way or another, Tonya Harding is responsible. Or rather irresponsible, just by her association with Gillooly. In other words, by the time the knee clubbing occurred, the crazy train already left the station for Tonya, and the screenplay does an excellent job detailing how her life would inevitably lead to disaster. If it wasn't this, then there's a good chance it just would have been something else.

While it's clearly irrefutable that justice was served in the ruling to ban Harding for life from figure skating and TV ratings can be cited as the only reason she was at the Olympics instead of in jail, there's another defining event in the film that lingers longer in the mind. It comes in the only moment LaVona seems to display something resembling an actual soul, before the curtain is pulled back to reveal more heinous motivations. It's may be easy to argue whether Harding did or didn't deserve her lot in life, but few would claim she had that betrayal coming, especially at the hands of her own mother.

While criticisms will continue to persist that Gillespie is really making fun of these people with the mockumentary approach he takes, it's a story that's probably impossible with a straight face anyway, or at least without occasionally winking at the audience. It's the perfect approach because the situation is just too absurd to do otherwise, especially when the harshest skewering is reserved for the media in the form of Bobby Cannavale's Hard Copy tabloid TV producer. At one point, Harding's contemplative and brutally honest, if not particularly self-reflective, narration acknowledges how shows like that are now the news thanks this event and the O.J. case. But I,Tonya delves even deeper by attempting to explore how much a person's actions are guided and shaped by socio-economic circumstances extending beyond their control, and whether or not that  should matter when life's final score is eventually tallied.
      

Danny Collins

Director: Dan Fogelman
Starring: Al Pacino, Annette Bening, Jennifer Garner, Bobby Cannavale, Christopher Plummer, Katarina Čas, Giselle Eisenberg, Melissa Benoist, Josh Peck, Eric Michael Roy, Nick Offerman
Running Time: 106 min.
Rating: R

★★★ (out of ★★★★) 

About a decade ago, Neil Diamond released a Rick Rubin-produced album that was complete departure from anything he'd previously done, trading his usual, over-the-top bombast for an acoustic guitar and stripped down sound. The result was his biggest commercial and critical hit in years. I couldn't help but think of it while watching the immensely enjoyable Danny Collins, wondering if Diamond had a crisis similar to the title character to cause that change in course. Probably not, even if the aging rocker Al Pacino plays seems much closer in style to Diamond than the actual inspiration, folk singer Steve Tilston.

Just as his music was taking off in 1971, Tilston was written a letter of encouragement from John Lennon and Yoko Ono that he didn't receive until 34 years later, sparking a dramatic change in his life. As a concept, it's an ingenious starting point, made all the more satisfying screenwriter Dan Fogelman's (making his directorial debut) immediate acknowledgment that he'll be taking liberties with it. And they're mostly clever ones. But what's more amazing might be his ability to secure the rights to Lennon's music for the film, as some of his biggest solo hits punctuate key scenes. While I'm not sure it dramatically increases the overall experience and he goes a bit overboard with it, if ever a screenplay screamed out for Lennon's songs, it's this one.    

While Pacino's clearly channeling Diamond, he's also channeling Pacino, as it's impossible not to consider the actor's legendary career while watching and rooting for this character. It's not only a reminder of how long he's been at this, but perhaps some of the choices he's made along the way. Some good, others less so. This is one of those better choices and, as usual, he looks like he's having the time of his life.

Pacino plays Danny Collins, a show-stopping rocker whose fan base now primarily consists of older women singing along with his early 1970's pop hit, "Hey, Baby Doll." Filling up arenas by coasting on the success of that "Sweet Caroline"-like smash, he hasn't written any new material in 30 years and refuses to give up his costly, hard partying rock star lifestyle, which includes a girlfriend (Katarina Čas) half his age. But when his best friend and manager, Frank (Christopher Plummer) gives him a framed, 40-year-old undelivered letter written to him by John Lennon as a birthday gift, he's forced to reexamine his choices and consider how differently his life could have turned out had he gotten it.

Danny's suddenly determined to locate his estranged son, Tom (Bobby Cannavale), who's built a normal life with wife Samantha (Jennifer Garner) and daughter, Hope (Giselle Eisenberg) that emphatically excludes the celebrity father who abandoned him. But an indefinite stay at the local Hilton turns his attention to the hotel's no nonsense manager, Mary (Annette Bening), who he keeps trying to hit on. She keeps his ego in check as he reluctantly begins to write new material and attempts to find redemption with his family.

From the opening flashback scene, it's obvious this is going to be a good time. It shows a twenty-something Danny (Eric Michael Roy, a dead ringer for young Pacino) being interviewed by a music journalist (an unrecognizable Nick Offerman doing his best Lester Bangs) looking like a deer caught in headlights of fame. Scared to death by celebrity harming the artistic purity of his work, a letter from his idol could have provided him with some guidance and encouragement at just the right time. Instead, he became this larger than life showman, who never stopped to consider himself a sell-out until reading Lennon's letter delivers an unexpected jolt.

Danny's far from a failure, but it wouldn't be a stretch to call him somewhat a joke. At this point, he's famous for just being famous, having contributed nothing meaningful in years, yet still riding high with an enjoyable but tired act. Without naming names, we see it all the time, so it's easy to understand why he'd be afraid to step out of his comfort zone to try something artistically different. And it helps that Pacino plays him as this charming, wonderful, one-of-kind guy who just storms into this hotel like a force of nature and wins over everyone in sight, complimenting the staff and even trying to set the desk clerk (Whiplash's Melissa Benoist) up with the parking valet (Josh Peck). Only the seemingly humorless manager, Mary, remains unimpressed, which of course makes her his ideal equal.

Danny even eventually wears Mary down in the film's most successful sequence, with Pacino and Bening at their respective bests playing off each other in a hotel bar as their characters discover they have much more in common than they thought. They share such a natural chemistry (or "patter" as Danny calls it) that would feel entirely contrived with two other actors in the roles. Here, you're just lost in two real people just enjoying each others company. Their interplay is so seamless it's often tough to tell where Al and Annette end and Danny and Mary begin.

A development occurs almost midway through that's best not to talk about other than saying it comes out of the "Screenwriting 101" handbook and would likely get you kicked out of class. It's a credit to Fogelman's expertise, Pacino's convincing work and Bobby Cannavale's realistic, matter-of-fact performance as a working class father justifiably offended by Danny's arrival, that they pull it off. And as questionable as it looks on paper, that I'd have problems coming up with any reasonable alternatives must speak to its success on some level. Without it, we also wouldn't have gotten the unusually observant final scene, which puts a nice bow on the story while not depriving us of the (admittedly remote) possibility that maybe things don't work out.

In hindsight, the direction this goes does kind of make sense in that his son Tom's problems (more severe than expected) would get in the way of Danny's "happy ending" and redemption. After all, as likable a guy as he is, he's also an egomaniac who thinks the world revolves around him. Pacino plays these two sides of him so well that it's a blast seeing him bounce off everyone else.

Aside from Bening, who invests Mary with more depth than anticipated, Christopher Plummer smoothly and sarcastically conveys the experience of a music industry vet who simply tells it like it is. Jennifer Garner also gets some solid scenes opposite Pacino as the spouse more receptive to having Danny in their lives, despite the emotional risks to her husband and daughter. And as Hope, Giselle Eisenberg (no relation) accomplishes the rare child actor feat of being the precocious center of attention without becoming overbearing.

There's an alternate moviegoing universe in which Danny Collins tops the box office and becomes a giant hit for Pacino, possibly even earning him a nomination. That universe is the 1990's, when crowd-pleasing, star-driven adult dramas were still filling multiplexes. Consider the fact that this was released at all, and turned out this well, a victory in itself. And those justifiably lamenting that studios aren't making intelligent mainstream movies about older people anymore will find a lot to appreciate here. It's formulaic in every sense, but proof that in the right hands, the formula still works.

Blue Jasmine

Director: Woody Allen
Starring: Cate Blanchett, Alec Baldwin, Sally Hawkins, Bobby Cannavale, Louis C.K., Andrew Dice Clay, Peter Sarsgaard, Michael Stuhlbarg, Tammy Blanchard, Max Casella
Running Time: 98 min.
Rating:  PG-13

★★★ (out of ★★★★) 

It's somewhat ironic that Woody Allen's most tolerable film in years centers around an intolerable character. At least to the other characters. But to us she's compelling and even at points captivating. Observing the actions of the title character in Blue Jasmine is comparable to watching a train wreck. That's a change of pace since the most toxic element in any Woody Allen film is usually him, whether he's in front of the camera or not. He hasn't made what could be considered a truly great film in decades despite turning out one feature a year like clockwork. Sometimes it feels like he's making them just to make them and keep working even if he doesn't have anything important to say. More frustratingly, it's not like any of these films are awful, as that might be some indication he's really going for it. Instead, most have been mediocre or even occasionally forgettable.

Aside from a powerhouse lead performance of alarming proportions, it's tough to say Blue Jasmine necessarily breaks the Woody mold but it's definitely stronger and more interesting than Whatever Works, To Rome With Love and the overpraised Midnight in Paris. Coming from someone who far prefers him tackling drama, there's more than enough drama to spare here, while still offering a spattering of laughs, most of which are dark and uncomfortable. He's good at this stuff and should do character studies more often, even if this can't exactly be considered an "original screenplay" in any way, shape or form. There are direct sequels and remakes that have less in common with their source than this script does with Tennessee Williams' A Streetcar Named Desire. Luckily, it was probably due for an update anyway, so at least it's given a good one.      

Rich socialite Jasmine French (Cate Blanchett) has recently fallen on hard times, as her former husband, New York financier Hal Francis (Alec Baldwin) was sent to prison for fraud, forcing her to move to San Francisco to stay with her sister, Ginger (Sally Hawkins). Through flashbacks, we're given important glimpses of Jasmine's marriage to Hal and her relationship with Ginger and then husband Augie (Andrew Dice Clay), both of whom she looked down on at the time as lower class degenerates. Year later, Jasmine's attitude remains mostly the same even as Ginger has since moved on with a mechanic named Chili (Bobby Cannavale). Battling her own history of mental illness and emotional instability, Jasmine wastes little time popping pills, drinking heavily, mocking her sister's lifestyle choices and insulting her friends. But the true horror comes when she actually has to go out and get a real job. It isn't until she meets and falls for wealthy, widowed diplomat Dwight (Peter Sarsgaard) that she's given a fresh chance at happiness.

Complex in both conception and execution, the title character is the reason it all works. Part protagonist, part antagonist, Jasmine could have easily been written or performed as a cliche of upper class entitlement, or worse yet, a crazed sociopath. And while there will undoubtedly still be those who think she qualifies as both, Blanchett brings a lot more to it than that, despite it being the type of performance that couldn't be classified as subtle. Being sickened by Jasmine's actions is a given, but the actress forces us into believing she might actually have potential as a human being if she weren't so self-absorbed and superficial. That both she and Ginger were adopted is an important detail since they're so different no one would possibly believe they're sisters otherwise, which is an underlying (if not overlying) source of tension in their relationship. It's clear from their interactions Jasmine was always the favorite growing up and it's even more plainly obvious Ginger is only her sister when she needs something. And yet, frustratingly, Jasmine's observations that her sister is wasting her life and potential are spot on. She pretty much is.

Hawkins portrays an often clueless and naive woman who's settling in every aspect of her life, especially when it comes to romance. It's rare having a supporting character (especially a familiar type like the put upon sister) that's as well developed as the lead and Hawkins deserves much of that credit. Torn between the hot-tempered Chili and a guy named Al (Louis C.K.) who she meets at a party and carries on an affair, both alternately straddle the line between caring, sensitive guys and total losers. The truth probably resides somewhere in between, but the exuberant Cannavale is one of the best things in this and the thrill of seeing Louis C.K. in a Woody Allen movie, even in such a small dose, doesn't disappoint. It also really gets the mind racing about how great it would be if Louie were given the same opportunity as Larry David to carry his own Allen vehicle.

There have been raves for Andrew Dice Clay's performance and while he is surprisingly solid in a small, but pivotal role, I can't help but think much of that praise stems from the shock of not only seeing the controversial comic in a quality film, but managing to hold his own. Still, it's a casting masterstroke as Augie's very existence in the story serves as set-up for a huge, climactic scene in the third act where Jasmine's past indiscretions catch up with her. Baldwin's sleazy as ever as her lying, philandering, Madoff-like ex-husband, but it's Blanchett doing most of the work, devouring scenes left and right.

As heinous as Jasmine seems, the actress does seem to work up a considerable amount of empathy for her given her situation isn't one that naturally elicits much (if any) sympathy at all. By society's standards, she was on top of the world and used to living a certain lifestyle so it only makes sense she would break when it all comes crashing down. Her foray into the working world as a receptionist for an overexcited dentist (played by Michael Stuhlbarg) reveals almost as much about the character as it does Allen himself, who's been justifiably accused of being out of touch with the rest of society (an office without computers?) It's also interesting how the San Francisco setting feels and looks no different than the director's detours overseas to Paris or Rome. This shares the basic feel of every other recent Woody movie, but it's darker in tone and centered around a performance leagues ahead of what we're used to in his usual outings.

When we eventually learn the exact circumstances of her former husband's downfall, there's even more to talk about and Blanchett's work somehow seems even more intricate in retrospect. The worst thing that could happen to her is being teased with a shot at reclaiming the wealth and privilege she originally relished and still yearns for. For all her deception and shame to try to cover up her previous life, we still see how Sarsgaard's wealthy diplomat would fall for her class, beauty and sophistication, even as she unintentionally works as hard as possible to sabotage herself. She's the kind of person whose compliments even seem like backhanded insults.

It's difficult not to respect Allen for refusing to compromise by letting the character arrive at some sudden self-realization that would feel false for someone as emotionally unstable as she. Everything is particularly twisted and unpleasant, which comes as a relief from a director not exactly known for his risk taking in recent years. While there's nothing particularly surprising about Blue Jasmine aside from that and Blanchett's barn burning turn, it marks the first time in a while there are actually issues to contemplate and discuss coming out of a Woody Allen picture.