Saturday Night

Director: Jason Reitman
Starring: Gabriel LaBelle, Rachel Sennott, Cory Michael Smith, Ella Hunt, Dylan O' Brien, Emily Fairn, Matt Wood, Lamore Morris, Kim Matula, Finn Wolfhard, Nicholas Braun, Cooper Hoffman, Andrew Barth Feldman, Taylor Gray, Nicholas Podany, Kaia Gerber, Robert Wuhl, Tommy Dewey, Catherine Curtin, Jon Batiste, Willem Dafoe, Paul Rust, Tracy Letts, Matthew Rhys, J. K. Simmons, Brad Garrett, Josh Brener
Running Time: 109 min.
Rating: R

★★★ ½ (out of ★★★★) 

While certain obstacles accompany making a film about the 1975 premiere of Saturday Night Live, few compare to the challenges faced by the original cast and crew who got the show onto NBC, where it's resided for the past 50 years. Saturday Night co-writer/director Jason Reitman had to know this when committing to recreate a special brand of backstage chaos filled with actors chosen to pass as the most respected comedians of all-time. But they didn't start out on top. It was SNL that made them household names.

That's why it's so fitting Reitman stacks his cast full of young unknowns on the cusp of stardom, attempting to replicate the backstory of this bizarre show that didn't quiet resemble anything else on television. The running gag is how its frazzled but determined creator Lorne Michaels can't explain to executives something no one's seen yet. And he's right. But that doesn't mean what eventually airs in the midst of walkouts, firings, fires, threats and other production mishaps will even resemble the vision he has in mind. Flying by the seat of his pants, he'll be lucky if the network even lets him go through with it at all. 

For decades, critics and audiences would label each new SNL season and cast as its worst while overlooking how many huge talents it spawned. And this ensemble has the unenviable job of stepping into their shoes for one ridiculously stressful, debaucherous, profanity filled night that launches all their careers. But despite moving at a breakneck pace, certain faces do stand out long enough to make an impression as Reitman constructs one of his best recent efforts, and maybe the first that seems addictively rewatchable.  

It's October 11, 1975 and producer and creator Lorne Michaels (Gabriel LaBelle) arrives at NBC's New York City studio to prepare for the live airing of his new variety program, Saturday Night, which has the reluctant backing of increasingly nervous network boss Dick Ebersol (Cooper Hoffman). But disingenuous executive David Tebet (Willem Dafoe) is less optimistic, threatening to pull the plug and replace it with a rerun of The Tonight Show With Johnny Carson. 

The dysfunction Tebet witnesses does little to change his mind, as Michaels, comedy writer wife Rosie Shuster (Rachel Sennott) and head writer/actor Michael O' Donoghue (Tommy Dewey) try to wrangle their ambitiously makeshift cast of Chevy Chase (Cory Michael Smith), Gilda Radner (Ella Hunt), Dan Aykroyd (Dylan O' Brien), Laraine Newman (Emily Fairn), John Belushi (Matt Wood), Garrett Morris (Lamorne Morris) and Jane Curtin (Kim Matula). As show time rapidly approaches, everything that can go wrong does, putting the pressure on Michaels to prevent his dream from being shattered before it even airs.

Clocking in a tight 109 minutes, Reitman keeps things moving so fast it feels like twenty, letting viewers experience the crunch of how little time remains before the show goes live. And with relentless editing and rapid Sorkin-style dialogue, we're fully immersed inside this tumultuous backstage atmosphere with hardly a moment to breathe. On top of its impeccable, era specific production design, the whole film almost plays like a single continuous tracking shot, traveling from the street into the studio's halls, through the dressing rooms and onto the sound stage. Around every corner is another problem for Michaels to navigate, whether that's cutting sketches and performers with minutes to go, placating the stringent network censor (Catherine Curtin), or dealing with dissatisfied, coked up host George Carlin (Matthew Rhys). 

Michaels has to massage a lot of egos, and while history counts Chevy Chase as the most contentious cast member, it's actually Matt Wood's catatonic Belushi who proves completely uncontrollable, straddling the line between addict and eccentric genius. Wood, along with Cory Michael Smith's Chase and Dylan O' Brien's mustachioed Dan Akyroyd leave the biggest impressions of the main players, shunning any attempt at imitation to instead capture the freewheeling attitudes of super talented party animals who already consider themselves stars. 

Smith is particularly strong as Chase, establishing himself as the glue that holds this show together, impressing executives even while rubbing certain guests and castmates the wrong way. He'll get his comeuppance in a memorable confrontation with the gruff, ornery Milton Berle (a movie stealing J.K. Simmons) who humiliatingly cuts the cocky Chase down to size in front of girlfriend Jacqueline Carlin (Kaia Gerber). None of this likely happened, but the idea it could have is where the fun's at, as Reitman and co-writer Gil Kenan send up the stars' controversial reputations.

There are also other small moments in the midst of all this pandemonium that really click, like Garrett Morris's insecurity over his big break or actor Nicholas Braun's depiction of an ignored Jim Henson, who's captured with eerie specificity. And in a clever parallel to the spontaneous nature of SNL itself, Braun pulls double duty as Andy Kaufman, whose ubiquitous presence leads to a big payoff that doesn't disappoint. Gilda Radner, Laraine Newman and Jane Curtin aren't given much face time, at least in relation to how their contributions are viewed. But given the sheer amount of ground covered, it's inevitable certain players are shortchanged, which is also an accurate reflection of this show over the years. 

The casting of Dickinson actress Ella Hunt as Radner might be Reitman's only questionable call since those expecting the outsized personality of the comedic legend will be taken for a loop by Hunt's sweeter, more tender take. This isn't to say Radner didn't also possess those qualities, but it's easier  imagining co-star Rachel Sennott knocking that role out of the park. Instead, she proves invaluable as show den mother Rosie, who protects Michaels and the rest of the cast from their own worst instincts. Still, Reitman deserves praise for a a touchingly prophetic scene between Radner and Belushi that resonates in all the right ways as all these characters head into the final stretch.

Having already played a variation on another iconic creator in Steven Spielberg's The Fabelmans, Gabriel Labelle carries this picture on his back, leading the charge as Michaels wards off the constant stream of bad luck and a network itching to see him fail. He's always been described as generally low-key so it's interesting to watch how LaBelle's performance doesn't really contradict those accounts, even under the craziest of circumstances. A human punching bag who absorbs each successive blow, he'll soldier on, determined to see the show judged on its own merits. He knows what he has, even if putting it into words for the suits can get a little tricky. 

That NBC had no interest in ever airing this endeavor makes the film's closing scene hit that much harder, as everyone anxiously waits for a reaction signifying they've somehow pulled it off. Michaels is frequently warned against referring to the show as a "revolution," but after hearing late night's most famous intro for the first time, it's impossible not to understand what he meant. By capturing this in all its chaotic glory, Saturday Night shows how the most effective comedy can't just merely be described. When you see it, you'll know.                                                        

Cat Person

Director: Susanna Fogel
Starring: Emilia Jones, Nicholas Braun, Geraldine Viswanathan, Isabella Rossellini, Hope Davis, Fred Melamed, Christopher Shyer, Liza Koshy, Josh Andrés Rivera, Isaac Cole Powell, Michael Gandolfini
Running Time: 120 min.
Rating: R

★★★ (out of ★★★★) 

Based on the 2017 New Yorker short story by Kristen Roupenian, Cat Person revolves around a single idea, but it's an undeniably good one. Carried by a pair of gripping performances, it explores how the thinnest of lines can separate seemingly innocuous and dangerous situations. That's the challenge facing a protagonist who may have bigger worries than whether the man she's dating really owns two cats. Though this detail could represent the difference between a decent, eccentric stranger with noble intentions or a serial killer about to send her home in a body bag. 

Director Susanna Fogel begins her film with a great Margaret Atwood quote: "Men are afraid that women will laugh at them. Women are afraid that men will kill them." But don't be fooled into thinking this is a #MeToo lecture. It reaches a bit further, keeping us guessing until the story's backed against a wall, eventually transforming into a compulsively watchable character driven thriller that achieves slightly more. 

20 year-old college sophomore and part-time movie theater employee Margot (Emilia Jones) attracts the attention of frequent theatergoer Robert (Nicholas Braun), whom she describes to her feminist best friend Taylor (Geraldine Viswanathan) as resembling a character in an Apatow comedy. After a couple of awkward encounters, he gets Margot's number and they start texting until she eventually agrees to go out with him, despite Taylor's warnings and her misgivings about his odd behavior.

Following a disastrous first date and lingering feelings Robert could have creepy or even violent tendencies, Margot still can't break it off, constantly trying to convince herself of the positives. But even while fearing the worst case scenario, nothing quite prepares her for the consequences when this fling implodes and Robert proves increasingly difficult to move past. 

This guy may as well be waving a red flag when he walks into that theater and encounters Margot, with the two engaging in a strained banter that only sort of qualifies as conversation. At first glance, he's so obviously suspicious it almost seems like a flaw in Michelle Ashford's script or even the direction, until you realize that's exactly what the film's going for. Margot isn't so much enamored with him, but the idea of it, immediately tossing logic out the window to tempt fate. 

Fogel employs multiple dream sequences where Margot envisions Robert attacking her, only to pull back the curtain to reveal she's imagining it all. The familiar device becomes annoyingly repetitive until we get a hypothetical therapy session that gives us a rare glimpse into his mind and possible motivations. Reality collides with Margot's expectations when tiny details add up to paint a fuller picture. Young and insecure, she barely tolerates Taylor's sound advice and can't stand her smothering mom (Hope Davis) or vain step-dad (Christopher Shyer). Every decision she makes can be viewed through that prism.  

CODA actress Emilia Jones gives a high wire act of a performance that further clarifies why even that Best Picture winner's harshest detractors thought she was the best thing about it. Her upside is further cemented here in a difficult role that requires someone capable of credibly skirting the line between extreme vulnerability and cynicism. With every decision, Margot hides her romantic idealism beneath sarcastic humor, but remains just aware enough to realize she could end up a true crime statistic. 

As Robert, Succession's Nicholas Braun makes us doubt our own suspicions, investing his character with alarming quirks while leaving enough room for plausible deniability. Since this mostly takes Margot's perspective, so do we, but Braun deserves a lot of credit for planting subtle clues that Robert could be getting a raw deal. Or maybe not. The character's problematic worship of Harrison Ford's cinematic persona and the fact he looks a decade older than he claims doesn't qualify him as a killer, but everything is only a matter of degrees. And the increments are smaller than both assume. 

Geraldine Viswanathan impresses as Margot's cynical, sub-reddit dwelling friend, Taylor, highlighting the dissonance and similarities between living online and in the real world. And Isabella Rossellini has a small role too bizarre to describe other than by saying it involves an ant colony. The film also utilizes texting pretty well on screen, especially in a powerful scene where a series of messages intensify in hostility with each incoming ping. 

The turning point comes in a painfully awkward sex scene where Margot disengages and retreats into a conversation with another version of herself. It's kind of brilliant how Fogel makes this so uncomfortable to watch, as the whole sequence seems never ending, forcing us to watch and feel her humiliation. Stuck between lying to get through it and a fear of saying "no," she simply surrenders, chalking it up as the final straw. 

Managing to write itself out of a hole, the film provides a conclusive finish while leaving enough lingering questions to keep us thinking. In retrospect, it ends the only way it can, coming full circle as the "origin story" neither character wanted. Reluctantly entering a relationship based on the illusion of trust and compatibility, our heroine's dilemma escalates when self doubt overrides suspicion, causing viewers to squirm at the treacherous territory these two navigate in their messy, desperate attempt at authentic human connection.