Captain America: Brave New World

Re-Heated Leftovers

or

The President's a Red Hulking Jerk (So What Else is New?)
 

The new Captain America movie—Captain America: Brave New World—has been the #1 movie of the past three weekends, so it was about time I checked it out. It's the first new "Cap" movie with the retirement of the Steve Rogers (Chris Evans) character in Avengers: Endgame, and after a Disney+ series try-out, Anthony Mackie gets to stop being called The Falcon and being called Captain America in an actual movie from Marvel Studios. 

 

Too bad he feels like a co-star in his own movie, as the character flails around trying to solve a government conspiracy involving the big dump of adamantium that's been sitting in the Indian Ocean since The Eternals (and that was—what?—four years ago?), while at the same time a villain from the past (2008, specifically, but from another Marvel movie series from a previous studio), who has supposedly been rotting in a secure jail-cell somewhere apparently isn't and has his own plans for—muah-ha-ha—revenge. Already the "Brave New World" title of the movie feels like a stretch as it seems to be recycling old dangling plot-threads from the less-than-successful Marvel movies of the past.

And speaking of recycling, Harrison Ford takes over for the late William Hurt (who took over from Sam Elliott) playing General Thaddeus "Thunderbolt" Ross, who has previously been a thorn in The Avengers' boots and has parlayed that into becoming President of the United States (Ford is President again? Man, we ARE recycling). And as much as Ford tends to dominate the proceedings of the film, he overshadows Mackie's Sam Wilson/Cap and (I think) to the film's detriment.

So, the film begins after the events of "The Falcon and the Winter Soldier" (which I never saw, but it apparently doesn't matter much) where Cap and the new Falcon, Joaquin Torres (Danny Ramirez) take part in an undercover operation in Mexico to stop a mercenary named Sidewinder (Giancarlo Esposito), who works for "Serpent" guess they're bad guys—to recover some MacGuffin (which turns out to be refined adamantium that the Japanese government had secured from that Eternals thing which has now been called "Celestial Island"). Don't worry if all of that sounds new, because it is, and no, you haven't missed anything.

Anyway, mission accomplished with the help of Cap's new, improved vibranium-infused wings from Wakanda and a lot of gee-whizardry. Despite doing well in Mexico, Cap insists that Torres train with one of America's super-soldiers, one Isaiah Bradley (Carl Lumbly, always enjoyable), who was introduced in the Disney+ series. Long story short, he was a super-soldier in Korea, but had been imprisoned by the government for the past 30 years...but isn't now. Cool.

After the successful mission, everybody gets invited to the White House to meet the President (both the U.S. and Japanese variety), but while Ross is giving a presentation on how the world should be safe-guarding and sharing adamantium for the world's benefit (unlike those Wakandans!) and doing one of those "it's-for-your-own-good" speeches that American Presidents do, phones start erupting with a song by The Fleetwoods, which turns some in the audience—including Bradley—into "attack" mode (actually, The Fleetwoods aren't that bad!) and they start firing on the President. A big melee happens and Bradley is taken into custody even though he can't remember anything about trying to shoot the President. It's back to prison for Bradley, and Cap is on the "outs" with Ross because Cap's friend tried to shoot him.

Anyway, you get the gist. An international plot (that may involve World War III!) with personal repercussions for our Captain, and it just gets so complicated with mind-controlling cell-phones, nobody trusting anybody, Ross' potential heart-problems, on top of the lamest of character motivations at this late date—how  now-President Ross feels so bad that he's estranged from his daughter Betty (Liv Tyler) because he tried to kill her ex-boyfriend, Bruce Banner, The Hulk (back before he was Mark Ruffalo) making everything a bit of a mish-mash.

That last bit—the daughter thing—undercuts the movie quite a lot, and although Ford plays it gamely, it's a bit of weak tea for motivation, especially given the higher stakes globally, and finally makes President Ross a bit of a lame character, where his ambitions as President pale to his "just wanting to get along" with his own kid. If it was really such a big deal as the movie makes it out to be, it wouldn't be resolved so soporifically as it is in the movie.

But what am I complaining about, nobody cares much for all that thin "character stuff," as what they really want to see is Ross turn into The Red Hulk because it's promised in the poster and the previews. Given the character's history with the Green Hulk, this is irony with a capital SMASH! and, frankly, has nothing to do with the rest of the movie other than that the same bad guy responsible for all the mind-controlling has been setting up the Third Act Hulkitude as well, just so that...Ross can look bad in front of his daughter, frustrating him into full chili-pepper berserker mode. Oh, and cause all sorts of damage to prominent monuments...and cherry trees.

One senses in that final Cap vs. Red Hulk confrontation that a lot of screenplay back-filling was done in order to bring it about (there are five credited screenwriters), but even given the cheesiness that goes into a lot of the funny-book verisimilitude, the  efforts here strain the goodwill needed in order to accept it. I mean I know it's based on comic books and superheroes, but it takes a Hulk-style leap of faith to accept the ways and means it takes to get there. It takes a lot of the geek-fun out of it to know you're being played. Still, it IS good to see Tim Blake Nelson come back. He's a good actor, a good director, and a heck of a nice guy. He plays evil good, too. But, just as he was ill-served in The Incredible Hulk movie so many years back, he's ill-served by this one, too.

So, it's disappointing, especially because it's Anthony Mackie's first Captain America movie and I've always liked him. And because...legacy. Of all the Marvel properties, the Captain America series was the last of the "majors" to come out before the first "Avengers" movie, and the studio managed to work with its old-fashioned and, frankly, jingoistic tendencies and make it work well. In fact, they did their job so well that the Captain America series was the one trilogy of movies in the Marvel stable that didn't falter in any of its three films. 

 

Now, it has. And that leaves me feeling a bit sad...and disappointed.

One of Our Aircraft is Missing

One of Our Aircraft is Missing (The Archers, 1942) As dawn breaks at an RAF base, a squadron of planes comes back from a nighttime bombing run of a Mercedes-Benz plant in Stuttgart. Apparently, the raid has been successful, except for one detail: Wellington bomber "B" for Bertie has not returned. It is presumed lost on the mission, possibly shot down, possibly the crew is lost.

 

One of Our Aircraft is Missing is a British propaganda film with a particular significance. Although it wasn't the first collaboration between director Michael Powell and producer-writer Emeric Pressburger, it is the first of their films that carries their particular partnering label: The Archers. Under that sobriquet, they would go on to produce some of the best British films in the 40's and 50's.

 

But, about that plane. About those pilots.

They were doing alright until they hit the Dutch coast. Leaflets were dropped over Cologne, then they headed to their primary target where they flew through some flak and then got hit, disabling their starboard engine. They navigate for a direct course home, get to Holland, but then the port engine kicks and they decide to bail out, the pilot, Haggard (Hugh Burden), stays with the plane as long as he can to try to guide it to the ground with doing as little damage as possible.

In the morning the crew gather together—the only one missing is Ashley (Emrys Jones) the wireless operator—and decide on their best course of action to get home without being detected by the occupying Germans. They are Haggard, his second pilot Earnshaw (Eric Portman), rear gunner Sir George Corbett (Godfrey Tearle), navigator Shelley (Hugh Williams), and front gunner Hickman (Bernard Miles). Time being of the essence, they do their best to hide their parachutes and set off for the coast following the main rail-line; they hope that they can hook up with Ashley somewhere on the route.

As one of the crew can speak Dutch, an encounter with children (who show off their resistance pins) brings them to the nearest town where the local "schoolmarm" (who can speak English) sequesters them while she gathers the local townspeople to discuss what to do with these "drop-in's." Finally, the teacher named Else Merteens (Pamela Brown) enters the room, suspiciously, and starts to grill them as to their identities and whether they can prove they're an English bomber crew and not some German "plants" trying to test their loyalties.

But, once they've proven their story, the village welcomes with open arms, with a sumptuous meal, offers of civilian clothes, even coordinated efforts to better hide their parachutes and smuggle them to the sea 15 km away. There then begins an elaborate ruse to "blend" the British pilots in with the townspeople to get them closer to the coast and once there, hopefully they can cross the Channel or alert their countrymen to pick them up.

It would seem like a grand spy story if it wasn't filled with quaint touches of the townspeople and their spirit of living under the shadow of the Nazis, feigning obedience with one hand and thumbing their noses with the other. One notable things, besides Powell and Pressburger's work, is the extraordinary cinematography of Ronald Neame (who, himself, would go on to direct such films as The Man Who Never Was, Tunes of Glory, The Horse's Mouth, The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie and The Poseidon Adventure), which has a good deal of verve to it, and, in latter stages of the film, turns moody and noirish. Also you should look out for the film debut of a skinny young character actor named Peter Ustinov, playing a Dutch priest. And (as if that weren't enough talent in the credits), the film is quite breezily edited by a young fellow named David Lean (who would go on to direct "some" films, himself).

The Way Back (2010)

Written at the time of the film's release. 

 

This is the last film directed by Australian director Peter Weir. On March 17, 2024 saying that he had "no more energy," Weir announced he was retiring from directing and that "for film directors, like volcanoes, there are three major stages: active, dormant and extinct. I think I've reached the latter! Another generation is out there calling "action" and "cut" and good luck to them."

 

"Strangers in a Strange Land"

or

"Every Journey Begins with the First Steppe"

A new Peter Weir film is something of an event. The Aussie director of Picnic at Hanging Rock, The Year of Living Dangerously, Gallipoli, The Truman Show, Witness, and Master and Commander makes meticulous, thoughtful films of ambiguity and great beauty, throwing civilized men and women into clashes of culture (frequently more primitive) exploring the impact, with an eye towards the rough, otherworldly beauty of this world. Along the way, you learn a lot even if the movie does not draw to a dramatic or philosophical conclusion.

So, with little fanfare, here is The Way Back, Weir's latest film, one that has been optioned many times since its source book, Slavomir Rawicz's "The Long Walk: The True Story of a Trek to Freedom," was published in 1956. The veracity of the tale has been questioned a lot in that time, but the evidence is clear: four emaciated men walked into an Indian village, saying that they had walked from a Communist gulag in Siberia across the Gobi Desert and the Himalayas to freedom, a journey on-foot of 4,000 miles.

One could speculate—for the length of such a journey—why it had never come to the screen before: too depressing—but think what it would do for soda and popcorn sales! Elvis wasn't interested, indeed, what star would take on such a rugged movie, Burt Lancaster's brief interest notwithstanding; the movie has a lot of explaining to do about socio-political situations; the Russian market might not be too pleased with the film, and on and on. Weir made it (reportedly for less than $30 million, which seems incredible), but so few studios were interested in it that it almost went straight to video...which would have been a shame, as this is one of those movies demanding to be seen on a big screen.

Janusz (Jim Sturgess) begins the film under interrogation in occupied Poland. The year is 1940.  He has been turned in (reluctantly) by his wife under torture, and he is sent to a Soviet gulag in the mountainous regions of Siberia. After a period of learning the ropes (and the whips of the guards and the barbed wire of the camp), he becomes a part of a loose group of prisoners of differing skills and supplies to make a fast surgical escape from the gulag and make their way to Mongolia. Based on a loose plan of prisoner Khabarov (Mark Strong), they plan to make it to Lake Baikal, following it to the Sino-Russian railway. Their supplies will run out in mere days, but Janusz is convinced they can live off the land, walking the entire way. Among the group of escaping stragglers are "Mr. Smith" (Ed Harris)—"First name: Mister"—a particularly mysterious American (he tells Janusz, "you have a weakness I can use: kindness"), and, as it seems all movie escape attempts must have, a plays-by-his-own-rules maybe-criminal named Valka (Colin Farrell). The group begins suspicious of each other, but soon forms a close-knit, surprisingly democratic structure, sharing ideas and resources, voting when they're at a crossroads—despite the occasional individual insurrection.

Watching the movie is a slog. At 2 hours, 20 minutes, with the principal characters pushed to their endurance, the film feels longer than its running time, but one is never tempted to do a watch-check. The Way Back is one of those films that keeps you guessing, intrigued and involved every minute, like you were involved in the long walk, craning to see what is around every corner. Weir keeps the pace moving quickly, cutting scenes briskly from one episode to the next, so the film develops a natural rhythm.

But, it's the director's eye for detail—as always—that is striking, with scenes of stark, natural beauty that astonish: taking refuge in ancient caves, the camera pans up, following a bedraggled Mr. Smith's gaze, to two large holes in the ceiling, like the angry eyes of God; walking up a scrabble hill, Weir directs our view up and over the weary travelers to a screen-stretching shot of the expansive Gobi desert; at one point, they find a single solitary structure—a gate with no walls—absurdly marking their goal, while announcing another set-back.

It is a grueling adventure story with fine performances all around, interpreted through Weir's talent for keeping things real, even when they turn startlingly surreal. Go prepared for a tough movie, but a satisfying one, that, like all escapes, becomes a journey of the individual will and spirit, covering all manner of obstacles in physical space, mental discipline, and the longest journey...of time.

2025 Oscars

Oscar, Oscar, Oscar....(# 97)
 

The 97th Oscars are over, and I'm sure there is much on the minds of the Hollywood studios and streaming services once the final credits rolled. 

 

The easiest question to answer is "Will we invite Conan O'Brien back as host?" The answer is a cautious "yes" (on a rotating basis with Jimmy Kimmel, no doubt). Coco did a good job, didn't make the Oscars all about him, stayed out of the way most of the time, but was available with a good quip which usually landed. As long as the Oscars are going to be hosted by comedians...and it has been throughout most of its history...he's a good choice for the job. He's as self-deprecating about himself as he is about the awards scenario in the first place and he's good at poking without puncturing. Besides, when the only other job you have is a podcast, it makes availability an easy reach.

 

Presentations were generally good—the "In Memoriam" section spent its time, this year, on who passed and not who was singing the sad accompaniment—the orchestra was featured playing "Lacrimosa" from Mozart's "Requiem", but not blocking out the featured remembered. 

Speaking of "Requiems" there was an "In Memoriam" section for the James Bond series—Michael Wilson and Barbara Broccoli who've been overseeing the movies since their father, original executive Albert Broccoli, passed. They'd just given up "creative control" of the long-running franchise to producing partner Amazon for $1 billion dollars, but before that had been awarded an Academy Governor's Award. I'm sure it was pretty bittersweet for them. Margaret Qualley was tossed around by tuxedoed dancers, and three contemporary singers did try-outs for the next title song. The whole thing felt like a gold watch to me.

 

And the awards? I was surprised by how much Anora won and Wicked didn't. Not that I thought Wicked deserved more prizes, but, hey, it was a Company-Town production. Nickel Boys was shut out completely which was a shame. And I was glad to see I'm Still Here and Flow get the best foreign and animated features. Dune: Part Two won for Best Sound, which, given how I actually noticed the rumbling of the theater during that film, was a good choice. The Brutalist won for Best Music and I can't kick about that; it was a good score.

 

So, no big surprises. No shocks—not even Mikey Madison winning Best Actress (which felt like a sequel of sorts to The Substance)

2024 Oscar Nominees

Nominees For Best Picture for the 2025 Oscars

 

We'll forego the usual "Don't Make a Scene" feature for this Sunday, as it's Oscar-night.

 

When the Oscar nominations were announced on January 23rd, I was taken aback by how few of them I had seen. Some of that was due to the large number of "indie" films being noticed and I had seen few of them, so I was determined to see as many of them, even if they were being released "late" in the schedule as I could before the date of the Awards.

 

Which is tonight.

 

Most of them I saw them where you should see them—in a theater—but four of them I watched streaming. Amazingly, they're all available on some service or another and the rental prices on them dropped very precipitously very quickly. I'm old enough to remember a time when theaters kept nominated movies in their theaters after the nominations were announced and usually dropped "the losers" after the Awards show to capitalize on the "Best Picture's" newly won bona fides. Now, films, especially the "indie" ones, barely have a week to get attention before they're on VOD or streaming. It's like theaters are still operating in "pandemic" mode.

 

And I was a little nonplussed by the choices: they didn't look like they'd be enjoyable to watch at all. But, there's a reason these things get nominated (besides aggressive campaigning) and the quality shows through. 

It's an eclectic bunch: a couple blockbusters, one foreign film (although three of the films have French directors), two are musicals (and one has a musical subject), five are based on books (one even winning the Pulitzer) and they range from fantasy to sci-fi to biography to body-horror. Your favorite film of the year might not have been nominated for "Best Picture." Mine wasn't, but it's up for consideration in another category.

 

And I noticed a theme running through them. I had a talk the other day with someone who gave me the opinion that behaviors of people are merely them enacting the roles society imposes on them. With the possible exception of Conclave (which also has elements of it), all the Best Picture nominees seem to cater to that theme.

 

Grab your popcorn. It's going to be a long night. 

Here are my reviews of the Best Picture nominees.

 

 

Anora

 

The Brutalist

 

A Complete Unknown

 

Conclave

 

Dune: Part 2

 

Emilia Perez

 

I'm Still Here

 

Nickel Boys

 

The Substance

 

Wicked

 

 

The Substance

Substance Abuse: An Exercise in Horror

or

"Oh, That This Too Too Solid Flesh Would Melt, Thaw and Resolve Itself Into a Dew! Or That the Everlasting Had Not Fix'd His Canon Against Self-Slaughter. Oh God!"
 

Submitted for your approval one Elizabeth Sparkle (Demi Moore), a flickering fitness guru for the "beauty-is-only-skin-deep" believing house-bound. A body-suited drill sergeant, who kills with kindness and only for your own good. Every stretch, every kick, every high-step is designed to make you as good as you can be because, after all, it works for her and she's shy a half-century. 

But Time waits for no man...or woman, for that matter, and Elizabeth Sparkle is about to learn something that will shock her down to her leg-warmers and trainers. It's a little lesson in Inevitability, in Life and the Television Industry, and it will take her the way Ponce deLeon traveled for the fabled Fountain of Youth. It's a little known path between Desperation Street and the Avenue of Self-Deception, which are all just detours that spill out...into The Twilight Zone.

Apologies to Rod Serling

The DNA of The Substance is very much that of a typical episode of TV's classic "Twilight Zone" in that it takes a mercurial person comfortable with their situation and up-ends it to which they have to act in an atypical way, even fantastic way, which then, ironically, comes back and bites them in the ass.

Elizabeth Sparkle is the host of a television work-out program that she has been doing for years and years, long after her career as an Academy Award-winning actress. On her 50th birthday, she is given a card, a present, red roses...and the pink slip. She has been sacked. Her network (run by her cartoonish producer, Harvey, played by Dennis Quaid) is (of course!) appreciative of her and her "long run" but, now, is another day and they're looking for a new host. A younger host. A sexier host. And, at 50, Elizabeth is not considered either of those things. She has lost some of her sparkle.

Most celebrities would consider product endorsements, a line of cosmetics or scents, maybe a tell-all book (how about a pod-cast?), but not Elizabeth. She stews. Then, a car accident—from which she emerges miraculously unhurt—lands her in the hospital, but bereft and in tears. A young orderly slips the sobbing Elizabeth a flash-drive with a note that says "It changed my life." The flash-drive has a presentation for "The Substance" and it's pitch is intriguing:

Have you ever dreamt of a better version of yourself? Younger, more beautiful, more perfect. One single injection unlocks your DNA, starting a new cellular division, that will release another version of yourself. This is the Substance. You are the matrix. Everything comes from you. Everything is you. This is simply a better version of yourself. You just have to share. One week for one and one week for the other. A perfect balance of seven days each. The one and only thing not to forget: You. Are. One. You can't escape from yourself.

That last bit probably serves as the warning of side-effects.

Elizabeth calls the number on the flash-drive and orders. She receives an address and a key-card and rushes to a run-down, seemingly abandoned site that discourages investigation. Inside, she comes to a pristine locker-room (it's amazing how the Substance organization runs like Amazon—except they answer the phone faster) and eagerly rushes back home to her posh condo to sample her wares.

The Substance kit has everything she'll need but it's an odd mix of syringes and tubing (lots of tubing), bizarre containers of "food" and sutures and bandages and vials, lots of vials. It's a bit intimidating, but Elizabeth takes the stuff to her "panic room" of a bathroom and injects herself with the "Activator," tripping out and falling like a dead lump to the floor.

Like most drugs, The Substance should come with warnings. Like, watch it somewhere in a chair that has something to grip onto. Because "The Activator" sequence is a horrific exercise where Elizabeth's naked body starts to roil and heave and mutate until the skin of her back starts to split like a busted seam and from it's zippered wound emerges..."Sue" (Margaret Qualley)—as she will call herself—who is literally "Born Sexy Yesterday." Sue stumbles about the bathroom, taking it all in, but once she reaches a mirror and sees herself, she calms down, stretches, and gets down to business. She has work to do.

Like clean up the mess. She sutures up Elizabeth's back (filmed in excruciating detail), hooks her up to the "food matrix" package—Elizabeth's going to be unconscious for a week—and experiences some head-spins and nose-bleeding, so she instinctively goes to the "Stabilizer" package, pulls out the hypodermics and inserts a needle into Elizabeth's spinal column and withdraws some liquid from the "matrix". Once she injects herself with it, she is good to go.

That is, go to the audition for Sparkle's old job, which she wins handily. Producer Harvey agrees that she can be allowed to work every other week (she explains that she has to take care of her elderly mother, which is true in a way), and everyone starts prepping for the new exercise show that will be flashier, sexy, and more provocative with other things on its mind than just body management. Elizabeth's happy. Sue's happy. Even Harvey is happy. What could go "worng"?

Everything, if you believe the altered cliché of "Nothing exceeds like success." Although Elizabeth and Sue "are one" they are experiencing different realities and so become of two minds about the situation, which results in bent rules, missed deadlines, and adverse effects on their twin. Things turn nasty very quickly, and given "The Activator Sequence" (which will seem tame in awhile) that nastiness is going to become bloody, gooey, and, at times, painful to watch.

Yet, you giggle throughout The Substance, not because it's inherently funny—maybe ironic—but because of the sheer verve of the thing...and the nerve. The twisted nerve. Writer-director Coralie Fargeat is not playing subtle here, but her playbook is spot-on with some arresting images and a boldness that you can't help but admire. It will ultimately fall apart (heh) as the third act will descend into a frothing, spewing gore-fest that is so over-the-top, you'll feel the need to shower afterwards. But, before it goes down the drain, it revels in its satire and makes its point about society's age-adverseness and obsession with form over substance. And the lesson that even fitness gurus should know something about karma.

Fargeat settles the look of the film directly and comfortingly in the sci-fi realm with a steely one-person perspective with wide-angle lenses, emulating Kubrick, but more directly from John Frankenheimer's similarly-themed Seconds. For some reason, that made me feel all warm and fuzzy. And, thematically, she has aspects and far-away echoes from dissimilar films as All About Eve and Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?. The reverberations of past films are all over this, but Fargeat keeps it fresh and innovative.

And the performances are quite good—Quaid's over-the-top, but I think that was deliberate, with Qualley providing just enough of that Manson-girl predatoriness that she seems to inhabit. And Demi Moore does some of the bravest image-flagellation since Gloria Swanson in Sunset Boulevard. Kudos. Brava.

We should all be so brave. But, like any pharmaceutical ad, we should probably end with some warnings. The Substance is not for the squeamish. The Sunstance is not for those who are offended by extensive nudity, whether attractive or not. Or react to needles, or open wounds, or festering sores, or a vast amount of red-colored Karo syrup being sprayed like a fire-hose, use caution. Or if you don't like being taught "lessons" in movies that run the danger of changing your encrusted attitude (but don't worry, there's a lot of scary stuff at the end).

 

Always read the label and make sure you read the possible side-effects. Do not take The Substance if you're allergic to The Substance. Nor, should you take it if you don't know yourself very well. And, of course, you should always take it...with a grain of salt.

Nickel Boys

Walk a Mile in My Shoes

or

"Not My Elwood. Not My Elwood."

Impressionistic and impressive, Nickel Boys tells its story of Elwood Curtis, from Tallahassee, Florida ("Frenchtown" he'll add), who hitchhiking to attend a technical college in New York, is picked up by a car-thief and arrested as an accessory and sent to "Nickel Academy" a segregated reform school with a checkered history.

 

Raised by his grandmother (Aunjanue Ellis-Taylor

), Elwood (played by Ethan Herisse) had received exemplary marks at school, got a scholarship to that college, and had been active in civil rights actions, but being sent to "juvie" merely by association has derailed his life and his prospects, and somewhat his spirit. 

But not his conscience. Sticking up for a weaker kid being picked on, he is punched in the face by the bullies, knocked out, and sent to the hospital. 

And he has one friend. A good friend, Turner (Brandon Wilson), who is as cynical as Elwood is principled, and the two kids bond, help each other out and talk out their problems, confiding in each other. One seems to complete the other.

Our first glimpse of Elwood, reflected in his grandmother's iron.

Which is interesting, considering how the movie's filmed. It's all shot from a first-person singular point-of-view, initially Elwood's, but then once the two boys meet, the movie will switch off from one to the other.*  Sounds like it could be confusing, but director RaMell Ross manages to clue you in even if it isn't obvious which of the kids' eyes you're seeing the world through.

Elwood watches Dr. King in a store-front window.

Now, I haven't read Colson Whitehead's Pulitzer Prize winning novel (entitled "THE Nickel Boys") from which the film is based, but I'm getting the impression its not from a first person narrative.So, this re-imagining of the film is a pretty radical shift, boiling the novel down to just dialog and leaving the descriptive to be handled by the director and cinematographer (which you'd think would be natural—it's a movie, made of visual storytelling *duh*), but Ross does it with such discipline, one is never confused and only disoriented when the subject is disoriented.

Turner, from Elwood's perspective.

And Ross presents these unique perspectives in an almost-stream-of-consciousness way. He presents impressions of scenes. Glimpses of details that the characters' perspectives latch onto, whether it be their own reflection or in how you can tell someone's nervous by how their knees shake. In that way, it reminded of no other movie so much as The Tree of Life, but with a much-more controlled narrative structure and ...an actual story, rather than fleeting memories played at seeming random (as Tree does).

Elwood, from Turner's perspective.

And POV perspectives rarely work in movies, except for brief sequences where the sight of the actor on screen talking right at the audience is arresting. Here, the entire movie puts us in Elwood's—or Turner's—skin and we see what they see. We see their world and what attracts their attention. This is the sort of cinema I love...where the visuals tell the story more than the circumspect dialogue does. And Ross respects the audience enough to not resort to narrative hand-holding to explain what's on the screen (so many movies over-explain). It's all right there to see, if you're paying attention. It's a rich narrative dance that Ross creates, and it's one of the best films of the year.

* Director Ross does this in an interesting way. He first shoots Elwood meeting Turner sitting across a cafeteria table from him. THEN, Ross repeats the sequence all from Turner's point of view. There is really no differentiation between how the two perspectives look, but if you see Elwood, you know you're seeing things from Turner's point of view and vice versa. And if you're not looking at one or the other, you're given enough clues to figure out which character we're seeing the world through.