The Friend (2024)

White Ghost/Sad Pony

or

"What's Going To Happen To The Dog?"

As soon as it's over, you want to watch The Friend again. It's that good, with a literate script, masterful performances (from everybody, not just Naomi Watts and Bill Murray...or the dog, Bing), New York as a background, an intricately selected soundtrack, and the least anthropomorphic animal performance I've seen in a long time.

And, it's a "dog" movie.

I hate "dog" movies, usually. You know why. The dog always seems to die at the end, usually in the dramatic interest of teaching the film's protagonist a life-lesson of great import. Like "life is a gift" or "appreciate what you've got when you've got it." Blah-de-blah-de-blah. I'm cynical of the form because I hate to cry in theaters and beating me with a dead dog turns me into a blubbering wreck and I hate to throw away all the soggy popcorn. The one time I didn't was when John Wick's dog was murdered and that it inspired him to come out of assassination retirement (which I giggled at, finding it perversely ludicrous).

But, this one I rushed to see because, well, Naomi Watts and Bill Murray are in it and their taste in parts alone should sell it, some laudatory words online were mentioned, and it's based on a Booker prize-winning novel by Sigrid Nunez. All indications were for some good breeding of a project that was low-key and mildly amusing. I wasn't prepared for a great movie, but I got it in spades.

It starts with a moment of inspiration, which we're not privy to: successful author-teacher Walter Mitchell (Murray) is out on his morning "Two Bridges" jog when he sees something that delights him, but we cut away before we see what has animated him so. We see him at a dinner party where he is holding court, volubly telling the story of his discovery. By the next scene, he is dead—by his own hand, they say*—and the survivors are left wondering how such a thing could happen. What would the world be without Walter? There were so many projects in the air, so many things left undone, and he'd just met his grown daughter whom he—or any of his wives, past or present—never knew existed.

But, hardest hit seems to be Iris (Watts), ostensibly his best friend. Walter was her mentor (currently she's working on a book of his correspondence) and she, in turn, is mentoring his new/old daughter, collaborating on the book. Progress on it has been slow but, now, work on it—like Walter—has come to a screeching halt.

Walter's widow (Noma Dumezweni) has asked Iris to come see her and she has a request. Well, more of a bequest—Walter had asked that if anything happened to him that Iris should take care of his dog, Apollo, the creature that he encountered on that morning run.

"Apollo" is a 150 lb. Great Dane and Iris weighs quite a bit less and is only half-again taller. Plus, Iris' apartment is, what they call in New York, a "studio" but it could be a "prewar", but anywhere else it would be called "cramped" and if you were selling it you'd mention "simplicity" and "ease of maintenance". In no way would it be considered a kennel, and—besides—it's in a "No Pets Allowed" building. Iris is not keen on the idea and her "go-to" is to avoid the Super as long as she can and find a place to "re-home" Apollo. But, in the meantime, she picks up the dog at its temporary kennel to take to what she hopes is its temporary home in her apartment only to find that the brute jumps on her bed and spreads out, despite her protests. His forlorn look prompts Iris' neighbor to remark "There's a PONY on your bed! A SAD pony!"

A sad pony to be sure, but also the elephant in the room. Apollo is just too big to fit into her apartment without obstructing Iris' every movement. She capitulated by pulling an air mattress out of her closet and sleeping on the floor, Apollo's sad eyes never leaving her through the night. But, the two are bonded, despite the separate bed-places in that they're both grieving—she for her mentor, he for his master. One's a human, one's a dog; she's a loner, he's a pack animal, so they're both approaching each other from separate corners. And with all the inconvenience this big white ghost causes in her life, some accommodation needs to be reached, some compromise between these two living beings who've been left behind.

And, ultimately, value.

The Friend, unlike so many "dog movies", is what the AARP magazine likes to call "Movies for Grownups". The emotions are complicated and recognizable, and maybe over some folks' heads. But, a New Yorker will recognize the panic of possibly losing a rent-controlled apartment; an older person will recognize the paralysis of grief; a real dog-owner will understand the inconvenience of pet-ownership** ...beyond the dog-movie-cliché antics of four-legged tornado-damage to the feng shui. There are no easy-laugh slobber jokes. This one is about loss, responsibility, and mutual need. And a bit about survivor's guilt. And the usual "taking care of others is more fulfilling than taking care of yourself." And Watts and Murray are brilliant in this.

It's so good and funny and wise that you immediately want to see it again. Or, better yet, read the book to get all the good stuff they couldn't make room for. Sometimes, that's the best part.

* I suppose with the mention of it, I should give the number of the Suicide and Crisis Hotline—If you or a loved one are having emotional distress or thoughts of suicide, call 988 to connect with a lifeline specialist for support.—but DOGE only knows if it still exists. From what I've been able to access online, it does. 

 

** The other day something popped up in my news-feed that still makes me laugh: "Nobody has ever said 'What this house needs is a box-full of shit. Let's get a cat!'"

Caddyshack

A week over-viewing Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein for an upcoming Lambcast on the movie has left me contemplating how movies—which do not change without some "Director's Cut" interference—can change over time. Because the viewer changes. Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein holds up pretty well (pretty well...) from the time I saw it as a 9 year old to my current dotage. Some do not.

Case in point: Caddyshack, which, I once thought was hilarious, but now...seems rather puerile. Oh, it has moments of entertainment in spots, but a lot of the time slices, and sometimes just whiffs. It's a bogey rather than a birdie and it is certainly not the hole-in-one I remember.

So, yeah, kvetch all you like about it, but it's going out on the traditional "Take Out the Trash" Day.

Caddyshack (Harold Ramis, 1980) One has few regrets in life, hopefully. As one gets older, experience colors perception, and suddenly movies like The Rules of the Game speak to you in new ways, and movies like Caddyshack...well, I've been spending a remorseful few minutes thinking of all the people I'd recommended this movie, too.

Not that Caddyshack is horrible, mind you. But it hasn't aged well since my college days.* Fond memories of Harold Ramis' "Animal House for Juvenile Adults" is full of references and gags that seem geezer-ish. But there are some things that hold up. It's Chevy Chase's funniest performance in the movies (I believe that is the very definition of "Damning with Faint Praise"), and one of Bill Murray's wildest--you get the impression that they were winging it, Chase improvising the physical with Murray skewering the dialog. It showed Rodney Dangerfield to be a weirdly endearing clumsy performer for the movies, and it's Ted Knight at his foolish best.

Two bits still work--the "Baby Ruth" gag, and the little mini-epic contained in it of the minister's perfect game in the rain. But, don't be surprised if the one thing you take away from it is John Dykstra's roly-poly gopher puppet.

* It reminds of the recent reactions to the release of "The Man from U.N.C.L.E." series on DVD, where the adults who watched it as kids ask facetiously why it was re-filmed using a "crap filter," that made all the sets look like cheesy back-lots, the performances hammy, and the thrills, not so much. Memories are yet green. The reality is oft-times compost.

Moonrise Kingdom

Written at the time of the film's release. A re-viewing of it recently, anticipating his new film, Asteroid City (due June 16th) only reinforced my joy watching it.

A Troubled Young Person's Guide to Themes of Defiant Youth (ala Antonioni) with Kubrickian Stylistics (as interpreted by Wes Anderson)

or
Full Metal Jackasses

Moonrise Kingdom might be my favorite Wes Anderson film yet.* The films of Wes Anderson have gotten more and more juvenile, regressing in sensibility, but progressive in terms of connecting with a child-like world-view. Like his dark companion in film, Tim Burton, Anderson chooses subjects and styles that appeal to his inner kid, pulling in favorite things from his growing up years  to include in his films. But, unlike Burton, he doesn't concentrate on the dark and morose, focusing instead on a sense of wonder, even if in his world-view the adult act like children and the children try to act like adults.

So, Moonrise Kingdom, co-written by Anderson and Roman Coppola (Francis' iconoclastic kid), set in the mid-60's and involving an East coast island community. There are two factions, the authorities, represented by island law enforcement—Captain Sharp (Bruce Willis) and the troop leader of a group of "Khaki Scouts"—Scout Master Ward (Edward Norton). There is a dysfunctional family, the Bishops (led by Bill Murray and Frances McDormand). Both factions represent authority, and empty authority at that. Their worlds are controlled, regimented, but still subject to outside forces and acts of God, like weather—there's a storm approaching as the film's exposition expert (played by Bob Balaban) is only too quick to report.

Into this mix come a pair of star-crossed likers, outcasts from both houses, like Romeo and Juliet. Sam (Jared Gilman) is an orphan with enough issues that his foster parents no longer want him; Suzy (Kara Hayward) is the oldest child of the Bishops and already is labeled as a "very troubled child." They meet at an amateur production of Benjamin Britten's "Noye's Fludde"**—he's on a scout outing, she plays a raven.

They begin corresponding in secret, and then both escape their cloisters, he from the Khaki Scouts camp, she from her family home. They live off the land, he with his survival skills and supplies, she with her books and records, a mutually dependent family with different roles. It doesn't take long for their disappearance to be discovered and the search parties form, the police led by Sharp and the Scouts, led by Ward, with the Bishops poking, prodding and threatening lawsuits. The kids lead them all a not-so-merry chase, and there are casualties along the way. But, the fugitives press on, despite the fact that, on an island, they can never really escape.

It's a romantic's version of 'the barefoot bandit" story, but without the issues of ego, narcissism, and general public nuisance, and Anderson couches it all in an idiosyncratic format with scrupulous Kubrickian stylistic fluorishes—the measured tracking shots, the hand-held shots of freedom and chaos; the stylized expressionless acting, the structured mise en scene, perfectly balanced on a central fulcrum. On top of that, it's hilarious, with dialogue that's formal, distinct, played absolutely straight, betraying no irony, delivered in a deadpan lack of elevation.

It's charming-no wonder these kids want out, left to their own devices. They still want structure, just their own structure, and, although self-imposed outcasts, seem far more together than those of their "betters."

It's fun, odd, and rebellious in Anderson's over-stated understated fashion. Wonder what he'll do when he grows up.

* Oh, maybe this was premature. Anderson has since made The Grand Budapest Hotel, The French Dispatch (of the Liberty Kansas Evening Sun), and the wonderful animated Isle of Dogs, each getting increasingly richer, denser, and more sophisticated, all the while maintaining his quirky sense of humor and an almost child-like delight, as if he were playing (as Orson Welles put it) with "the greatest train set a boy ever had."

** Britten is the classical composer-thread rolling throughout Moonrise Kingdom, and his "Young Person's Guide to the Orchestra" is the starting theme for the film's opening sequence—a gliding, tracking tour of the Bishop's house.  They'll also do a version of it over Alexander Desplat's closing music over the credits.

Get Low

Written at the time of the film's release...

"The Hell With It. The Hell With Me."

or
"An Old Nutter Attracts More..."

Twain coulda wrote this one: a hermit of 40 years makes his way into town to arrange his own funeral party (which he'd like to attend before it's required, thank you).

That Get Low, which tells the tale, is based on a true story only makes it that much more enjoyable, even if the film itself turns dark, just as Twain woulda spun it. It is, when all is said and done, about a funeral.

Frank Bush (Robert Duvall), who has lived apart from the Tennesee community, has developed a reputation as a "Boogie-Man"—for Duvall, this role is the push-back book-end to his "Boo" Radley from To Kill a Mockingbird—and gets it in his mind to arrange a "living funeral," where anyone who has a story to tell about him can and might.  For local funeral home director Frank Quinn (Bill Murray), Bush's odd request is an opportunity to make a big score and arrange an ultimate funeral—whatever it takes, he'll do, even if the arrangements start to get a little bit out of his control. For Murray's Quinn, it's a movie-length warning of "It's your funeral..."

The poster above makes one think that it's a two hander, just Duvall and Murray, but this is an ensemble picture—a very meticulously cast one—with a lot of people, including Lucas Black, Sissy Spacek, Bill Cobbs and Gerald McRaney doing some of their most effective work in years. Spacek, in particular, is a marvel.  This isn't one of her "splashy" roles, and she's been purposely de-glammed to take the blossom off her ripe strawberry features, but she still manages to make every define her character by the simplest of gestures, or by the "social smile" under pained eyes. Bill Cobbs plays a prickly minister acquaintance of Bush's, and makes the maximum potential out of a small role—like Duvall used to in his early career—with innate comic timing and a sense of doomed inevitability. His laugh brings a smile to the face.  Murray does his best work in years. His Quinn is at heart an opportunist, but makes it look presentable (like any good funeral director!) with the look of feigned dignity and a melancholy elan.

But it's Duvall's picture—he's in most scenes—and one is tempted to call it Oscar-bait for the veteran character actor, as he hasn't had a role this big in years—the arc of the character turning from eccentric to tragic figure without betraying the characteristics on either end of the curve, displaying his capacity to create a living character, able to accomodate the trials and tones of the movie. Speaking in a voice like brittle rice paper, that flakes off bits of sentences at the end, his Bush is a courtly soul in need of definition. The old hermit, after spending 40 years in a self-imposed exile from the opinions of others, initially seeks their judgement, first as audience, and then as performer, seeking some ablution or absolution—a trial-run, if you will, in the court of public opinion, before being forced to succumb to the Final Judgement. It is confession and catharsis, timed with the death of one man, and the return of his widow to her home-town. Duvall's funeral speech is humble, contrite and confused, and the actor provides an amazing sonic counter-point to his recounting of the history that has dominated and colored his existence. His performance haunts, in the display of a haunted man.

Director Andrew Schneider, a previous Oscar winner for his short film work, manages to maintain a visual interest throughout the movie, observing events but never calling attention to itself observing. Characters are sometimes over-whelmed in the surroundings, and the scale of the film is sparingly in line with a small-town closeness. That the tone gradually shifts from quaint eccentricity to Southern Gothic is probably inevitable for a film that climaxes with a funeral, especially one that starts with humble beginnings and turns grandiose and complicated (in a movie turn towards melodrama that had nothing to do with the actual historical events of the real Felix Breazeale). But, without the added mystery, and "the story to tell," the film would have had no depth, and would have felt as shallow as a grave in a pet cemetery. The embellishments give the story added weight, and make the turns of events mean something, as opposed to just being an old man's fancy.

Well worth seeing.

The real Felix "Bush" Breazeale, attending his funeral in 1938.

Ghostbusters: Afterlife

Ghostbuster Babies Wake The Dead

or

Who You Gonna Call? Ghost-WRITERS!

One walks into a movie with such hope. 

 

Take Ghostbusters: Afterlife (please). The director and co-writer is Jason Reitman, son of the original's director (the real-life sequel if you will). But, Jason has made some terrific movies in his own right—Thank You for Smoking, Juno, Up in the Air, Young Adult, Tully—that eclipsed the quality of his father's work and heralded an original and mature director whose film-making instincts would, at least, be interesting and, more often than not, thought-provoking and challenging.

 

What one does not expect is a work of desperation, of a studio in need of a tent-pole of a franchise, even one that has suffered in the past (except for the first one) from its own haphazardness and money grubbing, and of a director in need of a hit who doesn't want to wade in the world of mass-market spandex and not fall too far from the money-tree. I'm sure the Sony execs were crowing that they had the best of both worlds—a younger director with a track record who was close enough to the material (and its initial legacy) that he wouldn't try to re-invent their hit (as had been tried...with disastrous box-office results).

 

Is there life in Ghosbusters? Or after-life? Stay tuned.

Callie Spengler (Carrie Coon), divorced mother of two—that would be Trevor (Finn Wolfhard) and Phoebe (Mckenna Grace)—has just been evicted from her place and she and the kids pack up everything and move for the Summer to—Summerville, Oklahoma—as her only assets are the tumble-down dirt farm, where her father, Dr. Egon Spengler—former Ghostbuster—moved and ultimately died (under mysterious circumstances). Callie has nothing but vitriol for her father—science skipping a generation—for abandoning her and her family for something having to do with his work. The house itself is a disaster, with books stacked high ("symmetrical book-stacking..." Humans DO do that, evidently), and a secret laboratory in the basement (accessible by fire-pole), and an abandoned Ecto-1 in the back-broken barn.

While Trevor tries to make friends working at the local burger drive-in, Phoebe, the science-nerd takes Summer science classes from Mr. Grooberson (Paul Rudd), who plugs a horror movie into the VHS (funding...) while he investigates the strange seismological activity happening in Oklahoma. Fracking? "Fracking annoying!" responds Callie. The humor here is mostly visual, although verbal attempts are constant, usually consisting of some sort of cynical comment that hurts.*

Eventually, everyone becomes aware that Granddad was a Ghostbuster, and shows up at the house by inhabiting inanimate objects and moving them around—chess pieces, lights, desk-drawers. Trevor gets Ecto-1 going again, despite its age and rust and oxidating gas supply. And Phoebe wins this year's "Mary Sue" award for figuring out how Egon's "unlicensed nuclear accelerator" proton pack works without any sort of guidance. "Why worry?"

Why, indeed? She catches her first ghost on her first pursuit and traps it. It results in some substantial property damage around town and she, Trevor, and their buddy "Podcast" (because...he...does a...ah, forget it) wind up in jail, with their equipment confiscated and Mom being really pissed at them for interrupting her date with Mr. Grooberson.

Eventually, it's determined that Summerville is the epicenter for another emergence of Gozer the Gozarian (who'll appear as Olivia Wilde in an uncredited cameo) as Ivo Shandor (J. K. Simmons), the designer of the building that was ground zero for "The Great Manhattan Crossrip of '84") built the town just for that purpose. Mom Callie and Mr. Grooberson become the gate-keeper and key-master for the return.

Basically, the movie is "Goonies Meets Ghosbusters" while using the same strategy as The Force Awakens by bringing back most of the elements of the original (including SPOILER ALERT: the remaining Ghostbusters) in another locale and pulling a Carrie Fisher by having the late Harold Ramis appear as the spirit of Egon, complete with Obi-Wan Kenobi blue-shimmer. The devil-dogs appear, and so do possessed Stay-Puft marshmallow men. Everybody but Rick Moranis. But, it's the same story filled to busting with call-backs, heavily encrusted with nostalgia.

The kids are alright, though. Wolfhard is a good presence, and Mckenna Grace is a highlight as young Phoebe, using the same straight-faced strategy as "Young Sheldon"'s Iain Armitage, that somehow enhances the amusement factor as when told that as key-master and gate-keeper, her Mom and Mr. Grooberson have probably "done it": "No, I just don't show my emotions like everyone else, on the inside I'm vomiting." It's not the line; it's the delivery—the singer, not the song.

One goes into these things with such hope. But, movies in a franchise need to grow not just regurgitate and please the fan-base or the investors. It's funny. They could really do some interesting things with the concept of an after-life** besides resurrecting "force-ghosts." But, "Ghostbusters" has always been a bit shallow in its intentions and this version does not intend to dig any deeper. But, then, it's not so much a movie, as it's a wake. For Ramis. And for the franchise.

 

* Phoebe wishes her Mother good night with : "Have a good night! Don't be yourself." Paul Rudd has a good line: "History is safe. Geometry is safe. Science is a safety-pin through the nipple of academia!"

 

** I had a friend who professed to be a psychic, and the most believable thing about it was he was so casual talking about it. A casual mention of ghosts and he blurted "Ah, ghosts are ASS-holes, man..."

The French Dispatch

"Just Try To Make It Sound Like You Wrote It That Way on Purpose"

or

The Good and the Adject-Evil (Not Necessarily in a Bad Way)

 

Wes Anderson's new little chocolate toy-box of a movie is The French Dispatch (of the Liberty Kansas Evening Sun)—written with Roman Coppola, Jason Schwartzman, and Hugo Guinness—centered around the arty-little adjunct magazine that resulted when the son of the editor of Liberty Kansas Evening Sun, Arthur Howitzer, Jr. (played by Bill Murray) spent an extended holiday in the French village of Ennui-sur-Blasé and never returned home, instead creating an supplement for Dad's paper—"a factual report on the subject of world politics, the arts, high and low, and diverse stories of human interest."

 

Already, the town's name had me giggling, as not only is it a hilarious name for a burg (especially in France), but it also is the perfect site (and attitude) from which writers could concoct articles in a "New Yorker frame of mind". The movie centers around that magazine on its final issue of publication, pursuant to the wishes of the editor upon his death, that it cease and all of its assets liquidated. Thus, it consists of "an obituary, a travel guide, and three short articles" that have been culled from the magazine's past.

The obituary is, of course, Howitzer's, and it is inextricably tied to the magazine's history with no future—and reassuring subscribers that they will be refunded for the remaining issues that will not be forthcoming.

Next is a tour of Ennui-sur-Blasé with bicycling reporter Herbsaint Sazerac (Owen Wilson) who pedals about the village (often precariously) giving a guided overview of its piquant and sordid charms—for example, that it hides a vast population of vermin and scavengers (as illustrated above) and the curious statistic that 8.2 bodies are pulled from the local river every week.

The first of the stories—"The Concrete Masterpiece" tells the story of an art dealer (Adrien Brody), imprisoned for tax evasion, stumbling upon a masterwork by one of the mentally disturbed inmates, Moses Rosenthaler (Benicio Del Toro), inspired by his muse and lover (and guard) Simone (Léa Seydoux). He buys the piece and Rosenthaler becomes a sensation in the art world, but his methods are idiosyncratic to say the least and his latest work, three years in the making, proves problematic to its patron. The story is presented as a lecture by art historian J.K.L. Berenson (Tilda Swinton) and features appearances by Tony Revolori (from The Grand Budapest Hotel), Bob Balaban, Henry Winkler, and Lois Smith.

The second story is "Revisions to a Manifesto" in which a reporter/Witness to History, Lucinda Krementz (Frances McDormand) struggles with objectivity in her reporting of a youth revolt (called "The Chessboard Revolution") in Ennui, led by the charismatic Zeffirelli B. (Timothée Chalamet), who struggles with writing his manifesto—writing it in the cafe doesn't work, nor does writing it in his bathtub—and comes to rely on Lucinda to finish it.

The final story—"The Private Dining Room of the Police Commissioner"—is structured around a television interview (hosted by Liev Schreiber) with the article's author Roebuck Wright (Jeffrey Wright, no relation) who recounts the circumstances of a dining review of the exquisite meals prepared by the police lieutenant chef Nescaffier (Stephen Park) for Ennui's police commissaire (Mathieu Almaric) only to be embroiled in an investigation when the chief's son is kidnapped (by a gang that includes Edward Norton and Saoirse Ronan). It offers a chase sequence done in animation.

Still with me, there?

 

This may be the densest, most convoluted, detailed and realised of Wes Anderson's little confections, linked by his distinctive, reductive style of boxed-in, symmetrical (well, for the most part) compositions, and an acting style that would best be described as "Keaton-esque." The film zips along like a cartoon, heavily narrated and presented with layers of cascading framing devices and in a mish-mash of black-and-white and color in different aspect ratio's that have no narrative function other than to clash with the scene before it. Plus, reality is constantly challenged with animation (mentioned before), deliberate model-shots, and an extremely porous fourth-wall. The phrase I keep seeing in reviews is it's "the most Wes Anderson movie of his movies."

Of course it is. Even as he's stealing tricks and homages from shot-to-shot (but not for very long). It IS "The Most Wes Anderson Movie Of His Movies."

 

But not necessarily in a bad way.

You don't get lost, even when the director takes you down so many rabbit-holes your eyes might pop out of your head and your brain starts to take on a misty quality. Nor is one ever bored—unless one is so churlish as to ask "What's the point?" The film clocks in at an hour, forty-eight minutes and is so crammed with...."stuff"...that boredom seems impossible. Synaptic hemorrhaging, maybe, and a lot of such "stuff" is going to go right over your head, but it's so filled with detail—such as writerly nuance—that one can just absorb the layer of adjectival meticulousness until the next funny-bone prod comes along.

Call it a soufflé, if you will, filled with different textures and flavors, that might not be recognized as one is gorging on it, but might pop up with recognition when contemplated as a grand meal.

Zombieland: Doubletap

You Might Want To Put Down Your Milk-Duds For This One...
or
"If You Love Someone, You Should Shoot 'Em in the Face So They Don't Become a Flesh-Eating Monster."

"Hey! Welcome to Zombieland: Chapter Two!" Columbus (Jesse Eisenberg) chirps at the beginning of Zombieland: Doubletap, the sequel to the hit Zombieland from way back in 2009. "Thanks for waiting!"

Sure thing, Jess.' Sorry what happened to your career in the meantime.

It's great he came back, so that everyone could appreciate what an eccentric live-wire performer he is, given the right part, and how he can energize a movie just by being in it. But, then, Z:D in an exercise in precise nostalgia. 

Precise because the things that were established in the first go-'round are repeated: Columbus' "Rules" with their accompanying intrusive 3-D graphics, the credit-scattering Main Title montage, the "Bill Murray" cameo—wait until the very last frame on this one—the splintering of the group and the third act brightly lit night-time zombie-splatter orgy are all in place, just like you remember. That's some comfort food among the grisly fare.

But, also the Zombieland teams are back, the ones both in front of* and behind the camera. That Emma Stone (again playing "Wichita") turned down a big movie to return to the franchise says a lot about her affection for the filmmakers and the actors involved, as her star has risen considerably since that time, even winning an Oscar for La La Land. That says something.

My own reaction to the first Zombieland was an admiration for its fresh take on the well-chewed zombie concept. It helped that the characters in the film are a bizarre family of out-casts who probably wouldn't have anything to do with each other if the world hadn't gone to dead people who want a piece of your mind. 

Things haven't changed that much since the zombie apocalypse, other than that Darwin's theory seems to keep working on walking corpses. Either that or the winnowing of zombies makes typing the remaining ones that much easier. What is most troubling is that there are some strata that are tougher to kill, making them tougher to knock down than, say, Star Wars storm-troopers. There aren't many, but it would seem that late-model zombies need more than a simple double-tap to take them down. It doesn't make logical sense, but it does have a tendency to stretch out some of the splatter-fests to be more marathons than short sprints. It's all well and good to increase the challenges to the main characters, but it kind of goes off the proverbial cliff in the third act when the numbers start to increase. 

For the four main characters, the issue centers around the wishes of  Columbus to impart some stability on their rag-tag band of zomb-busters. He wants to establish a home, as the four—Tallahassee (Harrelson), Columbus, Wichita (Stone) and Little Rock (Abigail Breslin)—have already established a loose-knit family and their identities (they're still following the "no names" rule) are based on their home-towns. So, where's home when society has completely broken down? Well, in the United States, they set up shop at The White House (or "Casablanca" as Tallahassee calls it).That's good for awhile, and everybody gives it a shot. But, we're talking about four alpha-wolves trying to live together in peace and harmony: Tallahassee tries to be a father-figure, Wichita and Columbus try to be a couple—even if she's leery of settling down—and Little Rock is just tired of being around old people and wants to find friends (non-dead kind) her own age.

So, as in the first film, the group splinters—it's not like any of the members can't take care of themselves—sisters Wichita and Little Rock, feeling trapped and wanting freedom, take off, leaving "the boys" to their own devices, if both hurt by their desertion. Tallahassee also starts to feel a bit of wanderlust, wanting to go to Graceland, and Columbus, bitter over Wichita's leaving, runs into another survivor, Madison (a hilarious Zoey Deutsch), who is just as pink and girly-girl as can be. And...well, any port in the zombie-storm. She moves into the White House with Columbus and his "father" (as she calls Tallahassee, to his annoyance), and so, it's a little embarrassing when Wichita comes back to arm up, as Little Rock has run off with a namaste Berkeley pacifist (Avan Jogia)—this enrages Tallahassee ("It's not that I hate pacifists, I just wanna beat the shit outta them!").

So, the dynamic changes a lot. Wichita loathes Madison and despises Columbus for his quick rebound dalliance with somebody else...so..."Madison" after his previous matrimonial-bound devotion ("Wow...just...wow") and the four set off to find Little Rock as there is no way that she can defend herself with a pacifist in tow. With a little difficulty finding the proper vehicle to do their road-trip, they start to track down Little Rock by following the lead where she wants to go—that being Graceland, former domicile of Elvis "The King" Presley. 

When they get there, they are disappointed—Graceland is in ruins. But, nearby, they find the stolen Tallahassee-mobile, the Beast, parked outside an Elvis-themed shrine called the Hounddog Hotel. Little Rock had been there. But, exploring the place, they find that though they were there, they've left. But, they're not alone. Fearing they're about to be overrun by zombies, they find themselves assaulted by the Hotel's caretaker, Nevada (Rosario Dawson) to whom Tallahassee is instantly attracted. 

It's reciprocated, but then, maybe Nevada is reminded of somebody else—like her current squeeze, a western ruffian named Albuquerque (Luke Wilson), who...kinda...reminds you of Tallahassee and, actually, reminds everybody of Tallahassee, except for (of course) Tallahassee, who takes an instant dislike to the man. And—to make the conceit even more precious, Albs (please don't make me spell it again!) has a nervous, nerdish compadre named Flagstaff (Thomas Middleditch), who Columbus thinks is a really-together guy...with his commandments instead of rules and his unlikely skills at zombie-dispatching. As if knowing they've gone a little too far with the doppelganger bit, the two get eliminated fairly quickly. 

There's nowhere the two could go, anyway, it's a silly conceit and the jokes wear out their welcome pretty quickly...plus it eliminates a rival for Nevada's affections and she's pretty necessary to the plot, as everybody moves on to find Little Rock, who has been persuaded by "Berkeley" to find a mythical place called "Babylon," an oasis in the zombie-desert, where there is nothing but peace and harmony and hacky-sack, and no weapons—you just know that that is where the last confrontations in the movie are going to take place, like the big amusement park set-piece in the first one: it raises the stakes for the heroes and gives them a handicap, as well. But, it provides little suspense and hardly any danger. You know that everybody's going to come out of it alright, no matter how much danger is pretended.

Yes, it's fun, more in the smaller moments than in the large ones: you have a lot of really good actors who are enjoying playing their characters, even if they all could be playing better roles, and their idiosyncratic performances are always a pleasure to watch. They manage to evoke pleasure out of recycled materials and make fresh conceits that are beyond their sell-by date. If another Zombieland is made, one knows where it will go—splintering the group again and reforming them with a third act action set-piece. And, no doubt, they'll be just as good even though the vehicle itself will have become as charmless as an animated corpse.

* Zombieland: Doubletap's trailer makes comedic hay of the fact that Harrelson, Eisenberg and Breslin are all Oscar nominees and that Stone is an Oscar winner, juxtaposed with shots of them firing all sorts of weaponry. Hey, Helen Mirren rocks a machine-gun.