"Morgan" Review

I remember the experience of seeing Morgan more than the movie. Despite a friendly PSA from a not-so-friendly security guard, the phones buzzed, their glow occasionally diverting my eye (I didn't really mind).

An elderly woman climbed the stairs looking for her friend, who was waving at her in the row in front of us. Upon seeing said friend, the woman decided not to walk down the right row, but take a detour through ours.

In the last act, during a particularly quiet scene, a man with the lung capacity of Mickey Mouse was the lone squeaker of "Damn!", much to the crowd's amusement.

Long story short, this movie sucks: a placeholder in Hollywood's BYE week between summer blockbusters and fall award-winners. Morgan cobbles together elements of Ex Machina, The Terminator, and Transcendence and waters it down to an unsalted broth.

Lee Weathers (Kate Mara) is a risk-management consultant for SynTech, a company specializing in artificial intelligence - more specifically, blending human DNA and nanotechnology to make a new kind of life. Their latest prototype is a girl named Morgan (Anya Taylor Joy); after an argument results in Morgan stabbing one of the scientists (Jennifer Jason Leigh) in the eye, Lee is sent to assess Morgan's health and recommend either further study or termination. 

For the most part, Morgan acts like a regular girl. Flashbacks show her frolicking through the woods with her "family," the scientists who've spent six years in the research enclosure overseeing her development. One scientist, Amy (Rose Leslie), is Morgan's best friend, promising her a trip to the lake to see its unfathomable beauty, an event that captures Morgan's blossoming imagination.

Whenever Morgan snaps, we aren't given much information as to why. Is it an error in her wiring? Is it a product of rapid growth: her body is 18 but her emotions are five? These suggestions aren't the movie's, by the way.

What the movie prefers to spend time on is with the scientists, whose characters are shallow at best and annoying at worst. Most of their dialogue consists of praising Morgan blindly; she's such a special girl, they say.

They're not totally wrong. Morgan has the uncanny ability to know everything one can google about a person as soon as she sees them, as well as exhibiting bouts of telekinesis. I don't know how adding nanotechnology to a fetus gives a person psychic powers, but it's okay. I don't think the movie knows either.

I must ask, however, in a movie about AI that features violent outbursts and pseudo-intellectual debates about consciousness, why the writer (Seth W. Owen) feels the need to introduce a subplot where Skip the cook (Boyd Holbrook) goes for a meet-cute with Lee. It has the romantic fire of a middle school kid trying to sit next to their crush at the lunch table.

Most of the acting is bland because the dialogue is hollow, save for a hammy role by Paul Giamatti, who was gracious enough to relieve my boredom for 10 minutes. It seems Kate Mara is trying to pull off an icy intimidation, but it looks and sounds like Vince Vaughn in The Lost World. The movie tries to explain her no-nonsense personality, but the explanation is so dumb and predictable that it feels like a studio note.

Morgan lacks the soul, intelligence, and flavor of a sci-fi thriller. I'd say "Avoid it," but given its opening weekend grossed a whopping $1.9 million, putting the movie in 17th place, it seems like you lot already have. Keep up the good work.  

Thank you all for reading. I'm the Man Without a Plan, signing off.

"Don't Breathe" Review

Most of my disappointment with Don't Breathe stems from its director, Fede Alvarez, who helmed the 2013 remake of Evil Dead.

Evil Dead was a bloodbath, a kick to the balls for stale franchises (Saw) and pointless reboots (Friday the 13th, Quarantine). Alvarez's take was outrageous, with black humor and wince-inducing kills. It brought grindhouse to the 21st Century and we are all better for it.

Alvarez brings that style to Don't Breathe, a story about three robbers (Jane Levy, Daniel Zovatto, Dylan Minnette) who break into a retired blind vet's (Stephen Lang) home, unaware of the danger he poses to them. 

The trailer presented a near-silent movie. Once the robbers were in the house, the tension of not being heard (and subsequently caught) would add to the suspense. Instead, a heavy-handed camera and editor often defuse tension for cheap, booming jumps.

The overwrought style leads to inconsistencies, worst of which being the Blind Man's hearing. The sound of a robber slamming up against the wall or loudly whispering to his partner isn't enough for the vet to catch, but God forbid he lean on a creaky floorboard. The scares become predictable and nonsensical.

A hulking Stephen Lang is this movie's menace. Sniffing for a scent or jerking his head toward a sound, Lang is animalistic and unpredictable. Just the sight of his dead eyes is frightening.

Near the end, the film reveals more of the vet's secrets. The change of pace works and by circumventing some clichés, the movie brings out some chills. Unfortunately, the ending drags and grows so goofy that the movie completely wastes its burst of good will.

The concept of the "inept protagonist" isn't faulty. In Green Room, it's executed correctly and the effect is immersion. How many people know how to efficiently escape a troop of Neo-Nazis armed to the teeth with guns and trained dogs? Exactly. It's not far-fetched for a couple scrawny teens to struggle. It forces the viewer in the character's point of view. 

But here's where it gets tricky: the film can't present a method of escape that the character doesn't try. If an idiot like me sees a window, I'm gonna try to break it. If a man who's tried to kill me within the last 30 seconds is on the ground and I have a gun, I'm taking the shot.

So when in Don't Breathe, the characters are too inept to at least entertain the notion of a simple escape, the immersion is broken.

I feel I've discovered a new truth to the term "painfully mediocre." Don't Breathe isn't bad, but given Alvarez's previous work, this is a step backward into the familiar territory Evil Dead railed against. Go watch Green Room if you haven't already and if you have, watch it again. That film is a punk rock thriller both claustrophobic and gut-wrenching. How do you go wrong with that?

Thank you all for reading. I'm the Man Without a Plan, signing off.

"War Dogs" Review

Last year, funnyman Adam McKay won an Oscar for Best Adapted Screenplay for The Big Short, a movie based on real events about underdogs rising through the ranks of a flawed federal system. This year, funnyman Todd Phillips puts his hat in the same ring with War Dogs.

In 2005, David Packouz (Miles Teller) is a college dropout, looking for a calling that doesn't involve massaging greasy moguls. David reconnects with his childhood friend, Efraim Diveroli (Jonah Hill), for whom big spending and debauchery go hand in hand.

Efraim hires David as an arms dealer, the middleman between manufacturers and the military, negotiating contracts and profiting off the commission - a practice that earns the two men the title of "war dogs."

But how do two pot-smoking 20-somethings land million-dollar government contracts? It's simple, really. Quantity over quality.

"Everyone's looking at the whole pie," Efriam says. "But no one's going for the crumbs."

For a two-man operation, a small contract leads to more profit than a large one split among hundreds.

Add to that a willingness to fabricate, lie, and circumvent the law to land a deal, and suddenly it's not hard to fathom how a $200,000 deal could jump to $300 million.

The movie's politics meet somewhere between the anger of Big Short and the hedonism of Wolf. The Bush administration is present, most hilariously on a wayward trip to Fallujah, but it serves more as a figurehead for patriotic pro-war rhetoric.

In the opening narration, David says that when most people see a soldier, they see a country boy fighting for their freedom. Only the war dogs see the price tag attached to each person - about $17,500.

"If you say otherwise, you're either in on it, or you're stupid," David says.

Teller is a little miscast. I think he'd be better as the cock-of-the-walk gun runner, but he pumps his straight-man up well and with authenticity.

Hill is the standout - he's borrowing from his Donnie Azoff character, but his reedy laugh and rage-fueled outbursts are hysterical. David tells us Efraim becomes the person others want him to be, so seeing him change colors, such as when he pretends to be Jewish to win over a potential money launderer is a ridiculous riot.

The movie doesn't have Wolf's coked-up pace and despite being under two hours, it drags near the end. Some character choices only make sense because they serve the plot and the movie never reaches the same heights as its influences. But as far as crime dramedies with a Scorsese/De Palma spirit go, War Dogs is a worthy entertaining contender. Give it a matinee and you'll have a good time.

Thank you all for reading. I'm the Man Without a Plan, signing off.

"Hunt for the Wilderpeople" Review

Hunt for the Wilderpeople is what you would get if Up took place in the world of The Goonies. It's a blast of pure imagination, the kind that turns sticks into swords and frogs into dragons. The kind that takes a story about a grumpy woodsman and a chubby ne'er-do-well, and gives it a never-ending thirst for adventure.

Julian Dennison plays Ricky Baker, an orphan with a penchant for trouble and hopes for becoming a "gangster." In and out of foster homes, Ricky's last chance comes in the form of the bubbly Bella (Rima Te Wiata) and her gruff husband Hec (Sam Neill) who live in the middle of the New Zealand bush. Ricky's at odds with the arrangement (Hec's not really a fan, either), but when shenanigans leave the duo stuck in the middle of the bush - millions of hectares wide, Bella says - they have to learn to get along. 

Little do they know that a manic CPS agent (Rachel House) is after them, and will not rest until she finds Ricky. You don't understand. I'm pretty sure this woman doesn't sleep nor eat. She single-handedly corrals every resource in the country to find this kid: flyers, TV stations, police, the ENTIRE ARMY. You thought Trunchbull from Matilda was bad? Think again.

Taika Waititi (What We Do in the Shadows, Boy, Thor 3 next year) directs, bringing his trademark silliness along. Not a minute goes by without a joke and even more surprising, they all work. Whether it's Ricky spitting out a dope haiku or Hec reacting with an eye roll - the movie might as well be called "Sam Neill Has Had Enough of Your Shit" - every joke gets a laugh, and I laugh hard.

There's a bit of Mad Max, a bit of Tarantino, a bit of Monty Python and Blues Brothers all scrambled together. Draped in the foilage of the bush, the movie binds it all together in the boundless spirit of youth. 

How does one stay original in film?

It's not in the plot. If influences are everywhere, everything is derivative.

The trick is to be authentic. When a director embraces a movie so hard that they infuse themselves in it, the thumbprint's on the reel. There are few movies I can feel like I'm watching something familiar for the first time.

Hunt for the Wilderpeople is one of those films.

Thank you all for reading. I'm the Man Without a Plan, signing off.

"The Infiltrator" Review

I'm feeling a weird sense of legacy. One of my first reviews was Runner Runner, the gambling thriller with Justin Timberlake and Ben Affleck. That movie, directed by Brad Furman, was dumb but unfortunately took itself too seriously. 

Almost three years later (Jesus, I've been writing this long?), I've seen Hollywood fail to innovate, content with repeating artistically (but not financially) bankrupt moves. So, alas, who better to bring me a glimmer of progress than one of the men who brought me to the party? Furman directs The Infiltrator, a thriller that's dumb, but loves every minute of it.

In the 1980's, Robert "Bob" Mazur (Bryan Cranston) is an FBI agent whose "particular set of skills" lands him as an undercover money launderer for Colombian drug lords.

Bryan Cranston will be haunted by Breaking Bad until he dies, but typecasting (for once) produced the best candidate for the job. There's almost too much Walter White in Bob Mazur - the duality of family life and a life of crime; the personality shifts between meek and menacing; even Bob's partner Emir (an equally typecast John Leguizamo) brings to mind Jesse Pinkman.

Bob says in this job, one word out of place can equal death. The first half is tense, as Bob gets close to breaking cover on multiple occasions, most memorably in a restaurant with his wife on their anniversary.

This half is more fast-paced, featuring what you'd expect from an undercover thriller. Agents argue with their informants, listen in on intimate conversations; there's even a Bond-esque scene where Bob receives a state-of-the-art briefcase that can record with a turn of an eagle emblem.

For most of the film, Bob is establishing his cover, building trust with the drug execs, and that's where most of the tension and excitement lies. But there's a substantial chunk of the second act where the movie grinds to a halt and at that point, we're waiting on a climax. It'd be tougher to grind through if not for Roberto Alcaino (Benjamin Bratt), whose connections reach all the way to Pablo Escobar. Bratt is suave, and commanding but brings an element of heart that gives Bob the dilemma of potentially snitching on his friend. Unfortunately, the film sticks too close to its genre predecessors to convincingly suggest that struggle. 

The movie follows in the tradition of grimy '80s thrillers in the vein of Michael Mann or Brian De Palma. This is the kind of movie where the only thing greasier than men's hairstyles is the body paint on go-go dancers. There's an F-bomb a minute and a lap dance in between. The film is grainy, the car crashes practical, and the suits made with the expense only cocaine can buy.

The cinematography, like in Runner Runner, is stylish but overwrought. The grainy film works as a throwback and there are some fun tracking shots lifted straight from Scorsese. Speaking of the Brat Pack, Furman borrows the worst of Spielberg, keeping scenes so back-lit, it makes me think less glamour and more "Shut it off!"

The Infiltrator is not a bad film, and due to its strengths - namely Cranston, Bratt, a goofy Leguizamo and some vintage dirty '80s cheese - I recommend it. Anything to give an alternative to The Purge: Election Year.

Thank you all for reading. I'm the Man Without a Plan, signing off.

"Nerve" ADVANCE Review

In Nerve, the newest social media app has teens scrambling to perform crowd-elected dares for money. These dares range from kissing a stranger to jumping into fires - the harder the dare, the bigger the payout. Emma Roberts plays Vee, a shy high-school senior whose wild-child best friend Sydney (Emily Meade) is growing her Nerve following. Tired of living in Syd's shadow, Vee decides to play, and when she teams up with another mysterious Player named Ian (Dave Franco), they embark on the wildest PG-13 rated night of their lives.

The movie's a neon-blasted amalgamation of The Matrix, The Brass Teapot, and The Hunger Games. Really, the problem is, this is too familiar. I've seen 20-somethings pose as teens; I've seen the shy girl "go bad" when she meets the cool guy; I've seen the boy friend (note the space) get jealous of said cool guy. Add this to technophobic portrayals of voyeuristic teens celebrating idiocy and borderline sadism, and you've got a DOOMSday scenario from the old whining about these long-haired hippies and their Livestreams.

Once logged in, the app combs through every piece of Vee's information: social media, college applications, even bank accounts. As Vee completes dares, the money's instantly hardwired into her account, something that raises suspicions in her mom (Juliette Lewis in a post-Jem and the Holograms world). The fear of no privacy is easy to establish. We never know the identity of the game's creator - I want the alternate ending to be Bugs Bunny saying "Ain't I a stinker?!" The movie goes so far as to debunk the "Shut down the server!" complaint by saying since the game is open source, everyone's phone is a server. Add in a subplot about the "Dark Web," which in a PG-13 movie, consists of an unfinished webpage with pictures of butts and random pills, and there's just enough to shut a 13-year-old up and make yours truly, at 23, laugh his ass off.

The actors do well with the material, though the difference between the leads and supporting cast is apparent. There's a sitcom's cadence to many in the later camp. I don't worry for the fate of the characters because this is PG-13 danger, but if they were written more three-dimensionally, I'd be sucked in. Not the case here. Like many teen ensembles, they're written only thin enough to set up each stereotype.

Forgive an aside: there's a scene right before the climax where Vee does a difficult, but doable dare that lands her in the top of the Nerve scoreboard, even when another player undergoes a potentially bloody and violent affair. I'm not entirely sure if the amount of money one receives for a dare is decided on by the Watchers or Hacker Supreme/God/Agent Smith, but they need to get their properties straight.

Nerve has an audience; if you skew younger on the "young adult" scale, and you're not as familiar with teen movie plots, you'll find stuff to like here. The New York skyline is as beautiful as ever, and I'm always a sucker for neon. But there's little brains to the scenario and when we eventually get the message (literally) preached to us, I burst into laughter. An after-school special this doesn't need to be. 

Thank you all for reading. I'm the Man Without a Plan, signing off.

"The Purge: Election Year" Review

The Purge: Election Year is the worst movie of the decade. This combines the worst traits of American filmmaking - the excess, the preaching, racism, sexism, and uncontrollable need to dress up trash as satire - to make a depraved, incoherent stain on decency. And I'm ashamed to have watched it.

The Presidential election is between NFFA (New Founding Fathers of America) candidate The Minister/Donald Trump (Kyle Secor) and Senator Charlie Roan/Bernie Sanders (Elizabeth Mitchell), who's promised to abolish the Purge. She claims the one-night endorsement of crime is a mass execution of minorities and the poor disguised as moral cleansing. 

On Purge Night, Roan is attacked by NFFA-hired mercenaries (sporting Nazi, Confederate, and probably "I always park in two spaces" patches). She escapes with the help of bodyguard Leo Barnes (Frank Grillo) and together, they have to survive the night, fighting off mercenaries, Purgers, and the NFAA. Along the way, they befriend a deli owner (Mykelti Williamson) and his employee (Joseph Julian Soria), a doctor who drives around caring for victims (Betty Gabriel), and a band of revolutionaries whose leader (Edwin Hodge) wants to take out the NFFA in a less diplomatic fashion.

To this franchise's one credit, the world continues to grow and explore new possibilities. This comes at the detriment of not explaining the details from previous movies. In a Hunger Games-style snafu, we know nothing of the NFFA - who started it; why The Purge and not any other idea was approved; why the American public got on-board; what catastrophe led people to such desperation to accept it; how businesses function with the annual steep, sudden loss of labor. This is the third movie of the franchise, and writer/director James DeMonaco (who's helmed all the movies) continues to dance around these essential world-building questions.

DeMonaco puts the same care into the characters. When not spewing such cringe-worthy lines as "Is the c--t close?" and "I've come for my candy bar!," they decide to commit every stupid thing possible. They stay outdoors in the middle of the street, just watching an old woman burn her husband to death or a young woman in a pig costume take a chainsaw to a door. Did I mention that Roan refuses to barricade herself, despite being a highly controversial presidential candidate and having the security to do so? It's all in the name of experiencing what most people do, she says. Personally, I want a president who appreciates the value of self-preservation.

Grillo and Mitchell do what they can with the material, looking defeated. Others, such as Williamson, have more confidence, but loathsome dialogue. As the deli owner, Williamson delivers such enlightening comic nuggets as "There are a whole bunch of Negros coming this way. and we're looking like a big ol' bucket of fried chicken!"

I'm writing this a few days after the cop shooting here in Dallas. A veteran took to the streets and murdered, fueled by a twisted sense of vengeance. The movie would have you consider this an unfortunate parallel, a real-life example of the psychopathic violence it seemingly rails against. But here's the difference. Thursday night, I read stories of grief, pain, and anger, but just as many of resolve, healing, and above all, hope. In Election Year, there is no hope.

You may say "Well, this America is supposed to be too far gone!" To that, I ask "Do we want it to be?" Should we blindly accept, with the film's hedonistic celebration, the worldview that America is destined for a self-destructive class war? I'd be more accepting if DeMonaco took his subject seriously. But the killer in a George Washington mask gives me room for pause.

This is grisly and sensational, without the charisma, style, intelligence, or substance that can make it permissible. When there's innocent blood on the streets, this gleeful brand of nihilism is irresponsible. Don't jump the gun and think I'm calling for a ban. But for those calling this simple, crazy escapism, don't kid yourselves. Call it what it is: TRASH.

Thank you all for reading. I'm the Man Without a Plan, signing off.

"Independence Day: Resurgence" Review

Independence Day: Resurgence is awful for the most dull reasons. For a franchise whose saving grace was reckless, confident sincerity, watching Jeff Goldblum and co. trudge in front of green screens and recite half-hearted dialogue is a disinterested slap to the face. The first was never Oscar material, but simply put, there's a way to make B-movies with love, and this sequel isn't it.

The plot's the same: aliens invade Earth and threaten global extinction. The difference is that now we spend 45 minutes of a 120-minute movie updating you on what everyone (and I mean EVERYONE) is up to. Did you want to see Judd Hirsch drive a school bus while being chased by an alien? Of course you did.

Did you want to see Steven Hiller (Will Smith) punch aliens and chomp cigars? Well, too bad. Turns out his character is dead, for a reason so glossed over, it's not worth explaining (Why do bad movies justify a dead character by showing their massive portrait in the background?).

Instead, the new hotshot pilot is played by Liam Hemsworth, who's simultaneously out-acted by toast, wood, and concrete. His fiancée, an ex-pilot and daughter of ex-President Whitmore (Bill Pullman) is played by the stellar, nuanced Maika Monroe (It Follows). Given her relationships to the first movie and her ailing father, she'd make a far better lead. But Hollywood is still convinced Liam Hemsworth needs to be a star when they most certainly should NOT.

Hemsworth engages in stilted, awkward machismo, getting in dick-waving contests with Hiller's son, Dylan (Jessie T. Usher), newly-minted captain in the Earth Space Defense. Why? The movie pussyfoots around for 30 minutes, with scattered clips of vague exposition, culminating in a barely-coherent mobile video. Mix this in with several other exposition-heavy subplots and you'll start to see my problem: I don't care about anyone.

Say what you will about the first, but at least I felt the stakes. When Jeff Goldblum saw the damage, he acted (appropriately) like a man watching the world burn. Here, he witnesses London's obliteration to dust and remarks "They sure like to hit the landmarks." These characters know they're in a movie, and their sly nudges to the audience pull me out of what should be delightfully corny or (to give Independence Day more credit) emotionally involving on a primal scale.

There are good ideas to expand the universe and turn a disaster film into a sci-fi exploration with intergalactic dogfights. We learn more about the universe beyond the two interested parties, and like in Star Wars, opens up the possibilities. But in an already cluttered film, these ideas are too little, too late.

Independence Day: Resurgence is the worst kind of sequel, one that sucks out what made the first enjoyable, leaving behind a hollow shell. Most of the people on-screen look like they could care less, so as a patron with $10-13 to spare, why should I?

Thank you all for reading. I'm the Man Without a Plan, signing off.

"Florence Foster Jenkins" ADVANCE Review

In Florence Foster Jenkins, Hugh Grant paraphrases a Beethoven quote to Simon Helberg: "To play a wrong note is insignificant. To play without passion is inexcusable." Skirting the line between rip-roaring comedy and touching drama, the film celebrates the joy of making music for music's sake, and serves to inspire anyone paralyzed with fear of not being good enough. Trust me, it won't matter.

Meryl Streep stars as the titular character, a 1940's New York heiress who adores music and desires to be an opera singer. The problem? She can't sing.

And now, another edition of my Letterman rip-off:

The Top Ten Things I Can Compare Florence's Voice To

10) The human embodiment of microphone feedback                                                               9) A balloon squeaking out its last breaths         8) A parrot with kidney stones                             7) Your grandma after a gallon of everclear         6) A Bonobo chimpanzee in labor                       5) Poodles having sex                                     4) The sound someone makes when sticking their finger in a pencil sharpener                                   3) Julie Andrews with a lobotomy and punch to the stomach                                                           2) A squirrel with its testicles in a vicegrip           1) A Chihuahua on fire

Hugh Grant plays Florence's dapper husband, St. Clair Bayfield (doesn't that scream harlequin romance lead?), who, not willing to break her heart with the truth, goes to all measures to make sure she never gets discouraged, up to and including bribing journalists to write glorious reviews. With St. Clair, her vocal coach (David Haig), and talented but untried pianist Cosme McMoon (Helberg), Florence is inspired to sing and put herself out there, on records...in clubs...even Carnegie Hall?

This movie is The Emperor's New Clothes meets The Devil Wears Prada: a dive into a strange scene and the even stranger folk that inhabit it. Unlike Miranda Priestly, Streep's Florence is a sweetheart, a woman who lives, breathes, eats, and exists for music. I can't emphasize this enough and neither can director Stephen Frears, who offers just the right glimpses into Florence's glamorous mind. One scene where Florence watches a soprano sing her heart out is magical, and reminds me of the euphoria of listening to something like Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody" or Queens of the Stone Age's "A Song For the Dead" for the first time.

Florence has her idiosyncracies, but the movie pays them off; one is actually so heart-breaking that it stunned me when it clicked. She's a woman who spares no expense, and while this display of privilege would bother me in other films, Streep plays it with such sincerity that I'm never not on Florence's side. Her heart sings for opera, and when the movie presents me with such pure intentions, how can you not love this woman?

Let not me forget about the supporting cast, our anchors to reality. Grant is great as always, able to hide so much behind an elegant grin. Helberg's a great comic talent, mixing slapstick and vaudeville into a mild-mannered character. His eyes go through six emotions in a flash of a second; it's crazy how so many small details can make this character a ton of fun. I'm not a fan of The Big Bang Theory, but this film made me a fan of Simon Helberg.

Now, because of how webpages work, you've probably scrolled down and noted that despite the praise, I haven't given this film the full six stars. Stephen Frears' direction, despite it being stylish, intelligent, and great at restraining the joke until just the right moment, is also heavy-handed. There are times when the joke is let loose at the wrong time. I err on the side of subtlety, so some of the outbursts seem like too much, especially at a time when I'm already fully supporting Florence.

Also, when the movie is built off of a bunch of lies, the third act gets predictable. However, the movie pays it all off so well, that I can't really get mad. With any other movie, this would be a deal-breaker; here, it's a nitpick.

I'm scared this won't make a splash here in the U.S. but I promise you it's a gem. I left the theater with a smile on my face and a drive to pick up my guitar and practice. Is it cheesy to already call a Best Actress nomination for Streep? Believe me, this is my favorite performance of hers.

Two days ago, I didn't know this movie existed. Today, it's a contender for my favorite of the year. 

Florence Foster Jenkins hits U.S. theaters on August 12th.

Thank you all for reading. I'm the Man Without a Plan, signing off.

"Finding Dory" Review

To say that Finding Dory is everything I wanted is wrong, not because it doesn't meet expectations, but because I don't know what I want. Finding Nemo didn't end with a cliffhanger - the only thing to expect out of Finding Dory is a return to the Nemoverse: a goofy array of characters; witty, yet misguided understandings of the human world; and of course, a lot of heart. Dory delivers; it's not the knockout punch Pixar is known for, but even a mid-tier Pixar movie is leagues above another Ice Age (how did we, as a species allow FIVE of these things?).

A year has passed since Nemo, and Dory (Ellen Degeneres) has adjusted to her new Great Barrier Reef home alongside Marlin (Albert Brooks) and Nemo (Hayden Rolence). Dory begins to receive brief instinctual flashbacks of her childhood - more specifically, of her long-lost parents. With only some choppy hints and tons of determination, the trio travel across the Pacific to a marine life institute in California where (hopefully) Dory's parents still reside.

Notable newcomers include Hank (Ed O'Neill), a curmudgeonly octopus whose camouflage makes him near-invisible; Destiny (Kaitlin Olson), a near-sighted sweetheart of a whale shark; and Gerald (Torbin Xan Bullock), a derpy sea lion whose quest for a warm rock is denied, Trix Rabbit style, by the two other sea lions lying there (Idris Elba and Dominic West).

Finding Dory is less of a road trip than its predecessor, more of a character study. We're looking through Dory's eyes: her anxiety that she may forget everything; frustrations at forgetting only the most essential part of a memory; joy when remembering a new piece of the puzzle. Degeneres is guided by pitch-perfect direction from Andrew Stanton. She's warm, bubbly, naive, but smarter than she seems. Spending more time in her point of view lets us see her as less manic our annoying than as through Marlin's point of view in Nemo.

Visual work, such as the background fading as Dory fears forgetting are handled superbly, further linking us to her mindset. One scene featuring a panic attack was confirmed by the person next to me as pretty realistic - not too intense for kids, but handled accurately and respectfully.

The movie handles the experiences of someone with mental disabilities and how it affects others around them. In a flashback, we hear Dory's mom (Diane Keaton) worry if Dory will be able to function on her own. When Dory asks for help, other fish respond with confusion or fear.

In one scene, Dory asks a female hermit crab for directions, and the crab replies with a small list. The look on Dory's face, a blend of shame, frustration, and anxiety says it all: this is too much for her; it's child's play for others; and because of that, she feels inadequate. Above all, Pixar has a talent for empathy, for putting tough subjects in simple yet comprehensive terms. Just as Zootopia did for racism, Finding Dory does for mental disabilities.

But the other talent Pixar has is making fun, imaginative stories. Watching the millions of ways Hank can slink around the Institute with Dory (resting in either a coffeepot, sippy cup, or bucket) undetected is enthralling. There's just as much awe in seeing a flurry of colorful fish swimming around a tower of coral as in noting every individual gain of sand covering a seashell. (The movie's also got a way with launching fish out of water that gets me nervous.)

Finding Dory is all the good of Pixar with none of the bad: a well-told story with extraordinary visuals, characters you either already love or fall in love with immediately, and a wealth of creativity, passion, and wild imagination. It may not be all the greatness of Pixar, but I can't really count that as a fault. I'd say "Go see it," but judging by my box office view, you're probably already here.

Thank you all for reading. I'm the Man Without a Plan, signing off. 

"The Conjuring 2" Review

In The Conjuring 2, a pair of paranormal investigators - Ed and Lorraine Warren (Patrick Wilson & Vera Farmiga) - are called to help a family terrorized by an entity that has latched on to their daughter. In the "White family in a haunted house" subgenre, this is a tried and true (and worn-out) plot. So what room is there left to innovate?

The Conjuring 2 says it's in craftsmanship. Director James Wan helms a good old-fashioned scarefest, with a penchant for mischief and toying with its audience.

Instead of a '70s farmhouse in the bayou, we're given a '70s English townhouse where the Hodgson family - mother Peggy (Frances O'Connor), oldest daughter Margaret (Lauren Esposito), younger daughter Janet (Madison Wolfe), older son Johnny (Patrick McAuley), and youngest son Billy (Benjamin Haigh) - resides.

To the tune of The Clash's "London Calling," we see England in tumultuous spirits: liberty-spiked punks walk the street; a newspaper headline warns of England's bread shortage; government protest rage on. Turmoil carries to the Hodgsons: dad is gone, and on Peggy's income, it's tough to feed a family of five.

Negative energy, Ed says, facilitates paranormal activity.

"They like to kick you when you're down," he says.

Janet starts seeing and hearing things go bump in the night, and not before long, the episodes escalate to more physical manifestations. One of the film's funnier scenes sees the police investigating disturbances in the house when a chair, before their very eyes, slides down the hallway and into its rightful place at the dinner table. Needless to say, this is beyond law enforcement. 

While Janet is plagued, Lorraine continues to struggle with the consequences of talking with spirits. It's her character, and Farmiga's earnest, understated performance, that really distinguishes the Conjuring franchise from other horror movies.

She's afflicted by visions of a nun-faced demon and premonitions of her husband's death. Could these visions be connected to London? Have you seen a haunting movie before?

James Wan is the perfect marriage of William Castle and John Carpenter.

The former put the "show" in spookshow. In screenings of House on Haunted Hill, Castle would plant a skeleton on the ceiling. When it was time, he would cut a cord and the skeleton would swing into the crow, barely missing the audience's heads.

Of the latter, Guillermo Del Toro praised Carpenter's ability to direct scares with mathematical precision, knowing just the right time and manner to catch the audience off-guard and maximize the jump out of their seats.

When these two forces meet, you get a prankster who's skilled enough to truly get you. Wan will direct a scare you've seen in other movies, but subvert it enough to become new. We'll call this Scare A. In Scare B, the scene will guide you to think it's Scare A, but then shift and get you in another manner. And the same is true for all of them, but the great thing is that with each scare, the moments in Scare Z that remind you of Scares, A, E, and L are convincing red herrings.

Where other horror films rely on muted blacks, grays, and blues, this movie's '70s setting allows for vibrant uses of yellows, oranges, and reds. Where other films use violins to jolt and sting, Joseph Bishara's angular score lets the mood sink into your bones, twisting the metaphorical knife in your gut as you anticipate the scares.

From day one, The Conjuring found its strength where all good horror movies find them: their characters. In recent years, Hollywood has interpreted from the "torture porn" boom that audiences only care about the spectacle. The Human Centipede lauded its "medical accuracy"; the Paranormal Activity series, with each installment, grasped for gaudier gimmicks to get teens to hop out of their seats; The Gallows made its camera-wielding protagonist utterly loathsome so we'd anticipate a swift death.

Here's the problem. Watching these movies are like wading through a dungpile for a diamond ring. Eventually, I'm gonna get there, but in the end, is it really worth it?

Carey and Chad Hayes, credited for the characters, understand that the more our heroes feel like us, the easier it is to immerse ourselves in their story. These people - the strong-willed, but tired Peggy, the cheeky, but good-hearted Janet, the Warrens, who complement and love each other so much it's damn palpable - are people that we, in some aspects, are. We care for them because in some way, we see reflections of ourselves. Therefore, when they're in danger, we're in danger, and the movie (listen close, Hollywood) becomes scarier as a result. You're going to get your jumps, your shrieks, and your relieved hyper-giggling. But the effort MUST come first.

And so, Wan and crew are proven right. It's been so long that I've seen a "3,000-plus theatres" horror movie where the audience felt genuinely happy to be there, happy to share in the spooks and laughter, immerse themselves in the creepiness and the struggle of the characters. With The Conjuring 2, James Wan has made mainstream horror fun again. So go out and support this in the theaters, 'cause money talks, and if you want more smart, inventive, exciting, and downright fun scary movies, you gotta put your wallet on the line.

Thank you all for reading. I'm the Man Without a Plan, signing off.

"Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles 2: Out of the Shadows" Review

What a time to be alive - we not only have pizza-eating turtles and warthogs with purple Mohawks, but strangest of all: I think movie producers might be listening to audiences.

In 2014, after Michael Bay's production company, Platinum Dunes, gave us a shallow misfire of a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles adaptation, Paramount cleaned house. With a new director, the goal was set: don't anger the fans. I think it's a goal well met.

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: Out of the Shadows comes in the wake of Deadpool, another film that could be considered a studio's apology for the past. And while the critical and box office climate's not looking as favorable for the Turtles, this sequel, like Deadpool, breathes childish (in a good way) life into the franchise.

After the defeat of Shredder (Brian Tee), the Turtles - Leonardo (Pete Ploszek), Raphael (Alan Ritchson), Donatello (Jeremy Howard), and Michelangelo (Noel Fisher) - defend New York City in secrecy. Fighting crime, eating pizza, and watching basketball from Madison Square Garden's scoreboard is a pretty good gig, but the brothers long for acceptance, a day where they can live among the rest of the world. 

The peace ends when Shredder breaks out of jail with the help of Baxter Stockman (Tyler Perry), a scientist who teleports Shredder out of a police convoy. Shredder ends up in another dimension, where he meets the villainous Krang (Brad Garrett), a talking brain with a robot body. Krang enlists Shredder to help him build a beacon that will summon an interdimensional weapon of mass destruction. Shredder agrees, and with newly-mutated minions Bebop (Gary Anthony Williams), a warthog, and Rocksteady (pro wrestler Sheamus), a rhino, at his side, works to bring Krang into our dimension, so he and Krang can rule.

When reviewing the first film, I hoped the sequel would be a "playful action powerhouse," and it is. There are extended sequences that see the Turtles zooming through land, sea, and air at breakneck speed. Unlike the first film, the action is easy to make out, and I never got lost.

The movie operates on cartoon logic- if your suspension of disbelief snaps at the sight of a rhino/human hybrid operating a tank, a hockey-masked hero beating ninjas with expertly-fired hockey pucks, or Tyler Perry's felt-like mustache, you won't like this.

However, there's a sincerity to this production that makes me smile. Out of the Shadows embraces a lunacy that hearkens to Saturday mornings - it wouldn't be too far a stretch to imagine Calvin from Calvin & Hobbes watching this with a bowl of Chocolate-Frosted Sugar Bombs. Everyone is over-the-top, and to watch Brian Tee dress up in a cheese-grater-meets-samurai costume and scheme about "purple ooze" is the right kind of silly.

Missteps include Stephen Amell's Casey Jones, who's less Punisher and more Robin; and some of the subplots involving Leonardo could be easily avoided if he would get off his archetypal high horse, but I guess all teenagers, even mutant ninja turtles, can be stupid at times.

They've just got to be the right kind of stupid.

Thank you all for reading. I'm the Man Without a Plan, signing off.

"X-Men: Apocalypse" Review

In X-Men: Apocalypse, an ancient purple-tinted tyrant seeks to obtain legendary powers with which he'll destroy the world; it'll take the combined forces of every hero available to have any chance at stopping him. 

This is the same plot for a superhero movie to come, 2018's Avengers: Infinity War - Part 1, and serves to highlight the X-Men franchise's place in the genre. They're the first soldier over the hill, trying out different ideas and taking all the hits. X-Men took on an ever-evolving bevy of characters a decade before The Avengers. Marvel Studios watched their attempt, learns from the mistakes, and comes out richer, wiser, and better.

That's not to say Bryan Singer (Superman Returns, The Usual Suspects) and crew are bad storytellers - Apocalypse may give decent evidence to the contrary, but don't worry, this is a positive review - but flawed ones. This is ambition with no guidance, a joyfully stupid endeavor, a doom-not-gloom apocalypse.

Oscar Isaac plays the aforementioned purple tyrant, Apocalypse, who in ancient Egypt, transferred his consciousness into the strongest mutants, absorbing all their powers along the way. The warmonger was stopped and imprisoned underground, but when he awakens millenia later, threatening to cleanse the Earth by stripping it bare, the X-Men, led by Professor X (James McAvoy) are the ones to stop him.

The movie takes place in 1983, so we get younger reimaginings of the old guard, namely Jean Grey (Sophie Turner), Nightcrawler (Kodi Smith-McPhee), and Cyclops (Tye Sheridan). Teens in X-Men complain about being bullied and shunned for being different, and after six films, the dialogue gets familiar and heavy-handed. Jean Grey, after a foreshadowing nightmare, fumes to Professor X "You don't know what it's like to shut your eyes and be afraid of what might come out." I wonder what other mutant is afraid of their eyes and what flies out of them. Will they meet, start a romance, marry, have a time-travelling son played by Jon Hamm (hopefully) in Deadpool 2?

However, when the kids start fighting, they work well together, using their powers as an effective unit, a staple of the comic.

The older acts do well with what they're given. Isaac has the year's most deliciously hammy lives ("You will never...strike...GOD!"). Nicholas Hoult is kind-hearted and nerdy as Beast. James McAvoy and Michael Fassbender are perfect; they consistently rise above the script, yanking on heartstrings. Fassbender's Magneto is this trilogy's (First Class, Days of Future Past, Apocalypse) strongest character - pained, chilling, caught in an existential crisis. One advantage Fox has over Marvel: Magneto is a better villain than anyone in the MCU, and it's all Fassbender.

It's apparent Jennifer Lawrence is fatigued with her role as Mystique. She looks bored, even when delivering the rally-the-troops speech to take down Apocalypse. To have such a non-presence from one of Hollywood's most vibrant young actresses is a shame.

A large complaint from many people is what the movie does with Psylocke (Olivia Munn). The katana-wielding mutant is criminally underused, with barely any screen time or dialogue. The car-chop superhero landing from the trailer is her highlight. In Munn's profile with "American Way", she described taking Psylocke over the role of Vanessa, the girlfriend in Deadpool: "I thought Psylocke was always one of the most lethal characters, and I said, ‘Yes, as long as you’re not using her to be the eye candy. She has really powerful abilities.’ And they said, ‘Yes, that’s an important part.’ " 

Considering Deadpool's success, it's easy to give this comment an ironic twist, but further down the profile, Munn acknowledges the film is out of her control.

"'You can do the first-look cover on Entertainment Weekly,' she says, 'but if they’ve chopped up some stuff or taken out moments and the fight scene is reduced for whatever reason, then the moment is gone.'”

X-Men: Apocalypse bombards the screen with computer-generated destruction and a plethora of underused characters (Jubilee [Lana Condor], who can fire plasma from her fingertips, does so not once), but unlike the similarly over-stuffed Batman v Superman, I feel Singer and his crew approach the franchise with love and a sincere appreciation for these characters. There's a reckless abandon I can't get too mad at, but I think the ability to pause the movie and stretch is a necessary one.

Thank you all for reading. I'm the Man Without a Plan, signing off.