You need to be able to <em xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">read</em> to be able to read. Especially if Toni Morrison did the writing. I at least thought I knew what it was for my eyes to sail across and down a page, through a flight of description or a feat of characterization. At 11, I thought I could read. Then I read her. My mother told me I wasn’t ready. Not for Toni. My Aunt Katie caught my little-boy eye on her brand-new, great big copy of “Beloved” and told me: <em xmlns="http://w...
If the average cultural experience demands the suspension of disbelief, if we ought not think too much about this movie we’re watching, this novel we’re reading, this magic trick being performed right before our eyes, if being entertained means setting aside skepticism, logic and possibly a sense of morality, then what a magic trick we had in Michael Jackson.
“To Dust” runs an hour and a half, and that feels right for a buddy movie whose comedy is as stubborn as this one’s. But the movie is also trying — daring — to seriously consider grief, and that movie could have gone on for much longer. You can feel the script, by Jason Begue and Shawn Snyder, straining to tickle an audience. So it has a bereft widowed Hasidic cantor named Shmuel (Geza Rohrig) team up with Albert, a dumpy, mildly grizzled community college biology professor — and complete str...
I’m no actor, but I’d like to think if a script ever came my way with lines like, “Wouldn’t it be funny if nobody knows anything?” and “Just how many years have I been here, Jack?” and “How dare Old Joe feed my cat,” I’d know that the movie would probably open in the middle of January when the studios leave their garbage on the curb. But I’m just me, so it’s possible that Matthew McConaughey was sent the pages for “Serenity” and saw something more fit for April or May, when the movies don’t n...
“Driving Miss Daisy” is the sort of movie you know before you see it. The whole thing is right there in the poster. White Jessica Tandy is giving black Morgan Freeman a stern look, and he looks amused by her sternness. They’re framed in a rearview mirror, which occupies only about 20 percent of the space. You can make out his chauffeur’s cap and that she’s in the back seat. The rest is three actors’ names, a tag line, a title, tiny credits and white space.
Nobody’s going to “Aquaman” for the metaphors. And to be fair, nobody put metaphors <em xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">in </em>“Aquaman.” Yet when a set of plastic six-pack rings drifts past the camera, you do wonder whether it’s a nod to pollution or a wink at Jason Momoa’s fitness.
“Second Act” is a workplace comedy with Jennifer Lopez as Maya, a brand-new 40-year-old who gets passed over for a promotion at the Queens superstore she manages. The white guy (Dan Bucatinsky) who gets the job is a stooge with a Duke MBA. She has a GED. Fortunately, her best work friend (Leah Remini) has a whiz-kid son who sends out a doctored résumé and cooks up a phony Facebook page that turns her into the mountain-climbing go-getter she swore she’d never be. But the bogusness wins her a c...
Nobody’s going to “Aquaman” for the metaphors. And to be fair, nobody put metaphors <em xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">in </em>“Aquaman.” Yet when a set of plastic six-pack rings drifts past the camera, you do wonder whether it’s a nod to pollution or a wink at Jason Momoa’s fitness.
Nobody’s going to “Aquaman” for the metaphors. And to be fair, nobody put metaphors <em xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">in </em>“Aquaman.” Yet when a set of plastic six-pack rings drifts past the camera, you do wonder whether it’s a nod to pollution or a wink at Jason Momoa’s fitness.
Sometimes flag mania tugged at your heart. In the West Village, a Rockette kick away from the Stonewall Inn, a plain-old pedestrian crosswalk was painted red, orange, yellow, green, blue and purple — not by activists but by the Department of Transportation!
How many more NBA drafts will the cable networks be able to put on? This is a moral quandary over equitable employment practices, mental health and, frankly, racial optics. It’s not a fashion question. As fashion, the answer is probably “forever!” The broadcasts have added a procession that gives some pomp to the circumstance.
(Critic's Pick): Dutch documentary director Heddy Honigmann is a humanist. She listens to the ignored, sympathizes with the lonely and can ask questions so leading that when her subjects give her a skeptical look before trying to answer, she has to laugh, almost out of embarrassment.
The movie is more interested in what feels real than what seems right. What was real, when the movie opened in Britain in November 1980, was the poverty and racism its characters dealt with.
How could an artist this smart, this prescient, this frank, transparent, curious, ruminative and courageous — this <em>funny —</em> escape your notice?
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