Review: "Beautiful Boy"

“Beautiful Boy” delivers everything I expected, and nothing I didn’t.

It’s a well-acted, well-intentioned drama about drug addiction and the horrid toll it takes on a family. The film is based on a true story, and interestingly the father and son each wrote memoirs about their journey that formed the basis of the screenplay by Luke Davies and Felix Van Groeningen, with the latter also directing.

This should be the sort of film that milks you for tears, yet I found it oddly emotionally remote. I observed the characters rather than getting caught up in their plight. Instead of pitying them or identifying with them, I regarded them as mere constructs in a tale that felt like it was navigating a predetermined path.

In many ways, the worst thing a movie can do is fail to surprise you.

Steve Carell plays David Sheff, and Timothée Chalamet is his teenage son, Nic. They have a strong, tender bond that’s survived divorce (Amy Ryan is the brittle ex-wife/mother) and remarriage to Karen (Maura Tierney). Their special thing is when parting to simply say “everything” to each other -- as in, I love you more than everything.

Like too many kids his age, Nic dabbles with pot and booze. David brushes it off; he did the same thing at that age. (And still dabbles, he admits.) But when he tries crystal meth, it’s like Nic’s whole soul is sucked into a hole. A quizzical, creative boy who loves to write and draw, part of the problem is that he feels more alive and vibrant when he’s on drugs.

In one pivotal scene, David goes through his son’s notebooks while he’s off on one of his multiple-day benders, and finds an entry where he says that his life felt like black-and-white until he tried meth, and then it became Technicolor.

David is a journalist who enjoys his secure, well-ordered life. Carell shows us how he deeply cares for and loves his son, but also how Nic’s addiction throws a wrench into the life he’s carefully rebuilt with Karen, which includes two adorable blonde moppets. Every conversation he has with his ex-wife about Nic’s welfare immediately turns into a shouting match, more about stirring up old resentments than protecting their kid.

(The movie has a decided “House Hunter” problem common in films today: the Sheffs live on an idyllic tree-lined estate on the outskirts of San Francisco, despite the fact he is a freelance writer and all Karen seems to do is paint pictures.)

The story goes through a predictable cycle of critical drug use, rehab and relapse, with Nic showing up in progressively worse and worse shape. Chalamet transforms from skinny to scrawny, his cheeks sunken and his ribs showing through T-shirts draped over his shriveled body.

I appreciated some of these sequences. In one, David waits in a favorite restaurant to be reunited with Nic, and wistfully recalls their conversations and good times there when his son was just a tyke. Then the devastated man-child shows up, twitchy and resentful, going through the motions of rekindling the relationship until he can demand money. The contrast is jarring.

But in the end, “Beautiful Boy” has a rote, TV-movie-of-the-week feel to it. Nothing ever happens that we didn’t anticipate. The film checks all the right boxes, but fails to absorb our hearts.

Reeling Backward: "Flynn" (1993)

Errol Flynn was one of Hollywood's most colorful personalities, a man whose off-camera life was at least as vivid as the one we saw dancing across the screen, usually with the dashing, mustachioed actor waving a rapier or a pistol.

His autobiography, "My Wicked, Wicked Ways," published shortly after his death, was a smash hit that has never been out of print in nearly 60 years. He and ghostwriter Earl Conrad put together the book over the course of a few months in Jamaica, during which it was rare that one or the other wasn't off somewhere drunk and/or chasing women.

It's a great read, especially the parts detailing Flynn's international adventures in the South Pacific before discovering acting, although at least half of what's written is probably baldfaced lies. If true, by his early 20s he had already had more adventures than Indiana Jones.

I suspect that Flynn, best known for his rapscallion swashbucklers, was simply playing up his faded Hollywood image rather than relating personal history.

Shortly after reading the book I became aware of the movie "Flynn," starring Guy Pearce as Flynn from about ages 17 to 23 and focusing on his pre-acting days. There have been any number of screen portrayals of Flynn, generally centering on his latter debauched days, including portrayals by Kevin Kline in "The Last of Robin Hood" and Peter O'Toole as a barely disguised spoof of Flynn in "My Favorite Year."

But this was a portrait of the actor, drawn from his own words, about his formative years stumbling about the globe. (There was a forgettable 1985 TV movie sharing the title of the autobiography.)

I knew I had to see it, but "Flynn" is not an easy film to track down on video. A friend finally loaned me his DVD copy, which seems to be the version of the movie that played on Australian TV.

(Broadcast standards being different just about everywhere else than the U.S., my first impression was admiration that they managed to squeeze in two bare-breasted sex scenes within the first five minutes.)

I'm still smiling at the friend's response to my question if the movie was any good. "By no means," he messaged. I can't disagree, though it's not nearly the rolling catastrophe most people regard it as. Pearce himself has called it the worst film he ever made, and professed not to know what its final title is.

The progeny of the movie is nearly as contorted as Flynn's rambling words about his young life. It was shot in 1989 with Brian Kavanagh directing from a script by Frank Howson and Alister Webb. It was shown at the 1990 Cannes festival and bought by distribution company with the proviso that some scenes be reshot. Howson stepped in his director, several key actors were replaced with others, and they ended up reshooting about half the footage.

It played against at Cannes in 1993, this time under the title "My Forgotten Man," perhaps to fool the festival programmers into the playing the same movie a second time. It was set to get a theatrical release, but was pulled seven days before it hit screens over a copyright dispute. It was eventually released on video around 1996, and has been sold to various international markets, usually under the title "Flynn."

Pearce, who was in his early 20s when they initially shot the movie, bears little resemblance to Flynn other than an astonishing handsomeness. We can see how women, and not a few men, were dazzled by him. His attempt to grown the signature Flynn pencil mustache goes a short way in furthering the likeness.

Though not a strict adaptation of the autobiography, it follows the generally accepted biographical lines. Son of a famous biologist, kicked out of a fancy predatory school for sleeping with the laundress, he knocked around as a mercantile clerk before being fired for stealing. Flynn has a stint of homelessness before falling in with Penelope (Rebecca Rig), daughter of a rich businessman.

Eschewing the opportunity to wed into money and obtain a lucrative job from his father-in-law, Flynn departs for New Guinea to pursue the tales of massive gold finds. There he becomes embroiled in a running escapade of drinking, panning rivers for nuggets, being robbed and being the robber, bedding a native chieftain's daughter, battling malaria and being accused and convicted of murder.

John Savage plays Joe Stromberg, an American photographer who takes some early footage of Flynn parading through the jungle that gets sent off to Hollywood. Though we never hear anything more about it. Flynn actually gets his big break by doing a little do-si-do with another, getting him drunk and taking his place on a production of "Mutiny on the Bounty."

Steven Berkoff is a memorable presence as the conniving, bespectacled German Klaus Reicher, who befriends Flynn while grifting from him freely. They save each other's necks and then double-cross one another, repeatedly. He is purported to be a spy, but claims he's a wanted man on the run from the police.

The production values on "Flynn" aren't that bad, though the movie looks like it was edited with a Cuisinart. Scenes go on and on, such as men racing through the jungle, and then other parts will abruptly jump to somewhere else. In one confusing bit, Flynn shoots one of the natives trying to kill him, runs to the edge of a river, stand there looking at the water, and then suddenly wakes up in a hospital, recovering from malaria and with a murder charge hover over his head.

Even though it's not a very good movie, I'm glad I finally caught up with "Flynn." Pearce is a breezy, assured presence playing a man who knows for certain he's destined for greatness, but has no idea how to get there.

It was often said that Errol Flynn was a man who got by on confidence, looks and a little bit of talent. But people often forget that the first two make up a great deal of the latter in showbiz.

Video review: "Sorry to Bother You"

I wouldn’t be shocked if you missed “Sorry to Bother You” in theaters. It’s a tiny picture, although it made a decent media splash at the time of its release. Its star, Lakeith Stanfield, is one of the best young actors working in film today, so it had already been on my radar.

It’s hard to describe this film from first-time director Boots Riley -- it’s science fiction, cautionary tale, social satire, racial parable and raucous comedy all rolled into one.

In a dystopian not-so-distant future, Cassius Green (Stanfield) lands a job as a telemarketer for a huge multinational corporation. He’s not very good at it until a fellow black employee (Danny Glover) clues him to use his “white voice” when on the phone. Cassius does -- with the voice dubbed in by David Cross -- and immediately realizes incredible success.

Before long he finds himself the right-hand man of CEO/villain Steve Lift (Armie Hammer), moving into a posh downtown condo and driving some cool wheels. His girlfriend, Detroit (Tessa Thompson), worries about him selling out to the man.

Things get stranger with the revelation of some crazy half-human, half-horse creatures that the company is secretly developing as cheap labor. But I’ll leave that as a surprise.

By turns hilarious, angry, prescient and irritating, “Sorry to Bother You” is one of the most unique cinematic experiences you’ll have this year. I can’t guarantee you’ll love it, but there’s nothing else like it to compare.

Video extras are pretty expansive. They include a feature length commentary track by Riley, who also hosts a “Beautiful Clutter” featurette. There’s a gallery of photos from production, and two making-of documentary shorts: “The Art of the White Voice” and “The Cast of Sorry to Bother You.”

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Review: "Halloween"

“Halloween” is a decently energetic horror flickershow. But it doesn’t pass the basic litmus test of, “Does this movie need to exist?”

As you know, this film reunites Jamie Lee Curtis, in her most seminal role as Laurie Strode, with Michael Myers, with white-masked, silent killer who tried unsuccessfully to off her in the original movie of the same title from 40 years ago. It’s essentially a reunion.

But then, they already held this party in 1998 for “Halloween H20: Twenty Years Later.” She managed to whack off Michael’s head with an axe in that one, Lizzie Borden-style. Undeterred, he reappeared a few years later for “Halloween: Resurrection,” and returned the favor by killing Laurie.

And this doesn’t even take into account the Rob Zombie reboot and its own sequel a few years back, or the various Laurie-less sequels of the 1980s and ‘90s. “Halloween III” didn’t even bother with featuring Michael or Laurie, making television the villain, or something.

The point is, it’s impossible to take this franchise seriously any longer. It’s been rebooted and remade and retconned to hell and back again. There is no sense of consequences because anybody who dies can just be brought back for the next iteration by the next round of filmmakers. Rinse and repeat.

This 40th anniversary reunion is part homage to the original and part new story jag. It requires us to ignore all the previous Halloween movies since the second one. It even asks us to forget that Laurie and Michael are supposed to be brother and sister -- a key piece of the franchise’s iconography for five decades.

In this telling, Michael Myers has been rotting in a mental institution for the past 40 years, never speaking a word to anyone. Meanwhile, Laurie seems to have done little in the years between other than arming herself and preparing for the eventual day he would come after her again.

There’s another creepy, vaguely European doctor trying to puzzle his way into Michael’s brain, Dr. Sartain (Haluk Bilginer). Laurie takes on look at him and cuts to the chase: “You’re the new Loomis,” she says, referring to Donald Pleasance’s psychiatrist, whose obsession turned from curing Michael to ending him. I think Pleasance has actually been in more Halloween movies than Curtis.

Judy Greer plays Laurie’s estranged adult daughter, who was raised under the threat of Michael’s return, and has her own teen daughter, Allyson (Andi Matichak). She goes off to a Halloween party with her friends, and soon finds herself stalked by her grandmother’s not-brother.

Will Patton turns up as Frank Hawkins, a veteran cop in the fictional town of Haddonfield, who reputedly was the first one on the scene for the 1978 murders. He putters around here and there, discovering the bodies Michael leaves in his wake, killing time until his own inevitable offing.

Nowhere in the movie is it ever mentioned that Michael would have to be close to 70 years old now. You’d think at some point even maniacal serial killers would segue from slicing horny teenagers to Metamucil and a nice day in the park.

Directed by David Gordon Green, who comes from a comedy background and co-wrote the screenplay with funnyman Danny McBride and Jeff Fradley, “Halloween” contains a smattering of funny moments, such as two police officers comparing their lunches while sitting in their patrol car waiting to be stabbed.

How very different the horror genre has gotten in the last 40 years. I don’t think the original “Halloween” would’ve become anything like the iconic film it is with this sort of verbal diarrhea and passing attempts at levity.

John Carpenter knew that when you’re trying to scare people, concentrate on the scaring.

Review: "Free Solo"

“I just need it to end.”
        --Alex Honnold

The basic problem with the movie is that it wouldn’t exist if he had died.

“Free Solo” is a documentary from National Geographic about Alex Honnold, the first person to climb the El Capitan mountain in Yosemite National Park without ropes or other equipment. In the cloistered world of mountain climbing, this was considered a watershed achievement on the order of summiting Mt. Everest.

To the indifferent observer, it seems very much like a self-centered man risking his life for no good reason at all.

The very best documentary films do more than just show you things. They take you away from your own life and perspective, forcing you to discover people who are very different from you in how they think and what they do. By the end, you find yourself, if not embracing the difference, at least understanding and accepting it.

“Free Solo” is not that kind of movie. I went into it believing that mountain climbing is an utterly useless endeavor undertaken by thrill-seeking people who don’t have much else going on in their lives to recommend. I finished it thinking exactly the same thing.

Perhaps that’s my failing, but I think it’s the movie’s.

Honnold isn’t a particular likable, or even compelling, subject for a feature-length film. A rangy man-child in his 30s with large eyes and monkey-like feet and hands, he lives in a van and tools around from mountain to mountain, practicing for his historic ascent. He eats his meals out of the same frying pan he cooked in, using the spatula as an outsized spoon. His only acquaintances are other climbers with whom he trades notes.

At some point during filmmaking he acquires a girlfriend, a vibrant woman named Sanni McCandless with the patience of Job, who follows him around for a time. He suffers a pair of injuries while doing some light climbing with her, and blames her for setting back his plans.

“I will always choose climbing over a lady,” he tells the camera. I have no doubts. He’s become fairly rich and famous, appearing on the cover of numerous magazines, but has eschewed purchasing a home. It’s the same emotionally: Honnold is a renter, not a buyer.

There’s a lot of beautiful photographer in “Free Solo,” as directors Elizabeth Chai Vasarhelyi and Jimmy Chin and their crew of danger-defying cameramen (they’re all men) climb the mountain to capture Honnold’s attempt. But as I say, there really isn’t much suspense involved. The crew frets constantly about having Honnold fall to his death while they’re shooting him, but we know this won’t happen.

It’s the biggest false tease imaginable: “Watch this movie to see if he dies!” (Stage whisper: he’s fine.)

Honnold and his ilk like to portray themselves as the inheritors of the mantle of Sir Edmund Hillary and Magellan: fearless folks pushing the limits of their humanity in order to be the the first.

There’s a big difference between exploration and recreation, though. One is undertaken to expand mankind’s knowledge, and the other to enhance a person’s reputation.

Alex Honnold climbing El Cap without any ropes -- spoiler alert! -- successfully adds nothing of value to the universe. “Free Solo” chronicles a meaningless march up a mountain, without managing to illuminate why he, or anyone, would do so.

Review: "The Sisters Brothers"

You might be tempted at first to think "The Sisters Brothers" is a Western comedy. It stars John C. Reilly and Joaquin Phoenix as a pair of gunslinger siblings operating out of the Pacific Northwest circa 1851. One's a drunk, the other's a wet rag, and the trailer makes it look like they get into all sorts of hijinks while frequently tussling verbally and occasionally physically.

But this is a serious-as-salt production from French director Jacques Audiard, who has made some excellent pictures including "Rust and Bone" and the little-seen but marvelous "Dheepan." He adapted the screenplay along with Thomas Bidegain from Patrick deWitt's novel of the same name.

It's part anti-Western, part existentialist rumination on manhood, along with a decent amount of shoot-em-up thrown in. The movie feels like a bunch of eclectic pieces that work well together, for awhile.

Charlie Sisters (Phoenix) is the hard-bitten one of the pair, a born killer who has no thoughts beyond earning his next bounty and spending it on drink and whores. Eli (Reilly) is the older, wiser one. He's not soft; he doesn't hesitate to put a bullet in a man's head when he's down. But he does these things because it is Charlie's way, and so it must be his as well.

He is his brother's keeper, which he regards as both duty and prison.

They work for a man called the Commodore (Rutger Hauer, only glimpsed) who sends them off on various assassination missions. They all involve revenge for stealing something from the Commodore. Eli ponders aloud why the Commodore is robbed so frequently. Charlie doesn't really care.

Their latest job involves Hermann Warm (Riz Ahmed), a chemist who has come up with a formula that he thinks will make it easier to pan gold from the water in California. Jake Gyllenhall plays John Morris, a detective assigned to locate Warm and track him until the Sisters Brothers can arrive.

Morris is a curious figure. He doesn't seem prone to violence, has the refined manners of a rich man's son and mostly watches his quarry from a distance while writing his thoughts into a journal he's keeping. Unlike the Sisters, we get the sense manhunting is simply a phase he's passing through on the way to other adventures.

I won't give the plot away, other than the first two-thirds of the story involves following these two men in their parallel journeys, one pair tracking the other on their way down the coast to San Francisco.

Phoenix has been giving one terrific, offbeat performance after another lately, but here he plays a more or less straight character, a prototypical Western anti-hero. He's very deliberate about not thinking too hard about anything. Eli, on the other hand, is a cauldron of swirling thoughts and regrets. He carries a red shawl from a lady friend like a totem, a reminder of their fading youth and foul choices.

It's probably one of Reilly's best performances. Unfortunately, the movie loses steam during its last half-hour or so. The story reaches a natural end point, and then it keeps wandering away on the prairie, like a cowpoke with nowhere to go and in no hurry to get there.

Video review: "Ant-Man and the Wasp"

Some think the introduction of wholesale comedy into the superhero genre was a poor match with the generally dark tone of these films. But I welcome movies like “Ant-Man and the Wasp,” which aims for funny first, exciting second and perilous a far distant third.

After the shock-and-awe of “Avengers: Infinity War” and other flicks, we needed a dose of funny as antidote.

You may recall that Scott Lang (Paul Rudd) was a charming but loveable loser of a thief who suddenly found himself a super-hero after stumbling across the suit built by scientist Hank Pym (Michael Douglas). It allows him to shrink down to insect size, though gaining strength in the process, as well as command the bugs that bear his name.

His brief stint with the Avengers landed him on the wrong side of the law, and as the sequel opens he’s spent two years under house arrest. He’s determined to go the straight and narrow path for the sake of his daughter. But that all comes tumbling down when Hank and his daughter, Hope (Evangeline Lilly), come calling to recruit his help.

Hank and Hope are searching for their long-lost wife and mother, respectively, who was cast into the quantum zone 30 years ago while committing some derring-do. Essentially, she got shrunk down so small that she’s stuck in another dimension -- and they want Scott to go after her.

Hope has her own suit, which also boasts wings and several other add-ons, and goes by the moniker of the Wasp. Soon they’re a duo.

Spoiling the mix is the Ghost (Hannah John-Kamen), a young woman with the ability to phase in and out of solidity. Her aims clash with Hank’s crew, and she’s also being helped by an old science rival of his, Bill Foster (Laurence Fishburne).

Walter Goggins shows up as a villainous technology dealer whose role is to turn up whenever the plot slows down to kick off some more thrown-downs.

Rudd is his usual twinkly self. There’s something about the innate amiableness of the actor that just makes you want to smile. God help us he never wants to go down the “I’m a serious artist” path and start cranking out doom-and-gloom Oscar bait movies.

“Ant-Man and the Wasp” is just what it looks like: a purely entertaining film that won’t ever bring you down.

Bonus features are decent. There are gag reels and outtakes, deleted scenes with commentary by director Peyton Reed, who also offers an introduction. Plus there are four making-of featurettes: “Back in the Ant Suit: Scott Lang,” “A Suit of Her Own: The Wasp,” “Subatomic Super Heroes: Hank & Janet” and “Quantum Perspective: The VFX and Production Design of ‘Ant-Man and the Wasp.’”

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