In the Hand of Dante, 2025.

Directed by Julian Schnabel.
Starring Oscar Isaac, Gal Gadot, Gerard Butler, John Malkovich, Louis Cancelmi, Sabrina Impacciatore, Benjamin Clementine, Martin Scorsese, Al Pacino, Franco Nero, Jason Momoa.

SYNOPSIS:

A handwritten manuscript of Dante Alighieri’s poem “The Divine Comedy” makes its way from a priest to a mob boss in New York City, where it is taken by Nick Tosches after he’s asked to verify its authenticity.

Outrageously ambitious with an absurd narrative that veers between slick scuzzy fun and philosophically snoozy, the key issue with co-writer/director Julian Schnabel’s excessively long In the Hand of Dante is that it’s more engaging as a dopey early 2000s crime thriller about mobsters employing the services of novelist Nick Tosches (also the writer of the novel the film is based on, inserting himself into it as a fictional character, here played by Oscar Isaac in the adaptation by Schnabel and Louise Kugelberg) and Dante Alighieri specialist to steal the recently unearthed original manuscript of his 14th-century masterwork The Divine Comedy from Italian priests than it does as its other side to that coin, a flashback story about the creation of that story complete with actors portraying secondary characters to eventually get at some points about reincarnation.

This means that the film mostly begins with Oscar Isaac entangled in a web of crime alongside slur-slinging, trigger-finger-happy Louie (in what might be the best performance of Gerard Butler’s career, despite the steep drop in quality in the second half), John Malkovich as a mob boss seeing nothing but dollar signs if they can get a hold of the original manuscript, authenticate it, and sell it on the black market, and even Al Pacino popping up for a scene and stealing it set during Nick’s childhood following a violent incident that is so bonkers readers might not believe it even if I typed it out here, to something close enough to a mess culminating in a confrontation between the excellent Oscar Isaac and the shudderingly bad Gal Gadot and Jason Momoa in important roles, the former a lover placed in danger to the mob by her proximity to Nick, and the latter a greedy killer in a relationship with literary historian Dr. Susanna Pulice (Sabrina Impacciatore).

Martin Scorsese also appears in the 14th-century section (for someone who loves to assert what real cinema is vs cinematic theme park rides, he has now appeared in 3 mediocre-to-terrible movies this year), offering sage-like advice to Dante (also Oscar Isaac) in a hilariously over-the-top beard piece. Much of this is a mental journey, but also has something to do with Pope Boniface VIII (also Gerard Butler) placing the Mark of Cain on Dante following a falling out, the writer’s inability to find inspiration in his current lover Gemma Donati (also Gal Gadot) compared to his first love Beatrice, executed in stark contrast from the much more accessible and palatable modern day crime story. A blunter way to put it is that any time the film shifts to these flashbacks, it’s quite boring and never finds a sense of rhythm, drive, or purpose.

Unquestionably, some of this is by design and baked into other elements of the presentation, which includes flashbacks only receiving color as a means of implying that they were more enriching days for artistic freedom and integrity, compared to the black-and-white 2000s material that further homes in on greed and only financial gain for a manuscript no one even knows how to price if it turns out to be authenticated. Expanding on that thought, there are certainly no qualms to be had with the striking cinematography from Roman Vasyanov.

The other encroaching thought here is that, for as carefully considered as the film looks and as captivating as about half the performances are (we truly do not need to talk anymore about Gal Gadot and Jason Momoa, neither of whom can deliver convincing accents without eliciting laughs), it’s not going anywhere interesting, especially once the mobsters exit the narrative. Technically, they are replaced by a hitman, although a lengthy amount of time is spent watching Nick fly around the world for different aspects of the identification process, sometimes involving technology that even he doesn’t understand and tunes out of. In the novel, there appears to be a greater emphasis on Nick’s inner thoughts about the current state of the art world and on finding flaws in classic works or restrictive prose, which is alluded to here but not interrogated enough to emerge as a compelling element. It’s enough to make one wonder what else was lost in translation from the book.

The filmmakers seem to think the romantic subplot will sustain intrigue for the second half, but it’s devoid of emotion and comes across as aimless in the 14th-century portion. At a certain point, one simply longs for a more focused movie about mobsters stealing recently discovered historic manuscripts for profit; it’s far more fun and amusing than the rest of the sluggish, artfully tedious In the Hand of Dante. No one here seems to realize that this should be a comedic crime caper, and it works that way until it takes itself far too seriously, with flashbacks that bore rather than provide insight or meaningful context.

Flickering Myth Rating – Film: ★ ★ / Movie: ★ ★ ★

Robert Kojder

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=embed/playlist

Before her death in 1993, Mabel McKay — one of the last living dreamers of the Pomo Indian people — shared a prophecy while driving through the Sonoma hills. One day, this paradise would burn.

“Everything is going to go dry. Everything will burn. That’s my latest vision,” she said, gesturing to the idyllic landscape.

Startled, writer Greg Sarris asked what could be done to stop it.

“You live the best way you know how,” McKay replied.

Since her passing, Sonoma County experienced the most destructive wildfires in California history in 2017, only for another, more destructive fire to surpass it a year later. “She always used to say, ‘Whether you believe it or not, it’s true,’” Sarris recalls.

McKay and her visions are the inspiration behind Sarris’ latest work. His first novel in 28 years, “The Last Human Bear,” is loosely based on the spiritual leader McKay, whose wisdom and companionship served as a refuge to Sarris during a tumultuous childhood in Sonoma County.

A reluctant casino mogul

On a Monday morning in California, Sarris sits in his sleek office at the Federated Indians of Graton Rancheria in Rohnert Park. Sarris, 74, has served as chairman of the Federated Indians of Graton Rancheria for more than 30 years. In his office, diplomas and academic certificates crowd the walls. A framed poster for the 2023 film “Joan Baez: I Am a Noise” hangs nearby — she’s a close friend. Behind him, an American flag ripples in the distance outside the window, blurred by the summer heat.

Just up the road sits a multibillion-dollar tribe-owned casino, Graton Resort & Casino — a project the writer oversees. “I had never been in a casino. I have a PhD in modern thought and literature from Stanford,” says Sarris.

How does an accomplished author find himself at the helm of a multibillion-dollar casino enterprise? It’s a question that still puzzles Sarris. “I told them if we can raise our people and become a platform for social justice and environmental stewardship to benefit Indian and non-Indian alike, I’ll do it.”

Before his stint as a reluctant casino mogul, Sarris was a prolific author and university professor at UCLA and Sonoma State. In 2023, he was appointed a regent of the University of California by Gavin Newsom. Over the course of his career, he published six books, and his novel “Grand Avenue” became an HBO original film in 1996.

California’s Native history: revisited

From early in his career, Sarris wanted to depict Indians as he knew them, rather than as Hollywood depicted them. “We’ve been erased by Hollywood, because the idea of Indians has always been Plains Indians or Southwest,” Sarris explains. “It’s easier for Americans to access Buffalo Bill.”

“California Indians have always been left out of the picture,” says Sarris.

“The Last Human Bear” is Sarris’ latest attempt to revive the legacy of California’s Native history. The novel follows Mary Hatcher, a Pomo Indian in Sonoma County, from Prohibition through the 21st century. It’s told in the first person through Hatcher’s compelling voice as she narrates the horror and heartbreak of her lifetime over the course of a century, echoing William Faulkner’s literary style, which influenced Sarris.

“I’m curious why you want to know about me,” reads the first line. The novel unfolds like an oral storytelling tradition, driven by a voice that Sarris painstakingly crafted, evoking his conversation with McKay. “The voice comes. I have to call it, almost like a spirit,” says Sarris. “I wanted it to feel like an oral story.”

Hatcher — a Pomo shape-shifter who dodges prejudice by passing as Mexican in the novel — is a thorny protagonist, often cunning, scheming and unforgiving. “An American Indian woman is as richly complicated as anybody else. I wanted to show this rich and complicated character who’s negotiated a history that she’s showing you,” says Sarris.

Acclaimed Northern California writer and activist Rebecca Solnit, who has authored 17 books and is a friend of Sarris’, says that she was fascinated by his ability to evoke so many aspects of female life in “The Last Human Bear.” Solnit was especially moved by Sarris’ rendering of California’s tragic history. “It’s shocking, given how rich California’s Indigenous cultures were — 99 different language groups, mythologies, belief systems and linguistic traditions. Every North American Indigenous language family is represented in California. It’s weird how this history has been erased, and how horrific what happened was.”

Climate change and ongoing ecological disasters have made Indigenous perspectives more vital than ever, the author argues. “I think Indigenous people have been hugely influential in giving us a point of view in which we were never separate from nature,” she says. According to Solnit, Sarris’ novels are part of a broader resurgence of interest in Native culture.

In the early chapters of the “The Last Human Bear,” the protagonist gets a job on a ranch by posing as Mexican, since Indians were forbidden from working as housekeepers. What follows is a tale of tension, deception and a forbidden love that sours, reminiscent of Brontë novels.

Sarris hopes that the novel illuminates an uncomfortable history of Sonoma County that remains largely invisible, looming beneath the soil of wine country. The novel offers “a history of this county that a lot of people haven’t seen,” says Sarris.

“There were more Indian people right where we’re sitting per capita than anywhere else in the entire New World outside Mexico City, which was the Aztec capital,” says Sarris. “The genocide was so horrendous.”

Identity, revenge and a search for home are themes that arise throughout the novel — subjects Sarris knows well in his own life.

Greg Sarris feeds chickens at an organic farm across the street from Graton Resort & Casino, which he heads, in Rhonert Park.

(Josh Edelson / For The Times)

Uncovering a hidden Native heritage

In 1952, Sarris’ teenage mother gave him up for adoption, her family hoping to evade the embarrassment of their Jewish daughter becoming pregnant by a Native American Filipino man. Sarris grew up in a white family in Santa Rosa alongside three siblings. His adopted father, George Sarris, became abusive, causing Greg to flee the house with his adopted mother’s blessing. “God bless her. She let me go out and live on ranches and run with other people to get away from him.”

It was in these formative years that Greg became acquainted with Native American people in Santa Rosa, always feeling a mysterious pull toward them. It was these years that also shaped his sensibility as a writer. “I was a lost kid on the streets, so I was always paying attention to everyone, listening, and people would tell me stories.”

Native Americans lived on the fringe of town, often practicing healing ceremonies that were frowned upon by white Catholic families in the suburbs Sarris explains. “When I was 15, I met Mabel McKay, who I wrote the book about. I knew she did some of those strange things that I heard about, but I liked her,” he says. “I had no idea that I was related to these people. I thought I was a mixed-blood Mexican or Spanish.”

At age 30, Sarris uncovered the identities of his birth parents and learned of his Native heritage. He learned his birth mother was buried in a pauper’s grave at the Calvary Catholic Cemetery in Santa Rosa, with “nothing to mark her grave but an upside-down horseshoe that has her name in it.” In the opening pages of the novel, a dedication to her: Bunny Hartman.

Excitedly, Sarris presented proof of his Indian heritage to McKay, his trusted confidant. “I thought it was a big deal that I had Indian blood,” says Sarris. He showed McKay a photo of his father, which she met with indifference. Naturally, Sarris was disappointed. “She told me something later: ‘You’re never any more Indian than your experience.’”

A lifelong outsider

Questions surrounding the legitimacy of Sarris’ heritage haunted him for decades and ultimately informed the novel. Being adopted by a white family, only to be shunned by the Native community, perpetuated his lifelong feeling of being an outsider. “I keep thinking maybe I just got in with this group of people and my Indian relatives so that I would feel rejected again,” he says. “We gravitate towards what we know as home emotionally.”

“I didn’t grow up on a reservation. I’m fair-skinned,” he says. “Being adopted, it feeds into that feeling of not being good enough,” he says, adding: “Illegitimacy is a medicine in the end.”

In the Native American literary community, Sarris has often felt excluded from discourse. When in doubt, he reminds himself of his involvement with the tribe. “Who among them have done this much for their people?” he asks. “Who among them has given this much time and sacrificed a writing career for their people?”

Jane Fonda, the two-time Academy Award-winning actress and activist, struck up a friendship with Sarris through a shared cause. “We met during the campaign to secure health and safety setbacks that would finally prevent oil wells from being drilled within 3,200 feet of a community. Greg and the federated tribes helped us win that fight against Big Oil,” Fonda explained in an email.

“I can tell from his books and my time with him that he embodies indigenous wisdom and beliefs,” Fonda says. “I see Greg Sarris as a man who embodies the best of two worlds — the mercantile culture of Western civilization and the indigenous world that knows we are part of nature and interdependent with it. It’s a rare and valuable combination.”

Greg Sarris, who holds a PhD in literature from Stanford, inside the casino he works for to help fund his tribe’s future.

(Josh Edelson / For The Times)

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Inside the polarizing casino kingdom

The Graton Resort & Casino, launched by Sarris over 12 years ago, now plays a vital role in supporting the Pomo Indian community. “I promised early on: roof over everyone’s head, an insurance policy in every pocket and a college degree paid for,” he says. “We give $2.5 million a year in perpetuity to the University of California, so that all California Indians can go to the University of California tuition-free.” The casino has funded theater programs, youth writing intensives and revenue sharing with neighboring tribes.

On the car ride to the casino, Sarris is riffing on his friendship with Grateful Dead member Mickey Hart, who bought Sarris a quarter horse as a gift. In the casino, Sarris eagerly greets his employees with a friendliness that betrays his repeated insistence that he’s a reclusive writer. He points out blown-glass flower sculptures, an embellishment he once saw at the Four Seasons in Paris. He walks past the baccarat room, where he hosts high rollers from Beijing, whom he boasts, “play $100,000 in a hand.”

Early on, news of the casino’s construction caused waves of controversy across Sonoma County — some of which resulted in death threats against Sarris’ life. Concerns that a casino would invite debauchery into the county circulated, which Sarris points out is ironic for a community predicated on wine: “Beyond whether gambling is right or wrong, what is implicit is their privilege and elitism,” says Sarris. “People were getting scared because these brown people, who were the poorest in Sonoma County, are suddenly going to have power.”

Admittedly, Sarris says their newfound wealth has not been without repercussions in the tribe. “People who have been traumatized with generational poverty are the most vulnerable to the lure of materialism,” he says.

When time catches up

In the final chapters of “The Human Bear,” the protagonist, at the end of her life, recalls: “Human Bears often like to even the score before they die.” Revenge is futile, she concludes. “If I was going to avenge our people, I would have to poison nearabout all of history.”

Sarris recalls a similar epiphany he had speaking with McKay. He explains Pomo Indians believed that each action had a consequence. “Ethnographers always said we’re a culture predicated on black magic and fear. No, we were cultures predicated on profound respect for the complexity of all life,” says Sarris.

Then, white men came and seemingly bent the laws of natural order. “The Kashaya Pomo word for white people was ‘miracles’, because they came in and killed everything and did all these things. Nothing could come back to them,” says Sarris.

He explained to McKay that he thought of the white man’s fate differently. “Look, there’s no water. There’s no air. Everything’s poison,” he says, gesturing around him to this vast, broken world. “It’s all come back. It just took time.”

Connors is a culture journalist from Sonoma County. She covers books, food, entertainment and offbeat Los Angeles. She’s currently at work on a book of essays about tourism in all its forms.

Film Reviews

Soy Frankelda
Director: Arturo Ambriz, Roy Ambriz
Cinema Fantasma, Netflix
Streaming on Netflix: 06.12.2026

People have given their diatribes and waxed poetic about the dread of AI in creative fields. The ever-increasing push to implement it into our lives is disheartening to say the least, but even more so, it kills a piece of our soul by encouraging us to replace imagination and artistry with prompts.Why go through all the time and effort of bringing your vision to life when a program can do it in less than a fraction of a second? It disconnects us from the aspects that enrich our inner worlds. Still, people are fighting back by showcasing their creativity. Soy Frankelda is one such ode to human capability and imagination. 

The film takes place between our world in 1866 Montevideo, México, and the parallel dream world of Topus Terrenus, where fantastical creatures reside and feed upon our fears. Francisca Imelda, aka Frankelda (Mireya Mendoza), is an aspiring horror writer. Unbeknownst to her, her writing exists and affects Topus Terrenus. However, the parallel dimension is deteriorating due to a lack of fear in the human world. Enamoured by her writing, Prince Herneval (Arturo Mercado Jr.) invites Frankelda to his world in the hopes that she can become the new nightmare-teller and reinvigorate fear in humans through hert stories. This does not go well with the current nightmare-teller, Procustes (Luis Leonardo Suarez), who plots to overthrow the royal family and establish himself as the new ruler of Topus Terrenus by stealing Frankelda’s work and passing it off as his own. What ensues is a dazzling musical journey of stop -motion charm and spooks.

To be honest, I am very biased when it comes to talking about this movie. Animation, to me, has always been one of the most versatile and passion-driven mediums for storytelling, so of course I hold it in such high regard. However, Mexican animation has never truly taken the main stage. Sure, there are American-based animated projects that center Mexican narratives like Coco and The Book of Life, but it wouldn’t be a stretch to say that Mexico’s animation industry has been precariously held up by the Huevos franchise and the Leyendas series. While both these series have their merits (I love to rewatch many of the Leyenda movies around Halloween), neither captures a sense of grandeur or is as engaging as Soy Frankelda. Furthermore, I can’t help but feel a sense of pride in knowing that this is the very first stop -motion project produced entirely in Mexico. 

To say Soy Frankelda is a work of art would be an understatement. The character models are incredibly detailed and unique, and the settings which they inhabit are ornate and depict a grand sense of scale. The film also isn’t afraid to dip into mixed media. In moments where the characters’ emotions are heightened, other mediums like oil painting or charcoal are used. The film is also acutely aware of its limitations and finds creative workarounds. These little decisions give the film a sense of earnestness and not only bring liveliness to the world, but also tangibility. Guillermo Del Toro was the directors’ mentor during the production of this film and his fingerprints can be seen throughout. The level of craftsmanship is akin to the work he does with all his creature designs. Still, it’s obvious that the stop -motion in this film hasn’t reached the same level of smoothness as a Laika production, but the roughness and jerkiness of the movements remind you that human hands worked on it and there is a charm to that.  

The film’s worldbuilding is also noteworthy, blending fantastical and macabre elements to create a landscape that is equal parts whimsical and spooky. It feels like a true successor to the art style of The Nightmare Before Christmas, just with more color and a variety of textures. The lore is also presented intentionally and connects to the theme of fiction being as real as reality. It all hinges on the sentiment that our ideas have life and that as long as we keep creating, the world will continue to be filled with inspiration and therefore beget more creation. Soy Frankelda encourages the act of creating, the idea that we live to create and to create is to live. 

While I have a deep appreciation for this film, it is far from perfect. Namely, the narrative is lacking at some points, especially when it comes to the interpersonal conflict at the climax of the story hinged on a miscommunication. It’s disappointing, to say the least, that a story with this much thought and effort in the presentation of the film would falter when it comes to the script. This also bleeds into the film feeling rather melodramatic at some points. I liken it to watching an animated fantasy telenovela. Frankelda’s extreme emotional shifts are testament to that. Also, while the story does conclude, it still feels unfinished by the end. Obviously this is because Soy Frankelda is actually a prequel movie to Frankelda’s Book of Spooks, an animated anthology series that explores Frankelda’s stories. Nevertheless, the movie still leaves you wanting more. 

Soy Frankelda is a landmark film for Mexican animation. In a time when pillars of the industry are encouraging the use of generative AI, it is refreshing to see a film that so succinctly makes a case for human originality and celebrates the art of creating one’s own stories and worlds. —Angela Garcia

 Read more film reviews from Angela Garcia below:
Film Review: I Love Boosters
Film Review: You, Me & Tuscany

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