Movie Reviews
Joker 2 Is So Bad It’s Almost Laughable
In 2019, a year now separated from us by enough catastrophic global events to feel like a remote archaeological era, the movie Joker, like it or not (I certainly didn’t), was a big deal. It won the Golden Lion at the Venice Film Festival and later garnered a leading 11 Oscar nominations, including Best Picture, with star Joaquin Phoenix eventually winning Best Actor for his performance as a mentally ill would-be stand-up comic turned murderous clown. The movie also became the subject of heated discussion and not a little hand-wringing. Would its portrait of the comic-book villain as the lonely, misunderstood victim of mistreatment by a vaguely defined “society” inspire copycat acts of mayhem? Joker may have teetered uneasily in the balance between critiquing incel violence and being a commercial for it, but thankfully its many admirers kept their enthusiasm contained to the box office, where the film raked in over a billion dollars worldwide, shattering the all-time record for an R-rated movie.
Five years later, Joker’s director and co-writer Todd Phillips has returned with a sequel that swerves in an unseen—and on paper, intriguing—new direction: Our miserable antihero has become, of all things, the singing, dancing protagonist in his own private musical. A lot of things could be said about Phillips’ execution of that idea, most of them deservedly negative. By any reasonable measure this is a terrible movie, too long and too self-serious and way too dramatically inert, a regrettable waste of its lead actors’ boundless commitment to even their most thinly written roles. But no one could accuse Joker: Folie à Deux of being a mere cash grab, lazily recycling its predecessor’s mood, themes, or plot structure.
There’s an admirable boldness to Phillips’ decision to cast a pop supernova like Lady Gaga opposite the darkly charismatic Phoenix, then ask them both to sing, live-to-film, a jukebox-musical soundtrack of more than a dozen well-known songs that range from 1940s Broadway standards (“Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered,” from Pal Joey) to 1970s easy-listening pop (the Carpenters’ “Close to You”). Granted, the director fails to clear the bar he sets for himself—fails hard enough, at times, to scrape the skin off his legs from knee to ankle—but it’s fair to say that this movie’s problems have little if anything to do with the attempted magic trick of its premise. It’s mainly the weirdness of that trick, and the stars’ doomed dedication to pulling it off, that renders Joker: Folie à Deux even minimally watchable.
Joker ended with Phoenix’s Arthur Fleck locked up in a mental institution but seemingly on the verge of escaping to start his career as Batman’s archnemesis. Instead, Folie à Deux finds Arthur still locked up in Gotham City’s inhumane Arkham State Hospital. Having been judged competent in a sanity hearing, Arthur is about to go on trial for the murders of five people, one of them on live television. (As he confesses to more people than he probably should, the number is really six if you include his mother.) Outside the institution’s grimy walls, he has become a folk hero to a certain set of clown-mask-sporting nihilists and a tabloid bogeyman to the public at large. But inside the hospital, Arthur remains a pitiable loser, mocked by his fellow inmates and singled out for alternately friendly and cruel treatment by an Irish prison guard (Brendan Gleeson).
Phillips’ desire to mess with the audience’s genre expectations is evident from the jump. The first thing the audience sees, after a vintage WB logo, is a cartoon short entitled “Me and My Shadow,” animated by the Triplets of Belleville filmmaker Sylvain Chomet in a style reminiscent of classic Looney Tunes. In it, Arthur’s shadow self emerges from his body to commit crimes that the real man is then blamed for. The plot of the cartoon is a literalization of the defense that his sympathetic lawyer (Catherine Keener) will later use in court: Arthur, she believes, is the victim of dissociative identity disorder, a former abused child who’s made up the Joker character as a way to vent his otherwise inaccessible rage. It’s not clear whether the movie wants us to agree with her assessment or with that of Gotham assistant district attorney Harvey Dent (Industry’s Harry Lawtey), who thinks Arthur is merely a sociopath faking mental illness in order to escape the consequences he deserves.
Meanwhile, Lee Quinzel (Gaga), an arsonist serving time in Arkham’s minimum-security wing, has a very different vision of the Joker: She’s a groupie, having followed his crime spree in the news and obsessively rewatched a TV biopic about him. (Even fans who haven’t consumed the aggressive marketing won’t take long to recognize her as the future Harley Quinn.) When they’re put in the same music-therapy group—a place where cheery sing-alongs are touted as a wholesome counterpoint to the grimness of asylum life—Lee and Arthur bond instantly and soon develop their own more twisted motives for bursting into song. When they’re together, or apart and thinking of each other, their internal monologues bubble to the surface as ready-made classics of the American songbook. This despite the fact that Lee, for her part, seems not to be a big fan of the musical genre. When the asylum shows the MGM classic The Band Wagon on movie night, Lee gets so bored she sets fire to the rec-room piano. Not liking The Band Wagon should surely serve as a red flag for any prospective suitor, but Lee redeems her taste later on, when the by-then-besotted couple belts out a cover of that musical’s most enduring number, “That’s Entertainment.”
Joker: Folie à Deux is hardly the first musical to posit the idea of its song-and-dance sequences as the emanations of a delusional mind, but it must be among the ones that hammer hardest on that conceit. In scene after scene, often with hardly a break for dialogue in between, either Lee, Arthur, or both in unison will channel the intensity of an emotional moment by delivering a breathy version of some beloved pop hit or other. Invisible string orchestras may swoop in to accompany these flights of fancy, just as they would in a Hollywood musical, but the secondary characters never join in and seldom seem to notice that a serenade is taking place. With rare exceptions (like the rock-’em-sock-’em Gaga cover of “That’s Life” that plays under the closing credits), most of the vocal performances in Folie à Deux are purposely underwhelming in terms of virtuosity: They’re husky, scratchy, and in Phoenix’s case often half-spoken, suited more for a tipsy karaoke night than for the Broadway stage.
Gaga has pointed out in interviews that neither her nor Phoenix’s character is a professional entertainer, so why should they sing like one? It’s a reasonable point, as is a less polite one she doesn’t make: that if she sang full-out instead of curbing her usual vocal splendor, the contrast would place Phoenix’s adequate but limited baritone in unflattering relief. But what makes the songs, irresistible toe-tappers all, start to blur into a drab wall of sound has less to do with the performance quality than with the nonstop onslaught of musical numbers and the sluggishness of the story in between. Other than the building of internal emotion to the point that it must express itself in song—over and over and over—precious little happens in Folie à Deux. Arthur is declared fit to stand trial, goes to court, and is marched back by the cruel guards each night to the bleakness of his cell. A few familiar characters from the first Joker, including Zazie Beetz as Arthur’s former neighbor, show up to take the stand, and at one point a horrific act of violence interrupts the proceedings. But the forward motion of the story is so minimal, and so broken up by long stretches of musical stasis, that the result barely feels like a movie. It’s more like a work of Joker fanfic, created not just by the credited screenwriters (Phillips and Scott Silver, who also co-wrote the 2019 film) but by Phoenix and Gaga themselves in what was apparently a collaborative project to revise the script in real time during the shoot.
The fact that Folie à Deux has the self-referential quality of fanfic does not necessarily mean it will go down well with actual Joker fans, who seem likely to come out scratching their heads over a sequel about a comic-book supervillain that contains virtually no fight scenes, a single car chase that ends roughly a minute after it begins, and scarcely a moment that could be classified as suspenseful. The main question to be answered by the viewer is not “What will happen next?” but “Is all this taking place in the real world, or just inside their heads?”—an epistemological puzzle that is not enough in itself to sustain our energy for nearly two hours and 20 minutes. Even more confoundingly, all this time spent locked in the psyches of two deeply disturbed characters gives us little insight into their motivations. The pathetic Arthur Fleck remains, as I called him in my review of the 2019 movie, a “poor little clownsie-wownsie,” while Gaga’s Lee is so underwritten we remain unsure to the end whether she is a vulnerable fangirl or a heartless femme fatale. If he is, as the lyric from “That’s Entertainment” goes, “the clown with his pants falling down,” does that make her simply “the skirt who is doing him dirt”? To make Gaga’s character little more than a mirror that reflects the Joker back to himself (in alternately flattering and unflattering ways) is a real squandering of this powerhouse performer, whose life experience as a stadium-filling superstar has given her no shortage of insight into the psychology of fame monsters.
Without spoiling the ending, it’s safe to say that with it, Phillips seems to foreclose the likelihood that anyone will be begging for more. That’s probably a blessing for both the filmmaker and us, since this somber, muddled, maudlin film seems to have been made by someone who holds his characters and his audience in contempt.
The CGI animated savannahs, rivers and rock formations of Africa are photo-real, and the animals populating it have never been more realistically rendered than they are in “Mufasa: The Lion King.”
Disney felt the need to have the lions, warthog and meercat’s lips move when they sing, which is saying something.
But let’s keep this review short and not-exactly-sweet, unlike this boardroom-ordered prequel to one of Disney’s most popular intellectual properties. “Mufasa: The Lion King” never makes the case that it’s a story that needed to be told or a movie that needed to be made.
It’s about how Mufasa got separated from his birth-parents’ pride of lions, and joined another, becoming “brothers” with the lion cub who “saved” him, but who will come to be called “Scar.”
So the object of this prequel is to show how Mufasa became Lion King and how Scar got his scar and became the bitter rival in their pride.
The “story” is framed as a “story” Rafiki the ape (John Sani) tells Simba’s cub, and that cub’s protectors/babysitters, Timon (Billy Eichner) and Pumbaa (Seth Rogen).
The tale is of another coming-of-age quest, with two young-lions on their own this time, paired-up, depending on each other, on the run from a pride of albino lions led by the killer Kiros (Mads Mikkelsen).
There are new songs of a far more forgettable nature than those from the animated classic “The Lion King.”
“The circle is broken,” he growls, and we believe him.
There are harrowing moments of drama in their quest, but there’s precious little humor to the movie, all of it provided by the same duo who have always been the comic relief, Timon and Pumbaa.
“We’ve been singing ‘Hakuna Matata’ since forever!”
“Who hasn’t?“
The messaging, about taking in “strays,” and that “To be lost is to learn the way,” is weak tea.
Story failings aside, it’s not a bad movie. But “Mufasa” never lets us forget the limited-entertainment-value of the entire undertaking. Oscar winner Barry Jenkins (“Moonlight”) was hired to direct, but aside from a few voice casting decisions (Keith David, Anika Noni Rose, with Aaron Pierre and Kelvin Harrison, Jr. as Mufasa and Taka/Scar), he brings nothing to this that makes a difference.
Disney’s tech/animators telling their bosses that “Yes, we can make it look like a movie with real singing lions and bathing hippos on the veldt without using real animals or shooting on location” is no justification for showcasing that technology.
Story matters, and this one didn’t need to be told.
Rating: PG, some violence
Cast: The voices of Aaron Pierre, Kelvin Harrison, Jr., Tiffany Boone, John Kani, Mads Mikkelsen, Thandiwe Newton, Keith David, Billy Eichner and Seth Rogen.
Credits: Directed by Barry Jenkins, scripted by Jeff Nathanson, based on characters from Disney’s “The Lion King.” A Walt Disney release.
Running time: 1:58
Better Man, 2024.
Directed by Michael Gracey.
Starring Robbie Williams, Jonno Davies, Steve Pemberton, Damon Herriman, Raechelle Banno, Alison Steadman, Kate Mulvany, Frazer Hadfield, Tom Budge, Anthony Hayes, Jake Simmance, Jesse Hyde, Liam Head, Chase Vollenweider, Rose Flanagan, Jack Sherran, Karina Banno, Asmara Feik, Leo Harvey-Elledge, Elyssia Koulouris, Frazer Hadfield, Chris Gun, Ben Hall, Kaela Daffara, and Chase Vollenweider.
SYNOPSIS:
Follow Robbie Williams’ journey from childhood, to being the youngest member of chart-topping boyband Take That, through to his unparalleled achievements as a record-breaking solo artist – all the while confronting the challenges that stratospheric fame and success can bring.
During a conversation exploring the possibility of a biopic, British popstar Robbie Williams told well-regarded musical director Michael Gracey that he saw himself as a monkey performing for others. That became the window into telling the story of this singer/songwriter with Better Man, a film that, as the title implies, also shows that Robbie Williams is self-aware of his flaws, mistakes, and shortcomings without being afraid to put them front and center. Yes, rather than go through the arduous casting process, Michael Gracey ran with that comment literally, making the creative choice to have the pop star played by a CGI monkey (voiced by Jonno Davies, with Robbie Williams lending his vocals.)
It’s a smart move to roll a short clip of subject and filmmaker conversing before the film starts proper, not just because other parts of the world might not be familiar with Robbie Williamss music (consistently accidentally reading it as a biopic about musician Robin Williams if you’re anything like me), but also since this is such a bold concept for a biopic that it’s helpful to get an idea of what this man looks like and the personality he puts out there before it’s all monkey business.
Going one step further, this turns out to not fall into the trappings of a flailing gimmick but ties into themes of pressures of the music industry, fame causing stunted behavior, family drama, and an unflinching portrayal of self that doesn’t smooth over any rough edges. Better Man is an invigorating biopic; a shot of adrenaline to the most overplayed, clichéd genre. After this, no one should be allowed to make biopics (at least ones about musicians) unless they have an equally creative angle or some compelling X factor behind it. Simply put, this film puts most recent offerings from the genre to shame, especially the ones that get trotted out at the end of every year as familiar awards bait.
Even though the life trajectory and story beats aren’t anything new to anyone who has ever seen a biopic about a musician before, it gets to be told with boundless imagination, typically coming from several dazzling musical sequences. Not only are they dynamic in presentation (whether it be jubilantly unfolding across the streets of London or something more melancholy regarding fatherly abandonment), but they are sometimes highwire concepts themselves; Better Man has one of the most thrilling, fantastically clever, visually stunning, and exciting takes on battling one’s demons.
The characters (including Robbie’s family, friends, lover, hell, and even Oasis) don’t interact or react to Robbie Williams as a monkey. It’s a visual treat for us (this film would fall apart without the astonishingly expressive technical wizardry from Weta, who already have proven themselves as outstanding in this field when it comes to the recent Planet of the Apes movies) but another personal, self-deprecating, honest interpretation of how Robbie saw himself during these life stages. Initially, this feels like it will end up as a missed opportunity for further creativity or humor. One of the more surprising elements here is that the filmmakers (with Michael Gracey co-writing alongside Oliver Cole and Simon Gleeson) are playing this material straight and not going for laughs. That confidence pays off, allowing a maximalist, melodramatic side to come out with sincere, absorbing emotional heft.
That story follows a standard rise and fall structure, with Robbie Williams finding inspiration from his initially supportive singing father (Steve Pemberton), exhibiting a relatable drive to make his grandmother (Alison Steadman proud, getting his start in boy band Take That before his insecurities and worsening substance abuse and egocentric behavior gets him kicked out, stumbling into a rocky relationship with Nicole Appleton (Raechelle Banno), and then not only finding the courage to put some meaningful lyrics out into the world through a successful solo career but managing the anxieties that come with performing in front of humongous crowds while constantly struggling with drug addiction.
Some of those aspects feel glossed over and aren’t as explored as they possibly could have been (the film is already 135 minutes, but some of it is given a broad strokes treatment), but it’s affecting anyway due to the creativity, artistry, musical numbers, and blunt honesty enhancing those character dynamics. Better Man is a biopic that starts with a confessional about being a narcissist and having a punchable face and ends up somewhere beautifully moving that perfectly captures the essence of that title. There is also a healthy dose of Frank Sinatra here, given that he was a major source of inspiration for Robbie Williams, so let’s say he and Michael Gracey did this biopic their way, and the result is something no one should want any other way.
Flickering Myth Rating – Film: ★ ★ ★ ★ / Movie: ★ ★ ★ ★
Robert Kojder is a member of the Chicago Film Critics Association and the Critics Choice Association. He is also the Flickering Myth Reviews Editor. Check here for new reviews, follow my Twitter or Letterboxd, or email me at MetalGearSolid719@gmail.com
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=embed/playlist
Robert Eggers’s take on the 1922 F.W. Murnau film “Nosferatu: A Symphony of Horror” has long been a passion project for the director, in various stages of development since he broke out with 2015’s “The Witch.” Now that the film has finally made its way to screens, Eggers has the opportunity to shine. And like any of his films, “Nosferatu” has mood and style to spare.
Eggers’s movies always have great attention to detail, but sometimes the style can outweigh the story and “Nosferatu” is no different. “The Witch” was about setting a moody atmosphere and “The Northman” was about showing off the muscularity in his filmmaking and in between he made arguably his best movie, “The Lighthouse,” which is a bizarre, fever dream kind of experience.
In the first frames of “Nosferatu,” Ellen (Lily-Rose Depp) emerges from the shadows with tears running down her face. She is calling out to something, but nothing is there. What is making her body move in such unpleasant ways? Who is the mysterious voice calling out to her? From the shadows emerges a silhouette of Count Orlok (Bill Skarsgård), who is haunting Ellen.
Years later, Ellen is in a relationship with Thomas (Nicholas Hoult, who is having a busy year between “Nosferatu,” “Juror #2” and “The Order”). Thomas is heading to Transylvania to meet with Count Orlock, foreshadowing a great deal of dread in the movie. Back home, Ellen is not doing well, constantly haunted by the looming presence of Count Orlock, who will not let her know peace.
Not only does Count Orlock hang over Ellen’s life, but his existence hangs over the entire movie. Eggers effectively uses the character sparingly, shooting him in shadows and only revealing his face every so often. It’s best to go into the movie surprised by the design, because Eggers certainly doesn’t settle for recreating the well-established imagery from the original film. Skarsgård, who is becoming a horror film regular, is nowhere to be found in his performance, completely disappearing behind the character.
Depp delivers the strongest performance of her young career, as she is required to run the gauntlet of emotional and physical pain. Her suffering helps bring some emotion to the movie, which can occasionally feel cold and distant in service of emphasizing the film’s craft. Individual moments of dread feel palpable, but the movie goes through plodding stretches (including with superfluous characters played by Aaron Taylor-Johnson and Emma Corrin; Eggers regular Willem Dafoe also plays a role), where the emotionality of Depp’s performance and the grim appearance of Skarsgård become sorely missed.
Even when the movie is choppy, it’s hard to not get lost in the impeccability of the craft. Egger and cinematographer Jarin Blaschke partially use natural lighting to establish the mood, while production designer Craig Lathrop transports viewers to 1838 Germany. Getting lost in the world of “Nosferatu” isn’t hard — though sometimes being moved by it as a whole is a tough task.
“Nosferatu” is currently playing in theaters.
Matt Passantino is a contributor to CITY.
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