Hit Man, 2024.

Directed by Richard Linklater.
Starring Glen Powell, Adria Arjona, Austin Amelio, Retta, Sanjay Rao, Molly Bernard, Evan Holtzman, Mike Markoff, Ritchie Montgomery, Kate Adair, Beth Bartley, Morgana Shaw, Richard Robichaux, Bryant Carroll, Stephanie Hong, Gralen Bryant Banks, Jonas Lerway, Murphee Bloom, KC Simms, Jordan Joseph, Joel Griffin, and Garrison Allen.

SYNOPSIS:

A professor moonlighting as a hit man of sorts for his city police department, descends into dangerous, dubious territory when he finds himself attracted to a woman who enlists his services.

Exploring murder as a crime of passionate love, personalities altering across adulthood, who and what danger truly comes from, the spontaneous urge to hire a professional killer (with the mythology of the entire fake profession deconstructed and picked apart), and a study of how to balance the id and the ego, co-writer/director Richard Linklater’s Hit Man (loosely based on a true story magazine article from Skip Hollandsworth, and star Glenn Powell assisting with screenplay duties), this film is much more than the vehicle for sizzling chemistry founded on erotic danger material that its two leads kill with command.

Skillfully wading between genres, Hit Man begins as a situational comedy about boring philosophy studies college professor Gary Johnson (Glenn Powell), who returns home from work to feed his birds (also knowledgeable and obsessed with them) and cat while casually having dinner at a pathetic but hilariously constructed one-person dinner table inside a mostly empty kitchen. Gary also does sting operations undercover for the police on the side, except his role in those operations is promoted to the field once the temperamental Jasper (Austin Amelio) storms onto the scene complaining about cancer culture, having been suspended for physically attacking some teenagers who “deserved it ” on the job.

This allows Gary to become Ron, or rather, the “constantly aggressive,” hardened, cold-blooded killer who couldn’t be any more opposite from his otherwise nerdy, well-articulated, loner real self. Gary comes across as so lame that during a brief reunion with his ex-wife (Molly Bernard), she almost seems disappointed that their marriage was apparently so loveless he never entertained the idea of putting a hit out on her if things went south or generally killing for love.

Nevertheless, Gary finds within himself a more charismatic, twistedly imaginative, likable badass easily capable of easing strangers meeting him in random locations to lower their guard and incriminate themselves into premeditated murder over a wire. At the same time, we are consistently amused observing the cuckoo, zany individuals desperate enough to resort to such an arrangement under the impression it will fix all the problems. It is equally funny that Ron switches up his wardrobe to appeal to different types of people seeking his supposed service, experimenting more with finding his true identity.

However, what happens when someone (Adria Arjona) doesn’t just bring an envelope filled with money to the meeting but a genuinely depressing story about an abusive husband who possibly does deserve to be whacked? It’s a brilliant inversion of what we have been watching up until this point, switching the proceedings from comedy to the aforementioned superheated romantic thrills as fake hitman continues to enjoy the more positive perception people bestow upon him as Ron by using that false identity to get closer to this woman, named Madison, while also giving her some rules to adhere to regarding entering a relationship with a professional killer. 

That shift largely works due to the performances from Glenn Powell and Adria Arjona (who seems to have mostly had smaller roles in blockbusters until this breakthrough, revelatory performance), delivering lines with suave and seduction. Small physical tics in the performances elevate that magnetism, whether it be the opening of an alcoholic bottle mid-sentence and mid-stare, a perfectly timed and corny one-liner, or actors always aware of what the character should be feeling and how they should react in a given scene. There is a moment where Ron does encounter the toxic boyfriend (Evan Holtzman), instantly turning fearful but also regaining that composure the second her new boyfriend whips out a gun. 

Most importantly, the snappy screenplay allows viewers to buy into the initially absurd idea that Madison would be comfortable around a killer, even if we know Gary/Ron has never actually done such a thing. She has been around someone legitimately abusive who has caused her immense emotional and psychological pain, so in her mind, how much worse could it be getting close to a professional killer if he is actually a compassionate human being to her outside that job? Ron even puts it to her in the best terms; he’s a people person outside this line of work.

Hit Man also has its share of convenient, strictly movie moments, although they never threaten to jeopardize or tear down the absorbing character work behind the simmering attraction. The third act does transition into a thriller where an actual murder is in the picture, which makes for a noticeable small drop off in the introspection on identity, but Richard Linklater and the company also find ways to make that refreshing and exhilarating, most notably in an electric sequence involving what amounts to role-play on top of role-play. More to the point, nearly every single moment of Hit Man, well, hits. It is high-voltage fun, armed with smarts, sexiness, showiness, and substance.

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

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A highly skilled professional masseuse, Mai moves into town and joins a spa. No one really knows what she does for a living, but speculation abounds as to her likely source of income. Disrespectful terms like “sugar baby” and “hooker” are thrown at her behind her back while one neighbour accuses her of attempting to steal her husband (the blame being placed on Mai instead of the lecherous spouse in question). When she is not looking, ladies in the adjoining flats litter her doorstep with garbage and dog poop. These civic squabbles and jealousies may be presented in a melodramatic manner but they highlight the struggles of single women living by themselves in South East Asia (and elsewhere). Judgement and a lack of privacy are two issues that are commonly faced. Local playboy Duong and an independent, middle-aged woman are the only people who are accepting of Mai. If her domestic situation wasn’t hard enough, there are co-workers at the massage parlour upset with Mai’s success. She is booked on most days, with her colleagues worried about their regular clients being poached. When male customers wish for special services, she is quick to tell them that she is a professional and to keep any dodgy requests at the door. This attitude further enrages her contemporaries. Meanwhile, Duong, who’s footloose and fancy-free, takes a genuine liking to his neighbour.

Mai isn’t a film that can be easily categorised. Sure, there’s a love story on which everything hinges, but to reduce it to just that would be doing it a huge disservice. Sexual violence and suicidal ideation, complex family dynamics (not on the part of Mai alone but Duong too), deep-seated issues of trust and self-loathing as a direct result of past abuse, the inability of the child to sever ties with the parent, gambling addiction and resultant debt—there is a lot of heavy subject matter to uncoil here. And the intrigue makes each subsequent part of the story fairly unpredictable. You know some bad things are coming, but you’re neither sure of their extent nor their scope. Phuong Anh Dao does a phenomenal job as the film’s lead. Sensitive, kind and understanding, though she keeps those who try to get too close at an arm’s length. Her past is something that has clearly affected her life in an adverse way, and she wishes to steer clear of vulnerability. Even as Duong sheds his playboy persona when he develops feelings, she resists the urge to reciprocate. Shame is another repetitive theme witnessed through the film. It is indeed unfortunate that Mai judges herself so harshly; it is for those who wronged her (including her gambling addict father dependent on her for money) to feel shame. Sadly, that’s not how things work. And despite a supportive daughter, a benevolent benefactor and a man genuinely in love with her, it is hard for her to see her true worth.

Complicated parent-child dynamics are seen through Mai, with it being a difficult subject to shake off. Mai’s relationship with her father is fraught with issues; a role-reversal of sorts can be seen (she has to mother and protect him constantly). For all intents and purposes, he was a terrible father, putting her early life at grave risk. Duong, for his part, lives forever in his wealthy, single mother’s shadow. He stays on his own and dreams of pursuing a career in music, but everything is done on her dime. And not for a moment does she allow him to forget any of the sacrifices made. Worm, his pet name, only reinforces where all the power lies. These two parents, at different ends of the graph, are both equally to blame for their children’s internal struggles.

Beautiful and poignant, it is the sheer emotional range of Phuong Anh Dao and Tuan Tran that holds the film together. What is not said leaves a mark. Their faces and eyes tell a story beyond the dialogue. Mai has this strange ability to surprise you when you finally feel like you’ve called its bluff, and that remains one of the film’s foremost qualities. The writing doesn’t deal with its themes in a flippant manner. It goes to the heart of trauma, where love was once broken (perhaps even irreparably), to see if a small window of trust may yet remain. There are layers to Mai that aren’t easy to decode. The film attempts to understand that undefinable feeling, romantic or otherwise, setting itself apart in the process.

4/5 stars

Rarely has figure skating been shown as so pure, poetic and sensual than in My Sunshine, Hiroshi Okuyama’s feature about two young ice dancers and their coach over one winter in a small town in Hokkaido, in Japan.

Filmed in the classic four-by-three screen ratio and boasting a desaturated colour palette which gives everything a dreamy quality, My Sunshine revolves around Takuya (Keitatsu Koshiyama), a stammering boy who is as awkward at sport as he is with his speech.

Bad at school in both baseball and ice hockey, the boy finds himself captivated by figure skating – or, specifically, the elegant star skater Sakura (Kiara Nakanishi). His perseverance in trying out pirouettes is noted by the girl’s coach Arakawa (Sosuke Ikematsu), who gives the boy proper skates and then private lessons.

Sensing a prodigy in the waiting, Arakawa begins to train Takuya alongside Sakura to compete in a pairs skating competition. Through this, the man rediscovers the joie de vivre he seems to have left behind after his retirement and relocation to the rural hinterlands.

Teasing natural and dynamic turns from his cast – with Sosuke looking very much the part with his smooth moves on the ice – Okuyama delivers scenes that ooze youthful energy and human warmth.

In the film’s pièce de resistance, a scene depicting Takuya and Sakura’s full routine, the duo glide gracefully across the ice, their breathing and the crisp glissando produced by their skates saying much more about their emotions than words ever could, whether about their dedication to the sport or the unarticulated feelings bubbling within each of them.

But My Sunshine is not all sweetness and light. Its descent towards tragedy is perhaps prefigured by Okuyama’s frequent positioning of his characters as small dots in vast spaces – an allusion, perhaps, to how their fates are somehow shaped by unspoken social forces they could not control.

And it is exactly such tacit norms which will eventually snap the trio’s growing bond.

Eschewing melodrama, Okuyama simply hints at the prevalent conservative attitudes in the town, the disapproval of Arakawa’s private life never really breaking into the open beyond one single word Sakura throws at her erstwhile mentor.

It is an altercation that is as brief as it is heartbreaking, and it speaks volumes about Okuyama’s deftness in evoking such emotions through his very economical storytelling and stylistic rigour.