Title: Notice to Quit (2024)
Director: Simon Hacker 👨🏼🇺🇸
Writer: Simon Hacker 👨🏼🇺🇸

Reviewed by Li 👩🏻🇺🇸

Technical: 3.25/5

In a solidly built feature debut by writer-director Simon Hacker, Notice to Quit follows a simple premise: A deadbeat dad who hasn’t seen his daughter in months suddenly finds himself saddled with her care. Said daughter, 10-year-old Anna (Kasey Bella Suarez), is distraught over her and her mom’s impending move from New York City to Florida (a “swamp,” Anna gripes). On the child’s last day in the city, she runs away to spend time with her dad, Andy (Michael Zegen).

The emotional beats of this fast-paced dramedy won’t surprise anyone. Across genres, from kids’ movie Despicable Me (2010) to the grittier Logan (2017), a cantankerous father figure is forced into babysitting a precocious young girl before softening towards her by film’s end. In Notice to Quit, washed up rental agent/hustler Andy and whipsmart Anna play their roles dutifully.

While it’s not the familiar plot that carries this film, Hacker deftly creates a bursting love letter to working class New Yorkers, in all their brash and unscrupulous swagger. Viewers find themselves thrown onto a roller coaster ride of chaos and city hijinks, recalling the punishing pace of Uncut Gems (but without the debilitating sense of dread). From finding a cockroach in a diner to arguing with your gruff-but-secretly-kind immigrant landlord, to having your financial solvency center around the city’s housing market, the movie taps into a very real New York experience—and splashes it on screen for audiences to laugh at (or commiserate with). 

Gender: 3.5/5
Does it pass the Bechdel Test? YES

Although Anna has a headlining role with plenty of screentime, Hacker clearly has his sights set on main character Andy. It’s Andy’s hectic day we follow, and Anna is simply the comet that’s come crashing into his punishing routine of showing apartments and ducking shady colleagues to whom he owes money. Anna does have a positive role as a kid who’s balanced as both street-smart yet vulnerable, but she remains two-dimensional throughout the film.

In a key role (albeit one that’s mostly offscreen), Anna’s mom Liz (Isabel Arraiza) avoids the tiresome stereotypes often applied to the exes of main male characters. Sure, she does gripe about Andy being a useless father, but viewers are given good reason to agree with her. (Andy is a mess.) So many scripts subtly chastise women for working full time, seen in Mrs. Doubtfire’s (1993) judgment of Sally Field’s career-oriented character, not to mention just about the entirety of the Christmas movie catalog. Notice to Quit never falls into the trope of suggesting that Liz is somehow overbearing, or needs to change.

But in the end, the cast is filled mostly with men. Brokers, butchers, landlords, doormen—working class New York looks like a man’s world. The only minor characters we see with more gender balance appear in expected places: caregivers such as Liz, who works as a hospital nurse, and Anna’s babysitter Maria (Feiga Martinez), plus a smattering of former and would-be tenants looking to rent from Andy. On the plus side, this depiction of the city doesn’t ring untrue; it just makes for another movie that doesn’t bother sketching outside gender conventions.

Race: 4/5

On the other hand, even with its white main character, Notice to Quit embraces the racial and ethnic diversity of its setting through supporting and background roles. This isn’t Sex and the City’s whitewashed brunch utopia, nor is this the “urban” (read: Black and Latino) hellscape regurgitated by so many movies centering around white leads from the 1980s and ‘90s. Having lived in New York City myself for over a decade, it’s hard to specify what makes Notice to Quit’s racial inclusivity so potent beyond the fact that it just “feels right.”

In the most prominent roles for people of color, Latina Suarez and Puerto Rican Arraiza play Anna and Liz, respectively. Their ethnicities are naturally woven into the film: Whether it’s speaking occasional Spanish, to Liz’s no-nonsense but loving approach to parenting Anna, cultural markers feel neither exotified nor ignored. Hacker’s comfort level around this comes into sharp focus when Anna translates for a man speaking Spanish to Andy. It’s a small but effective bit of scripting that puts control in the hands of Latinos as Andy is left out of the conversation—a subtle power shift that mirrors how, in most parts of New York City, white people are in the minority. Even if this only happens briefly, it’s a positive (and realistic) setup that doesn’t resort to dull cliches about Latinos being potentially violent or “scary” in order for them to briefly have the upper hand around a white protagonist.

Mediaversity Grade: B- 3.58/5

For a simplistic story about a guy struggling to balance the demands of work and family, Notice to Quit stands out more for its Technicolor rendering of New York City, and the way it paints its hustlers with humor and affection. As lead actor Zegen succinctly puts it himself, “It’s not a deep movie. It’s just a good time.”

A friend texted soon after I arrived in New York to see “McNeal,” the new play by Ayad Akhtar at Lincoln Center Theater’s Vivian Beaumont starring Oscar winner Robert Downey Jr. in his Broadway debut. The message was prompted by the recently published bombshell in the New Yorker about David Adjmi’s Tony-winning play “Stereophonic.”

Bear with me for a second — there’s a connection.

My friend, an L.A.-based screenwriter, is a superfan of “Stereophonic” and was upset when he read that the play seems to recycle a number of details found in “Making Rumours,” a memoir by sound engineer Ken Caillat, who worked on several Fleetwood Mac albums. The playwright has downplayed any direct link between the legendary rock group and his play, which dramatizes the tense recording sessions of a 1970s band uncannily like Fleetwood Mac perfecting a magnum opus strikingly similar to “Rumours.” No one has taken the denials seriously. The parallels are glaringly obvious. But the New Yorker article, echoing earlier reporting, raises more complicated questions.

“Seems as if David Adjmi is a liar and plagiarist,” my friend wrote, more in sorrow than in anger. “You could say the same about Shakespeare,” I tendentiously texted back from Penn Station. The lawyers will fight it out, I added, but I “don’t think this takes away from what was [artistically] accomplished.”

About two hours later, a version of this same debate was taking place in “McNeal,” a play about an old literary lion seemingly on the brink of being canceled who falls under the spell of AI. A modern-day Faust story, Akhtar’s drama turns Faust into a prize-winning author who, after succumbing to the temptation of ChatGPT, doesn’t so much mourn the loss of his soul as wage a literary defense of his new dark arts.

A ferociously ambitious, politically incorrect writer who has been drinking himself to death after his wife’s suicide, Jacob McNeal (Downey) wants nothing more than to receive the Nobel Prize in literature. But when his dream finally comes true, he’s rattled by the heightened scrutiny that comes with the international spotlight.

McNeal has a closet crammed with skeletons. He’s friends with a group of high-profile men who have been me-too-ed and fears he might be next. His mentally ill wife took her life after discovering that he was having an affair. Akhtar sets up multiple paths for McNeal’s downfall. But the play is more concerned with abstract questions about art and originality than with the fate of one morally shady writer.

How indebted can a novelist be to the work of other people? Where is the line between creativity and plagiarism? (Were Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides guilty of ripping off Homer?) If a writer gets an assist from a machine, can he legitimately claim authorship?

McNeal doesn’t subscribe to the Romantic view of the artist as solitary genius. His thinking is more aligned with that of literary scholar Harold Bloom, who contended that poems beget other poems, in a network of influence that owes as much to Darwin’s theory of evolution as to Freud’s notion of the Oedipus complex.

In his address to the Swedish Academy, McNeal argues for a more complex understanding of artistic originality by citing the example of “King Lear.” Shakespeare, McNeal posits, did something more radical than adapt “King Leir,” an anonymous Elizabethan play that he may have acted in. He rewrote the rules of tragedy, and in the process gave a glimpse of humanity’s moral and existential predicament that has yet to be matched.

“Put that original version of Leir into any of these fancy language models and run it through a hundred thousand times — you’ll never come close to reproducing the word order the Sweet Swan of Avon came up with,” McNeal asserts, as much in defense of his own borrowings as of Shakespeare’s.

Akhtar, author of the Pulitzer Prize-winning play “Disgraced,” is continuing an argument he found himself embroiled in after publishing his brilliant 2020 novel “Homeland Elegies.” That book blends fact and fiction to tell the story of how America became Donald Trump-ified.

In interviews, Akhtar was routinely asked to explain his rationale for not simply writing a memoir when so much of his family’s history is in the book. Why call it a novel and raise ethical questions about the uses of autobiography? His answer was consistently the same: He was in search of a deeper truth. Conceiving the book as a novel allowed him to transcend the literal record of his life. For a creative artist, sources matter less than how they’re redeployed.

Akhtar reanimates this dialectical discussion of artistic freedom in the fraught context of AI. The problem is that the play is overwhelmed with ideas, themes and talking points. “McNeal” is swirling with things to say about literature — how it’s created, where it gets its value and why its truth can be so dangerous — but it’s as if ChatGPT had been asked to spit out the pros and cons of advanced technology on the practice of literature. The human story gets lost in the shuffle.

In scenes with his worried doctor (an underutilized Ruthie Ann Miles) and enabling agent (a lively Andrea Martin), McNeal reveals himself to be a charming literary creep. A moral dinosaur, he admits to Natasha Brathwaite (Brittany Bellizeare), a New York Times arts writer doing a magazine profile on him, that he actually envies men like Harvey Weinstein for “getting what they wanted.” She’s impressed by his reckless candor but suspects his flamboyant “transparency” is a way of throwing her off the scent of a bigger scandal.

Downey’s McNeal has the chiseled masculine swagger of such writers as Richard Ford and Paul Auster. Physically, he’s Hollywood’s ideal of the successful novelist — lean of build, coiffed like a tidied-up aging rock star and dressed with a studied casualness that would cost a small fortune to replicate.

Andrea Martin in Lincoln Center Theater’s production of “McNeal.”

(Matthew Murphy and Evan Zimmerman)

A film actor unaccustomed to having to articulate to the back row, Downey relies on the excessive amplification of Bartlett Sher’s production. But his characterization is properly scaled for the stage. McNeal’s ambivalence is boldly handled: Unbridled egotism is punctured with regret. Downey, who plunged into tech’s moral gray zones in his “Iron Man” outings, makes it possible for an audience to both deplore McNeal and delight in the abrasive pleasure of his company. What his impressively embodied portrayal can’t overcome is the play’s lifeless set of relationships.

McNeal is continually refining the prompts he feeds his new best friend, ChatGPT, to improve the literary quality of his manuscript drafts. He asks the program to upload his collected works along with other material, including “King Lear,” “Oedipus Rex,” a smattering of Ibsen, psychiatric papers and the journals of his late wife. It’s this last item that gets him in trouble with his son, Harlan (Rafi Gavron), who has detected in his father’s latest novel a short story that his mother wrote, her one and only literary legacy.

The father-son standoff, in which Harlan threatens to expose McNeal’s literary crime to the New York Times in revenge for the way he treated his mother, is strangely unaffecting. Akhtar keeps tossing out red herrings. I began to imagine the prompt the playwright might have issued to the blinking cursor of his own computer while starting “McNeal”: “Write a Jon Robin Baitz play in the pugilistic intellectual style of Ayad Akhtar, and make it as unwieldy as possible within a 90-minute running time.”

The artificiality of the protagonist’s interactions made me wonder if the whole play might be an AI dream. The scenes all have something in them that feels slightly off, whether it’s dialogue that’s a little too on the nose or behavior that seems hollow. Are these characters, I asked myself midway through the play, or ideas of characters? Is there a core to the story or just an endless supply of plot permutations?

The production design, swooshing across Michael Yeargan and Jake Barton’s set, creates a background blizzard of technological flashes and blips. Audiences are drawn into the inner workings of the protagonist’s iPhone through Barton’s projections. A deepfake of Downey’s McNeal blends the image of his wife with historical figures from his literary output, including Ronald Reagan and Barry Goldwater.

Akhtar clearly wants us to struggle to distinguish between reality and its AI-generated simulacrum. The question of perception, how we filter the world around us, has been a recurring theme in his playwriting. But it’s hard to sustain interest when a drama hasn’t given us sufficient reason to care about the characters. McNeal’s belated reckoning with Francine Blake (Melora Hardin), his former mistress whom he treated almost as badly as his wife, is no more meaningful to us than his reflex flirtations with Dipti (Saisha Talwar), his agent’s attractive 20-something assistant.

The plot, hinging on whether McNeal will face the consequences of his actions, is enlivened by Downey’s antihero bravado. But the play falls victim to AI‘s chief limitation — its emotional deadness.

For better or worse, late September this year is certainly the time for animated robot movies. Fortunately, we got the “worse” out of the way last week with “Transformers One.” Now we can sit back and enjoy the “better” with “The Wild Robot.” Many people did indeed sit back and enjoy this movie, as the theater at my screening was more crowded than usual. The added cheering and laughter made the experience all the more endearing, and it was heartwarming to think of all the families bonding over their shared love of this movie.

Lupita Nyong’o stars as Roz, a robot programmed to help with tasks on a distant space colony. Something goes wrong with the delivery, and she winds up stranded on an island on Earth. Eager to help, but unable to find any humans to give her orders, she instead looks to the local animal population. She even takes the time to learn how animals communicate, to the point where she can filter their various squeaks, squawks, and other utterances into English in real time. And that’s how this becomes a talking animal movie.

Roz is eager to help, but the animals don’t necessarily want her help. Okay, they “decidedly” don’t want her help. At first, they’re all afraid of her, given that she’s gigantic, made of metal, dangerously confused, and relatively clumsy (she moves nimbly for a robot of her size, but isn’t built for the unpredictability of nature). Then they fight against her, knocking her down and stripping her of gears and features. She’s even attacked by her closest physical match, a bear named Thorn (Mark Hamill), who knocks down a cliff, causing her to crush a bird’s nest.

Roz sees that a single egg has survived, and the lifeform inside must be protected. She saves it from getting eaten by a fox named Fink (Pedro Pascal) by launching the predator into a porcupine, though she instinctively helps him remove quills afterward. The egg hatches, and the gosling, named Brightbill, doesn’t see why Roz can’t be mother material. Roz is prepared to be a helper, but not a primary caregiver. In other words, she doesn’t have any programming that makes her fit to be a mother. “No one does,” says opossum Pinktail (Catherine O’Hara), who becomes her mentor.

The rest of the movie is Roz trying to raise Brightbill (Kit Connor) as best as she can, knowing that she’ll have to teach him to swim, then fly, then leave for months on migration. The other geese tease him for coming from an unnatural family, but leader Longneck (Bill Nighy) sees that he only lives to help others, just like his adoptive mother. The migration makes for an adventure unto itself, as does Roz and the rest of the forest trying to make it through an unexpectedly harsh winter. On top of all that, Roz still recognizes an obligation to try to get to the human colony, and tracking robot Vontra (Stephanie Hsu) could arrive at any time. That the last matter probably should have been saved for a sequel is my only real gripe with the movie.

“The Wild Robot” came to theaters riding the single biggest wave of critical praise I’ve seen all year. The quantity of praise is well-deserved, as I can’t imagine anybody disliking this movie, but it might make it a tad vulnerable to expectations. I consider it “among” the best movies of the year, but I was never quite ready to hand it the top spot (still “Dune: Part Two,” by the way). Still, my heart melted at several points, whether it was from cuteness (the opossum family), sadness (the straining of the Roz/Brightbill relationship), or the sheer amount of love on display. By all means take the family to see this movie, turn it into a success, and encourage Hollywood to make more movies with this much heart.

Grade: B

“The Wild Robot” is rated PG for action/peril and thematic elements. Its running time is 101 minutes.

Robert R. Garver is a graduate of the Cinema Studies program at New York University. His weekly movie reviews have been published since 2006.