Aquaman (James Wan, 2018). The relatively cinematic merits, or lack thereof, of Marvel Studios’ blockbuster epics has been a mostly mortifying public debate in recent weeks, evidently requiring every director of note to weigh in. While the fact that Martin Scorsese is pressed by every interviewer to expand upon or clarify his original comments is enough of an embarrassment, as someone who is fairly well-versed on this slice of the entertainment industrial complex I feel compelled to note that the poison-tipped arrows have been aimed at the wrong target. The true affronts to the art form are the bursting piñatas of eyesore spectacle released by Marvel’s distinguished competition in the superhero space. Patty Jenkins’s Wonder Woman looks more and more like a rare and beauteous aberration with every new stab at expanding the DC Cinematic Universe. Among DC’s stable of costumed do-gooders, Aquaman was always going to be the character with the most built-in goofiness to overcome in any big screen adaptation. To their credit, the filmmakers behind Aquaman basically lean in to the lunacy. Mostly, though, their attempts at rambunctious tomfoolery are limited to action hero quips that would have been stale twenty years ago. The plot is a snoozy tangle of a gruff rapscallion finding his inner heroism and palace intrigue about as intriguing as a fishbowl’s little plastic castle. Director James Wan hews closely to the Zack Snyder template of visuals rendered with garish artificiality and action scenes are kinetic nonsense. About the only pleasure in Aquaman is watching performers accustomed to more serious fare (Willem Dafoe and Nicole Kidman, most notably) try vainly to find their sea legs on this roiling vessel.
Dolemite Is My Name (Craig Brewer, 2019). Screenwriters Scott Alexander and Larry Karaszewski have shown a unique talent for offbeat biopics over the years, with Ed Wood and The People vs. Larry Flynt as the standouts. Their sensibility — impish yet deeply grounded by smart, telling details — elevates Dolemite Is My Name, a survey of the odd, unlikely rise of entertainer Rudy Rae Moore. In a performance of surprising insight and restraint, Eddie Murphy plays Moore. What could have easily been bawdily comic is instead underscored by an especially vulnerable ambition, Murphy adeptly capturing Moore’s earnest attempt to make a place in a showbiz world set up to reject the likes of him. Murphy’s performance is sensitive without ever lapsing into easy pathos. The film is also a celebration of the flashes of ingenuity that often arise when the creative environment is particularly hardscrabble, and director Craig Brewer does a nice job capturing the camaraderie of Moore’s circle of determined amateurs. The whole cast is dandy (especially Wesley Snipes, as an actor with big Hollywood credits who’s reduced to working on one of Moore’s productions), but it must be noted that they’re all operating with the booster shot of Ruth L. Carter’s costumes, which are vibrant crazy-quilts of nineteen-seventies fashion.
Green Room (Jeremy Saulnier, 2015). At the end of a miserable concert tour, which was such a low-paying professional endeavor that siphoning gas was a regular requirement to get to the next gig, a punk band picks up one last date. The show is at a remote warehouse space, and the band quickly gleans that they’re one of a procession of amp-rattling acts soundtracking the aggressive posturing of a group of white supremacists. The band taunts danger by leading their set with a cover version of the Dead Kennedys’ “Nazi Punks Fuck Off,” and things get markedly worse from there. Writer-director Jeremy Saulnier constructs the story with cunning panache, and he displays a gift for maintaining an almost diabolical level of tension. The quantity and intensity of the film’s gore arguably betray a different sort of sadism on the part of the filmmaker. Green Room is as brutal as the punk rockers at its center.