Movie Nation

At some point in the middle of his “Pirates of the Caribbean” “commitment,” I interviewed the director of that blockbuster franchise, Gore Verbinski. I remember noting that I’d seen ads in sailing magazines I subscribed to casting extras to play the scurvy dogs of the various ships in that series, and expressed regret that I hadn’t answered those ads.

“Oh no, you wouldn’t want to do that,” GV blurted. Think of the pay, the conditions and the long term implications, he sputtered.

“I mean, look at ME,” he finished with a laugh.

Like a lot of critics, I had already started to bemoan the Gore Verbinski that Disney and Johnny Depp took away from us in the prime of his career. A music video director-turned-feature-filmmaker, he’d burst on the scene with “Mousehunt,” kept the all-star action comedy train running through “The Mexican” and launched a horror franchise with his Hollywood remake of “The Ring.”

All that promise was back-burnered for a decade of increasingly unsatisfying and supernaturalish pirate movies. Verbinski’s “franchise” fate was sealed as nothing he made during those movies or since (“The Lone Ranger,” “A Cure for Wellness”) has lived up to that early promise.

Behold, dear reader, the tragic fate of James Cameron!

But Verbinski makes a striking return to risk-taking form with the ambitious, sometimes dazzling and even heartfelt Jeremiad “Good Luck, Have Fun, Don’t Die.”

Scripted by the author of “The Invention of Lying” and “Love and Monsters,” its a sci-fi action farce/satire built around the screwball charms of Oscar winner Sam Rockwell. He leads an ensemble piece about an oddball crew assembled to “save the world” by a time-traveling hobo from the future.

“All of this,” he prophesizes to a stupefied Southern Cal Norms Diner crowd,” goes horribly wrong.”

Two “inevitables” about our present day must be fought to the death — AI and the rising tide of “fascism” that benefits from the social disconnection it causes.

Talk about a “movie of its moment.”

The flashback-packed narrative may slow the story to a crawl, but this “Mystery Men” or “Suicide Squad” of working class losers out to spare the planet a “Terminator: Judgement Day” can be rambunctious, raucus and riotous, a picture that takes its queue from today’s headlines and its tone from Rockwell, a reliably gonzo leading man whom anybody would follow off a cliff or into a suicide mission. Reluctantly.

The guy in the see-through plastic poncho and haphazardly-wired stocking cap, breastplate and such looks “homeless.” But he says he has a bomb, and as his finger is on the trigger to an elaborate timer lashed to his arm, he has the eatery’s attention.

He knows everybody by their name, down to who will call the cops, who has a gun and how much change this or that character has in their left pocket. It’s not a “trick.” He’s “from the future,” remember?

And this isn’t his first “Groundhog Day” at Norms’ He’s visited 117 times, recruiting a team out of the motley crew of 40 or so patrons and employees, looking for the right combination of “players” to stop the ultimate incarnation of AI from being invented and ending humanity by luring us all into cyberspace utopia.

No, Zuckerberg et al are not mentioned by name. But the title is a phrase any video game addict can identify with, words of encouragement before undertaking any CGI “quest” — GLHF and DD.

Every time our unnamed time-traveler arrives, he tries a different combo of folks for his “team.” One assemblage, statistically, will be the right group to help him finish his quest. Some who volunteer are rejected for failings that became obvious in previous quests to escape the diner, flee across town and intervene in the AI inventing process. Some who participated before may work out in a different combination. Some have to be threatened out of their terror.

A Scout leader, a middle-aged working woman who “just wanted a slice of pie,” a rideshare driver, a single mom, a school teaching couple and a young woman dressed as a Doc Martens’d Goth prom queen are corraled into attempting to escape from a police cordon, pig-masked bounty hunters and the cell-phone-zombie “mob” that is Gen Alpha to complete their quest.

Flashbacks creatively fill in the back-stories of our principals and explain the hell-world we’ve let our online lives turn into, and enivtably slow the movie to a halt. But without them, how can we see the zombieland of cell-entitled punks that high school has become, how avoiding cell tech when it literally makes you ill is nigh on impossible, how American culture would rather come up with a cloned-kid work-around than make the effort to stop school shootings and just what the end game of living-a-life-online might look like?

The social satire of it all stings. But the picture plays like “One Battle After Another” with less hope, a glum struggle Verbinski fights with all the skill and brio can bring to the table after too long hanging out with Johnny Depp.

“It’s going to be OK, or it’s not,” our prophet/warrior from the future warns. “You’re in for a rough night.”

Rockwell is his most manic here, shouting “Where did all the BOOKstores go?” He wants to know what “We” did to try and stop that. “Pop quiz, anyone here remember a PHONE NUMBER?”

Michael Peña, paired up with Zazie Beetz as the hapless and overwhelmed teacher couple, stands out as a paranoid, oft-fired lit educator who doesn’t “like people” but who has even less tolerance for the insolent teens who won’t look up from their phones to learn about “Anna Karenina.”

“Did they make a movie of it?” they smirk to one another. Yeah, another answers — “Keira Knightley was in it…”

Juno Temple sympathetically plays the single mom whose trauma in the School Shooting Capital of the World and the Stepford Moms who urge her to keep calm and get a clone informs her decision to take on the quest. And Haley Lu Richardson (of “The Chaperone,” “Love at First Sight” and TV’s “White Lotus”), made up to look like an Americanized Florence Pugh Riot Grrl facing the apocalypse, brings pluck and pathos to her part.

Rockwell — sometimes deranged, sometimes quietly cautionary — carries this bracing but uneven prophecy across the finish line. “AI” maybe be “inevitable,” thanks to technology. It may “promise to give you everything.” But when a manic messy Jeremiah in electronic gear and a poncho shows up to warn us — stoner-hobo vibe or not — you’re damn well going to listen to him.

“Otherwise, that’s a wrap on people.”

Rating: R, graphic violence, sex scene, profanity

Cast: Sam Rockwell, Juno Temple, Zazie Beetz, Michael Peña, Asin Chaudry, Georgia Goodman and Haley Lu Rchardson.

Credits: Directed by Gore Verbinski, scripted by Matthew Robinson. A Briarcliff Entertainment release.

Running time: 2:14

“Crime 101” is a slick, smart, well-cast and well-acted heist thriller about taking and getting yours in a world that’s taking “yours” every day and in every way.

It makes a fine star vehicle not just for hunky Chris Hemsworth as the thief, but for Halle Berry as a high-end insurance agent, Mark Ruffalo as a rumpled, maverick police detective, Barry Keoghan as a violent and impulsive junior thief, with chewy roles for Nick Nolte, Jennifer Jason Leigh, Tate Donovan and Monica Barbaro to boot.

The latest from “American Animals” director Bart Layton, based on a novella by crime fiction icon Don Winslow, has a pun for a title — the crimes are committed within getaway distance of Southern Cal’s 101 freeway — and some pretty good antecedents referenced in its world, its characters, its story and its style.

“The Thomas Crown Affair” is mentioned in a chat between cop and robber over favorte Steve McQueen movies. But “The Getaway” also comes to mind in this story of a crook being double-crossed by the guy who commissions the jobs.

And the production design and Erik Wilson’s cinematography suggest the sheen of affluent LA, with layers of working class and underworld grit underneath, propping the whole “La La Land” illusion up.

The patient pacing and low-simmer suspense is reminscent of Michael Mann’s genre classic “Heat,” but the martial drums and rhythms of the Blank Mass’s pulsing, pounding score give this generic tale with twists a flavor all its own.

Hemsworth stars as our brooding lone robber, a guy who hits high end jewelry couriers on their way between stores, or from the airport on their way to a store. He gets his hands on various black Dodge Chargers, puts on his gloves and ski mask and dashes to work. The threats at gunpoint are obvious, but nobody gets hurt so long as they follow his “Get in the trunk” instructions.

“Personally, I wouldn’t die for the insurance company.”

Grizzled Nolte is the veteran crook who sets these robberies in motion. Ruffalo is the never-promoted detective “obsessed with this Lone Ranger/Lone wolf” modus operandi he alone recognizes in a police department obsessed with numbers — “clearance (cleared cases) rates.”

Berry plays the veteran closer at a high end insurance agency “for people who have more money than they know what to do with.” Her sex appeal has been a key to her rise up the ranks. But she’s over 50 and that “partnership” still hasn’t happened.

The carefully-planned heist that opens the picture goes just wrong enough to make our thief take stock of his empty life of beachside apartments, fancy wardrobe, $12,000 watches, call girls and collectible Camaros. Maybe he’s close to “a number than I have in mind” that’ll let him “retire.” Maybe that PR agency employee (Monica Barbaro, who played Joan Baez in “A Complete Unknown”) who rear-ends him in traffic could be more than a one-night stand.

But his fence/heist-arranger (Nolte) won’t like that. He brings in a bleached-blond punk (Keoghan) to take on jobs the “101 Thief” won’t. The violent dirt-bike robber will also spy on his predecessor with an eye towards stealing from the jewel thief.

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“Clovers” is a documentary parked somewhere between the quaint and goofy charms of “Vernon, Florida” and the toxic redneck stupidity of “Red, White and Wasted” on the movie map of America’s real “Americana.”

It started out as an essay on “the fastest dying town in America,” Asheboro, N.C. and evolved into a portrait of the denizens of a strip mall “internet cafe” aka “trailer park casino” named Clovers.

The movie isn’t about race, as Black and white women and white men mix and mingle and gamble and hit the honky tonk biker bar to dance to a cover band playing Nazarethe’s “Hair of the Dog.” It’s about class, the self-destructive Southern white lower classes in particular.

We meet low-stakes/low-rent gamblers whose latest bad impulse and life-worsening decision has drawn them to the video games and digital slot machines of the “might be illegal” gambling parlor Clovers, a joint that’s the temporary beneficiary of the sort of lax enforcement infamous in rural Southern policing.

The film follows Jennifer Paschal, a Randolph County corrections officer, as she jokes around with inmates and lets sexist insults, bizarre and threatening behavior roll off her back in a job that she loves.

“Y’all QUIT,” she orders the men behaving badly in the orange jumpsuits.

Jennifer is just shy of 40, bubbly and quick to draw a contrast with her colleagues whom she says “hate” this job in “hell.” Not her. She likes the paychecks, keeps the peace her own way and has support at home.

“My husband’s been to prison,” she explains. “He knows what happens here!”

We never learn why she’s “let go” from the best job somebody with her education and circumstances could hope for, but we can guess. We can even guess Jennifer’s story before she starts to reveal it — pretty enough for beauty pageants, pregnant at 15, courting others at Rider’s, the local biker bar, “trapped” in dying Asheboro.

You feel for her even before you realize she’s the most self-aware person we’ll meet in this world of Harleys, tattoos, unwed mothers and hardscrabble, low wage work.

J.D. Cranford’s story is written all over his face. Literally. When he gets off his Harley and cranks up his “Ever tell you about the time I was on ‘Divorce Court'” story we note that he has tattoos seemingly everywhere. By the movie’s end, he’s over 50 and his “everywhere” tattoo collection is complete as he takes on an old Native American hung-by-hooks-in-the-skin spirit quest ritual.

It’s the “pain” he’s addicted to, the machismo. “I did it, could you?” He’s so wasted most of the time we never learn the limits of his substance abuse, just the fact that he fathered another substance abuser with Sharon McNeill.

Sharon is a few years older, was “with” J.D. “just long enough to get pregnant” by him before he ran off and married “some girl down in Albemarle.” Sharon’s a regular at Clovers, trying to pick up pocket money to supplement a lifestyle that has her living with an older man “like we was married” who covers her expenses as he requires her housekeeping and care-giving.

She’s buried one ex, and is on contemptuous but half-decent terms with J.D., who hangs with their adult son at the campsite where that addict son lives.

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Whatever else what can say about any action A picture (“Avatar,” “Sisu,” “Don’t Breathe”) or slew of B and C-movies that have filled the post AARP membership career of the formidable Stephen Lang, you have to give it up for his stunt double, his stunt team, stunt coordinator and (guessing here) his pilates instructor.

For 73, the dude gets around, busts heads and kicks tail. In the movies, at least.

“Hellfire” is another never-underestimate the “Old Man” vengeance thriller of the B movie variety. It’s not remotely as good as the best of his recent Bs, “VFW.” But he’s playing another veteran, “ex-Special Forces,” the wrong sort of drifter to cross even if you’d just as soon he drift right out of town — no stop for drinks, no meal, no night in a motel.

Screenwriters have it in their heads that this “violent veteran” characters matter to anybody who would elect to stream titles like “Hellfire.”

This being 1990s Texas, our nameless drifter gets gets nicknamed “Nomada” (nomadic) by the wheelchair-bound owner (Chris Mullinax) of the local saloon. Hey it’s catchy enough for everybody in town to adapt it.

There’s the saloon owner’s daughter Lena (Scottie Thompson), the aging hulk of a sheriff (Dolph Lundgren) and even the bad guy Clyde (Michael Sirow) who travels with two goons to make sure he properly intimidates one and all he meets. “Nomada” also crosses the lips of Clyde’s Beethoven-loving, piano-playing father (Harvey Keitel) who “runs this town” from his fancy antebellum mansion.

We hear that nickname almost as often as the phrase “We don’t care much for outsiders” and “Ex-Special Forces, huh?”

The entire town is in the clutches of drug-importer Jeremiah (Keitel), who has his minions threaten and break hands of any who disobey his edicts about “outsiders” and the operation all are required to pitch in on. We’ll see what Mr. Ex-Special Forces has to say about that.

Stunt man turned B-movie director Isaac Florentine (“Seized,” “Acts of Vengeance”) protects his star and showcases him as best he can. But it’s a slow, stumbling and stupidly predictable film, save for one plot turn.

Our hero has what we take are Vietnam combat flashback nightmares, suggesting survivor’s guilt and a hunger for revenge. But whole gunfights are predicated upon the idea that Latin cartel gunmen and “ex-Special Forces” veterans can’t hit the broad side of a barn with the broad side of another barn.

And there’s a fatal flaw in Richard Lowry’s script that I won’t give away except to note how similiar it is to the Indiana Jones/”Raiders of the Lost Ark” “necessity” quandary.

Not every movie can be an A-picture, and whatever his “Avatar” paydays, that can’t be the most rewarding work Lang does as his career winds down (not nearly as fast as Keitel’s, from the looks of things).

My coping mechanism for enduring merit-free trash like this is to remember an actor’s better moments — Lang’s affecting, emotional turn as General Pickett of “Pickett’s Charge” infamy, the best performance in “Gettysburg,” his Ike Clanton in “Tombstone” and his menacing blind crime victim who won’t be “victimized” in “Don’t Breathe.”

“Hellfire” is exactly the sort of movie you’d expect Dolph Lundgren to wind down his career with. Keitel and Lang deserve better.

Rating: R, graphic violence, drug content

Cast: Stephen Lang, Scottie Thompson, Michael Sirow, Chris Mullinax, Dolph Lundgren and Harvey Keitel.

Credits: Directed by Isaac Florentine, scripted by Richard Lowry. A Saban Films release.

Running time: 1:35

Innocuous to the point of insipid and unfailingly inane, “Relationship Goals” is exactly what you’d expect of a rom-com based on a self-help book by a self-promoting preacher.

It’s the sort of romance where we wait for close to 90 minutes for a character to blurt the obvious — “Have you never seen a ROM COM?” Because whatever the challenges of turning self-help into cinema, the screenwriters of this faith-based romance may have seen a romantic comedy or two, based on the formula they try to shove this into. But they didn’t take those movies’ lessons to heart. Every character is a cliche, every snippet of “advice” a weary bromide.

You need to “unpack” a relationship that isn’t giving you what you need so that you can “repack it,” etc. STOP the presses!

Kelly Rowland of Destiny’s Child and TV’s “Grown-Ish” stars as Leah, a go-getter TV producer angling for the job of show runner for a New York-based “Better Day Today” AM news program.

Leah writes herself affirmations on Post-It notes she pastes to her bathroom mirror. Relationships? She’s got that down to a “list” of requirements and deal-breakers that she’s spent years “curating.”

“No kids,” she demands of her prospective mate. “No cheaters.” “Nice style.”

She’s awaiting her big promotion with her obligatory gay assistant Roland (Ryan Jamaal Swain), co-host/bestie Brenda (Robin Thede) and “swipe right” addict makeup queen Treese (Annie Gonzalez)

Leah has no time for her dad (Dennis Haysbert), who’s pushing her to visit her mother’s grave because “You can’t outrun grief.” But her wait for the “big news” from her retiring boss and mentor (Matt Walsh, barely registering in a generally bland cast) doesn’t pay off.

“The network” has poached a rival network’s rising star to try him out as show runner. Jarrett Roy (Method Man) gets everything but wolf whistles from the female staff when he waltzes in to “Whatta Man Whatta Man Whatta a Mighty Good Man.”

But he and Leah “have history.” He cheated. Now she’s got to fight for a job she figures she’s earned against a heel she’s avoided for years. And he’s telling her “I’ve changed.“

In Jarrett’s case, he’s found his sacred text — “Relationship Goals” — and his guru out in Tulsa, Pastor Michael Todd (as himself). That cheating “happened,” but “it’s not who I am.” Maybe Leah’ll give him another chance? Before or after he steals her job out from under her?

The story’s “dating with a purpose” (matrimony) messaging is hit harder than the religious themes. Characters in this alternate reality of network news drop “I just need to pray on this” and “God’s plan” into conversation and bicker over how to produce a video profile of this hot new book and the preacher pushing it into the public eye.

None of the narrative’s three storylines — Leah’s, Brenda’s frustrations with her failure-to-commit basketballer beau (DeVaughn Nixon), Treese’s hapless loneliness, or Leah’s trials — hold the screen or the viewer’s interest.

The production is polished but bloodless, and nothing the bland cast and veteran TV director Linda Mendoza (“Scrubs,” “Grown-Ish”) do brings it to life.

“Relationship Goals” is as generic as a self-help book cover, and doomed to be forgotten as quickly as the book it’s based on will be.

Rating: PG-13, adult situations, mild profanity

Cast: Kelly Rowland, Method Man, Robin Thede, Annie Gonzalez, Dennis Haysbert, Matt Walsh and Pastor Michael Todd

Credits: Directed by Linda Mendoza, scripted by Michael Elliott, Cory Tynan and Laura Lekkos, based on the book by Pastor Michael Todd. An MGM release on Amazon Prime.

Running time: 1:33

“She Walks in Darkness” is a Spanish police thriller that’s content with being more of a solid and sturdy take on its subject than a thrilling and suspenseful one.

There are tense moments, here and there, most of which aren’t scripted, acted and edited to maximize their impact. When it finally gets up some speed for a breathless finish, even that plays as muted.

The film’s opening title sets the uncertain tone, a tale of a multi-faceted police effort to break up dogged terror group. “This could be one of their stories,” writer-director Agustín Díaz Yanes coyly writes. So, not a “true” story. Perhaps a trifle “true-ish.”

It’s about a police officer sent deep undercover to infiltrate the pernicious Basque separatist group ETA, which devolved from a political movement not shy about violence into a fringe faction given to kidnapping and murdering political opponents of every stripe. With every shooting, bombing and assassination, the police doggedly stay the course of a long investigation. With every violent act in the ’90s and 2000s, the country is shaken and ETA grows more widely hated.

But the film’s story of blood-stained police “patience,” trying to roll up an entire organization when constant arrests of those figures they had plenty of evidence on allows the viewer to second guess if repeatedly their organization and reducing their ranks through arresting their way up the ladder might have saved lives.

Susan Abaitua, a Spanish dead ringer for Dakota Johnson, stars as officer Amaya, an orphaned college grad who turned from translating Yeats and tutoring into Spanish to uniformed police work. As she knows Basque, she’s recruited to be sent to the northwest, to San Sebastian and the Basque region along the French border.

As the Basques have their own dialect, history and culture and live in the mountains on both sides of the Franco-Spanish frontier, their sixty years of resistence to Spanish and French domination seems understandable. But the struggle, which began under the Franco dictatorship, reached something of a conclusion in the decade or so after the Generalissimo’s death. It’s just that some diehards refused to lay down their arms.

Amaya is given a new background, a comatose imposter mother and a mission in the mid-90s. Only “four people will know your true identity,” her captain (Andrés Gertrúdix) assures her. What he doesn’t tell her is that her commitment will take years, that her plans for life with her fiancé will be put on hold or indeed imperiled.

What he doesn’t tell her is that ID’ing ETA members, safe houses and weapons caches won’t be enough. She takes the risks, gathers information and and passes it on A wider and wider network of terror cells — mostly organized on the French side of the border — is recognized, its members identified and slowly pinned-down.

And bodies of council members, party leaders, law professors and bystanders pile up while the investigation continues. Suspected “moles” within the group, which finally starts to be rolled up years later — are executed right in front of her. Amaya finds herself forced to pull the trigger to save her neck when a cop killing goes wrong.

Even so, her ETA boss (Iraia Elias) has got to question the young woman’s motives. “I came to help with the cause,” (in Basque, French and Spanish with subtitles, or dubbed) hardly seems convincing.

“She Walks in Darkness,” more colorfully titled “Un fantasma en la batalla (“A Ghost in the Battle”)” in Spanish, studiously avoids turning melodramatic, but does a middling job of suggesting the stress, paranoia and fear that must accompany this most dangerous corner of policing.

Abaitua is given moments to get across the grim, guarded nature of living this sort of lie, forced into violence as self-preservation and revolted by it.

But the picture is entirely too choppy — jumping back and forth in time — and cut and dried and “procedural” to show a beating heart, flesh and blood characters and the horrific costs that raise the stakes of it all.

And our lead character is too passively written and played to fully engage us in the story, a Spanish Dakota Johnson in more than just her beauty.

Rating: TV-MA, graphic violence

Cast: Susana Abaitua,
Andrés Gertrúdix, Iraia Elias, Ariadna Gil,
Raúl Arévalo, Cris Iglesias and Mikel Losada

Credits: Scripted and directed by Agustín Díaz Yanes. A Netflix release.

Running time: 1:48

Before every threatrical “type,” there is an archetype, the model which inspires every version of that theme that follows.

At some point, sometime between the Golden Age of Tony Randall and “Ellen,” the “gay best friend” emerged as a movie, stage and tV trope, a character invented to give the leading lady support, self-confidence and if need be, a makeover.

“A Taste of Honey” is a dated but deliciously detailed slice of British “Kitchen Sink Realism,” a drama about an impulsive, confused teen stumbling through variations of the same mistakes her working class floozy of a mother made.

More than a few characters within it come off as stock “types.”

But consider what Shelagh Delaney’s 1958 play grappled with. There’s an inter-racial romance at a time when British culture and British cinema pretended, for most intents and purposes, that Black people didn’t live there. An out-of-wedlock pregnancy ensues.

And homosexuality was illegal at the time, “the love that dare not speak its name,” the ruin of Oscar Wilde and open secret of Noel Coward. Who does our heroine turn to in her pregnant hour of need? Her new “gay best friend.”

For his third film, after “Look Back in Anger” and “The Entertainer,” stage director turned “angry young man” filmmaker Tony Richardson made a most unconventional drama destined to play as utterly conventional over half a century later. His and Delaney’s archetypes became stock “types” with decades of sitcoms, rom-coms and “coming out” stories to follow once the Western world got around to accepting love is color blind and that gay people exist and have the same humanity as anybody else.

“A Taste of Honey” is a gritty black and white tale of post-war Britain still in the economic doldrums, with class mobility a dream not yet awakened.

Sassy Jo, played as a naive, wide-eyed innocent with a hint of “fury” about her by screen newcomer Rita Tushingham, is a teen more than ready to bail out of high school. And she’s had more than enough of her unaffectionate, deadbeat tippler of a mother (Dora Bryan).

Mum Helen may lead the sing-alongs down’tha’pub and have the eye of younger and well-off WWII vet Peter (Robert Stephens). But Jo figures 17 years of neglect and dodging landlords because her mother never pays the rent is enough.

Salford, the port town part of greater Manchester, has plenty of just-scrape-by working class jobs available to a lass like her.

But that nice chap (Paul Danquah) who helped carry her armfull of belongings from the bus to the next apartment they won’t pay rent on makes a lot of eye contact. When he sees her again with a skinned knee, he bandages her up at his workplace. He’s the cook on a coastal freighter. And he’s interested.

She’s interested in the fact that he’s interested.

Amid the whirl of her mother’s determination to remarry, with her ill-tempered, hard-drinking one-eyed new mate deciding the endless scorn of a teenager is not for him, Jo takes a tumble for her sailor. And when she realizes she’s pregnant, he’s already sailed away.

Luckily, she’s already sharing a flat with newly-homeless Geoff (Murray Melvin), who is sensitive, overtly fey and yet responsible enough to want to care for her and her baby on the way.

“You need somebody to love you while you’re looking for somebody to love,” he tells her.

Richardson opens the film with a frenetic girls’ game of netball, energetically shot with a hand-held camera, and spends the rest of the movie dazzling us with his attention to working class detail — the dumpy, tiny flats, the less-than-scenic working waterfront and the proletarian amusements of the proles.

We duck into pubs and a dance club (where Elvis Costello’s dad is the band leader) and visit the downmarket peep shows of the semi-seedy “resort” town of Blackpool.

But it is Delaney’s dialogue that reminds us that it’s not melodrama if you’re actually living through it.

“The dream is gone,” Jo sighs. “But the baby’s real,” Geoff reminds her.

Jo’s teen sarcasm prefigures the wisecracking Beatles/Python era to come — cutting remarks that draw blood.

“You don’t look 40,” Jo tartly tells her “tart” of a mother. “You look a sort of well-preserved sixty!”

The script is a grab-bag of tropes, some of them already worn and weary at the time of its composition — clueless, compassion-free landlords, hated stepfather, neglectful self-interested mother, et al.

But the interracial romance is a marvel of tolerance totally and tonally out of step with its times. Jo doesn’t make much of it and assures her ring-offering lover that her mother “isn’t prejudiced.”

And the thing about Geoff is that she “sees” him — they meet when he shops for Italian loafers in the shop where she works — without more of a clue than his manner and voice.

“I’ve always wanted to know about people like you,” she enthuses. “Mind your own business,” he snaps.

“You’re like a big sister to me,” Jo crows.

Tushingham is gloriously real — by turns fragile and defiant, angry and fearful and fun in what would turn out to be a career-making performance. Her first film would lead to a career that included turns in “Doctor Zhivago,” “The Knack…And How to Get It” and even Edgar Wright’s recent “Last Night in Soho.”

Melvin finds pathos in spine in a character that could easily have become a stereotype. He goe light on the affectations, so much so that he’d never pass muster as a Kenneth Williams impersonator, and the role is the richer for that. His career put him in “Damn the Defiant!” “Barry Lyndon,” “The Lost City of Z” and a recurring character on TV’s “Torchwood” before he died in 2023.

And Richardson would top “Honey” with “The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner” and the ribald romp “Tom Jones” followed by a long career in Hollywood (“The Border,” “Hotel New Hampshire”).

But back in their “angry” youth, all of them contributed to the revival of British cinema through a reinvention of drama, films that got down and dirty and down to the brass tacks, “kitchen sink” and all.

Rating: TV-PG, adult themes, smoking

Cast: Rita Tushingham, Dora Bryan, Murray Melvin, Paul Danquah and Robert Stephens.

Credits: Scripted and directed by Tony Richardson, adapted from the play by Shelagh Delaney.

Running time: 1:41

It’s Super Bowl weekend, or as your favorite beer, chips and wings advertiser and gutless local TV sports anchor calls it the weekend of the “Big Game/”

Speaking from experience, this is the best weekend of the year to A) fly somewhere or B) go to the movies. Jetliners are at half-capacity, typically. And the cinemas are largely empty.

That’s particularly true this year as no brilliant, crowd-drawing new offerings are being released to counter-program against Concussion Bowl LX.

“Send Help,” a survivalist working class vengeance horror comedy that’s a winner for director Sam Raimi and Rachel McAdams, will dominated the light turnout with a $10 million weekend.

Faith-based Angel Studios tries its hand at a chaste, profanity-free (if not exactly “faith based”) rom-com with the Kevin James stood-up-at-the-altar-in-Italy dud “Solo Mio.” It cleared $7.2  million. James teamed up with a whole Rhode Island family of filmmakers for this one, and all those Kinnanes wouldn’t know a reliable laugh if it bit any one of them in the bum.

There’s a K-pop group concert film from Bleecker Street, “Stray Kidz: The dominATE Experience,” which did well Thursday night and Friday and just enough Saturday to earn $5.564 million, taking third place. Are they a big deal with Gen Z or Gen Alpha? Or is this the low turnout the product of Bleecker Street’s limited screens and invisible marketing?

The French made, American and pan-European cast “Dracula” from action auteur Luc Besson is a lush and bloody take on an overtold tale. But even though Caleb Landry Jones isn’t box office and the supporting cast of Euro-lovelies are mostly unknown — save for Christoph Waltz — it fell a couple of $hundred thousand shy of $5 million.

“Zootopia 2” kept any other newcomers from cracking the top five earning over $4 million

Lionsgate’s latest “The Strangers” horror installment, “The Strangers 3,” is more senseless slaughter, we trust, as we’re not going to see that. That’s the royal “we” as in I won’t be bothered, and neither will the once-reliable horror crowd, which stayed home Thursday night and Friday and Sat. putting it’s opening weekend take at franchise killing $3.5 million. Terrible reviews didn’t help.

It might have edged “Avatar: Fire and Ash”;for sixth, but only by a few bucks.

Eighth place went to the latest Jason Statham vengeance action pic “Shelter” which cleared $2.42.

In ninth, the Jeff Bezos bribe money abortion “Melania” is on track to earn another $2.378 million from Hix in the Stix. Scathing reviews, followed by mass layoffs at the Bezos newspaper, The Washington Post, with director Brett Ratner, Melania and her tiny-fingered husband all over the Epstein child sex trafficking and perhaps snuff film ring files. But surely the bald runt who financed it — the name Bezos is in the latest dump of files 194 times –– figures it’s worth it.

And “The Housemaid” ($1.8) earned just enough to push “Marry Supreme,” a couple of limited new releases and the Oscar contender “Hamnet” out of the top ten.

Luc Besson’s “Dracula” is pretty much like everybody else’s “Dracula.”

Our Eastern European prince — played by Caleb Landry Jones — is dolled up in the style of Francis Ford Coppola’s ’92 take on “Bram Stoker’s Dracula.”

There’s a Mina (Zoë Bleu), the object of our blood-sucking vampire’ obsession. She has her realtor fiance Jonathan (Ewens Abid), but the toothsome seducer is not to be denied.

And there’s a vampire hunter, in this case an unnnamed priest (Christoph Waltz) who sounds like a “Van Helsing” even if we never hear his name.

“You know my desires,” a fetching vampire (Matilda De Angelis) purrs to her crucifixed interrogator.

“I know your needs,” the priest purrs back, offering a her little hemoglobin in liquid form.

The director of “The Fifth Element,” “La Femme Nikita” and “Lucy” adds an origin story/prologue to the tale, taking us back to the Middle Ages where our warrior count butchers invading Ottoman Turks and accidentally kills his beloved wife (Bleu again). He vows to get her back, murders an archbishop whose prayers didn’t save her and is thus cursed to search and “turn” others to search for him as he piles up riches and waits for centuries for Lisabeth’s reincarnation.

But other than some “Excalibur” over-decorated and gruesomely bloodied armor, a few interesting moments of period detail over the centuries and the odd anachronism, this “Dracula” — titled “A Love Story” in Europe — has little to recommend it.

The lumbering narrative never staggers to its feet for a suspenseful sprint. It’s ponderous. But as it was financed, set and filmed in Europe with a lot of nubile unknown female necks to be nibbled, which has long been Besson’s calling card, there is that.

Jones, star of Besson’s “Dogman,” has little about him that suggests aristocratic, dashing “gentleman,” which is how his character is supposed to come off when his retinue of vampires discover the new Lisabeth in 1889 Paris, just as the French Revolution’s centennial is being celebrated. Jones reaches for “soulful” a couple of times. But all the slaughtering of Muslims, vampire hunters and the young, the pretty and the innocent buries that.

One is tempted to call this brooding, self-serving and impulsive Dracula a “generation appropriate” version. He’s doing his sit-ups. But matinee idol Draculas of the Frank Langella variety are a thing of the cinematic past, or so it would appear.

We get to watch Vlad bite/slaughter his way through the 17th century French court and a 19th century convent — scenes filmed as blood-spraying orgies. But the lip service the script pays to obsessive, passionate “undying” love is just that — lip service before the fangs come back out.

Vlad the Impaler’s “familiars” here — his non-vampiric assistants — are a legion of unspeaking stone gargoyles brought to CGI animated life. Cute. But I prefer just one speaking, cowering, “Yes, Master!” “Renfield,” myself

This “Dracula” is somehow somewhat better than the worst versions of the tale we’ve seen in recent decades, but a few bites short of adequate or anything approaching Coppola’s ’90s film or Robert Eggers’ gorgeous and stark “Nosferatu.”

Rating: R, graphic, gruesome violence, sexual situations

Cast: Caleb Landry Jones,
Zoë Bleu, Matilda De Angelis. Guillaume de Tonquédec, Thalia Besson, Ewens Abid and Christoph Waltz.

Credits: Scripted and directed by Luc Besson, based on the novel by Bram Stoker. A Vertical release.

Running time: 2:09

“Solo Mio” is a mild-mannered comedy of the “Left at the Altar/Honeymoon Goes Wrong” school. It’s a little “Runaway Bride,” a lot of “Honeymoon Crasher” or “Forgetting Sarah Marshall,” but without any of the edge or many of the laughs of its predecessors.

Kevin James plays an elementary school school art teacher who has finally met Ms. Right (Julie Ann Emory), teaching at the same school, in his 50s. A cute in-class proposal gives them a video to remember The Big Moment by.

That video is still on his phone as he stands at the altar in Rome for their “destination wedding.” But she leaves him a heartfelt note and skips out.

“Solo Mio” kind of goes wrong at about the same time as the wedding. We don’t see what’s on the note. We don’t meet any of the families gathered there, and without that, the nature of the “disaster” isn’t all that messy, the humiliation is limited to the concierge and others our man Matt had pre-paid for their dream nuptials and honeymoon.

If only some sympathetic Italian barista (Nicole Grimaudo of the Italian comedy “Loose Cannons”) could take pity on him, keep him away from pickpocket kindergarteners, help him with the language, lift his spirits and mend his broken heart.

“You have to try, take chances,” she says trying to make Matthew dance, sing, live or something. She’s speaking to Matt, to the audience, and to the filmmakers, who ignore their own screenwritten advice.

Three credited screenwriters, including big and small screen veteran James, and their big idea is to have Matt counseled by a honeymooning therapist (Jonathan Roumie) a blustering boor (veteran screen heavy Kim Coates) who “bought the same (travel) package” and are thus witness to the shame of his dining alone or riding a pre-rented tandem bike solo.

“You’re NOT single,” one counsels. “You’re SINGLE” the other eggs on, promising a “dirty rebound” is in the offing.

The picture occasionally rises to “cute” and James dials down the “mall cop” pathetic to someone recognizable and relatable. Grimauda turns on the Italian charm.

But why cast veteran funnywoman Alyson Hannigan if you have so little for her to make fun of? Coates, released of the burden of playing Satanic goateed, blue-eyed whom Kevin Costner (“Open Range”) and his ilk shoot right between eyes, is the movie’s most reliable laugh.

A movie set in Rome and Siena shortchanges the scenery and falls short in too many other ways to count. The lack of “family” lowers the stakes and rubs comic “outrage” out of the picture. Let’s make the fleeing bride-to-be a non-entity, also lacking an edge.

A tentative, chaste courtship is fine. “Exes” creating complications is a plot point to be expected. Here, they’re so watered down and contrived as to be no obstacle at all to “true love.”

The production arranged a few third act surprises, one of which pays off warmly while the others flop like lead balloons. Why bother to park our cast in Siena during the Palio horse race if you can’t do something amusing or dramatic with that? The race is typically 90 seconds long. You can’t show us the finish?

James has been collaborating on short films with the seven Rhode Island Kinnane brothers, who earn writing, directing, editing and producing credits on “Solo Mio.” But keeping this enterprise “all in the family” practically screams out its shortcomings. Outside voices might have juiced the jokes, milked the comic situations and avoided the blunders of a travelogue rom-com that promises a little and can’t even deliver on that.

Rating: PG

Cast: Kevin James, Nicole Grimaudo, Julie Ann Emory, Julee Cerda, Jonathan Rounie, Alyson Hanigan and Kim Coates

Credits: Directed by Charles Kinnane and Daniel Kinnane, scripted by Kevin James, John Kinnane and Patrick Kinnane. An Angel Studios release.

Running time: 1:40