Movie Review: A “Wicker” Skarsgård is Catnip to the Ladies in this Sex-Farce Fable from Jolly Olde

“Wicker” is a satiric sex farce that teeters by on a tightrope, never quite tumbling into hilarity but often swooning and even scoring bawdy laughs spun out of the ludicrous, fairytale situations and “Sex Habits of the Elizabethans” setting.

The tone in this adaptation of a fable is wry and raunchy but never quite side-splitting. The casting couldn’t be better, with Oscar winner Olivia Colman as a lovelorn, smelly Fishmonger who hires a basket-weaver (Peter Dinklage) to “weave me a husband.”

Who plays this hunky, ginger-haired (branched) “Wicker” man? Alexander Skarsgård, the king of oddball, often inhuman and freakish (“It!”) casting, of course.

But the giggles are few and a tad too far between, even if Colman & Co. do their Python-lite damnedest to deliver, at least on their side of the camera.

In an unnamed, color-blind-casting village from the tail-end of the Tudor era, The Fisherwoman (Colman) is subject to scorn in a community where her wares may be wanted but her smell keeps many at arm’s length.

We meet her on a day when the dullish young Bottle Washer (Gustav Lindh) is to marry a doctor’s daughter (Marli Siu) via a bizarre Church of England sanctioned “collar” (neck shackle) ceremony that underscores wives as “property,” as “man and woman become man and his wife.”

Our Fishmonger is half-amused, but when the basket weaver’s woven, trick eggs are handed out to the village maidens by the bridge, she gets the one with the “prize” inside. Much merriment is made over her being “the next to wear the matrimonial collar.”

So she spends her savings on hiring that weaver to make her a spouse. He turns out to be not just tall, woody and handsome, but inadvertently soulful in how he talks to his new, break-the-bed lusty bride.

“You’re the reason I live and breathe,” he says, which is quite literally true. “Without you I would never have seen the sun set on the ocean.” Just as true.

But all that romantic talk, and the fact that he’s handy around the house — mending the roof, fish traps and the bed that their love-making breaks most every night — unsettles the unsatisfied wives and shows up and annoys the assorted “simple creatures” (louts) they’re married to.

That spells trouble, the basket-weaver senses, in this “village of blind-eyed ground moles.”

Elizabeth Debicki of “The Great Gatsby” and “Tenet” is queen bee among the wives, the doctor’s (Richard E. Grant) daughter and tailor’s (Nabhaan Rizwan) wife. She sews dissent and has no trouble stirring up gossip.

The menfolk resent having to undertake all this “talking” with their wives.

“I’m an Innkeeper,” Kiell Smith-Bynoe bellows, “not a minstrel!”

And that gossip tears at the insecure Fishmonger wife and her relationship with her guileless, grateful and kind husband.

Things kind of go wrong in the way some performances are pitched, with our Tailor’s Wife having many of her sharp edges rubbed off. Other wives bitch and moan but have few too scenes or lines to make much of an impression.

And the men, from those named for their professions — Baker, Butcher, et al — to “The Drunk” — are drawn dully and lack any edge to their performances as well.

Limiting the conflict to the new couple narrows the scope of the mayhem that abruptly erupts in the third act.

And writers-directors Alex Huston Fisher and Eleanor Wilson can’t wring laughs out of players who aren’t famously funny. Colman, Grant and Dinklage deliver. Skarsgård works. Nobody else is up to their level.

The sex jokes, about “wood” and “clams” and such, with matrimonial rituals that include the groom wearing a codpiece, blindfolded, as a goat eats a symbolic carrot out of his crotch, lack the Python absurdity they were meant to have.

It’s kind of fun, and timeless in its message. But lacking the edge and anarchy this sort of sex-based satire demands renders “Wicker” as instantly forgettable as its title and about as durable as that which its title character is woven from.

Rating: R, sexual content, nudity, profanity and bodily function gags

Cast: Olivia Colman, Alexander Skarsgård, Elizabeth Debicki, Marli Siu, Kiell Smith-Bynoe, Emily Lloyd-Saini, Phil Daniels, Nabhaan Rizwan, Richard E. Grant and Peter Dinklage.

Credits: Scripted and directed by Alex Huston Fisher and Eleanor Wilson, based on a fable by Ursula Wills. A Black Bear/Topic Studios release.

Running time: 1:45

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Movie Review: Turturro Broods and Schemes as “The Only Living Pickpocket in New York”

The one thing that keeps you on the edge of your seat for the sober-minded thriller “The Only Living Pickpocket in New York” is the suspense over how good the finale will be. Because so much that’s preceded it — from the casting to the down-market Bronx settings, the music (Bobby Short and “You’re a Native New Yorker”) to cruel youth vs. world-weary age conflict at the heart — is damned near perfect.

The is a genre picture brimming with character and grit. And it soon becomes clear that the finale will be the only chance that writer-director Noah Segan (“Blood Relatives” has to blow it. Which he kind of does by overreaching, sentimentalizing and stripping away mystery from all that’s come in the first 80 minutes by trying too hard to tidy things up in the end.

John Turturro has that rare role worthy of him as Harry, a veteran thief who rides the (subway) rails and prowls the streets picking out his next mark. Harry’s good at blending in — salt and pepper hair, beard and overcoat. We’re introduced to him by following that first mark through the opening credits. When the well-heeled Manhattanite stands next to the wrong tall Italian on the subway, it’s bye-bye billfold.

But this is the 2020s. It’s a cashless society. Stolen phones are only worth anything to “the Chinese guy” on the edge of the Village. Watches? Who needs them, and who will pay top dollar for genuine Swiss movement when a look-alike knockoff is as near as the next street corner.

Steve Buscemi is Harry’s wizened pawnbroker/fence Ben, the one who reminds him he’s a dinosaur and that street pickings aren’t worth what they once were.

Harry runs into a former protege (Victoria Moroles) who is all about cyber hustles these days. “You gotta learn new tricks,” she says. Nope. There’s nothing like “the old ‘five finger discount,'” the master pocket picker insists.

Harry’s taking care of his catatonic wife (Karina Arroyave), and generously tipping nurses’ assistants and neighbors who pitch in. He knows how this city works. A homeless person he asks for directions has her hand out. So does everybody else.

Then his shrinking world is upended when he sets up and breaks into a pretty boy’s (Will Price of TV’s latest “Goosebumps,” and “Eleanor the Great”) ’69 Barracuda. Harry’s not just good at picking pockets.

But rummaging through that kid’s gym bag turns up a pistol — a tell. There’s also a wad of cash and a flash drive, which Old School Harry knows nothing about and Ben, with his Radio Shack era pan shown PC, has no means of opening.

Might the streetwise pickpocket be a match for the “Ivy” educated punk running his own gang, a kid from a Jersey “family” that’s not to be trifled with? Harry’s lack of tech savvy and his routines make him far too easy to track down. Now everybody in his world is in the same fix he is.

An intimate, edgy New York tale like this one would count itself lucky to land Turturro or Buscemi to give it authenticity. Here, actor-turned-director Segan (he was the cop in “Knives Out”) and producer Rian Johnson get both, with the great Giancarlo Esposito as a playful, retirement-ready cop who’s crossed paths with Harry enough to joke around with him on the subway as he shows him cards with criminal suspects’ photos on them to see if Harry might inform on where they are.

Price is something of a “find” — playing a good-looking college man too polished to be openly sadistic, but blunt about Harry’s fate if that flash drive isn’t back in his hands, pronto. “Dylan” is scary not because he’s violent and tough, or because he’s connected enough to have a crew to do his dirty work, but too smart to leave everything to a bunch of mugs.

Turturro’s Harry is a criminal with a humanity that comes with age, returning cash-free wallets via mailboxes, not begrudging his victims’ modern ways of avoiding cash with an “Even suckers get a day off, sometimes.” Heartless Dylan is amoral, impulsive, violent youth incarnate — capable of anything to get what’s his and not be made a sucker by a pickpocket who might be in AARP.

Segan’s lean, compact thriller takes care of business for a solid 80 minutes. And then he introduces new characters, flashback plot twists and scene after scene that simply does not have to be here, unless the financing was dependent on squeezing in an actual Oscar winner with three guys who ought to have one themselves.

I still loved the adult nature of the story — older people with grave responsibilities and shortcomings like falling into dangerous, out-of-step-with-our-surveillance-state times habits, generosity, loyalty, family neglect and self-preservation that keep coming back to bite them where it hurts.

“You old guys. You’re all about keeping your word.”

“That’s what makes it valuable.”

The acting is in-the-pocket, all up and down the line. Bit players like Echaka Agba, Kelvin Yan Hee, Mark Cayne and Lori Tan Chinn make vivid, lived-in impressions in tiny roles, as does Aida Turturro.

But watch this little gem of a thriller and tell me I’m wrong about the contortions the script undertakes to get to a few last twists and deliver a couple of extra, pithy conversations. If the fade to black with Bobby Short singing “I Happen to Like New York” had happened five minutes sooner, this would’ve been a jewel of this year’s awards season.

Rating: R, suggestions of violence, profanity

Cast: John Turturro, Steve Buscemi, Will Price, Victoria Moroles, Tatiana Maslany, Giancarlo Esposito and Jamie Lee Curtis

Credits: Scripted and directed by Noah Segan. A Sony Pictures Classic release.

Running time: 1:26

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Patrick Stewart: 1940-2026, Eight Decades of Pure Class

Who didn’t live this guy?

Patrick Stewart classed up everything he showed up in, on the stage and on screens big and small. He made small screens large just with his presence and movies feel important, even when they weren’t.

It’s been fun, over the decades, to come across pre “Star Trek” turns of his in supporting roles in classics like”Excalibur” and lesser fare. He started standing out in middle age, and he had a long one.

His working class upbringing meant he had a steeper hill to climb than many an upper class, hyphenated surnamed colleague He sprinted up that hill, Royal Shakespeare Company, films, TV, icon status.

If his Trek years taught us anything, it was that he could take the work seriously and himself not so much. His becoming bosom buddies with Ian McKellen during their “Godot” years, with chat show appearances, pranks and staged photos , were just joyous.

I only interviewed him once, before that late life career bounce that “X-Men” gave him. He was talking up “Masterminds,” which he made tolerable simply by his presence.

He ennobled “Picard” and “Logan” with much more than his formidable manner. He showed us his Lear in many films and many guises in his latter years.

Sir Patrick was an advocate for domestic abuse victims and, with partner in crime Sir Ian, a playful champion of tolerance.

He came to the rescue during COVID by reging us with the Bard’s sonnets.

We should all age into dotage with such grace, gravitas and good humor.

An actor’s life it was, and as well acted and lived as any of his era. Let the tears flow and the curtain calls be many. He was one of a kind.

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Movie Review: “The Awakening,” a “Predator” knock-off you can Nap Through

Four different guys are credited with writing and directing “The Awakening,” a vengeful nature spirit takes its revenge thriller from Colombia.

Man, the video village on that set must’ve been…entertaining. Just judging from the finished film, y’understand.

It’s a “Predator” knock-off with commandos hunting a “terrorist”/”freedom fighter” (Carlos Mariño) in the jungle, only to run afoul of the ancient jungle spirit “Mobuya,” who literally turns everything around them into a murderous menace.

The jungle itself is their enemy.

Troopers are snatched skyward, out of the frame, by deadly vines, pierced by darts and arrows that seem to spring from tree limbs, dismembered by this and gutted by that.

And that tale, of a shrinking squad of tac’d-out super troopers (no future U.S. governors Schwarzenegger or Ventura in this version) is intercut with flashbacks to 1547 and an earlier company of invaders — conquistadors, with Native guides, slaves and priests — who faced a similar fate.

All that effort to tie two stories from the past and present together is for naught as the plot is utterly predictable once the killing starts, once one embattled soldier notes “There were some caves back there” (in Spanish with English subtitles) where they might be able to hide until communications are restored and they can be evacuated.

Fat chance of that, right? “Nobody’s coming to look for us!”

The sound effects include the what seems to be background noise of tribes chanting and milling around as they gather for an attack, and the production values aren’t bad.

The flashback scenes are less convincing than the present day perils, and any terror or suspense those perils might provide are undercut by the switching back and forth between timelines.

And the performances are uniformly colorless, although the novelty of including a female trooper (Andrea Olaya) is noted.

The problem began with the cumbersome, derivative screenplay, and matters couldn’t have been helped by having so many people advocating and arguing for their vision of the project even after filming started.

In Los Estados Unidos we say “Too many cooks…” In Latin America, it’s “Muchas manos en un plato hacen mucho garabato.” Either way, it’s must-skip cinema — “Vamos a saltarnos esta película, muchachos y amigas.”

Rating: unrated, graphic violence, Native nudity

Cast: Claudio Cataño, Alejandro Buitrago, Héctor Sánchez, Andrea Olaya,
Jorge Enrique Latorre, Hilda Ruiz and Carlos Mariño

Credits: Directed by Jaime Osorio Marquez, Federico Durán and José Luis Rugeles, scripted by Jaime Osorio Marquez, Federico Durán and Guillermo Escalona. A Well Go USA release.

Running time: 1:36

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Series Review: “The One About Matthew Perry”

Here’s how somebody who’s written about pop culture for a long time might react to that first realization that Netflix has told Matthew Perry’s life story in three parts for a three hour+ long series.

Perry? One hit TV show, a couple of decent movies and a long, sad struggle with the addictions that killed him in his 50s? Three hours on that/him? Talk about inflation.

“Sidney,” a doc about the culture shifting icon Sidney Poitier, covered more ground about a much more important figure in less than two hours. The equally beloved and equally tragic funnyman John Candy could have his cut-short-life story told in two hours in “I Like Me.”

And even a titanic figure in the history of cinema and comedy, Buster Keaton, whose life and career spanned vaudeville to “A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum,” who merited a definitive TV documentary treatment way back in the ’80s, got a two-part “American Masters” celebration titled “Buster Keaton: A Hard At to Follow.” That ran two hours and forty minutes.

But if the greatest comic of his era, the writer, stand-up, comic actor, producer and art collector Steve Martin was worth three hours (“Steve! (Martin): A Documentary in Two Parts”), so is the tragic and funny Matthew Perry. I guess.

Besides, the suits at the streamer Netflix reasoned. America can’t get enough of those “Friends.”

The object of director Mary Robert’s three-part series is straightforward. If American TV taught us that “Your workplace is your other family,” starting with “The Mary Tyler Moore Show,” and “Friends” underscored that when you’re young and starting out, “Your friends are your family.” “The One About Matthew Perry” gives the troubled funnyman back to his “real” family — his siblings, his lifelong friends (not the “Friends” from TV) and his (less famous) lovers.

It’s a way of taking Perry away from the TMZs and tabloids, the scandals and struggles and downward spiral and Reddit threads about it. And it’s a way of highlighting the Tortured-Life-in-Showbiz prediction that a friend recalled Perry himself making, in writing, late in life with his memoir, “Friends, Lovers and the Big Terrible Thing.”

“It is very odd to live in a world where if you died, it would shock people but surprise no one.”

We see the funnyman-in-the-making via several forgotten TV shows lost to memory, but which taught him timing, and meet the pals he hung around with who practiced mugging, pratfalls and what became Perry’s signature, quizzical line readings.

“Could she BE any more out of my league?”

The first of the three episodes set up how word got around to the struggling but semi-successful (he’d starred and co-starred in a couple of short-lived series) neurotic that NBC had this pilot they were shooting with a “dry, wry, commentator on his friends'” character.

“That’s YOU,” everybody who knew Perry told him. If only he could get an audition!

“Hi, I’m Chandler, I make jokes when I’m uncomfortable,” he’d soon be reciting. “”Oh, that makes me feels so warm in my hollow tin chest.” And whenever the Chandler/Matthew line was seriously blurred a writer would have him blurt out “I’m hopeless and awkward and desperate for love!” and the like.

From 1994 to the end of his days, Matthew Perry would be world famous, wildly popular, rich and able to (uncomfortably, it’s implied) “play the field” as far as female companionship was concerned.

Episode Two digs into that fame and its quickly-realized downside — failed relationships, PR dating (Julia Roberts, Selma Blair), attempts to break through in movies, the accident that brought painkillers into this hard-drinker’s life. And Episode Three is almost entirely about the downward slide towards Perry’s death, despite a life that was being repurposed towards helping others cope with the sorts of things he was going through.

The “Friends” and “Fools Rush In” and “The Whole Nine Yards” snippets of Perry being Perry suggest that this documentary series might have started out as basically a really good excuse for the ultimate Perry/”Friends” clip show.

But the effect is to give his fans reason to mourn him all over again, and give even cynics pause at the terrible battle — 12 step meetings, three times a day during stretches, over a dozen trips to rehab, a near death experience not long before the real thing — Perry waged for decades with his “Am I enough? Am I funny enough?” demons.

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Movie Review: Kevin Hart finds the Bottom — “Livestream from Hell”

A running gag of Kevin Hart’s latest, “Livestream from Hell,” is that he’s made boatloads of money and built his brand by monetizing every minute of every waking day, and he hasn’t uplifted other Black talent as he’s done it.

So with his first effort to break into and “dominate” livestreaming “entertainment,” he drags Kai Cenat (“Good Burger 2”), Kel Mitchell (“Good Burger”), model Winnie Harlow, La La Anthony, Fanum and Marshawn Lynch onto the screen to do just that.

The results are disastrously unfunny, a sloppy, half-scripted, half-assed “livestream gone wrong” that finds a laugh here and there and some of the cringier moments in Hart’s long and lucrative showbiz history.

I mean, nothing tops Jerry Seinfeld’s humiliation of him, seating him on the floorboard of a vintage racecar in “Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee.” But this comes close.

The gimmick here is having 47 year-old Hart trying his hand at getting in the latest thing, by making a livestream with film production values, that looks “cinematic” and will position him as “unstoppable” in “the next evolution of the space.”

He is utterly convincing as a grasping mini-mogul always selling…something — himself, mainly.

That kind of explains the dopey online forum discussion of this “movie” as “real” or “fake.”

People, it’s about a livestream that devolves into bloody violence. Then again, it also tries to test your definition of what constitutes “fake.”

The gimmick is that Hart brings in his actor/influencer/streamer pal Kai and his running make Druski to his 32 room Hollywood Hills mansion, which has been wired up with scores of voice-command/self-tracking cameras and microphones for an afternoon and evening of staged, hyped shenanigans.

We watch them “switch on” and paste on their biggest smiles and fakest laughs for the “chat” crowd out there in too-much-time-online-land. And those viewers check in and pile on the comments throughout the day’s stunts — games, quizzes and a visit by a succession of Hart-friends.

Jerry O’Connell tries to bake his “red carpet cookies” for the lads, and is thrown off by the gonzo amateurs Hart has tied himself to, and their unfiltered use of that all purpose slur-turned-affectionate, um “pronoun.”

“STOP USING THE N-WORD,” the flustered white baker-boy shrieks!

Model Winnie Harlow comes in, rapper Sexxy Red, model/actress La La Anthony, each of them making a hasty and “insulted” exit.

Ex-footballer-turned actor Marshawn Lynch comes in for their weekly tennis match, which he’ll squeeze in before finding himself a sex worker “to do something strange for a little piece’a change.”

And then something gets out of hand and there’s a body to dispose of, a live-streaming audience to try and keep in the dark (“MUTE audio!”) about what’s going down and going wrong.

All along, commenters fill the side of the cluttered, flustered screen with a steady stream of “It’s fake” and “Kev SHARTED!” comments.

Lynch is the funniest persona in this, with everybody else flailing and amping up the anger and energy in a variety of fruitless ways.

The failure isn’t so much in not getting that “livestream” vibe down. Other movies have tried that. It’s that none of this is cinematic, particularly surprising or remotely as amusing as those improvising off a script by Binian Bizuneh and Kevin Healey suppose.

Director David Janoff and the editors have to try and tie a lot of pointless “action” coming from a slew of cameras into not just a narrative, but something that doesn’t give you eye fatigue and bury you under boring clutter.

They all fail. Every damned one of them.

And for those of us waiting on Hart to answer that wake-up call, that some offers should remain just that, “offers,” and that there’s value in leaving petty change BS like “Livestream from Hell” on the table while you look for something better? We’re still waiting.

Rating: TV-MA, violence, profanity

Cast: Kevin Hart, Kai Cenat, Sexxy Red, Druski, Jerry O’Connell, La La Anthony, Kel Mitchell, Winnie Harlow, Fanum and Marshawn Lynch.

Credits: Directed by David Janoff, scripted by Binian Bizuneh and Kevin Healey. An Amazon Prime release.

Running time: 1:17

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Documentary Review — “Paralyzed by Hope: The Maria Bamford Story”

Maria Bamford‘s been stand-up comedy’s “next big thing” off and on for decades.

She’d have a break-out tour, TV or film appearance, a chat show guest spot that went viral. And then, crickets.

The offers might be there. Netflix loves her. Just ask CEO Ted Sarandos.

But she’d “go dark,” disappear, take a “hiatus.” For months.

Watching her act, her frank joking about manic depression, “suicidal ideation,” and hearing her often manic speech, even showbiz types should have been able to figure things out.

For Maria Bamford, every day is “a mental health day.”

Ex stand-up, comic filmmaker and showbiz mogul Judd Apatow follows his more-questions-than answers “Norm” Macdonald doc with the far more revealing, engaging and hopeful “Paralyzed by Hope: The Maria Bamford Story.”

Maria Bamford’s not going to lie or evade or cover up huge periods of her life. She’s been putting it on stage for decades — her cornucopia of “mood” calming medications, her early life realization that something was wrong, her therapy, her checking into mental health facilities and the loving, supportive and damaged parents.

We hear from those parents, and from her sister Sarah in “Paralyzed by Hope,” people who take a mocking and try not to take it personally, or take it to their graves.

‘Mom, you do know that even if a coffin is tight around the hips, eventually it fits.’ But the joke’s on me because she got herself cremated, and now she’s just a pound!”

Little is out of bounds and everything is revealed and subject to a set up for a joke.

Funny folks from Patton Oswalt and Zach Galifianakis, who also broke-out on the “Comedians of Comedy” (Netflix) tour that made Bamford a star, to Conan, Sarah Silverman and Steven Colbert sing her praises.

“She’s my favorite stand-up comic,” Colbert decides. Others marvel at her openness and mercurial persona. Of course, one person’s “over-sharing” “manic comic” is another’s “She’s exhausting.” Bamford isn’t to every taste.

“Paralyzed by Hope” is the sort of film that lets us meet Bamford’s husband, artist Scott Marvel Cassidy, hear about their their romance and relationship, shared manias and phobias, coming right up to the point where Maria’s about to tell us of the impending divorce (finalized in Jan.), with Apatow interrupting to suggest saving that “for the sequel.”

Because this latest “big break” won’t change anything. It’s a career, life and search for wellness in progress.

“My therapist says I’m afraid of success. I guess I could understand that because, after all, fulfilling my potential would REALLY cut into my sitting-around time.”

The crux of her stage performances is a conversation between herself and people like her and the outside world of medical professionals and misunderstanding or under-informed people she meets.

Bamford’s act is truly one-of-a-kind. There’s that early “Ellen” likability bathed in the angst that made Richard Lewis famous, a Sandler/Silverman/Carrey parade of funny voices — from therapists and family members to showbiz types and every boss she’s ever had — and a lot of dark dips into despair, mental health problems introduced in sets that can be riotous as well as healing in the “I’m going through that too,” sense.

In her mid-50s, she’s had a busy career as a guest star, voice actress, series star, stand-up and “clown school” mascot and star attraction, as well as memoirist — “Sure, I’ll Join Your Cult: A Memoir of Mental Illness and the Quest to Belong Anywhere.” So if she never gets any bigger than she is right now, with a feature-length documentary laying out her journey from Duluth to Hollywood, from mental illness to medicated wellness, that’s fine.

“Look at me, look at ME,” she declares. “I’m deteriorating as I speak. And still I go on.”

Rating: TV-MA, near nudity, profanity

Cast: Maria Bamford, Judd Apatow, Sarah Silverman, Zach Galifianakis, Sarah Bamford Seidelman, Marilyn Bamford, Joel Bamford, Ted Sarandos, Tig Notaro, Conan O’Brien and Steven Colbert

Credits: Directed by Judd Apatow and Neil Berkeley. A Netflix release.

Running time: 1:56

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BOX OFFICE: “Clayface” doesn’t Deliver D.C. Marvel Money, “You Can See Everything” adds Screens and Cash

When it comes to comic book supervillains, Clayface isn’t remotely a household name.

So maybe that’s the main reason that the new origin story for this Superman foe only managed $24 million on its opening weekend.

Mostly British cast, with few “names” in it. “Clayface” is an R-rated “body horror” — look what they done to my face, Ma — thriller directed by James Watkins, who helmed the James McAvoy “Speak No Evil” a couple of years back.

It’s earning mixed reviews, and ticket prices are spiking again (up 30% at my local ‘plex, following 2025’s 25% spike — Thanks, Trumpers!), so lower your expectations.

It didn’t sell two million tickets, with nationwide average prices of $13-$20. Not exactly “Wolverine” or “Deadpool” or “Avengers” or even “Aquaman” numbers.

“You Can See Everything,” the Elizabeth Holmes/Theranos scandal as documentary fantasy, added 1800 screens and is driving up its box office take. It cleared $19.5 million this weekend as America races out to see what all the fuss is about. This A24 sleeper will be flirting with the $50 million, all-in mark by midnight Sunday.

Stop motion animation Studio Laika’s “Wildwood” is doing a mite better than the last “Shaun the Sheep” film’s numbers, as Fathom Events earned just $11 million with this unproven property. They could all use another “Coraline” or “Porman.”

“Street Fighter” is biting the big one, a steep STEEP Tyler-Perry picture-sized plunge on its second weekend, $8.6 million, per The Numbers.com That’s a 72% percent loss from its opening take and a fall all the way to FOURTH on just its second weekend of release. Oy.

The period piece sex comedy “Wicker” from no-longer-a-startup Black Bear crackd the top five with a $5.75 million take. It’s earning decent reviews and features what one could label an “all star cast” in this day and age — Alexander Skarsgård, Oscar winner Olivia Colman, Richard E. Grant, Elizaeth Debicki and Peter Dinklage.

“Other Mommy” ($3.85 million, over $51 million all-in) took sixth.

“Sense and Sensibility” ($3,4) grabbed seventh ($13 million and counting.).

“Whalefall” ($3.2) fell to eight. It won’t clear $20 million in theaters.

“Verity” ($3.06) enjoys one last weekend in the top ten in ninth. It’s earned over $70, but probably won’t do much over $75 as it loses screens.

“Resident Evil” ($3 million, over $153 million in total) edged “Heart of the Beast” ($62 million total) for tenth place. That’s the last either of them will be in the top ten or eleven.

The Taika Waititi bomb, “Klara and the Sun,” starring Amy Adams and Jenna Ortega as an “artificial friend,” will be lucky to A) clear a $million and B) crack the top ten. Bad bad reviews for that one.

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Classic Film Review: Terry Gilliam at His Most Medieval — “Jabberwocky” (1977)

Terry Gilliam’s first, best destiny was always to be the greatest production designer/art director of his day.

He’s directed a handful of great films — “Time Bandits,” “Brazil,” “The Fisher King,” “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas” and “Twelve Monkeys.” But even misses like “The Adventures of Baron Munchausen” and salvage jobs (“The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus”) can be stunning to behold.

Even the Gilliam disasters (“Zero Theorem,” “Tidelands”) can stick in the memory because of their stunning look. Whoever is credited with art direction or production design on his films — and sometimes it’s him — they’re to a one visually striking and vividly textured.

Even 1977’s “Jabberwocky,” his first and not remotely his biggest flop, stands as a testament to cinematic eye candy, great art direction on celluloid, with frame after frame a textbook on cinematic chiaroscuro.

After co-directing and production designing the cult hit “Monty Python and the Holy Grail,” Gilliam set out to solo direct something even more medieval, if considerably less nonsensical. “Jabberwocky” was sold as “Monty Python’s Jabberwocky” in much of the world, and it just isn’t.

Michael Palin may star, with Terry Jones the first familiar face we see and Python-supporting player Neil Innes as well as Gilliam himself in bit roles. But no Cleese, no Idle, no collaborative joked-up script, no Python.

There are flashes of wit in the script, which Gilliam and Charles Alverson wrote, stealing the title and loose inspiration from a Lewis Carroll poem.

The befuddled, aged King (Max Wall) is “Bruno the Questionable.”

Closed captioning subtitles help the less-punchy-than-you’d-like punchlines. Somewhat.

“Look! It’s a nun in the guise of the DEVIL!”

“No! It’s the Devil in the guise of a NUN!”

“Get her!” “GET HIM!” “Get THEM BOTH!”

The themes, as expressed by Palin’s character, Dennis the Apprentice Cooper (barrel maker), are about the birth of capitalism, contrived “crisis” shortages created by monopolist guilds at the expense of “craftsmanship” and the wellbeing of The People.

All of that still plays, set against a backdrop of mud, grime, earth tones and bad dentistry. This was bottom line survival where it was The People against Predators, aka bandits, royalty, armed suppression of the masses and those greedy guildfolk.

There is a gigantic beast roaming the land (dingy ancient Welsh castles and a stark quarry in Wales), the Jabberwock. It eats people and livestock, and the king’s chamberlain (John Le Mesurier) helpfully insists that the government do something about it.

But a cabal of merchants (Peter Cellier plays their spokesman) profiteering from the shortages created by fear of travel and city folk cowering indoors aren’t keen on that.

“If you destroy the monster, you destroy the city!”

The king’s half-assed solution is “a TOURNAMENT” to select “a CHAMPION” knight to ride out and vanquish this creature and cleanse the land. The chamberlain can complain all he wants about “the numbers,” how a to-the-death tourney is rendering the kingdom defenseless, one losing jouster at a time. The king and his princess daughter (Deborah Fallender) are too blinded by the bloodbath to fret over details.

It is into this city at this particularly “dark” Dark Ages moment that Dennis the Cooper’s Apprentice arrives, having undergone shunning by his dying father and the “fair” — OK, kind of grotesque — Griselda Fishfinger (Annette Badland).

Dennis will struggle to feed himself and try to fit in, even as his many suggestions of barmen and armorers and others about the lack of “efficiency” in their work regimen are discounted. His misadventures, only a few of them remotely funny, are destined to throw him into the company of a knight sent to vanquish their monstrous tormenter.

Roy Smith is the credited production designer and Millie Burns art director in this sometimes stomach turning feast for the eyes. But Gilliam’s “Holy Grail” and later “Life of Brian” and “Brazil” and “Time Bandits” and “Twelve Monkeys” touches are in every visual flourish, every weathered and unwashed detail.

It’s easy to pick out the “Holy Grail” gimmicks repeated or at least paid homage to (future Darth Vader David Prowse silently plays a couple of Black Knights). Selling this as a “Holy Grail” sequel, of sorts, was both a marketing no-brainer and serious cinematic bait and switch.

But even though Gilliam protested that approach, it suits the subject matter, in a “Well, that’s capitalism for you” way.

Pretty much everybody here has been funnier in other films and TV programs of the day. Jones alone hits just the right notes and makes his exit in the film’s opening scene, just in time to escape blame when things don’t go as well the rest of the way.

Gilliam at least learned from this experience. Don’t start production without a better script. Pythons on camera aren’t as important as Pythons behind it, when it comes to gag writing (most of Monty Python had a hand in “Time Bandits” on and off screen).

And for all its shortcomings, “Jabberwocky” is still a visual feast and something of a time capsule, with men-inside-a-gigantic costume monsters, stunts and in-camera effects that go well or don’t (check out the most useless grappling hook toss ever in a blown take that Gilliam had to use), all of it preserved on celluloid images so vivid it’s as if spherical lens 35mm cameras and production designers got their start in “the Dark Ages…ages darker than anyone had ever expected.”

Rating: PG, despite the nudity and bloody gore

Cast: Michael Palin, Harry H. Corbett, Deborah Fallender, Max Wall, John Le Mesurier, Peter Cellier, Neil Innes, Terry Gilliam and Terry Jones.

Credits: Directed by Terry Gilliam, scripted by Charles Alverson and Terry Gilliam, inspired by the poem by Lewis Carroll. A Columbia-Warner Bros. and Cinema 5 release on Tubi, other free streamers.

Running time: 1:46

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Movie Review: “Your Mother Your Mother Your Mother” isn’t There to Reckon with the Sins of the Father

Oscar winner Mahershala Ali plays a holy man trapped in a murderously unholy profession in “Your Mother Your Mother Your Mother,” a satire on “faith” in America wrapped in an all-too-conventional hit man thriller.

As Latif, Ali is a suddenly-single dad trying to raise his three kids in his Muslim faith and get away from his side business, as a murderous “crusader” who murders for hire. He kills with his trusty saif, but only those who “threaten” his community, as ordained by his Arab-American boss (Laith Nakli). Or so they say.

Latif’s Imam (Giancarlo Esposito) knows and violently opposes this, but not enough to expel Latif and his family from their suburban Houston mosque. Forgiving a murderer his heinous sins because he’s just lost his wife seems a stretch.

But writer-director Bassam Tariq (“Mogul Mowgli” was his) has a lot of religious and American cultural commentary and judgements tucked into this violent tale a righteous but amoral man struggling to cling to the last threads of his humanity.

Latif struggles with grief over the sickly wife who died while he was out of town “on a job.” His teen daughter (Adia) is in open rebellion, hanging with the young Mormon missionaries in their apartment complex and watching furry porn (if you don’t know, don’t ask) on the sly.

Fatiha is openly questioning the family’s faith. Little brother Qadir (Jaheel Kamara) is ten, still finding himself and starting to stray in ways boys with absentee fathers do, starting with his colorful language and his pre-sexual fixations.

The film’s title, “Your Mother Your Mother Your Mother” comes from a Hadith by the Prophet Muhammed, whose answer to a question about “Who is most deserving” of someone’s best wishes and efforts. That frames the movie as a fable, a father with combat training and faith overwhelmed by the huge shoes his children’s mother left behind.

Latif’s mosque is a place of serious faith. One reason the Imam despises “Mike” (Nakli) the Arab-American underworld figure who assigns Latif people to murder, is that he’s not a true man of faith. The congregation of mostly-converts takes the precepts of Islam a lot more seriously Mike and his amoral Arabic crew.

Mike and his godless young nephew Hatty (Abubakr Ali) have run afoul of the New “Law” in Town, the assault-rifle Christian fundamentalist Pastor Hwan, a metal-toothed combat vet and fanatic who inspires his followers to “cleanse” unholy places like strip clubs and unholy people like the pornographer Hatty.

Pastor Hwan is played with a “Scarface” fury by John Cho, who reinvents himself in this crazed, cracked performance. Pastor Hwan has threatened Hatty. That causes Mike to put out a hit on the machine gun preacher.

But all Latif wants is breast milk to feed his infant daughter and to avoid any more bloodying of his blade or “hits” assigned by the unworthy Mike.

Tariq’s screenplay blends the sacred with the profane, with large doses of simply explaining Islamic practices (burial, mourning, praying, etc) and terms (“Jihad” is bluntly defined in ways few Westerners have ever heard) and a sprinkling of dark, sometimes even kinky humor.

A stripper (Tiffany Boone) might be the easiest source of breast milk, especially for a man of faith who “steers clear of Uncle Sam” and state-sponsored public aid. Latif’s mosque is his support system, no matter what. The Mormons (John Henry Ward plays the “elder” Fatiha has a crush on) are the most reasonable and tolerant religious folk depicted.

But the extremists see commonalities in their faiths even if “respect” is easier to give than tolerance.

The story take turns that require bigger and bigger suspensions of disbelief as the third act slaughter begins in this world where Texas law enforcement is never so much as glimpsed. “Forgiveness” and “acceptance” know no bounds, and the finale’s literal leap of faith is an eye-roller.

Tariq must have studied hit man movies and not literal hired-killer case files, and even in that he paints himself into a cinematic corner he can’t reason his plot out of.

But the dazzling scenery-chewing Cho isn’t the only actor appearing “as you’ve never seen him before.” Ali adds another incarnation to an already impressive resume. The great character actor Esposito adds gravitas and credibility to the proceedings.

And making her feature film debut, the wide-eyed Adia, of Netflix’s “The Midnight Club” TV series, is startling in how real she makes this mourning, rebelling, responsible and yet naive and figuring it all out teen.

“Your Mother Your Mother Your Mother Your Mother” is an edgy and thoughtful action film winding down its theatrical run. But don’t be surprised if this violent thriller with satiric religious and cultural commentary returns as awards season starts weeding out the winners from the losers. This cast is too good to miss.

Rating: R, graphic violence, nudity, profanity

Cast: Mahershala Ali, Adia, Abubakr Ali, Laith Nakli, Abubakr Ali, Tiffany Boone, John Henry Ward, Giancarlo Esposito and John Cho.

Credits: Scripted and directed by Bassam Tariq. An Orion/MGM/Amazon release.

Running time: 1:52

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