Movie Nation

If you’ve ever wondered what a guy slaying legions of Philistines might look like, “Samson” shows you. And if you’ve ever wondered why there are no “real” Philistines left — not just the metaphoric kind — here’s a movie that answers that.

If you’ve ever been curious about what being “anointed with oil” might consist of, “Samson” has you covered.

Setting fire to fields of grain by tying torches to the tails of wolves or foxes? That’s a little trickier. And if you’ve pondered the idea that the Hebrew Hercules might have had dimples and the worst fake beard this side of “Gettysburg,” this not-exactly-epic of Biblical proportions might be the stuff of your nightmares.

“Samson” hides its threadbare budget with decent production design, period-rough costumes and rough-and-tumble action. It gives away the game in the casting, though.

My first thought on hearing about this was, “Did they have the guts to hire Jason Momoa? Now THAT’S a Samson.” The brawny tough guy with a winking wit did all sorts of B and C movies before landing the role of AquaMan. And killing in it.

Instead, we’re given Taylor James, who plays one of AquaMan’s fellow Atlanteans in “Justice League,” a beefy, dimply and generally uncharismatic hunk who can’t light up a humorless, tragic and heroic chapter of the Old Testament.

And then there’s Caitlin Leahy, who might have the dark, exotic good looks of the Original Femme Fatale, Delilah, the would-be queen who lures The Hebrew Hammer to his doom. “Feminine wiles” may be instinctual, but “beguiling” takes acting, and she’s as bland as the leading man.

They’re not alone. Watch the fight scenes, where Philistines line up — literally staring at the ground to hit their marks — for slaughter. Crowd scenes? The extras can’t agree on a sight-line they’re supposed to focus on.

And let’s not get into that non-kosher ham Billy Zane as King Balek, eye-linered Jackson Rathbone as his son, the sadistic Prince Rallah, and the world-weary Lindsay Wagner (“The Bionic Woman”) and Rutger Hauer as Samson’s long-suffering parents.  Every performance puts the “p” in “perfunctory.”

In ancient Judah, or Israel, Samson is God’s “chosen one,” defender of the faith and The Tribe of Dan’s choice to be the Hebrew judge, leader of his people.

The Hebrews are under the thumb of the Philistines. And while Samson acknowledges his mission and keeps the faith by refusing wine, not touching the dead and not cutting his hair (Grand Funk Railroad @1974 is the coiffure of choice), he’s too busy swiping from the powers that be and making eyes at comely Philistine women.

Of course, his hand is forced, even though all he wants to do is wed the enchanting Taren (Frances Sholto-Douglas), history’s first known case of “shiksa appeal.”

Next thing you know, he’s smiting Philistines left and right, suffering tragedies, torturing and torching wildlife and growing this godawful fake beard.

All in a slow-motion stroll towards his “destiny.”

The script plays around with the ancient world’s mania for riddles — “At night I come without being called. By day I am lost without being stolen.”

What is “a star,” Alex Trebek!

The bad guys fret because “The Hebrew God is within him,” so it doesn’t matter that the King (Zane) tells his son, that “You must see gods for what they are, symbols — means of control.” When Samson is buried under a pile of Philistines in history’s first rugby scrum, you know he’s going to Popeye his way out of it.

It wouldn’t have been sacrilege to take a lighter tone with this. Samson’s head-butting/chop socky brawls are bloody and glum, but could have been violently amusing. The guy is unbeatable, and cocky. Think Disney’s “Hercules,” or even Gaston from “Beauty and the Beast.” That wouldn’t have demeaned the character in the least.

He’s a big, goofy hunk of meat who comes to feel the weight of the world, and weight of a palace, upon him. Funnier earlier scenes with his pilfering brother (Greg Kriek, under a dreadful wig and later awful beard) should have been played funnier, making the hero’s journey Shakespearean.

It’s a visually and dramatically flat picture in which the co-directors just check off the touchstones in Samson’s storied career, lurching forward, parking him in reasonably rustic settings with tunics and smocks and sometimes shirtless. There’s little character arc, and even less story arc.

It’s all enough to make you miss Victor Mature and Heddy Lamarr and a Cecil B. DeMille remake.

MPAA Rating: PG-13 for violence and battle sequences

Cast: Taylor James, Caitlin Leahy, Jackson Rathbone, Frances Sholto-Douglas, Billy Zane, Lindsay Wagner, Rutger Hauer

Credits:Directed by Bruce Macdonald, Gabriel Sabloff , script by Jason Baumgardner, Galen Gilbert . A Pure Flix release.

Running time: 1:50

A little “Avatar,” a little “Iron Giant,” a lot of every YA novel turned movie about Young People who Must Join the Rebellion and Save the Future — “Ready Player One” looks like premium eye-candy, digital video game action built on a VR-avatars namescape.

Stuff blows up. And Ben Mendelsohn, who survived “Rogue One,” is Our Go to Bad Guy of the moment.

March 29.

plenty Waves of approval are greeting  Marvel’s long-planned Black History Month Valentine to comic book movie fans.

Ryan Coogler’s film of the marvelous African, otherwise formulaic Marvel superhero has earned raves in some quarters, general endorsement in most others, and just five pointed pans on Rottentomatoes. As there’s value in being the outlier on a movie pre-ordained to be a smash, make of that what you will. Plenty to pick apart in it, from pacing the a plot driven wholly by the demands of the action beats (No attempt to “redeem” the prodigal villain?). There are no negative notices for “Black Panther” among the more select group of critics on Metacritic, and I gave it the weakest endorsement there. Go figure.

It’s not really my favorite genre, though I have been impressed by the occasional “Dark Knight,” amused by the likes of “Deadpool” and “Ant Man,” more forgiving of the high-minded intentions of the DC movies of Warner Brothers.

“Panther” is slow, lumbering, with pandering padded fan-friendly scenes (check out the weakest post-credits “tease” in the history of this Marvel tradition). Love Chadwick Boseman, this isn’t the highlight of his resume.

It’s not in the same league as “Iron Man,” “The Avengers,” or even “Deadpool,” falling more in the “Wonder Woman/Logan/Justice League” (more substantive than fanboys are willing to say) grouping — ambitious, big subtexts, utterly generic story beats and banal-in-the-EXTREME dialogue.

“Get him, T’Challa!”

Stan Lee’s cameo just reminded me of how far ahead of the curve he was on making his medium topical and inclusive. Like Rod Serling, he was pretty fly for a white guy in the ’60s. Of course, these days, that is leading to movies with checkbox casting. Everybody has to be represented in every cast. As the movies pander to their target audience, there’s nothing wrong with broadening the pandering. Though it does lead to quibbles like this one. 

May it make a billion and enthrall those given to rapture over comic book adaptations. See it, make up your own mind and ask yourself the only question that matters. “Does this have as much to say and say it with as much style, wit and genuine engagement (suspense) as “Get Out?” Nope.

“Early Man” is the newest Aardman stop-motion animated delight to drop in from Jolly Olde. It’s soccer-centric, funny, and not earning the sort of endorsements one might have expected. No, it’s not up there with “Wallace & Gromit” or “Chicken Run,” more “Shaun the Sheep” or “Flushed Away.” Better than “Flushed Away.” 

Critics, like audiences, may be wearying of twee English animated comedies for kids (see the delightful, critically-endorsed but audience-rejected “Paddington 2,” or the lukewarm reception for “Peter Rabbit”).

“Samson” is a major studio (Pure Flix, division of Sony) faith-based picture about one of the brawniest stories in the Bible — the long-haired Hebrew who smote his enemies only to be betrayed by history’s first recorded femme fatale, a woman who inspired a classic Tom Jones’ tune. The movie’s got two directors, stars Jackson Rathbone, Billy Zane, Lindsay Wagner, Rutger Hauer and as Delilah, Caitlin Leahy. And there are no reviews. The cowards didn’t preview it for critics. I’ll catch it today or tomorrow.

OK, Jordan Peele’s being disingenuous. He’s getting Universal to put his film phenomenon of last spring into theaters for one night only to gin up more Oscar momentum.

But it’s to “celebrate” and “thank” fans who made his sharp little movie such a dazzling success. 

Well played.

Did you miss it in a theater? Here’s your chance to see it at NO CHARGE.

“Each guest who requests a ticket the day of the screening—at a participating location—will be given one free admission to the 7:00 p.m. showing on February 19, up to theatre capacity.”

This is the list of cities.

Atlanta, GA; Baltimore, MD; Boston, MA; Charlotte, NC; Chicago, IL; Cincinnati, OH; Columbus, OH; Dallas, TX; Denver, CO; Detroit, MI; Houston, TX; Indianapolis, IN; Jacksonville, FL; Kansas City, MO; Los Angeles, CA; Miami/Ft. Lauderdale, FL; Minneapolis, MN; Nashville, TN; New Orleans, LA; New York City, NY; Oklahoma City, OK; Orlando, FL; Philadelphia, PA; Phoenix, AZ; Pittsburgh, PA; Raleigh/Durham, NC; San Diego, CA; San Francisco/Oakland/San Jose, CA; Seattle/Tacoma, WA; St. Louis, MO; Tallahassee, FL; Tampa, FL; and Washington, D.C.

Fifty five cities are on the list of places it will be shown at 7pm that night. Find out if your local theater is taking part here. http://www.getoutoneyearlater.com

A digitized genetically altered ape co-stars in this.

Dwayne Johnson’s just starred in a global “Jumanji” blockbuster. a movie that outlasted “The Last Jedi” on movie screens over this long winter. And he’s got the “Skyscraper” “Die Hard” variation and this, “Rampage,” in the can.

He could leave those increasingly lame “Fast and Furious” movies behind. He could be choosier, now. Finally. Leave the dregs to Statham and Butler.

Instead, well see for yourself.

Africa saves “Black Panther,” Marvel’s Black History Month gift to Afro-centric fangirl and fanboydom. Africanness defines it and sets it apart from the many comic book adaptations that preceded it.

And that’s a necessary distinction, because these Marvel marvels aren’t so much scripted and directed as focus-grouped and engineered. The story beats, hero or heroine hurdles and fights and effects are so familiar as to be budgeted down to the penny. Broadening the appeal of your franchise ethnically is just smart business. In story terms, in character inclusions, in casting, pandering pays. You’d expect no less from Disney.

So you’ve got another cool costumed-hero tested with dead daddy issues, another “sibling” (or close relative) rivalry, another hidden world where superhuman heroes lay low.

But speaking of ideas borrowed from scads of predecessors, especially DC’s “Wonder Woman,” we’re shown the toughest, most interesting and fiercest female characters ever to grace a Marvel movie, a most welcome upgrade.

Chadwick Boseman brings a self-assured swagger to the title character, T’Challa, Prince of Wakanda who becomes king of his “poor, Third World” African nation when his father is killed by terrorists.

Wakanda, we have been told, is more than meets the eye. It’s not just huts and shepherds, tending their flocks under African skies. For millennia, its people have masked the true nature of their advanced, refined civilization. Another magic Marvel metal is in play here (yawn). “Vibranium” explains their mag-lev trains, their force-field shields and sonic boom spears, and young King T’Challa’s superpowered Black Panther suit and African mask-shaped spaceship.

And as the “Unobtainium” of Avatar is…unobtainable, bad guys are hellbent on getting this glowing blue Vibranium. First among them is the Afrikaner racist Ulyssees Klaue, played by Andy Serkis with an “I’m not stuck in a motion capture suit” glee. He flings the South African accented “You savages don’t deserve it” around a little too freely when talking about Wakanda and Vibranium.

His smarter but equally sadistic sidekick is Erik, aka “Kill Monger” (Michael B. Jordan of “Creed”), a trained American agent/assassin with the fighting and technological skills to get what they want, and the ruthlessness to not share it when they do. He’s got a bone to pick with the colonialist culture of Western Civilization, and Wakanda’s refusal to engage with it.

That’s the core conflict of the film. Director/co-writer Ryan Coogler, of “Fruitvale Station” and “Creed,” fleshes out the picture with glorious texture — a fresh color palette, striking settings, costumes, hair styles and gloriously African standards of beauty, and cute set pieces that give novelty to the well-worn Marvel version of the hero’s journey.

The many tribes of Wakanda get to challenge fight the heir to see if they can place one of their own on the throne, a throw-down staged before a vast multitude at the edge of a vaster waterfall refereed by Forest Whitaker.

The palace guard of Wakanda could give Wonder Woman’s Amazons a fair fight, if the chips are down. They’re statuesque, bald and wild-eyed women warriors, led by General Okeye, ferociously played by Danai Gurira of “The Walking Dead.”

T’Challa’s version of Q, his James Bond gadget-guru, is his smart alec baby sister (Letitia Wright). When they all get tangled-up in a South Korean Vibranium buy gone wrong and a CIA agent (Martin Freeman of TV’s “Sherlock”) is hurt, sister Shuri has just the one-liner for that occasion.

“Great. Another broken white boy for us to fix!”

The script has few zingers as good as that, surrounded by verbal banalities. There are battles and brawls that offer few surprises and a whole lot of filler. Sacrifices are made, Black Nationalist speeches about the white West’s plundering of the art, culture and human beings of the colonized Third World have a righteous sting.

This has the attempted gravitas of “Logan,” the myth-building of “Wonder Woman,” and the same pacing problems as those two consequential, worthwhile but only occasionally fun additions to the genre.

Because “Panther” is awfully slow on the prowl. The two hours and fourteen minutes just amble by. There’s little urgency to any of this, even the finale.

I’ve loved Boseman in his survey of American Civil Rights heroes (Jackie Robinson in “42,” Thurgood Marshall in “Marshall”) and in his larger-than-life turn as James Brown in “Get On Up.” Here, he’s well-cast but somewhat unchallenged.

Oscar winner Lupita Nyong’o brings a radiant, competitive spark to her scenes with him, playing the Panther’s “ex” who happens to be the country’s most brilliant spy. Gurira and Wright dazzle, and Angela Bassett brings her regal presence to the Queen Mother. For all the fussing and fighting and grudge-settling among the guys, the women pretty much steal the picture. Jordan? All haircut, street “Creed” sneer and muscles. The character called for more of a Malcolm X turn, a lot less sneer and a lot more polish and intellect. This guy’s a one-dimensional villain treated as such by the Wakandans.

You can praise “Black Panther” for being a movie that embraces vast corners of the American and global audience through the simple act of “representation,” something comic book movies have neglected. You can praise it for being, like “Wonder Woman,” a movie of its moment, a genre picture whose demographic and political time have come.

But whatever its cultural significance, it’s just passable entertainment, a noble attempt at waxing mythical that never, for one second, delivers that out-of-body giddiness that makes popcorn pictures of its ilk burst to life.

MPAA Rating:PG-13 for prolonged sequences of action violence, and a brief rude gesture

Cast: Chadwick Boseman, Lupita Nyong’o, Danai Gurira, Angela Bassett, Forest Whitaker, Michael B. Jordan, Martin Freeman

Credits: Directed by Ryan Coogler, Joe Roert Cole, based on the Marvel comics. A Marvel release.

Running time: 2:14

Yeah, it feels like an epic episode of “Broad City,” or maybe “Portlandia.”

A “Saturday Night Live” sketch run amok.

But this comedy from New Zealand has maybe four out-loud laughs, JUST in the trailer.

The folks who brought us “What We Do in the Shadows,” “Eagle vs. Shark” and “Hunt for the Wilderpeople” are involved. So there’s a good chance this won’t just be a “film festival comedy.”

A Budapest abattoir makes the unlikely backdrop to romance in “On Body and Soul,” Hungary’s best foreign language film contender at next month’s Academy Awards.

Equal parts cryptic and disturbing, Ildikó Enyedi’s film pairs up two lonely souls — an older manager, self-conscious over his age, his loneliness and his disabled arm, and the on-the-spectrum young “quality specialist” doctor (Veterinarian? Agricultural researcher?) whose arrival haunts his dreams.

Oh no, it’s not)  THAT kind of movie. The dreams are something they share, an un-erotic pairing where they’re both deer, wandering the wintry woods, silently connecting by a stream, a lake or hunting for grass beneath the freshly fallen snow.

Endre (writer, playwright and dramaturg Géza Morcsányi) is a sixtysomething financial director/manager at the slaughterhouse. He’s gone years without visiting the slaughterhouse floor. The film spares few gory details from us, the camera lingering over the sentient-enough eyes of cattle being led in to their deaths.

He won’t say he’s bothered by this, but a smirking new hire gets a sobering reminder that this is not a job for insensate brutes.

“If you don’t feel sorry for them,” he says (in Hungarian, with English subtitles), “it’s not going to work out.” He is warned, more than once, that if he doesn’t have empathy for the animals, he’s going to have a breakdown.

Maria (Alexandra Borbély, a Slavic Saoirse Ronan) is equally new, a stickler for regulation and a tad robotic. She isn’t blind to the blue collar workforce’s chilly mockery of her. She simply doesn’t know or have the impulse to fit in, to warm up to others and make them want to befriend her.

“Asperger’s,” you think. Not that anybody here mentions that.

It takes a crime to connect the brusque and somewhat tactless Maria to the twice-her-age boss. Something was stolen at the office. Cops are involved.

And the annual “mental hygiene” check-up — a safeguard against the very breakdowns Endre warns others about — becomes the device the police plan to use to narrow their list of suspects.

The interviews with the pretty shrink (Reka Tinki) turn testy almost straight away. And when Endre and Maria, barely on speaking turns, reveal something they have in common in those interviews, the evaluating psychotherapist violates their privacy by confronting them about it.  That, eventually, arouses Maria and Endre’s curiosity.

Writer-director Enyedi is making a larger statement about sentience, compassion and empathy, with her many lingering close-ups of cattle and deer faces and eyes. She ties that to Maria’s autistic disconnection from people, which while not severe enough to keep her out of work, is something she’s aware of, an aching need to connect even as she shuns the human touch.

Maria will try anything — music (which fails to move her), a budding friendship with this odd colleague with the shared dreams, or even an affair — to break out of her loneliness, the communication barrier facing those cattle who may have more going on in their heads that beef eaters would care to know.

“On Body and Soul” isn’t as linear in its storytelling style or as results-oriented in its plot as a Hollywood or Western European film wrestling with these themes might be. That’s why the foreign language Oscar category is so valuable. It insists that viewers at least take a shot at seeing the world through another culture’s eyes via challenging films.

The storytelling lacks urgency and the film lacks pace. And for such a talkative movie, the subtitling is maddeningly indifferent, inconsistent and incomplete. Thanks, Netflix.

But in perhaps the most adventurous foreign language field of competitors in years, this Hungarian work makes for a fascinating conversation starter and intellectual debate.

Just don’t plan on having that argument over steaks or burgers.

MPAA Rating: unrated, with scenes of cattle slaughter and discussions of sexuality

Cast: Géza Morcsányi, Alexandra Borbély

Credits: Written and directed by Ildikó Enyedi. A Netflix release.

Running time: 1:55

What does it take for a chef, a restaurant, to earn that coveted “Michelin star?”

Attention to detail, fanatical care put into every stage of food preparation — from recipe experimentation to produce and meat selections —  insane hours, ridiculous stress and the patience of all involved to put up with this.

“42 Grams” follows a Chicago couple, from running an “underground” (illegal, off the books, unzoned, unlicensed, uninspected) restaurant out of their apartment, which they cheekily name Sous Rising,, to their opening a real restaurant and vigorously pursuing a Michelin restaurant guide star rating. Or two.

Jake Bickelhaupt and Alexa Walsh figure that since, as tradition (weighing someone just before and after death) and movies have taught us that the soul weighs 21 grams, they will call their intimate eatery “42 Grams.” They’re putting everything they’ve got, body and soul, into it.

Filmmaker Jack C. Newell only focuses on them, and we only hear about the life that’s passing all around them off camera. Three parents have died during their pursuit, a weeping Alexa says at one point. Jake is drinking too much. Their marriage is strained. There’s no time to start their own family.

Not when chef Jake, working class, largely self-taught and ego-centric (he knows all the words to the country music spoof, “You Never Even Called Me By My Name”), is furiously concocting ornate dishes, pureed baked banana topped with tamarind gelato, shaved hazel nuts and this and that, tiny salads you finish off with tweezers, itsby bitsy servings of duck surrounded exotic delights, caviar served inside hollowed quail eggs.

The food detail in Newell’s film is unsparing. Assorted assistants, “stages” (pronounced “stahje” in French, essentially unpaid interns) mostly, Jake and Alexa taste and re-taste versions of every absurdly labor-intensive dish.

Well-heeled customers, from the pretentious, adventure-seeking “foodies” who frequented their infrequent supper club evenings — a dozen seats in a tiny apartment right next to Jake preparing each meal, Alexa and a hired waitress serving them — to the patrons of 42 Grams, a failed fast food chicken joint underneath Chicago’s El they remake in their Sous Rising image (intimate, with the chef right in front of you) dine in wide-eyed, lip-smacking (and food “selfie” taking) delight at the taste sensations Jake serves up.

Both are quiet eating experiences, no music, with food and conversation all that’s there to cover up Jake’s short-tempered exasperation with his staff (sotto voce, maybe not sotto enough) in an open-plan kitchen.

Newell’s focus on the couple, their dreams, the prep and the food shows them leaving it all on the plate. This is taking everything they have to pull off, and Jake is hellbent on opening to a two star Michelin rating.

Jake is quick to point out what he regards as short-cuts, sell-outs, ennobling the pursuit of serving others great food while eschewing the “Food Network star” chefs who leave their restaurants in the care of others while they do TV, book tours and the like.

He never seems to consider that’s how Anthony Bordain developed a drug problem (and never became famous for his cooking) or Gordon Ramsay, Emeril and others were able to live life rather than letting the obsession eat every hour of their lives.

And Newell’s myopic focus on the couple leaves out the obvious — the business model. How much does it cost, per plate, to make a profit. Alexa glibly dismissing “commercial success” (i.e., rewards for your labors) just makes me that much more curious about prices, the evening meal turnover necessary for them to be able to afford to keep all this going.  (If you want to know what happened AFTER the credits, google Alexa Walsh.)

Thus “42 Grams” is eye-opening and engrossing, but no more so than your average episode of Ramsay’s old “Kitchen Nightmares” show. Less faked conflict, perhaps, but less revealing as well.

MPAA Rating: unrated, lots of profanity

Cast: Jake Bickelhaupt, Alexa Walsh

Credits:Written and directed by Jack C. Newell. A Gunpowder and Sky/Netflix release.

Running time: 1:22

A dogmatic Orthodox with a capital “O” community, an estranged daughter back to bury her father, an old romance within the confines of what the Brits used to call “the love that dare not speak its name.”

It looks and feels fraught. And the couple is age-appropriate, without the necessity of experimentation with peaches.

Rachel Weisz, Rachel McAdams, April 27.