Movie Nation

Two more hours of turtle tedium come our way in “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: Out of the Shadows.”

The effects are better, the 3D is put to better use and the opening action beat — supervillain Shredder (Brian Tee) escapes from the cops — is well staged.

And motion capture animation — which is how Noel Fisher, Jeremy Howard, Pete Ploszek and Alan Ritchson become green-shelled Michelangelo, Donatello, Leonardo and Raphael — has progressed far beyond Gollum in the Hobbit movies. It’s amazing what Chinese money and Hollywood know-how can manage.

But it’s still just a patience-testing bauble for anybody over the age of 12. The Turtles, in this latest incarnation, were and remain shiny but stupid entertainment for kids.

This time, there’s a corrupt scientist (Tyler Perry) helping martial arts monster Shredder. And they’re both aiding an alien invader, a “wad of chewing gum with a face” voiced by Brad Garrett. Something to do with teleportation abd world conquest.

The police chief (Laura Linney) doesn’t know about the turtles. A plucky corrections officer (Stephen Amell) with mad hockey stick skillz is about to meet them — and that hottie TV reporter who hangs with them, played by Megan Fox.

The Turtles sneak into a Knicks game, feud and have to figure out how to cooperate to foil this latest threat to New York.

“It’s the different points of view that makes the team strong,” Splinter, the wise “sensei” rat voiced by Tony Shalhoub counsels.

“What would Vin Diesel do?” a turtle wonders.

It’s still nigh on impossible for actors to actually register under that animation, and they certainly aren’t doing the digitized stunts that the siblings manage. It’s more animation than performance, or seems that way.

A lowbrow kid’s movie (with swearing and lots of violence) like this makes you appreciate the actor’s art and commitment. Fox, backed into a career corner, gives her character everything she’s got. Linney fights back the embarrassment. Will Arnett tries underplaying his comic relief cameraman, given the credit for saving the city in the last movie because the turtles have to stay in “the shadows.”

And Perry? Hamming through lines like “ELIMINATE those Turtles!” isn’t going to keep him out of a dress.

As comic book franchises go, this one skews younger. If you’re seeing it out of nostalgia for the books and the old TV series, maybe it’s time to take stock of your movie habits. Kids? They’ll appreciate the attempts at wisecracks, the limp 3D ninja action and the PG-13 profanity. They’re not supposed to know any better.

MPAA Rating: PG-13 for sci-fi action violence

Cast: Megan Fox, Laura Linney, Stephen Amell, Tyler Perry, Brian Tee, Will Arnett
Credits: Directed by Dave Green, script by Josh Appelbaum and André Nemec. A Paramount/Nickelodeon release.

Running time: 1:52

His move to Netflix has made accessing Adam Sandler movies easier than ever. As if that’s a good thing.

“The Do-Over,” his latest quick and dirty, is a slapdash action comedy with more plot twists than laughs, and lots more day work for his large retinue of hangers-on.

Shot in and around Savannah, it’s about a Palm Coast bank manager (David Spade) who finally married the Prom Queen (Natasha Leggero), whose best drunken tramp years were burned on Sean Astin, with whom she had heinous twins.Whom Charlie is now raising.

But their high school reunion pairs him up with old pal “Maxie Pad” (Sandler), a live-for-the-moment FBI agent who convinces him to join him in assuming the identities of two rich, dead crooks.

Skip off to Puerto Rico and start over, right? He has to kidnap Charlie to do it, but fair’s fair.

Complications pile up as the dead guys’ associates take an interest in them.

Nick Swardson plays a mysterious stranger who stalks them, Torsten Vorges a hit-man called “The Gymnast,” Paula Patton the widow of one of the dead men and Luis Guzman a Puerto Rican bartender who is very comfy with his naked body.

Sandler and Spade hit the bars in floral shirts and Detroit Tigers hats.

“Too Magnum?”

“You can NEVER be too Magnum. Lose the hat, though.”

There’s a bad Dan Patrick cameo (as usual), a lot of lame Sandler riffs on homosexuality and say, a bartender’s Neanderthal beard.

“Hey, ‘Encino Man.”

“Do-Over” is “Grown-Ups” with guns. And with no Colin Quinn or Chris Rock or Rob Schneider or Norm McDonald or Kevin Nealon. There’s no real direction, no real acting, just a lot of Sandler dependents hitting their marks, collecting their checks and trying not to look as if they’re wondering what there is to do in Savannah after today’s filming.

Sandler may have jumped to Netflix at just about the right time, and his ongoing loyalty to his posse is laudable. But he has been phoning this garbage in for 15 years.

The best you can say about “The Ridiculous Six” and “The Do-Over” is that if Netflix has allowed him to reach his aging, shrinking fanbase easier, it’s also made avoiding his work easier still. So long as you don’t accidentally hit “play” when “Do-Over” is the first thing that pops up on your Netflix queue.

MPAA Rating: unrated, with torture, bloody violence, nudity, profanity

Cast: Adam Sandler, David Spade, Paula Patton, Kathryn Hahn, Torsten Vorges, Renee Taylor, Natasha Leggero, Michael Chiklis,
Credits: Directed by Steven Brill, script by Kevin Barnett, Chris Pappas. A Netflix Original release.

Running time: 1:48

Freed from the tutelage of his mentor, Adam Sandler, who has been relegated to making movies for Netflix, SNL alumnus Andy Samberg churns out an old-fashioned SNL character comedy.

“Popstar: Never Stop Never Stopping” is a riff on the music videos he popped out while on the show, a “behind the music” mockumentary where all the energy was pumped into creating new videos and absurdly over-the-top concert sequences. “Popstar” is 86 minutes packed with SNL alumni and far too few funny bits to sustain any of them.

It’s a Justin Bieber spoof that loses its nerve, a film that despite the occasional snort of coke or breast or penis shot, is almost shockingly mild-mannered, a PG version of today’s R-rated comedies.

Samberg plays Conner4Real, a pop rapper popular with the teens, captured just at the moment when it all crashes down around his ears.

He’s got the lifestyle, an indulgent manager (Tim Meadows), a publicist (Sarah Silverman) can only carry him so far and a deal with a major appliance company (repped by the omnipresent Maya Rudolph) that spells disaster.

His new record, “Conquest,” will automatically download to every appliance in the Aquaspin line at midnight on its release date. You open your fridge, there’s Conner4Real and Pink singing about “Equal Rights” for homosexuals, with Conner yelping “Not Gay!” in between every line.

Maybe they’ll get the foul-mouthed tune about the “horny like a Stegosaurus” hook-up who wants him to screw over “like we did Bin Laden.”

Conner is king of the throw-away hip hop catchphrase — “Moped music,” “Patrick Stewart money,” “Turn up the beef.”

He’s got an entourage of yes-men, a turtle sitter for his pet tortoise. But that U-2 styled “automatic download” of his new album has disaster written all over it. And the problems only begin with the nationwide blackout it generates.

The downward spiral is connected with Conner’s need to lose his clueless, omnipotent arrogance and make amends to his former bandmates, the Style Boyz (co-writers/directors Jorma Taccone and Akiva Schaffer). Conner needs to be humbled to get back in the public’s good graces and off of the TMZ knock-off CMZ (Will Arnett, Mike Birbiglia and others mercilessly ridicule the low-rent gossip TV show).

But for some strange reason, Samberg doesn’t commit to the off-stage bits. Every musical moment is a winner, as Conner unleashes hologram duets with Adam Levine (and himself) on stage, or startles Pink with his not-so-veiled homophobia.

Off-stage, Conner is more mild-mannered and human than we’d expect him to be. He’s not an idiot, follows his plummeting record sales and cannily accepts a hotter opening act (Chris Redd is Hunter the Hungry). In short, he’s not funny. Those scenes are all truncated and enervated as well, lacking the energy to reach some sort of conclusion.

One killer moment — Conner cannily proposes to his “publicity” movie star girlfriend (Imogen Poots) in a for-TV spectacle that involves live wolves and the singer Seal, with predictably disastrous results.

But those moments stand out because most everything else off-stage is introduced without being developed. The whole movie, with Joan Cusack as Conner’s coke-snorting mom, to the scads of star cameos — musicians and Simon Cowell singing Conner’s praises in interviews, Bill Hader as a roadie, etc — feels like an under-developed sketch that goes on for too long.

MPAA Rating:R for some graphic nudity, language throughout, sexual content and drug use

Cast: Andy Samberg, Jorma Taccone, Sarah Silverman, Tim Meadows, Chris Redd, Imogen Poots, Bill Hader, Will Arnett, Will Forte, Adam Levine, Pink
Credits: Directed by Akiva Schaffer, Jorma Taccone, script by Andy Samberg, Akiva Schaffer, Jorma Taccone. A Universal release.

Running time: 1:26

They didn’t change enough of the show’s format — which had sagged along with Jeremy Clarkson’s jowls and loose-fit jeans — to avoid direct comparison.

Chris Evans, sort of the bastard Michael Caine glasses-wearing child of Roddy McDowell and Ron Weasley, is going to take some getting used to.

The chemistry and banter seemed a bit forced, with both new co-hosts making nice and playing together even when they were supposed to be competing.

The bits they managed in the premiere of series 23 of “Top Gear” in its current millennial incarnation,  offered few surprises. Raves about a butt-ugly winged Dodge Viper (fast, but the wing looks like a tuner’s add-on). A “dogfight” involving the most promising of the third wheels among their supporting cast — Sabine Schmitz — who brings German bluntness and profanity to the proceedings (she crapped all over a Corvette she was racing the Viper with). “Piece of —t,” she mutters about the suspension. “Like a Ferrari.”

Ouch. Then, she’s gone.

But the same theme song, similar opening credits.

Another bashing of a Reliant three wheeler, this time involving ANOTHER race to Blackpool. Really?

The new “Gear” is much the same as the old. Too much.

Chris Evans, who made his bones and his fortune used for car collecting on British radio, is trying awfully hard, but may grow on me. Matt LeBlanc? He’s doing exactly as one would expect — droll, funny (he’d do better with writers, or better writing) and stupidly competent with whatever they put him behind the wheel of. LeBlanc dominated the pilot simply by being more at ease and not trying that hard. Some said he seemed bored. He’s been underplaying “himself” ever since he came to the UK.

But give them credit. The new more Americanized “Top Gear” went where the British show, in 22 seasons, dared not go.

A direct Land Rover vs. Jeep comparison was scrupulously, hilariously avoided by the jingoistic Jezzers and his mates for over a decade on old “Top Gear.”

Stuck in the jungles of South America? Hunting the source of the Nile?
The obvious choice in such an adventure was the one they dared not let anybody make. A Jeep. Assorted Japanese and British and even Swedish vehicles were proffered.

Because otherwise, the guy with the Jeep would have won — crossed the desert, climbed the mountain, towed the other junkers out of the muck. There is only One Jeep.

The finale of the Clarkson/May/Hammond series was the one and only time they dared work a Jeep (Cherokee) into their “challenges.” And that was made up of segments they hadn’t wanted to use, but had to after Clarkson was fired.

This time, they threw a first gen (“Series One”) Land Rover up against the Willys 4X4 that won WWII, with predictable results. British cheating notwithstanding.

My gut reaction to this 90 minute premiere was, “Boy, the Brits are going to be pissed.”

American co-host, a rejiggering of the “star in a reasonably priced car” that pitted Gordon Ramsay against American movie star Jesse Eisenberg (Guess who won THAT?),two American cars in their first comparison contest, and stating the bloody obvious re: 4x4s. Jeeps have always had the measure of the leaky, latterly luxurious Land Rovers.

This show is plainly pandering to an American audience that still hasn’t warmed to the US version of the popular British car show. It could do better in the US than it does in the UK and the BBC would be giggling all the way to Barclay’s.

But I don’t blame the Brits for feeling a pit put out. Or chaffed.

They upgraded the “reasonably priced car” (no longer called that) to a Mini Cooper, and took it into the mud (an offroad portion of the track). Smart.

The Stig is still around, used in more comic bits. Fine.

There’s a second “after” show allowing the BBC to test out the other co-hosts to see who might be up to playing on the A-team, “Extra Gear.” More money for the BBC, too, for that one. This has become a “thing” on US cable. If the “Real Housewives” and “Walking Dead” can have a show AFTER their shows, why not “Top Gear”?

So I’m more than willing to stick with this one to give it a chance. Evans is obviously an enthusiast, LeBlanc more than his equal but generous. And the “old” “Top Gear” didn’t really hit its stride until bon vivant and pedant James May joined the team, and they started seriously taking off on big trips — the North Pole, the Middle East, Africa, Vietnam, Burma, etc. That was a couple of years into that “new” series.

The BBC hid the first season of the rebooted “Top Gear”, which had basically only Jeremy Clarkson, from DVD release, reruns etc. Because it sucked. Second season wasn’t much better and is similarly hidden. May shows up, and it finally works.

The big question is, will the British audience remember that slow start to the last version and stick with the show as well? It could take years, and I don’t think they have that.

Call it word of mouth, call it blowback from the photos circulating on the web of Amber Heard’s black eye, allegedly at the hands of “Alice Through the Looking Glass” star Johnny Depp, but something happened between Thursday night and Sunday.

“Alice Through the Looking Glass,” projected to hit $43-45 for the weekend, projected to reach $40 based on Friday’s numbers, it now looking at a $35 million 4-day holiday take.

That’s a 12-20% plunge. Monday probably won’t save it.

Critics beat the tar out of the non-Tim Burton/Not Really Lewis Carroll sequel to “Alice in Wonderland.” Saturday audiences must have warned away the Sunday crowds. Ouch.

“X-Men: Apocalypse” had a fall-off from projections and early ticket sales. $78? Sounds closer to the mark. A hit, but a somewhat dented one.

“The Angry Birds Movie” lost half its opening audience, but still came in third. “Captain America: Civil War” fell another 50%+. Top five, but it won’t be there much longer.

“X-Men: Apocalypse” is headed to a healthy Memorial Day opening weekend based on Thursday night/Friday numbers.

It’ll have $68 million tallied by Sunday, $82 million by midnight Monday, per Deadline.com.  That’s in line with expectations. Word of mouth won’t cool it off but so much. It’s a comic book movie. They’re foolproof.

“Alice Through the Looking Glass” is riding its bad-to-awful reviews to a still respectable $40 million through Monday night. It cost more than that, but international BO should put it comfortably in the black.

Johnny Depp, however, may have dealt his reputation a fatal blow. Abuse allegations? Audiences do not forgive that.

“Angry Birds” has lost half its opening audience, and “Captain America” is finally running out of steam, even though it’s still in the top five.

“The Phenom” is a sensitive, unconventional baseball tale rendered in the muted tones of dread, a young player’s fear of letting everyone down.

It’s about a rookie pitcher (Johnny Simmons) trying and failing to cope with the pressures of a fat contract, a brutishly demanding mentor/father, the girl he left behind and his own very public failure — a flurry of wild pitches in a key game — on national TV.

That’s a lot to ask of an 18-19 year old. So Hopper Gibson’s been sent to see a “mental coach,” a sports psychologist played with understated whispers by Paul Giamatti.

Hopper’s sessions on the couch are laced with flashbacks — distracted in class in high school, teenage flirtations, that magic moment when the scouts discovered him and the day he showed his mother “the castle” he bought her with his signing bonus.

Then, there’s Dad. Growing up in tiny Port St. Lucie, Florida, everybody knows Hopper and worse, knows his family. Hopper Sr., given a tattoos and a ferocious prison mullet cut with a performance to match by Ethan Hawke, knows the game. He once had promise, too.

He ridicules the kid, amused that baseball scouts are interested “in a little toothpick like you.” He insults his intelligence.

“I think you don’t have any homework. You don’t have the BRAINS to have homework.”

But in between prison stints and eruptions of rage, the old man’s given the boy every overbearing lesson the game taught him.

“Never show emotion on the mound.”

Simmons, of “Scott Pilgrim vs. The World” and “The Perks of Being a Wallflower,” makes Hopper both a convincing pitcher (no small feat) and shy, soft-spoken and thoughtful, even when he’s passing on Dad’s nasty “everybody uses everybody” lessons to his leftist, smart and underwhelmed by his impending fame girlfriend (Sophie Kennedy Clark).

There’s a lightly comical scene where he has dinner with her and her left-of-liberal parents, who surprise him with their suggestions that common sense dictates he pursue the riches the game might dangle in front of him over the enriching and maturing and broadening experience of college.

Writer-director Noah Buschel (“Neal Cassady” was his debut) conjures up a serene and unhurried character study, a 90 minute film so unhurried that it feels much longer. Simmons’ Hopper seemingly on simmer throughout. We see the trials of his public failure, the press scrum circling him like chum in the water. We hear about another pitcher who cracked up and killed himself and fear for the kid’s future.

A clever musical cue sets the mood. Buschel uses Mozart’s wistful and sad Piano Sonata #11 throughout the picture — in the score, a piece being practiced by a horn player in the high school band, and a ballpark organist’s between-innings scene-setter. It tamps down the tempo and puts us in Hopper’s frame of mind.

He’s in his glory, but it’s all coming apart. It’s all this kid can do to tamp down his emotions, get a handle on his fears and calm himself. Maybe a little Mozart would help. And sessions with a shrink.

MPAA Rating: unrated, implied violence, alcohol use, sexual situations

Cast: Johnny Simmons, Ethan Hawke, Sophie Kennedy Clark, Paul Giamatti
Credits: Written and directed by Noah Buschel. An RLJ Entertainment release.

Running time: 1:30

A sequel and a franchise finale opened late Thursday.

But bad reviews greeted “Alice Through the Looking Glass.” And weak ones are waving in front of “X-Men: Apocalypse.”

So will what looked like a blockbuster weekend, on paper, best a bust?

One of my indicators is simple interest in reviews of the films. I track this by online traffic here, and while there’s been an ongoing interest in “X-Men,” which I panned three weeks ago, “Alice” looks like an absolute bust.

Box Office Mojo forecasts that Memorial day will belong to the “first class” of “X-Men,” one more time. A three day take of $67 million is forecast.

The typically more accurate Box Office Guru thinks $93 million for what it actually a four day movie weekend. Which explains why Mojo often gets these things wrong. They post screen counts, but they can’t count “Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday.”

Mojo figures over $40 for “Alice.” Again, adding up three days. Guru goes to $52.

Those tracks are in sync with each other. I do wonder if the reviews and comic book fatigue will set in on one and the lack of Tim Burton will hurt the other.

With her Angry Birds eyebrows and toothpaste advert grin, Emilia Clarke can lay claim to the most animated face this side of Jim Carrey.

And she animates it, boy does she work it, in the romantic tragi-comedy “Me Before You.”

Every frame the “Game of Thrones” alumna is in, she’s furrowing her brow into a caterpillar catfight, peeling back her lips and grinning til it hurts.

And we feel her pain. Boy, do we ever.

“Me Before You” is a goofy, giddy, doomed romance and female wish-fulfillment fantasy.

Clarke plays a plucky working class lass hired as caregiver to a rich, handsome quadriplegic man determined to end his life.

Every girl’s dream, right? It’s not for me, but then again, it’s not exactly FOR me.

Sam Claflin is Will Traynor, dashing heir to a castle, extreme sports enthusiast, Londoner and ladies  man.

Or that WAS his life. Before the accident. Now, he can’t do anything for himself, or seemingly anyone else. He’s gone through a string of day nurses. Chatty Louisa (Clarke) has just lost her job at the bakery. He lets his parents (Janet McTeer, Charles Dance) hire her. Mighty generous of him.

He’s brusque. What does he do all day?

“I don’t do anything, Miss Clarke. I sit.”

He’s rude, quick to dismiss her.

“Go and raid your grandma’s wardrobe or whatever it is you do when you’re not making me tea.”

Louisa suffers, shows up to work, bright-eyed and pony-tailed, in one outlandishly colored outfit after another, and tries to stay positive.

“Tell me something good,” she says, repeating a life lesson of her dad (Brendan Coyle of “Downton Abbey”).

Living in a castle, waited-on all day, with access to as much metallic electronica as his ears can stand, Will still cannot do that. He’s resolved not to live this way. Can this grinning cherub change his mind? As she pushes him into a series of adventures/trips?

Jojo Moyes, adapting her own novel for the screenplay, serves up the cliches, but almost no dialogue, points of view or plot points that smack of originality. Yes, throwing “The Bucket List” into the mix plays like a cloying afterthought.

Some films (and plays) about the suicidal (‘Night, Mother”) make us understand the morose eagerness to end it all. Others (“Whose Life Is It Anyway?”) are built on characters and performances of such intense brio that we question the decision, even as we understand what a circumscribed life would mean to such a person.

Young Claflin (“Snow White and the Huntsman”) makes this choice seem more out of the blue. Thinking about it, we get it. But his version of bitterness/acceptance has no real bite.

The script is out of balance, wandering off into “Educating Rita” territory as Lou is exposed to things only the truly rich (and class conscious) typically experience. Not good news for her boorish personal trainer boyfriend (Matthew Lewis).

The comedy clicks more than the romance. Because Moyes taps into something patronizingly stereotypical with this weeper. If boys fantasize about unearned, unlimited power of comic book characters, girls (the stereotype says) go all gooey at the idea of chaste (or not-so-chaste) romance with a matinee idol dangling the promise of fabulous wealth. Decades after “Pretty Woman,” Moyes has doubled-down on a cliche, even as she’s watered down the “sex for hire” come-on.

But first to last, there’s perky Ms. Clarke, wearing a more natural hair color than “Game of Thrones” allows, demanding that we grin with her, making us giggle at her character’s outfits and hoping that we suffer as she does when confronted with the depths of her challenge.

We do suffer. Not a lot. But we do.

MPAA Rating: PG-13 for thematic elements and some suggestive material

Cast: Emilia Clarke, Sam Claflin, Charles Dance, Janet McTeer, Vanessa Kirby, Brendan Coyle
Credits: Directed by Thea Sharrock, script by Jojo Moyes, based on her novel. A Warner Brothers/New Line/MGM release.

Running time: 1:50

“The Man Who Knew Infinity” is a standard-issue, overcoming-the-odds bio-pic.

The hero must rise above poverty, a lack of education, racism and cultural guilt to reach the pinnacle in his field.

The twist here is that this time, our hero isn’t a haunted musician, tormented ballplayer or tortured artist. He’s good with numbers.

Dev Patel (“Slumdog Millionaire,” “Best Exotic Marigold Hotel”) plays Srinivasa Ramanujan, a struggling amateur mathematician in Madras who considers himself lucky to land a job as a clerk to a British engineer just before World War I.

It is not the Brit (Stephen Fry) who sees “great potential” in the young man, but the  Indian (Dhritiman Chatterjee) who hired him. He will clerk during the day, and “explain your theorems to me,” complex and novel, to his supervisor after work. 

Ramanujan is newly married to the illiterate but supernaturally beautiful Janika (Devika Bhise) and must take care of his overbearing, superstitious mother, who lives with them as well.

But Ramanujan has these numbers in his head, these Big Ideas he simply must get out. They “must not die with me.” No degree, living in a backwater of the British Raj, “I’m doomed, like Galileo.”

He must publish or he most certainly will perish.

Yes, he’s a bit sure of himself. That’s why he writes to the great Trinity College don G.H. Hardy in Cambridge. Sending a sample of his work gets him an invitation. The Indian among Academics invites skepticism and racism. The vicious ones call him “a little wog,” and even the more tolerant can’t help themselves.

“Don’t let it ruin your meeting with Gunga Din.”

But Hardy, played by Jeremy Irons with a minimum of eye contact and an Asperger’s/Autism Spectrum layer of anti-sociability, isn’t dissuaded. He and his favorite colleague, Littlewood (Toby Jones) will train and give the Indian prodigy some discipline to go with his brilliant intuition.

The obstacles hurled in the way of Ramanujan include the racist hostility of the college establishment, the dismissal of the Royal Society, a meddling ninny of a mother, the hoary melodrama cliche “the bloody handkerchief,” and World War I.

Patel, who is piling up impressive credits, makes a reliably earnest too-focused young man. Irons smokes and pontificates and rails against injustice. Jones provides the tiniest bit of levity, Fry is given nothing to do and assorted lesser known players take on the utterly generic villain roles.

The glory in Matt Brown’s film is the odd moment of discovery — not mathematical, but romantic, such as when Janika learns that her husband has left behind marks which she doesn’t understand yet make her feel closer to him while he is in England.

The problem with the movie is it all feels like something we’ve seen before, many times before. The novelties aren’t outweighed by the dramatic tropes, characters and plot contrivances we recognize for their function if not their actual role in this piece of history most of us don’t know.

That over-familiarity, and the simple fact that math is awfully hard to dramatize, undercuts “The Man Who Knew Infinity”  just as surely as any jealous, racist mathematician who stands in the hero’s way, a classic bio-picture “type” we know too well to expect him to actually foil our hero in the end.

MPAA Rating: PG-13 for some thematic elements and smoking

Cast: Dev Patel, Jeremy Irons, Toby Jones, Stephen Fry, Devika Bhise

Credits: Written and directed by Matt Brown, based on the Robert Kanigel biography. An IFC release.

Running time: 1:48