Movie Nation

Spare, dark and gritty to a degree rare in Chinese cinema, “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” is a thoroughly engrossing film noir about guilt and a resolve to somehow make things right.

Eddie Peng of “The Great Wall” and “Love after Love” stars as Xue-Ming Wang, a silent, stoic inmate when we meet him. He narrates his “how I got here” (in Mandarin with English subtitles) story in classic noir style — doing it, he says, to remember because prison is “a process of forgetting.”

Outside, he was a working class Wang, a poker-faced HVAC repairman with a factory worker girlfriend (Peiyao Jiang) and a two pack a day habit. One night years before, after working late, he drove home through the undeveloped outskirts of Yuxien, let himself get distracted and ran over a man.

That’s his crime, we come to discover. He wanted to leave, but came back and dragged the body into the weeds. The ways this eats at him aren’t obvious. But when he sees the victim’s widow (Sylvia Chang) giving out fliers, he shuts down the girlfriend and takes on his quest. He will stalk, inveigle himself into Mrs. Liang’s life, fixing her AC, lightly questioning her about her missing husband, her search for answers and closure. He’ll try to tell her what happened. He’ll try to turn himself in at a crowded, noisy police station.

Mostly, he’ll just be “around,” when he isn’t taking details from her and setting out to find out more about the dead man’s life.

Remembering all this from prison, he knows and we’ll find out the First Rule of a Film Noir mystery thriller. Nothing is as it first seems.

Director and co-writer Shipei Wen’s debut feature reveals this Columbia U. film school grad has a patient way of giving away his story’s secrets. Scenes are repeated, bringing new information, new details for us to consider into the story.

Our opinion of our anti-hero changes and we see him cower from responsibility, interfere with and even heroically attempt to intervene in Mrs. Liang’s plight. Wang isn’t shy about diving into a brawl. He even hurls himself into a random gang fight on a walk home. No, he doesn’t have “particular skills” in this regard. But guilt is eating at him and making him reckless.

The presence of a dogged Yuexin police detective (Yanhei Wang) tips us that this won’t just be a story about how Wang was captured. There’s more going on that the storyteller is withholding, layers that he’ll peel off for us as the mystery deepens even if the crime isn’t much that would last past one evening TV news cycle.

“Are You Lonesome Tonight?” takes its title from the 1950s tune, covered (in English) by a Chinese recording artist, a blind bar band singer and others during the course of the film. It’s one of the most evocative ballads in the Elvis repertoire and reinforces the tone and the solitary nature of Wang’s quest, and his life in prison.

Is the fictional city’s name symbolic, too? This is what turns up when you Google it.

Peng, more experienced than he looks here, makes a rugged, easily-underestimated anti-hero, a young man heedless of his own safety often as not and more cunning than you’d think. Chang gives us a widow conflicted about her loss, guilt-stricken in her own way and naive enough to not make all the connections and sense danger in this guarded young stranger who has entered her life.

Wen’s film shows us an underworld where the big impersonal State may get its man, but where crimes, by and large, go unpunished. Gangs, loan sharks, armed thugs and back alley gun dealers co-exist and cops, dogged or not, are taking their lives into their own hands when they push too hard.

This quietly riveting Cannes Golden Camera Award (Best First Feature) nominee introduces a filmmaker with a great eye and almost serene patience, and an early mastery of this genre should he choose to make it his specialty.

Rating: unrated, violence

Cast: Eddie Peng, Sylvia Chang, Peiyao Jiang and Yanhei Wang.

Credits: Directed by Shipei Wen, scripted by Binghao Zhao, Yinou Wang and Shipei Wen. A Film Movement release.

Running time: 1:35

No, our most inscrutable, cerebral documentary, feature films director and occasional movie bad guy Herzog didn’t direct this. The chap who made “The Search for General Tso,” a Chinese cuisine and restaurant doc did.

But a movie about preserving proof of our lives on this planet and our shared humanity? Of course Werner H. is here.

Looks promising, if not as trippy and dreamy as a Herzog directed doc.

“Punch” is a gritty yet warm Kiwi coming-of-age drama about boxing, machismo and teenaged sexual identity and discovery. Its subject matter predicts the genre cliches it can’t avoid. But some novel twists, artfully unfussy direction, sensitive performances and a strong sense of place — small town New Zealand — make it a winner.

Jim (Jordan Oosterhof) is the fighter, 17 years-old, a working class kid dutifully trained and managed by his Dad (Tim Roth), who has his eyes on the prize — Jim’s “first professional fight.”

So keep to your training. No staying up all night editing music videos out of frolics with his friends, no messing about, pre-bout with his cute girlfriend (Abigail Laurent), who calls him a “tease” for not putting out.

Jim’s a solitary sort, given to naked jogs through the volcanic sand dunes near home. That’s where he runs into another loner. Whetu (Conan Hayes) lives in a shack near the water with his dog. They’re high school classmates, but don’t hang out together. Whetu is half-Maori, and a hustler. He turns tricks for money in public restrooms to get by. His classmates gossip about it. A local cop calls him “Tiffany,” as if he’s called him that before.

So this first encounter with Jim, off campus and in the buff, is a tad awkward.

But we get a sense that Jim is a bit more empathetic and kind than his “butch” classmates. And when he wades into the surf, playing with a drone, and gets stung by jellyfish, he’s lucky there’s someone who hears his screams and comes to his aid. No, neither of them is a fan of “Friends,” since you’re wondering.

To Jim, Whetu is the natural man, living on his own, relishing the fact that “I keep the world at a distance.” Whetu marvels at Jim’s artistic side and his Dad’s insistence that his boy box.

“This whole f—-n’ town REEKS of testosterone.”

A friendship forms, which is one of the ways Jim takes his eye off his “prize,” and the rest of his life. Dad’s too old to be working as a laborer at a cement mill. He’s sick, too. But damned if he isn’t going to get his kid ready for his professional debut.

“Dad, I’ve got a life.” “Not any more, you ain’t. You’re a boxer.“

The melodramatic touches include the father’s hidden illness, Whetu’s love of singing and songwriting and his bitchy defiance in the face of gay-shaming at school, gay-bashing off campus.

No potential same sex romance could begin without boys-being-boys roughhousing.

And no fight picture would be complete without a “dirty (rival) manager” trying to steer the kid away from his old man and into a career he’s not really sure he wants.

Writer-diector Welby Ings’ debut feature may traffic in those tropes. But he keeps his focus on the central characters, leaving few of their story threads unstitched as he allows the rest of the cast to quietly melt into the naturalistic background.

Roth’s signing on the dotted line got the picture made, and he gives his latest rock-solid turn in support as an aging, sickly alcoholic racing against the clock to try and make something of his kid, not really up to the task.

That gives our promising leads the spotlight and their first ever starring roles, and Oosterhof and Hayes don’t disappoint. These are nuanced performances, characters with a soft center but an edge they make certain to trot out when challenged or threatened.

Ings and his stars ensure that “Punch” turns out to be a lot more than a working New Zealand vacation for Roth, and a boxing picture with enough more interesting stuff going on that time in the ring is almost a dramatic afterthought.

Rating: unrated, violence, sex, alcohol abuse, marijuana and profanity

Cast: Jordan Oosterhof, Conan Hayes, Abigail Laurent, Karl Willetts and Tim Roth

Credits: Scripted and directed by Welby Ings. A Darkstar release.

Running time: 1:39

Germany, Turkey and Croatia aren’t exactly hotspots for romantic comedies. But today’s “Around the World with Netflix” offering samples all three languages and cultures for a stunningly scenic and sometimes adorable bit of formulaic fun.

“Faraway” is about a neglected wife and taken-for-granted mother, wife and daughter who flees from Germany to Croatia after her elderly mother dies. Because sometimes, all it takes is a change of scene to figure out — in an instant, or maybe a few days of instants — just how miserable you are.

We learn an awful lot about the Turco-German Zeynep (Naomi Krauss) in one harried morning breakfast scene.

Her dad (Vedak Erincin) treats her like a washerwoman and valet as she scrambles to get everyone up and fed and ready for the day. Her laid-back husband (Adnan Maral), a chef running their restaurant, is leisurely enjoying his breakfast and thinks nothing of eating the lone piece of toast she buttered for herself to gulp down in a dash. Her college-age daughter (Bahar Balci) is a sullen, phone-distracted brat too lazy to get a move on, and determined to dress down and tart up for the day’s big event.

We’ve barely had time to process what jerks they are, to a one, when we realize what day today is. Zeynep is burying her mother.

An elderly lawyer upstairs drops off some papers he was keeping for her mother, and they’re off to the funeral. Well, almost all of them. Husband Ilyas forgot. And he had Zeynep’s eulogy with him. She rushes into the restaurant only to find him flirting with his new cook.

That’s what sends her home to grab those “papers,” to her phone, looking up directions to Croatia, to “The Island Between the Sky and Sea” where her mother grew up. Mom secretly kept the fact that she bought a house there years ago from her self-absorbed husband. “Zeyne” swipes the restaurant’s catering van and flees.

Arriving, by ferry, in the middle of the night, she navigates to a charming, primitive (no electricity) cliffside stone cottage that began life hundreds of years ago as a stable. When she wakes up in the morning, having slept in her Spanx, she finds a naked Croat (Goran Bogdan) in the bed with her.

Therein lies a tale.

Unhappy women running away to “Eat, Pray Love” or live in Provence, Greece or “Under the Tuscan Sun” stories are practically a genre unto themselves, and “Faraway” hews to the tried and true formula of such films.

There’s a language barrier, so she and Josip — the previous owner who stayed for 15 years “until someone showed up” to claim the property — communicate in English. Cultures clash. She wants to “R & B” the place, prompting him to correct her to “Airbnb” and flip the eff out.

But we know where this “meet cute” — “I barely recognize you with your clothes on!” — is going, even as Zeyne comes to grips with the life she is hellbent on not going back to, even as the hunky young real estate agent Conrad (Artjom Gilz) puts the drunken moves on her.

Josip takes to calling that greedy swine “Macron,” which fits. But he’s moved out of the house and into a tent in the yard with his goat, and sets out to sabotage Zeyne’s property-owning plans.

There’s nothing all that deep going on here, just a woman “finding herself” in cultures not known for stories about women finding themselves. The semi-comical sheep stampede arrives, right on cue, as does the flock of geese following Zeyne and her battered bicycle down the quaint country lane.

A little bisexual inclusion, an amusing brawl amongst all the men fighting for her attention, and you’ve got an international comedy that rises to “cute” just often enough to justify something you’d watch just for the novelty and beauty of the setting.

Rating: TV-MA, nudity, profanity

Cast: Naomi Krauss, Goran Bogdan, Adnan Maral, Bahar Balci and Artjom Gilz.

Credits: Directed by Vanessa Jopp, scripted by Jane Ainscough and Alex Kendall. A Netflix release.

Running time: 1:49

A couple of sketchy “refurbished” cell phones gives a couple of British tweens the ability to take calls from the future in “Future TX,” a dreadfully chatty, incessantly-explaining 90 minutes of nonsense from the U.K.

They make D-movies for kids in Dorset? Who knew?

It’s a film of limited but effective-enough visual effects, “canned” sound effects, over-hyped action that’s nothing to write home about and a lot of monologues from a phone voice from the near future detailing how, since “physical time travel” has been proven “not feasible,” the best way to communicate a future threat to the past is...wait for it...VOICE mail.

So if you check your in-box and hear, say, a processed, mechanical male who sounds like Number One from “The Prisoner,” warning about a “bot net” threat in the making, that Brexit was a Russian-backed scam and to stop voting Tory to save the future, it just might be that.

Arran Kemp and Adele Congreve play two besties about to be busted-up because Dylan’s American dad (Doug Cockle, and we see why you moved to Britain, mate) is moving the family to Dubai. He lets the kid go and gives the kid the cash for a couple of cell phones as a way of making it up to him.

One is for Dylan, the other for Molly. But the sketchy phones come from a sketchy “no refunds” guy who doesn’t bother to explain the lava-lamp node on the back of each phone, or warn them about the calls they’re about to get.

Those calls order them to “save the world/save the future” by going to this or that set of “coordinates,” conning some tinfoil-hat-type (Griff Rhys Jones) out of his computer and smothering this bot net thingy in its crib.

The locations are generic, even by British suburbia standards. The villain (Rhys Jones again) wouldn’t scare anyone. The action beats are limp. The kiddie “work the problem” steps to accomplishing their mission forgettable and the addition of a dull smart aleck sidekick in a wheelchair (James Grogan) adds nothing but a bit of inclusion in a movie whose real problems are that inane, insipid screenplay by paired writers and directors Tim Clague and Danny Stack.

So, no “Well done” for you two.

Rating: unrated, squeaky clean

Cast: Adele Congreve, Arran Kemp, James Grogan, Catriona Knox, Doug Cockle, Nicole Farady and Griff Rhys Jones

Credits: Scripted and directed by Tim Clague and Danny Stack. A Level 33 release.

Running time: 1:28

The latest model of the movies’ most efficient eviscerating machine, “Scream VI,” kills off five characters within the first 40 minutes.

Characters lean into the conventions of the genre once more, breaking down the obvious tropes, tricks and trivia concerning “What’s your favorite scary movie?” that are so universally recognized by now that even relative newcomers to the genre know exactly what cliches these carnage-as-comfort-food films promise and deliver, time and again, to the delight of the faithful.

When a character returns to the action late in the third act and asks, “Did I miss ‘the monologue?'” everybody knows the answer to that, because a villain has just finished one more “Where I explain and over-explain my villainy” speech.

Directors Matt Bettinelli-Olpin and Tyler Gillett and screenwriters James Vanderbilt and Gary Busick serve up six new set pieces, cinematic abattoirs you’ve seen sampled in the trailers — the Slaughter on the Subway and Bloodbath in the
Bodega among them.

We’re reminded that “nobody does ‘just’ a sequel anymore,” because this genre is all about the “franchise.” Thus the rules are different for “legacy characters,” changes in story direction and the like.

And when it comes to movies, we know “It’s all about ‘true crime’ limited series” in this, the golden age of streaming. Yes, the “Scream” movies are the most meta of the genre, constantly commenting on their requirements, conventions and how eye-rolling they are.

But at some point, the send-up of the send-up gets to be a bit much. Leaning into the trite just trips you up. And what you’re left with and a few nice acting moments thanks to the lovely leads filmed in loving close-up and a wearying slog through two hours of tedious fan service — one conventional gutting after another, one hundred and seven new “tzing, zing” blade sound effects is fifty too many and even the “Ghostface” mask, inspired by Munch’s painting “The Scream,” loses its thrill.

You’re no longer adorably embracing and amusingly upending conventions of the genre you say you’re honoring. You’re burying the viewer under a soap opera-sized backstory, and boring us with the arcane and absurd “reasons” mass murder has returned and someone new is masking up and butchering those connected to the saga’s narrative, but also fresh “randoms” sometimes played by big names.

The tale this time takes place in New York, where the “Core Four” from the last “Scream” have migrated to college. Tara (“Wednesday” Addams breakout Jenna Ortega) is determined to put Woodboro and the generations of killing behind her. Wary older sister Sam (Melissa Barrera) is here to advise and protect. The smitten Chad (Mason Gooding) is another survivor, another potential protector or suspect, as is this movie’s explainer, Chad’s hip, genre-explaining gay sister Mindy (Jasmin Savoy Brown).

They’re all enrolled in Blackmore U., which has a pretty and pretty famous slasher film expert professor (Australian Samara Weaving) and a shrink (the Canadian character actor and sometime villain Henry Czerny) Sam is seeing, but whom Tara is avoiding.

It’s Halloween, and little sister wants to party. Third wheel roomie Quinn (Liana Liberato of “If I Stay” and “Banana Split”) is having more sex than everybody else put together, probably without her the knowledge of her cop dad (Dermot Mulroney).

A couple of fresh faces circle the “Core Four,” and notoriety hangs over Tara and especially Sam thanks to their bloody escape, with some college age netizens seeing Sam as the real “murderer” and harassing her for it.

When the killings start, Mindy is cautiously defiant, Chad loyal and stoic, Tara is terrified. Sam? The way she focuses on survival strategies lets a touch of panic sneak into her “What TOOK you so long?” bravado.

And that damned Gail Weathers (Courtney Cox) pops back up to comfort, “investigate” and help cash in as a “legacy” character and TV news stereotype.

There’s a sadness that has always popped up, in good moments and bad, in these movies. And you can feel it here as this or that undeserving victim faces a sudden and horrific end. Commenting on the fanboys of the genre via a film student who sees victims as “just meat” to him explains why the films reach for something resembling empathy-for-the-dead or dying on occasion.

But it doesn’t excuse why, from that first disemboweling of Drew Barrymore way back, the killings are given more thought than reasons for them are, or why — for all their “history” — these films fail so miserably at making their characters or the viewer feel the real or even watered-down movie versions of “real” consequences of violence.

“Being at a house party after you almost got brutally murdered at a house party” isn’t funny, even when ironically pointed out.

I’ve always appreciated the humor in these films, but by the time things go wholly over the top for the finale this time, the joking has run its course.

Hilariously, the distributing studio for this one has a long list of vague “spoiler” embargoes attached to this sixth film of an endlessly repetitive franchise. As if there is such a thing at this stage.

We’re treated to lots and lots of title-checks, not just of the great horror movies, but of the “Stab” movies made about the Woodboro “Ghostface” killer, which is so meta I won’t even attempt the math. The jokes about the best “Halloween” and “Nightmare on Elm Street” film, about “Psycho II” being under-rated have aged out of their delight and thrill.

And there stands “Scream,” bloody blade in hand one more time, all stabbed out. We no longer have to ask, “Why the long face, pal?”

Rating: R for strong bloody violence and language throughout, and brief drug use

Cast: Melissa Barrera, Jenna Ortega, Jasmin Savoy Brown, Mason Gooding, Hayden Panattiere, Tony Revolori, Liana Liberato, Henry Czerny, Dermot Mulroney and Courtney Cox

Credits: Directed by Matt Bettinelli-Olpin and Tyler Gillett, scripted by James Vanderbilt and Gary Busick, based on characters created by Kevin Williamson. A Paramount release.

Running time: 2:03

A dare stares the viewer dead in the eyes right from the outset of “Champions,” a long and formulaic basketball comedy starring Woody Harrelson and directed by his “Kingpins” partner, Bobby Farrelly.

As the film’s hook is that this team coached all the way into The Big Game is made up of young people on the special needs spectrum — players with brain injuries, Down Syndrome and autism — the dare is this.

Will the director of “Dumb and Dumber” and “Dumb and Dumber To,” the reviver of “The Three Stooges,” the fellow who gave us a one-armed bowler and who scripted Ben Stiller’s special hair styling needs in “There’s Something About Mary” actually go there?

Peter Farrelly (“Green Book”) is the sentimental half of the Farrelly Brothers. Bobby’s brand is more lowbrow, more theoretically dangerous, or at least more likely to lapse into “politically incorrect.”

So we’re all on the edge of our seats, waiting for our hot-headed, hard-drinking and just-fired NBA “J-League” coach (Harrelson) to say exactly the wrong thing when a judge sentences Marcus Marakovich to community service coaching the Des Moines “Friends,” 90 days of working with “adults with intellectual disabilities” and their Special Olympics level hoops team.

Marcus is such a meathead that it takes every word of courtroom finesse for him to talk his way around the “re” word he starts to blurt out, labeling those players a court has ordered him to coach. The “re” word isn’t “rewarding,” which of course is destined to be the moral of our story.

The scene is neither cringe-worthy nor particularly funny, which goes for this two hour trudge through a Mr. Uses-Everyone learns-some-empathy comedy. Marcus is sentenced to discover patience, sobriety, responsibility and understanding through an unruly nonet of sometimes funny but to-a-one thinly-sketched-in players.

It’s as if this half-hearted, ginger-steps comedy is also daring us not to like it, endorse it and praise for the “feels” it is tailor-made to deliver, but which it pretty much never does.

Harrelson comes as close to sleep-walking through this as he did his recent “Saturday Night Live” appearance. The “White Men Can’t Jump” star is a perfectly credible, too-long-in-the-minors assistant coach. But he’s fired for shoving his boss, the Des Moines Stallions’ head coach (Ernie Hudson), which was captured on video and makes “Sports Center,” and not in a good way. That scene seems contrived and half-hearted, and it’s hard for Harrelson to break that spell in a movie that isn’t a great showcase for him or most anybody else.

Marcus tries to work with the assortment of characters — the multi-lingual, autistic walking Wikipedia (Casey Metcalfe), the somewhat catatonic klutz who nicknamed himself “Showtime” (Bradley Edens), who shoots backwards, and rarely hits the backboard. But at least Showtime’s got the showboating “big ba–s” dance down.

Mouthy Miss Cosentino (Madison Tevlin) is all sass and “You do you, I do ME” backtalk. One guy has “two girlfriends” whom he can’t stop bragging about, another player (Joshua Felder) has a single word answer repeated whenever he’s asked whether he’ll play under this new coach.

“NOPE.”

The life of the party might be Johnny (Kevin Iannucci of “Best of Enemies”), “your homie with an extra chromie,” a Down Syndrome lad devoted to the team, his job working in the animal shelter and a fellow who could use some help mastering “the pick and roll.”

It turns out, he’s the younger brother of after-lunch Shakespeare in the Schools actress Alex (Kaitlin Olson of “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia”). She was a one-night-stand for Marcus before the night it all went sideways for him, somebody who picked up on his Xs and Os obsession at the expense of human interaction way before the courts did.

Pretty much every beat of this three-screenwriter adaptation of a Spanish comedy of a few years back feels pre-ordained — from the Big Obstacles to the Big Secret revealed to The Big Game and even who and what provides the Big Moment in the Big Game.

None of which would matter all that much if this thing ever found its funny bone. It lumbers along, under-edited and paced-to-put-us-to-sleep.

Are these the best takes Farrelly could get with everybody hitting their marks and getting through his or her lines? One wonders, because the games are so dully-shot and edited — few reaction shots and almost no close-ups and inserts of in-game action — it’s as if he’s covering for less skilled actors.

Harrelson is at ease and amusing in scenes with Olson, who gives the picture a little spark. Even Cheech Marin (as the rec center manager) feels wasted, and not in a fun way.

The messaging is rock solid and uplifting — “These guys are capable of a lot more than you think.” We see players picking up plays, and holding down jobs. And we get a load of “boo boo words” when every now and then, somebody flirts with or comes right out and uses the “r” word and pays a price for it.

This isn’t Farrelly’s first crack at special needs characters/Special Olympics athletes as a subject. Remember “The Ringer,” which the Farrellys produced? It had Johnny Knoxville playing a broke gambler trying to break even by “fixing” the Special Olympics. The controversy and failure of that one may be why “Special Olympics” is only mentioned once or twice in “Champions.”

But in taking a second swing at a comedy where the object is to make special needs characters funny, but not the object of fun, you’d figure that Farrelly might have had the nerve to dance closer to the edge, or at least find some big, warm laughs. And you’d think that Harrelson could have made this funnier in his sleep. Neither is the case.

Rating:  PG-13 for strong language and crude/sexual reference

Cast: Woody Harrelson, Kaitlin Olson, Kevin Iannucci, Madison Tevlin, Joshua Felder, Ashton Gunning, Casey Metcalfe, Bradley Edens, James Day Keith, Alex Hintz, Matthew Von Der Ahe, Ernie Hudson and Cheech Marin.

Credits: Directed by Bobby Farrelly, scripted by Mark Rizzo, Javier Fesser and David Marqués. A Focus Features release.

Running time: 2:03

“The Lost King” is a featherweight little charmer about a plucky Brit who decides that King Richard III, whom history and Shakespeare have rendered as a murderously psychotic, has gotten a bum rap.

As played by Sally Hawkins, Philippa Langley is woman entitled to that notion, an over 40 marketing exec, passed-over and dismissed at her Edinburgh firm thanks to ageism and perhaps ableism. She sees a ridiculed and reviled figure from the late 15th century as a kindred spirit.

Philippa has “ME,” myalgic encephalomyelitis, also labeled chronic fatigue syndrome. When she watches a production of “Richard III,” she sees someone with a disability whom Shakespeare made a villain simply because of his alleged appearance. His Richard was not just a homely heavy, but a self-aware one, “Cheated of feature by dissembling nature, Deformed, unfinish’d, sent before my time Into this breathing world.”

In Stephen Frears’ playful, fanciful film, Philippa becomes so obsessed with this possible victim of history that she starts seeing Richard — actually the actor (Harry Lloyd) she saw playing him on the stage — as a robed and crowned royal ghost tormenting her to find his long lost remains and perhaps clear his name.

The complications in a marketing exec undertaking such an undertaking about ancient undertaking — Richard was thought to have been tossed into the River Soar in Leicester, or perhaps buried somewhere else with no real record of it — begin with a skeptical ex-husband, played by producer and co-writer Steve Coogan.

Coogan re-assembles his “Philomena” team (which he also wrote for Frears) for this story, and turns his role into it into a lesson about exes who remain mutually supportive. John and Philippa get on well enough to raise their two sons, and when she starts skipping work and spiraling down the rabbit holes presented by joining the worldwide Richard III Society, he even pitches in to feed and house them all (he’s a construction site supervisor).

The film follows Philippa, whose connection to Richard Plantagenet grows so intense that she develops instincts and “feelings” about where he might be, through this “fan’s” first contacts with real experts. Veteran Brit twinkler James Fleet (“Sense & Sensibility,” “Four Weddings and a Funeral”) is Medievalist John Ashdown-Hill, who encouraged Langley, and had research all set up to verfiy her claim, should she find a candidate corpse.

Others are more dismissive, at least at first. Mark Addy plays a composite character from the University of Leicester, which wanted little to do with this hunt…until Langley secured funding to get their archeology department to dig where she just “knew” they’d find a skeleton with a busted skull and twisted spine.

The film sets up the U. and its hierarchy as villains, heirs to the Tudor propogandists who so smeared the last Plantagenet king’s name after vanquishing him and his army at Bosworth Field. Skepticism and “Why didn’t WE think to do that?” are one thing. If U. of L. indeed tried to steal the credit for her dogged legwork, direction, fundraising and instincts, they should be ashamed.

The consulting-with-a-ghost business sets the tone for “The Lost King” — curious, historical and whimsical. But the great Sally Hawkins makes us feel the weight of discrimination and injustice in a performance as fine and nuanced as any in her career.

Philippa’s physical pain does what such maladies always do in the movies. It comes and goes at the screenwriters’ convenience. But Hawkins never lets us forget that it’s there, this depressing limitation in life that plays havoc with her work, her marriage and her sadly circumscribed future.

“If I can find him, I can give him a voice,” she insists. And maybe give herself one, too.

We’re meant to be ever-so-furious when the university slickers steal TV time and credit for her project. And we bloody well are.

Coogan is effortlessly pleasant in support, Fleet, Addy stand out. And Amanda Abbington, as a city official who gives Philippa counsel about how to be taken seriously in the stuffy, dogmatic man’s world she’s invading, sparkles with a little keep-calm-and-stop-saying-“feeling” advice.

The film gives short shrift to the hunt itself. We see arguments at lectures, rowdy meetings of “Richardians” (Brits and their love for “royals”) and a little simple legwork that suggests intuition and a marketer’s hunch for how this “story” of discovery will be sold and told (she produced TV documentaries about the search, and is a producer here) were paramount.

A lot feels skipped-over and might have been better handled in a “this clue came from here” and “that one turned up there” methodical style.

When this story broke in 2012, much of the Shakespeare-speaking world was simply gobsmacked by the unlikeliness of it all. “The Lost King” gives the impression that Langley was born to do what no one else could be bothered to — narrow the choices to a spot, visiting it and get a “feeling,” and “Voila!” The movie makes that look too easy.

Then again, if the ghost of the dead, possibly murderous monarch is sort of pointing the way, it would be, wouldn’t it?

Rating: PG-13 for some strong language and brief suggestive references

Cast: Sally Hawkins, Steve Coogan, Harry Lloyd, Amanda Abbington and Mark Addy.

Credits: Directed by Stephen Frears, scripted by Steve Coogan and Jeff Pope, based on the book by Philip9a Langley. An IFC (Mar. 31) release.

Running time: 1:48

Hard to believe now, but there was a stretch in the MTV mid-80s when two blues-playing brothers from Dallas were all over the radio, the TV and even tucked into movie soundtracks.

Jimmie Vaughan was the older sibling, the first to dive into Texas music scene — at 14 — out of school and making a living playing guitar shortly thereafter. Stevie Ray Vaughan was his competitive younger brother, an incendiary player who decorated a Bowie hit, reinvented a Stevie Wonder classic and climbed to the status of King of Guitar Gods before dying in a helicopter crash in 1990.

“Brothers in Blues” is a documentary attempt to chart their careers, get at their influences and at least take a stab at recreating their lives and the world they came from and how it shaped them.

It’s OK for what it is, but what it is somewhat less than it should be — slapdash, piecemeal, incomplete. For starters, it’s a re-working/re-issue of writer-director and (apparently) narrator Kirby Warnock‘s film “From Nowhere: The Story of the Vaughan Brothers” from 2019.

Warnock’s also done a video doc about the history of the Dallas music scene, “When Dallas Rocked,” so he knows his subject matter well. Not well enough to narrate his own movie and not bother to identify himself on film or in the credits or explain his connection, as narrator, to the brothers. He just expects us to accept his “authority.” Or maybe he just forgot to give himself a credit.

But Warnock, a fixture in the Dallas and Texas music journalism scene who knew the Vaughans before they were famous, does a good job of recreating the world they grew up in, another Rock History that begins, in essence, on Feb. 9, 1964. That’s when The Beatles hit “The Ed Sullivan Show” and took America by storm.

The first funny bit is Jimmie remembering how the rules for “getting a girl” changed with that appearance. Thanks to Ringo, who “wasn’t good looking,” a Texas lad had a chance of landing a girlfriend without playing football. Sure, Jimmie went out for the team, but making his first-ever catch led to his first-ever tackle and his first busted collarbone.

Dad bought him a guitar to master while he recuperated.

“Millions” of guitars were sold and thousands of bands began, Warnock remembers, dozens of ensembles in Dallas, including the first to let too-young-to-drive Jimmie Vaughan up their game with his axe. Warnock talks to survivors of that scene and brings up scores of long-lost clubs and honky tonks.

Warnock takes pains to set the “pre Internet,” pre-MTV context, when having a band and trying to make it big from Texas was damned near impossible. It was, Warnock narrates, like “living on an island, a very big island.”

Influences are cited — Freddy King, The Night Caps, T-Bone Walker. And bonds forged. Billy Gibbons over in Houston crossed paths with Jimmie before Billy formed ZZ Top and Jimmie moved to Austin and formed The Fabulous Thunderbirds.

But coming up behind Jimmie was this little boy who’d cry when big brother went out gigging, and who vowed — the legend goes — to follow him and eventually surpass him.

One day, somebody’d go up to blues legend Albert King and suggest he let this kid not yet old enough to grow a soul patch sit in with him and his band.

Needless to say, little Stevie Ray did NOT suck.

Stevie Ray knocked at stardom’s door, and befriended Jackson Browne, who invited the guitarist and Double Trouble, his band, to record in his studio, only to have them take him up on it over Thanksgiving. A star was (finally) born.

The film captures recent events in the siblings’ hometown honoring their legacy — a museum exhibit and a park statue near the house where they grew up.

But it has no archival interviews with Stevie Ray. Jimmie’s longtime bandmate, singer and songwriter Kim Wilson, is nowhere to be found. Very little of their music is sampled, always a hang-up with music docs.

There’s a cute bit with character actor Stephen Tobolowsky (“Groundhog Day”), who was in a Dallas band with Stevie Ray circa 1970. But that’s recycled from “When Dallas Rocked.” And the cleverest piece of film craft is interviewing Jimmie as he drives his three-on-the-tree 1940 Ford flathead hot rod.

Truthfully, the best one can say for this is that it’s footage that will be better served when it’s put to use in a better financed, music rights-included and more thorough film about these two guitar heroes who grew up under the same roof.

Rating: unrated

Cast: Jimmie Vaughan, Eric Clapton, Connie Trent, Nile Rodgers, Billy Gibbons and Jackson Browne.

Credits: Scripted, directed and (apparently) narrated by Kirby Warnock. A Freestyle Media release.

Running time: 1:46

“The Ritual Killer” trots out Morgan Freeman as yet another expert involved in a serial killer case. And for his benefit, the screenwriters discovered a grabby hook to hang this thriller on, an arcane subject for his character’s expertise.

The murders, traced from Rome to Clinton, Mississippi, are connected to a dark corner of traditional South African folk medicine, “Muti.” It can involve “ritual” cutting and use of body parts in witchcraft. That was actually the working title of the film, “Muti.”

That star and that hook have promise. But promising or not, the result is a straight-up B-movie with two main locations and six credited screenwriters struggling to make sense of a story that has Cole Hauser as a guilt-ridden, trigger-happy cop on the case when the villain jets in to BFE Mississippi to continue his spree.

The lesser players — most of the young actors playing tween and teen victims — are wincingly amateurish.

Murielle Hilaire sports a hard-to-trace accent as Detective Luke Boyd’s (Hauser) partner. The “captain” he’s always storming out on is that Swedish marvel Peter Stormare. So, Clinton must be in the cosmopolitan corner of Mississippi.

As you might guess, flicking pointlessly between Italy (Giuseppe Zeno plays the Italian cop on the case) and Mississippi with young people getting kidnapped and hacked up and cops getting slashed and stabbed makes for a somewhat disorienting movie.

Thankfully, Freeman doesn’t bother with a Lesotho accent. One can only guess what sort of language he used between takes of scenes showing his exchanges with the few students who take his class (not “natural” actors). And Hauser plays a somewhat recognizable “type,” the loner cop who lost everything and isn’t shy about being detective, judge and executioner when he storms in on a child abductor/molester.

“Do you think anybody misses Ted Bundy?” is his excuse.

The villain is a Seal-scarred African named Randoku (Vernon Davis, better than his makeup). There’s a rich white guy (Brian Kurlander, who gives the kid-actors here a run for their “acting school refund” money) backing our ritual killer.

The cluttered, disjointed story makes one certain that a magazine story/oral history about the making of “Muti/The Ritual Killer” would be more entertaining than the movie they finished and are releasing. What sort of nutty compromises were reached to get financing here, there and everywhere, and round up this cast? Did it start life as an Italian thriller, or Mississippi tax incentive project, or both?

At least Freeman has a few moments, and Hauser has aged into a fine dad-bodied man-of-action. It’s a pity they’re stuck in messes like this, without even an on-location Roman vacation to show for it.

Rating: unrated, bloody violence

Cast: Cole Hauser, Morgan Freeman, Murielle Hilaire, Giuseppe Zeno, Brian Kurlander, Peter Stormare and Vernon Davis

Credits: Directed by George Gallo, scripted by Bob Bowersox, Francesco Cinquemani, Giorgia Iannone, Luca Giliberto, Jennifer Lemmon, Ferdinando Dell’Omo. A Screen Media release.

Running time: 1:31