Movie Review: A Life Shaped by Burns, the Bible, Baseball and Jack Buck — “Soul on Fire”

“Soul on Fire” is a touching faith-based bio-pic that pushes all the right emotional buttons. It rarely misses a beat and never misses a button.

It’s about a child burned nearly to a crisp who survives through perseverance and a vast passing parade of physical and emotional supporters — from siblings and parents to doctors and nurses through orderlies on to the near-divine intervention of baseball legend Jack Buck.

An able cast and the director of “Soul Surfer,” one of the best faith-based films ever, and screenwriter of a “National Treasure” sequel and John Singleton’s “Rosewood” make this conventional inspirational drama play and pay off almost every step of the way.

And when the emotion of seeing a child suffer, admiring the persistence of caregivers and the kindness of strangers isn’t enough, the filmmakers know there are still more buttons they can push.

Cue “Don’t Stop Believin'” by Journey. The Cardinals ae playing a home game? Cue “Centerfield” by John Fogerty.

The kid needs his faith to go on living and make it through piano lessons? Let’s pick out “Amazing Grace” on the ivories.

Yes, it’s manipulative. But you can’t fault a tear jerker for doing precisely what its designed to do.

John O’Leary (James McKracken) was an avid Cardinals fan, just nine years old, when he had that accident every parent warns every little boy caught playing with matches about. He blows up himself and burns the family house down.

This traumatic scene is marked by almost shocking realism, by heroics by his siblings, and what sounds like melodramatic child dialogue ginned up by a guy who grew up to become a famous motivational speaker.

“I want to die! Please kill me!”

Nobody does. And despite the “one percent” survival chances he’s given, with burns covering 100 percent of his body, a team of doctors (Iyad Hajjaj plays the surgeon) and nurses — including physical therapy Nurse Roy (DeVon Franklin) treat little John and his family is taught how to communicate with him until his burned lungs and voice box recover.

Losing his fingers, despairing of his lack of mobility and vastly diminished future, John doesn’t want to go on. But his story gets around St. Louis. And when Baseball Hall of Fame announcer Jack Buck (Willim H. Macy) gets word, he goes for a visit and a little pep talk.

That becomes the first of many. The Cardinals get in the World Series, and there’s Jack Buck, offering words of encouragement over the air for “the kid” with long odds of ever recovering.

Those “long odds” follow John out of childhood and into college, where the badly-scarred teen (Joel Courtney) becomes everybody’s favorite drinking buddy. He’d love to ask out the pretty physical therapy major Beth (Masey McLain), but “Why would any girl like that want me?”

And as the narrative jumps back and forth in time, we see shy, stammering and guilt-ridden John as a successful adult building contractor urged to speak to a Girl Scout troop and overcome that latest obstacle to become a famous public speaker and published motivational memoirist.

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Movie Review — “Tron: Ares” — All Lit Up and No Place to Go

“Tron: Ares” is a shiny, shambolic bauble, a film of CGI red neon streaks that no longer obsesses about taking us inside the electronic video game metaverse, but with bringing the grim, unemotional and “programmed” ethos of the electronic ether into a real world run by heartless, emotionally stunted and utterly unaccountable oligarchs.

Why director Joachim Rønning didn’t give the villains South African accents is its central mystery.

Disney puts the franchise in the hands of the director of a later, lesser “Pirates of the Caribbean” installment and “Maleficent” sequel and the screenwriter of TV’s “Daredevil” and some truly awfully scripted films (“It Runs in the Family,” “The Prince”), gave them $170 million+, and this is what they gave us.

This “Tron” is a dry, disorganized and empty viewing experience whose digital universe idea of “Ares,” a combat-ready Master Program named for the mythic God of War, is Jared Leto in brooding beardo mode.

The stakes should feel the highest of any of the films in the series — giant corporations “battle…for control of the future.” It’s reduced to the lawless/ruthlessness of yet another limited little man (Evan Peters) with dreams of megalomania and global dominance.

The characters and plot of “Tron: Legacy” (2010) are dispensed with in a news coverage montage in the opening credits. These days, the legacy of Kevin Flynn (Jeff Bridges) is in the hands of a surviving sister (Greta Lee) of the duo that ran the ENCOM empire that Flynn built from a video game store/startup in the ’80s.

“Flynn Lives!” remains the company’s motto as it battles Dillinger Corp, run by heir Julian (Peters) under the disapproving eye of his mother (Gillian Anderson).

The quest these days is for a “permanence code,” a form of digital immortality in the electronic universe that Flynn first visited and disappeared into while the rest of the world was sure he’d died.

Dillinger is offering the U.S. military digital soldiers generated in that world but easily matter-transferred to ours. Ares (Leto) and Athena (Jodie Turner-Smith, fierce and focused) are two top tier programs among the “expendable” digitally-created footsoldiers who can be summoned to battle in digital-to-real Tron tanks, upgraded Light Cycles, Recognizers (those Lego-looking U-shaped patrol craft) and digital jetbikes which can tear through the watery canals of the Tron-world.

Eve Kim has cracked the “permanence” code. Julian Dillinger wants it. And when he sends Ares to grab it from the returned-from-reclusive-mourning Kim, he shows just how far he’ll go to achieve his goal.

But Ares? He’s a computerized foot soldier who isn’t about to kill a human over this. No, that’s not logical. But why would you give your god of war warrior a beard with no Tron-verse barbershops to trim it?

Chases and digital, death-dealing (“deresolution” is a defeated game character’s fate) triangular boomerangs and lance fights, explosions and light cycle red streaks invade our world as Julian battles to punish Ares, abduct or kill Kim and get his mother to stop slapping him.

Back in 1982, “Tron” felt like the fun present talking to the dark future. “Tron Legacy” reached back to the past to speak to that same menacing future. “Tron: Ares” plays as the present talking about the unpleasant present.

But that’s a conversation this movie leaves hanging at every turn.

Bridges returns as the mythic Flynn, cashing a fat check (one hopes), robed and speaking in the ethereal netherwords of his character in those vapid young adult “Giver” movies.

In the end, whoever is foiled and whatever is “achieved,” all we’re sure of is the possibility of setting up a fourth film, which judging by the early box office take of this one, is no sure thing.

Director Rønning and Co. ignored Hitchcock’s edit that “Good villains make good thrillers. “Tron” had David Warner. “Legacy” had a digitally twisted younger version of Bridges. And “Ares” has Quicksilver from the latter X-Men movies.

Anderson would have made a better heavy. But that doesn’t fix the bland, chemistry-free leads Leto and Lee, of “Past Lives” and miscast here. Throwing in unamusing archetypal sidekicks (Arturo Castro, Hasan Minhaj) with little to say and whose only purpose was representation didn’t help.

The sad truth of the matter is that Disney took 15 years to make a sequel and never came up with a compelling story for that sequel to tell, and spent all that money without casting anybody who’d hold our interest dashing through all this red-neon nothingness for two hours.

Rating: PG-13, violence

Cast: Jared Leto, Greta Lee, Jodie Turner-Smith, Evan Peters, Arturo Castro, Hasan Minhaj, Gillian Anderson and Jeff Bridges

Credits: Directed by
Joachim Rønning, scripted by Jesse Wigutow, based on Steven Lisberger and Bonnie MacBird. A Walt Disney release.

Running time: 1:59

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Movie Review: Channing Tatum Charms the Socks off Kirsten Dunst, and us as “Roofman”

A dopey “on-the-spectrum” crook on the lam plot and two movie stars who know how to work a closeup headline the charms of the delightful and just dark enough “Roofman,” a caper comedy where the real caper is getting away with it.

It pairs up the graceful, athletic and best-in-comedic roles Channing Tatum and Kirsten Dunst, an earthy actress who easily summons up wary, wounded and beguiling with just a dimpled smile and a twinkle in her eye.

Throw in the deadpan delight Lakeith Stanfield, June Temple who brings more to trashy-funny than any of her peers, Peter Dinklage at his most irritable and veteran Oz-villain Ben Mendelsohn — cast against type as a good-hearted pastor — and you’ve got yourself a winner.

Still not sold? Dinklage and Mendelsohn SING. Bet you didn’t hear that coming.

“Roofman” is a period piece comedy from the golden age of Big Box Stores, from Blockbuster Video to Best Buy and Toys R Us.

In the early 2000s, one physically fit and clever robber terrorized McDonald’s stores all over because he’d found the billion dollar franchise’s security Achilles Heel. Busting in through the roof after hours, and then making the manager empty the safe before opening in the AM was easy money. He did it 45 times.

Jeffrey Manchester was a former member of the famed 82nd Airborne parachuting infantry. He knew how to get into places and sometimes even pull himself out of them. One thing the movie leaves out is that he’d worked at a McDonalds. He knew corporate protocols.

“Roofman” gives our anti-hero a best friend and former comrade in arms (Stanfield at his most sarcastic) who tells him “observation” of “details” is his “superpower.”

The “Roofman” desperately wants to provide the finer working class things to his in-the-process-of-moving-on-ex (Melonie Diaz) and their three kids. But “superpower” or not, sooner or later — 45 robberies in — even physically fit commandos get caught.

This movie by writer and director of “The Place Beyond the Pines” and “The Light Between Oceans” (Derek Cianfrance) is about what happens after Manchester gets caught, ingeniously escapes from prison and has to hole up for months in the crawl space and after hours floor space of a Charlotte, N.C. Toys R Us.

Our lovable, pushover criminal — he gives his jacket to a McDonald’s manager (Tony Revolori) when he locks him in the store freezer — finds he can’t go home again, his wife’s moved on and the cops are watching all his old haunts like a hawk. So on the advice of that old Airborne comrade Steve (Stanfield), he shelters in place.

His dream? Fleeing the country to “somewhere with beach and NO extradition treaty,” Venezuela or Brazil.

But hiding out in that big box toy store, bathing in the bathroom, sleeping behind a false wall, clothing himself with colorful not-quite-kiddywear and dining on peanut M & Ms’, he immerses himself in the dynamics of the business and the friction within this culture.

The boss (Dinklage) is a brusque bully, not interested in the “personal life” issues divorced mom Leigh (Dunst) trots out whenever she needs time off. Our store squatter surreptitiously intervenes on her behalf. When Leigh asks that same boss for donations to her church’s toy drive, she’s rebuffed. The handsome ex-con can fix that, too.

That’s how they meet and how the “detail” oriented criminal falls in love and his best laid plans “gang aft agley,” as the poet said.

That church introduction is an unalloyed delight, almost wholly out of character for this filmmaker but not these two stars. Tatum’s Jeffrey, going by “John,” goes all tongue-tied amidst the widowed and divorced man-eaters of this integrated, musical and joyous church. Dunst does the worn down divorcee charmed to blushing by the hunk who pays her extra attention.

And seeing Mendelsohn (“Rogue One,” “The Dark Knight Rises”) paired with Uzo Aduba (“Orange is the New Black,” “Tallulah”) as the bubbly married couple who minister to this flock is enough to restore your faith in casting directors, if not Southern Fried Christianity. She plays matchmaker and when he breaks into song I just about fell out of my seat. They’re a hoot.

Juno Temple (“Ted Lasso”) scores points as shifty ex-Airborne Steve’s partner in crime.

I don’t know what it is about Charlotte, North Carolina and goofball crime stories — many of them true — that have big screen appeal. Remember Zach Galifiankis and “Masterminds?” Steven Soderbergh’s NASCAR yahoo caper comedy “Logan Lucky?” Something about the city, or maybe it’s haughty self-regard (I used to live there) makes dumb criminal tales from there irresistible.

Cianfrance betters those two earlier efforts by leaning into the “Cool Hand Luke” of the caper, the ways Manchester gets away with this and that, avoiding capture.

“When they stop watching you,” he says of “working” the guards and those he deals with in prison, “you can start watching them.”

That “keep running” and you’ll outdistance any police dragnet theory is dismissed by Manchester, who narrates his story and insists “The trick is to stop — find a place no one will look.”

No wonder the cops refer to this guy as some sort of savant, “maybe a genius,” and kind of “an idiot.”

The narrative drags on a bit as the story makes its turn towards the dark finale. But with its Christmas shopping climax, we may have ourselves the first delight of the holiday cinema season right here in mid-October. And if you miss Tatum and Dunst’s chemistry in cinemas, don’t fret. They’ll be “out” for good behavior and out on video by Veterans’ Day.

Rating: R, some violence, nudity, sex, profanity

Cast: Channing Tatum, Kirsten Dunst, Lakeith Stanfield, Juno Temple, Melonie Diaz, Uzo Aduba, Ben Mendelsohn, Tony Revolori and Peter Dinklage

Credits: Directed by Derek Cianfrance, scripted by Derek Cianfrance and Kirt Gunn. A Miramax/Paramount release.

Running time: 2:06

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Oft imitated, never bettered, Diane Keaton: 1946-2025

Diane Keaton has died. And good heavens, how do you even BEGIN an appreciation of this Oscar winning icon’s career?

She came to fame as Woody Allen’s muse, enjoyed a career that lasted three full and fulfilling acts and lived long enough to see her “look,” the Diane Keaton “line,” go in and out of fashion more than once.

Five decades on screen let her outgrow “Annie Hall” and “Sleeper” and come back around to the pre-cancelation Woody for “Manhattan Murder Mystery.”

She won one Oscar, copped a couple of Golden Globes, a BAFTA and an American Film Institute Lifetime Achievement award for movies that ranged from “Play It Again, Sam” to “Shoot the Moon,” “Mrs. Soffel” to “Reds” and “Looking for Mr. Goodbar” tossed in amongst the legions of comedies she made her own.

“First Wives Club?” “Somethings Gotta Give?” Two “Father of the Bride” comedies? She often starred opposite leading men years younger and generally outshone them, a Bette Davis or Joan Crawford with a sense of humor.

Her post-Allen career was probably the most interesting collection of roles, as she broke out with “Mr. Goodbar,” “Reds” and “Shoot the Moon” in short order. She might be the tall WASPy, flighty and funny shiksa goddess to Allen. But she was grand as career women (“”Amelia Earhart: The Final Flight,” “Baby Boom”), earthy but stylish and wise mothers (“The Family Stone,” “Father of the Bride”) and flirty and single over sixties (“Town and Country,” “Maybe I Do” and their many variations).

She had a persona and worked it, making every role hers with her signature timing, laugh and charisma.

“You know, somebody once said to me, ‘Funny is money,” she noted in one conversation we had. Diane Keaton was funny. She was money.

The last time I interviewed her was for “Mad Money,” I think, as she started the last act of her career — smaller films, most of them not profitable and not all that great. But she was bubbly through “Book Club” outings and sipping “Arthur’s Whisky,” and never less than adorable to watch on the screen.

“It’s hard to believe I’m still around, isn’t it?” she quipped back in 2007. She had 18 more years of movies yet to make. She passes away with three projects in the can and destined to come out as a final tribute.

Truly one of a kind.

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Movie Review: Young Germans use “Free Will” to see the line between “Truth & Treason”

It’s often not the strongest, the toughest or wisest among us who have the courage and common sense to know the difference between right and wrong, who have the guts to do something about injustice when the unjust have brainwashed everyone around you.

That point is simply introduced and then hammered home in the new drama “Truth & Treason,” a true story about German teenagers who figured out that Hitler was leading a nation of “Seig heiling” lemmings over a horrific and morally indefensible cliff to their doom.

The teens figured this out on their own, using their “free will” to read what banned books had to teach them, secretly listening to news from abroad that was a lot closer to the truth about the regime ruling them than what their propagandists were telling them.

“Truth & Treason” is a sturdy and suspenseful historical thriller about the life of Helmuth Hübener, a literate, compassionate German teen who saw the ugly truth even when his family, his peers, his church and his country did not.

But when we meet Helmuth (Ewan Horrocks), he’s the meekest among his quartet of pals, the last one to dive off a bridge for a summer swim in the river, the one not tough enough to stand up to the bullies in their Hitler Youth squad.

Karl-Heinz (Ferdinand McKay) is the tough one. Rudi (Daf Thomas) goes with the flow. And Salomon (Nye Occomore) is the guarded, considered one.

It’s 1941, and Nazi Germany is at its peak, rolling through Russia and North Africa, occupying France and much of the rest of Europe. Even the boys’ Mormon church is on the band wagon, beginning services with a “Heil Hitler” with their bishop (Daniel Betts) stressing Mormon tenets of “obedience” to kings and heads of state in his sermons.

Helmuth’s half-brother is in the army and his stepfather (Sean Mahon) is an officer. With connections like that, and a recommendation from his bishop, the kid becomes the youngest clerk at Hamburg city hall.

But the day he sees his church post a “No Jews may Enter” sign on the door, when he doesn’t buy his bishop’s equivocating response to his mild challenge, opens his eyes. And when Salomon — passing himself off as Mormon until the church bans him — is beaten up and then arrested and “disappeared,” Helmuth decides to act.

Salomon’s fate wakes him up. That archive of “banned” books by Thomas Mann and Schiller and Shakespeare, “All Quiet on the Western Front” and the like that is locked in Hamburg city hall gives him inspiration.

“Jesus fought with words,” not swords, he knows. Those red cards denoting offensive pages in the banned books are just the right size for typed leaflets. Helmuth starts to write literate, exquisitely argued screeds warning of “the abyss” the “clown,” “madman” Hitler is leading Germans into. He posts them on bulletin boards, tucks them on windshields and shoves them into mailboxes.

Helmuth resists, and soon he enlists his best friends in his scheme. It takes some doing, as he’s turned out to be the bravest of the lot.

All of which gets the attention of the smart but sadistic army policeman Ewin Mussener (Rupert Evans) who begins a fanatical hunt for this literary type via his incriminating typewriter, determined to root out “traitors” even as the first British air raids are pounding Hamburg and sending his family fleeing underground.

“Truth & Reason” concerns itself more with history than emotions, more with a cat-and-mouse hunt than with the idealism these kids bond over. So it’s more “solid,” sturdy and engrossing than moving.

We see the risks and blunders of a very young man — listening to BBC shortwave broadcasts, smuggling red cards home, using an American made Remington typewriter with tell-tale failings. And we see the “consequences” his faith has taught him to accept, a trial in a courtoom where it’s not The State vs. Helmut, but “Adolf Hitler vs. Helmut Hübener.

And we hear samples of the eloquent writing that so infuriated his pursuer and his persecutors.

Director and co-writer Matt Whitaker is uniquely-qualified to tell this story. He scripted the Mormons fighting in WWII drama “Saints and Soldiers” and directed a documentary about young Helmuth Hübener, “Truth & Conviction.”

The movie is well-cast even if the script rarely allows their performances to rise to affecting. Evans has the trickiest role to play, and the script doesn’t quite sell the fanatic who tortures but sympathizes with a talented writer. A love interest (Sylvia Varcoe) is introduced, and banned music (composer Felix Mendelssohn) is one of the subtexts.

But the production values are quite good. And “Truth & Reason” easily bears the weight of “an important movie” for its target audience — “Sound of Freedom/I Can Only Imagine/Homestead/Cabrini” conservative faith-based filmgoers — well enough to recommend.

History has a lot to teach us about the present, and Whitaker and his cast aren’t so subtle that the viewer can’t see their and hear their message. Faith in the wrong prophets can be disastrous. Callous cruelty and barbarism are never right or righteous. And we remember not just the monstrous villains, but those who saw the threat and sounded the alarm, not the thugs who “followed orders” or blindly enlisted in a creed that was anything but Christlike.

Rating: PG-13, violence, torture

Cast: Ewan Horrocks, Ferdinand McKay, Sylvia Varcoe,
Joanna Christie, Daf Thomas, Nye Occomore, Sean Mahon, Daniel Betts and Rupert Evans

Credits: Directed by Matt Whitaker, scripted by Ethan Vincent and Matt Whitaker. An Angel Studios release.

Runnimg time: 2:01

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Documentary Review — “John Candy: I Like Me”

Friends, acquaintances and fans still get choked up when the subject of the late Canadian comic wonder John Candy comes up.

I’d be talking to Richard Lewis or Ron Howard or Hanks or somebody who worked with Candy and out of the blue, they’d mention his name and turn emotional.

Fans remember “Planes, Trains and Automobiles” or “Uncle Buck” or “SCTV” or “Splash” and the big man with the big grin and big laugh that you just knew were covering for some painful vulnerability, and tear up.

So you knew that Colin Hanks, as director and interviewer, would have no trouble getting legions of Candy friends and fans to sit down for chats about a funnyman who died over 30 years ago.

“He filled a room with his aura,” Conan O’Brien recalls. “The minute you see his face you smile,” his “SCTV” co-star Dave Thomas says. Funny? Sure. But “he was a great actor who stuck acting in his back pocket and behaved like a human being,” says Mel Brooks, who directed Candy in “Spaceballs.”

“John Candy: I Like Me” isn’t just a documentary appreciation of the actor, comedian and “good guy” everybody from Eugene Levy to Catherine O’Hara and Bill Murray insists that he was. It’s a love-in for a man who knew he was “living on borrowed time” and who made movies that have outlived him and impressions that stick with people for a lifetime.

Director Hanks generously samples from Dan Aykroyd and O’Hara’s effusive eulogies for Candy at his Toronto funeral in 1994. “Johnny Toronto” his old Canadian comedy friends nicknamed him, was his pal Aykroyd remembered, simply “Grand.”

Home movies and interviews with Candy’s widow, Rosemary, and children Christopher and Jennifer and other childhood friends and relatives summon up a childhood scarred by the death of Candy’s WWII veteran father at 35, when John was just five.

He dreamed of sports glory until he blew out a kneecap — which was never replaced — and became a high school drama nerd who had to be tricked by friends into auditioning for Second City Toronto.

Murray was a castmate in that company, and he gets as emotional as we’ve ever seen Bill Murray when he fights back tears relating that “I wish I had more bad things to say about him.” Because he didn’t have any.

Candy started off as timid background in many a Second City sketch, because as Murray recalls, “We were the WORST.” But that was a key to Candy’s dedication to his craft and path to the top.

“I don’t think people realize how bad you have to be…be REALLY bad and know you’re bad…to become a perfectionist.”

The film dips into Candy’s gregarious nature, a Canadian Falstaff who’d “always pick up the tab” even when he was as broke as everybody else at the table, his inability to say “no” to a friend — making appearances, taking on bit parts or even leading roles in movies as “a favor” — a toxic failing in a business that takes advantage of such generosity.

We get a hint that he held “grudges” and those including film studios he felt let him down. I distinctly remember him taking digs at Tristar for the failure of “Who’s Harry Crumb?” when we were supposed to be talking about “Delirious.”

He held onto friends for life, and Akyroyd, Levy, Martin Short and Steve Martin offer great insights into his character, his on screen “vulnerability” and its causes and how it manifested itself in his comedy — mercurial turns from jolly to vindictive, everybody’s pal to Mr. Petty — all in service of his art.

Hanks got his father Tom to relate a story of being a young stage actor on tour and stumbling into an early TV incarnation of “SCTV” and just “killed” by the audacity of “Leave it To Beaver 25th Anniversary Reunion” and Candy’s star turn in it.

And the director sat down with Macaulay Culkin, who recalls, at 44, the fatherly, giving and concerned impression the man forced to “work with kids” made on the set of “Uncle Buck,” a time when Culkin’s own dad was lost in the dollar signs his offspring could generate.

We catch snippets of decades of tactless and rude remarks in the form of questions about his weight from legions of forgotten Canadian and American TV interviewers.

“Don’t you think everyone loves a fat man?”

“I Like Me” takes its title from Candy’s blowhard saleman’s confession in “Planes, Trains and Automobiles,” and strains to ensure that the phrase isn’t understood to be ironic. His anxiety manifested itself in unhealthy lifestyle choices; avoiding doctors, eating and dieting and drinking — I remember him ducking out for smoke breaks the couple of times I interviewed him — a tad too generous, too giving, too guilt-ridden about being away from his family, doomed to die young, in Candy’s case alone on a film shoot in Durango, Mexico.

But if anybody deserves this sort of love-in, it’s John Candy. Hanks’ film remembers him living large, “Johnny Toronto” becoming an owner of the Toronto Argonauts who promptly won a title, dragging friends onto films with him, making his mark not just as a funny man, but a sweetheart of a guy.

It was “no meager life” that they reflected on at his funeral or that this film remembers. And if they closed the King’s Highway in Toronto for his final limo trip, that’s no less than he deserved. Hanks just reminds us of that, as if annual re-broadcasts of “Planes, Trains and Automobiles” wasn’t enough.

Rating: PG-13, profanity

Cast: John Candy, Catherine O’Hara, Bill Murray, Macaulay Culkin, Steve Martin, Tom Hanks, Mel Brooks, Dan Aykroyd, Andrea Martin, Martin Short, Eugene Levy, Chris Columbus, Christopher Candy, Jennifer Candy and Rosemary Hobor.

Credits: Directed by Colin Hanks. An MGM film on Amazon Prime

Running time: 1:53

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Netflixable? Who’s a Good (Brazilian) Boy? “Caramelo”

“Caramelo” is a boy-and-his-dog-tale that’s as adorable as it is sentimental and predictable.

Writer-direector Diego Freitas serves up a near perfectly executed São Paulo story of a mischievous stray, a young chef and the ways they connect when one of them gets sick.

There isn’t much that’s surprising here, from the mayhem the dog causes when he sneaks into the restaurant, to the haughty food critic who must be pleased to the sous chef who gets promoted and turns staples of Brazilian working class eats into haute cuisine.

Even that first piercing headache that Pedro (Rafael Vitti at his most engaging) suffers feels pre-ordained and re-fried. Lucky for Pedro he’s taken in the dog that helped him land this job. And headaches or not, that makes this the perfect time to meet that cute dog rescuer/trainer Camila (Arianne Botelho).

“Dogs fit in EVERYone’s lives!”

But the star here is a version of every street stray you’ve seen in Central or South America, a big-eyed brown beauty named Amendoim, which is “Peanuts” in Portuguese. He romps through scenes, vocalizes on cue and turns on the charm after every apartment-trashing, food-stealing/scene stealing frolic.

Director Freitas, who plays a waiter in the film, wisely puts the cute pooch in the hands of his actors — literally — and captures one random but wholly relatable bit of dog behavior after another that adds to the film’s charm.

Camila’s bestie and co-owner of their Best Friend Haven rescue shelter and obedience school is played by Noemia Oliveira, who is holding and sharing a little food with the caramel colored dog whom Pedro and the dog decide should be called “Caramelo” when the dog just lunges to get that extra bite that was intended for the human holding him.

Yes, the dog senses something wrong with his new master and yes, he helps save the day when the plot requires it. But the star’s charm and scene after scene that any dog lover will recognize is what sells this simple, sweet-spirited movie.

“Dogs are a blessing from the Lord,” a little old lady counsels Pedro, in Portuguese with English subtitles.

“The world could be ending, but they’d be living it up,” Camila marvels.

The performances are affecting (Bruno Vinícius stands out as Pedro’s new chemo-buddy), the sentiment understandable and the food looks delicious.

But nobody and nothing upstages the dog here. Amendoim never lets us forget that this may be their world, but it revolves around him. Which is as it should be.

Rating: TV-14, animal peril, profanity

Cast: Rafael Vitti, Amendoim, Ademara, Arianne Botelho,
Noemia Oliveira, Kelzy Icard and Bruno Vinícius

Credits: Scripted and directed by Diego Freitas, with co-writers Rod Azevedo and Carolina Castro. A Netflix release.

Running time: 1:41

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Movie Review: New York “Neighbors” and Theatre “Types” collide in “The French Italian”

“The French Italian” is a dizzy comedy that loses its fizz when it wears out the possibilties of its original premise, but gets some of it back by finding a few other screwy directions to take us.

Writer-director Rachel Wolther’s debut feature dips its toe in New York stereotypes but reaches for broader statements on Gen X “relationships” and Gen Z misanthropy. It doesn’t quite deliver the laughs or insights it could, but the players make it bubble by without much effort showing.

“Saturday Night Live” alumnus Aristotle Athari and Catherine Cohen (“Only Murders in the Building”) are Doug and Val, a couple that traffics in cute and obsesses about their social circle and whether it’s shrinking, and about their rent-controlled brownstone, which they tell their friends they “had to give up” because of annoying, noisy neighbors.

Doug and Val regale one and all about the stranger who lived the downstairs garden apartment, pretty much without incident, until some bottle blonde moved in and brought her karaoke machine with her.

That atonal, Spanish-mangling “La Bamba” that interrupts their tranquility?

“It’s the neighbors!”

“It’s not Lou Diamond Phillips,” that’s for sure.

First Doug and then Val take their circle of friends through what they suffered — the bad singing, the wee Pomeranian and the loud arguments. They speculate and judge them — ill-mannered, people without boundaries, unconcerned about anybody but themselves, self-absorbed Gen Zers.

“Abusive relationship?”

“It’s textbook, really.”

Sooooooo textbook.”

Their friends sympathize. Their friends criticize. They “gave up” a rent controlled townhouse flat? Without confronting them? Without getting REVENGE?

“Give it a googs,” they’re nagged. The blonde is an “actress” fresh out of Wesleyan. “Rich,” they decide. Spoiled. “Untalented” based on her singing.

Before Doug and Val can back out of it, a plot is hatched, their friend the “police sketch artist” and sometime actress Wendy (Ruby McCollister) is onboard, booking “a space” and promising to help with a fake audition for a fake play that will humiliate and put this Mary Dancyger in her place.

So much for “Maybe I should call her and yell at her.”

As Doug and slacker-at-every-job-she’s-ever-lost Val piece together details that they can work into the audition that will sting — the broken bong and annoying dog that were the source of Mary and the guy she moved in with’s arguments — “The French Italian” sets up as a mean-spirited and somewhat cowardly revenge farce.

But when they lure Mary into their “space,” they’re half-amused, half-appalled. “Untalented” doesn’t cover it. From her dye-job to her cartoonish;y large lips to her expressionless Gen Z stare, Mary is unfit to be on a stage, in a commercial or anything where “acting” is required.

Some viewers might be inclined to pity her. Not Doug and Val. It’s just that they can’t ever seem to pull the trigger on confronting her, dropping the charade and having their revenge.

From that first instruction from Wendy about how to use “Annnnd…SCENE,” they’re hooked.

The script becomes a struggle to rationalize what they’re doing and make it funny, and how to find laughs in the umpteenth Gen Z putdown and what this exercise says about this entitled couple of Gen
X wimps.

Cohen brings the right energy to brassy Val and makes the couples’ bitchy banter sing. But her best scenes are at her office, where we figure out in a flash why she can’t hold a job and where she’s upstaged by Larry Owen, playing her flamboyant singing, preening and reaching-his-limits-with-her-slacking boss.

Athari — he was just in “M3GAN 2” — lands a laugh here and there with variations of his attempts to “be a man” and “get on with our lives” speeches to his “committed” partner.

But writer-director Wolther struggles to make the “how bad an actress is she/how dumb are her avengers” rehearsal scenes land even low-hanging fruit laughs. So she gives up and reduces rehearsals to montages. The “relationship” dissection barely breaks the skin as the plot overreaches for a bit of pop psychology it can’t deliver.

And the third act twists, built around an actor (Ikechukwu Ufomadu of “Judas and the Black Messiah”) who has taken Val and Doug’s half-assed “play” to heart, give “The French Italian” an upbeat finish that we’d given up hope of having for the 45 minutes preceding it.

Rating: unrated

Cast: Aristotle Athari, Catherine Cohen,
Ruby McCollister, Ikechukwu Ufomadu  and Chloe Cherry

Credits: Scripted and directed by Rachel Wolther. A Level 33 release.

Running time: 1:32

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Movie Review: Faithful to the End, and Beyond — Who’s a “Good Boy?”

“Good Boy” is elemental horror — a tale of a sick man under natural and supernatural assault — and his dog.

And the marvel of this movie is the performance by that real live dog. Director Ben Leonberg picked up on his pet Indy’s “range” of expressions and emotions and trained, tricked and puzzled the Novia Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever into a canine performance — created by editing — for the ages.

Indy is so devoted to his owner, Todd, that he’s never distracted by whatever goes on beyond the camera’s field of view during a movie shoot. His eyes don’t leave Todd (Shane Jensen) in his moments of need, peril and confusion. But Indy is wary of grandpa’s “haunted house” in the country. Indy wanders. Indy sees and hears things that intrigue and alarm him.

“Good Boy” is a simple, scary thriller that leans on one of the classic tropes of the genre — “The dog knows.” And seeing what Indy sees and taking in what Indy’s frightened, confused but loving and loyal eyes absorb makes us fear for what he doesn’t understand, what faces his master and could face him as well because he just doesn’t know better.

Todd, whose face is rarely seen and then not until the third act, is sick. We gather this from calls from his concerned sister Vera (Arielle Friedman), and from her visit, when she finds her brother coughing up blood.

Todd’s response to this is to flee to grandpa’s old house on the farm. He walks Indy, fusses over him. And when his medical situation turns dire, Indy is with him when he goes to get a cat scan and some very bad news.

But Indy is picking up other threats from their new surroundings. It’s not just their hunting, camo-nut, foxtrap-setting neighbor (Stuart Rudin) that they have to be wary of. There are noises, shadowy figures in the background Indy doesn’t see. And grandpa (horror icon Larry Fessenden), seen on old vhs tapes, had something weird going on around him.

Indy hears whimpers from a locked cellar, which can only be the ghost of Bandit, grandpa’s long-dead dog. He even sees him.

The tangible “threats” here come from the usual horrific visuals — gnarled, skinny, twig-thin black fingers, menacing eyes that pierce the dark, unseen evil reaching from beyond for somebody and somebody’s dog.

Leonberg wisely lets his beautiful, expressive dog’s face tell this story and sell this terror. This low-budget jewel all but mocks every film production that needs a dog but which uses a CGI one instead of a living, breathing, loving and relatable pet, from “Call of the Wild” to “Superman.”

There is no substitute for the real thing, and even people who don’t love dogs reognize that.

The tropes trot by as blood and black bile reach out from beyond — or maybe just from Todd’s diseased condition — and the dog takes in his master’s suggesting horror choices for TV viewing (“Carnival of Souls”) on his grandpa’s old TV.

The film’s limited dialogue and dogs-eye-and-ear-view (muffled dialogue, unseen faces) give its story an underexplained mystery, which works to its advantage. The pools of darkness, gloomy exteriors and shadows underscore the “less is more” ethos that the production lives by.

But as Spielberg himself could tell you, if there’s no Indy, there’s no movie. W.C. Fields may have warned his fellow actors to never co-star with “children or dogs.” “Good Boy” makes the humans all but superfluous as its star delivers some of the most realistic reactions to the unexplainable this time-worn genre has ever seen.

Rating: PG-13, bloody violence, profanity

Cast: Indy, Shane Jensen, Arielle Friedman, Stuart Rudin and Larry Fessenden.

Credits: Directed by Ben Leonberg, scripted by Alex Cannon and Ben Leonberg. An IFC release.

Running time: 1:13

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The last time I ever get on a horse

Robert Duvall talked about having to give up horseback riding the last time I interviewed him, and  even in his 70s, he was taking it hard. He’d made his working life provide him with lots of peak career Westerns, and he took those paydays to settle in “horse country” — not just in Texas.

Me? Not so much. I’ve ridden occasionally over the years,  and I knew it was an iffy proposition for this trip, doing an hour or two on an arthritic hip cross country in Belize. But it is what it is.

I have always appreciated actors who trained vigorously enough to look “right” in the saddle. It’s harder than it looks. Speaking from experience, Blackadder’s insult about “He rides a horse rather less well than another horse would” is pretty hard to avoid if it’s uncomfortable.

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