Movie Nation

“Forever Young” is yet another “speculative fiction” tale that takes senior citizens for a dainty dip in the Fountain of Youth.

It’s a somber, downbeat drama in which the familiar themes about how old age is “earned” and how some are anxious to “rewrite” their past and others are more than ready to shuffle off this mortal coil are recycled once more.

Those main themes are lightly accesorized in writer-director Henk Pretorious’ narrative. A lost child, a longing for a child never born, old flames and a writer whose audience is dying off are folded into what, at its most basic, is a story of a marriage and the differing expectations each partner brought to it and hopes, in their dotage, to take from it.

Diana Quick, seen in “The Death of Stalin” and in Ridley Scott’s first feature, “The Duelists” way back when, is Robyn White, a 70something novelist who has noticed, via her public readings of her latest book, that her readers aging and dying out.

She’s a bit of a grump, and right-after-a-reading is no time for old flirt Jim (Julien Glover, a memorable James Bond/Indiana Jones nemesis) to shuffle up and demand to know if she’s “writing my book.”

Irritable Robyn isn’t hearing it, even if Jim claims “I’ve discovered the cure for regret!”

Robyn and longtime husband Oscar (“Lord of the Rings” alumnus Bernard Hill) have an old manor house in the country and a routine that depresses her, weekly “Any bets on who’s next?” visits to older friends in the retirement home down the road.

Then Jim shows up again. And this time he looks the way he did when they were all young. Young Jim (Mark Jackson) was “obsessed with age being a curable disease,” and being a Big Brit Pharma chemist, he’d done his share of dabbling.

Whatever he retired with apparently did the trick, and Robyn breaks out her recorder to begin researching that book. “Novis,” he calls his elixir. And when he offers it to Robyn, she’s in a quandary.

Oscar, whom she considers dull and “average,” but who insists to her “that I don’t regret a single day of my life with you,” isn’t interested. He’s got his woodwork diaramas, his occasional “quiz night” at the pub, and Robyn. For him and his little time left, that’s enough.

Researching Jim, she is introduced to the singing, homeless junky daughter (Anna Wolf) born after a one night stand. Hanging with her granny-pal Jane (Stephanie Beacham), Robyn learns she’s headed to Thailand for a cheap facelift.

Two more candidates for the Novis treatment? And what complications might lie with them? Robyn also has to make up her own mind, and it’d be a mighty short movie if she didn’t get into the bath in her ’70s and wake up as her 30ish self (Amy Tyger).

Films like this have to walk a fine line between sentiment and sentimentality. Pretorious avoids that by keeping the temperature entirely too chilly for warmth. He doesn’t give his cast many moments for sentimental reflection or emotional connection with each other, much less the audience.

The stakes feel low, the finale preordained and none of the little sidebars in the “elixir of youth” story serve up anything to make “Forever Young” — a much overused title — engaging or enlightening.

It’s grand seeing Quick, Hill and Glover here, and if there was any heart to the movie it would come from more scenes including all three. “Forever Young” loses its way as it tries to maintain the ties between narcissistic old-and-then-young Robyn and dull but sweetly doddering Oscar, and the extremes she goes to in order to strenghthen that bond.

Whatever Pretorious was going for in the third act, the words “satisfying conclusion” never figured into it, and a modestly interesting not-quite-sci-fi drama wanders into the wilderness in search of its purpose.

Rating: unrated, adult themes

Cast: Diana Quick, Bernard Hill, Amy Tyger, Mark Jackson, Julien Glover, Anna Wolf and Stephanie Beacham.

Credits: Scripted and directed by Henk Pretorious. A Vision Films release.

Running time: 1:40

He wakes up in his underwear, trapped in a modernist but spare cell with track lighting, a computer terminal, a sink, a toilet and a lot of questions, one of which matters most of all.

“What’s going on?”

It’s not clear at first, or even after a bit. His Spartan surroundings make this seem like punishment or “a test,” he figures. Purgatory?

“Will somebody go see about my dog?”

That computer screen, through which we view the unnamed-but-numbered man (Melvin Gregg), shows us digital interface graphics (backwards, as we’re peering through “it” at “him”). And while that screen gives him no straight answers, the word “Share?” seems something his captor/tormentor/deity is obssessed with.

“So you want me to share?” What, exactly?

Well, maybe just a bit of himself dancing, fooling around, hurting himself attempting a handstand.

“Sharing” earns rewards, among them screen contact with another inmate (Bradley Whitford), a chatterbox wiseass and apparently a screenwriter. Whoever or whatever has imprisoned them wants its inmates to put on a show, provide “content.”

Other inmates see and “share” what you’re doing, if its interesting enough. And you are rewarded for that — food, furniture, clothes. The second inmate has obviously figured this much out and has been complying for a while.

But that showering woman (Alice Braga) whose screen is shown our first inmate as a “reward” for something? She’s pissed at being Peeping Tom’d.

“Share?” is a social media/”attention economy” parable that feels like a “COVID” lockdown production. The camera is fixed, with a lone point-of-view, and the cast is isolated with no human contact. There was probably just one set, redecorated for each “inmate” the film peeks in on.

But the movie? After a dull and slow start, the Benjamin Sutor script introduces online character “types” (the pretty young woman — Danielle Campbell — who gets attention for leading “just breathe” exercises in skimpy clothes), “rewards” and what might be punishments, all of it seemingly self-sustaining/self-policing.

Time is devoured, attention-grabbing “performance” is rewarded and the sense of the “trap” of it all slips into the background even though some unseen, unheard and unknown entity is serving up rewards and the inmates’ basic needs.

Just like much of the Internet.

The cast — Gregg was in TV’s “Snowfall,” Whitford’s beein in everything and Braga’s career has taken her from “Elysium” to “The Suicide Squad” — gives good value with performances restricted in space and movement.

The story’s conflict, which hangs on “accepting” this “sentence,” or crowd-sourcing possible means of escape, is only mildly interesting as realized by first-time feature director Ira Rosensweig, whose prior credits appear to be music and corporate videos.

Coming out as a major crowd-sourced social media site is facing death by an expensive, oligarch-and-dictator-backed “catch-and-kill” because of its essential role in organizing dissent, the minimalist “Share?” does manage to be thought-provoking, just not thought-provoking enough to recommend, any more than its exercise in single-set-up filmmaking is.

But it does make one ponder the “prison” social media can become unless you’re of the pretty-young-thing-posing-for-“follows” and “subscribers class.

Rating: unrated, violence, a sexual situation, some nudity

Cast: Melvin Gregg, Bradley Whitford, Danielle Campbell and Alice Braga.

Credits: Directed by Ira Rosenweig, scripted by Benjamin Sutor. An XYZ release.

Running time: 1:18

Apple TV+ has this companion piece to “Band of Brothers” and “The Pacific.”

Austin Butler and Barry Keough star in this story of the air we over Europe, bombers and fighters and “milk runs” and “suicide missions.”

Whatever practical effects were used, not seeing much that I can ID as “real” B-17s, etc.

WWII in CGI?

January.

Open one’s mind to the possibilities and the possible interpretations of Yorgos Lanthimos’s latest.

Emma and Willem and Ruffalo and Ramy are the stars.

An infamous but much praised sex scene is it’s buzz right now.

Dec. 8 this comes to theaters.

He was all but “erased” from the history of the famous 1963 “March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom” of 1963, where the Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr. took center stage as America’s greatest orator and the Conscience of the Nation, a march Bayard Rustin agitated for, planned and organized.

But that erasure didn’t take. A Black Civil Rights icon and gay man at a time when it was dangerous and even deadly to be either, Rustin’s memory was revived during the run up to the 50th anniversary of that August, 1963 protest on the National Mall. Documentaries celebrated him, and President Obama gave him a posthumous Presidential Medal of Freedom.

Now the Obamas’ production company has produced a terrific Netflix biopic, a star vehicle for a mesmerizing and righteously-animated Colman Domingo (“Fear the Walking Dead,” “Passing Strange”) and a piece of “forgotten” history brought vividly to life.

Theater and film director George C. Wolfe (“Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom”) and his cast and screenwriters bring a theatricality to the man, his famous Civil Rights contemporaries and the times, which play here as momentous — people making history, one of whom realized it more than others.

“Inspiration untethered from action loses all value!”

“Who said that?”

“I just did!”

“Rustin” begins with the activist’s efforts to lead a mass protest to the 1960 Democratic National Convention in in Los Angeles, which led to a break with the leadership of “The Movement” and a rift with longtime friend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. (Aml Ameen). It tracks Rustin through a couple of years in the wilderness, disdained for his “communist” and “pervert” (homosexuality) associations by white racists and general disapproval by NAACP chair Roy Wilkins (Chris Rock, summoning up as much gravitas as he can manage).

Allies like Ella Baker (Audra McDonald, regal) and union leader A. Philip Randolph (Glynn Turman, terrific) urge him back into the fold of a movement whose momentum, the film reminds us, often stalled in the decade after the momentous Brown v. Board of Education ruling by the Supreme Court.

The televised 1963 police assault on marchers in Birmingham, Alabama brings Rustin back to mend fences, and inspires Rustin to push for a mass march on Washington demanding government action. They’d organize, recruit and stage a march at the end of August while “the horror of Birmingham is still on the entire nation’s mind.”

Flashbacks tell us Rustin’s early awakening to a quest for justice, and the issue of his sexuality is addressed via a lover/assistant (Gus Halper) who helped publicize the march, and a closeted pastor (Johnny Ramey) Rustin cheated with. On the record, Wilkins objected to his “promiscuity” more than his sexual orientation.

Rustin faced resistance, demotion and “outing” at every turn, with threatened smears linking him to MLK and gay bar raids seemingly aimed at catching him in the act.

The story touches on the “accepted” homophobia of the white supremacist Senator Strom Thurmond and the Black New York Congressman and power broker Adam Clayton Powell, Jr. (Jeffrey Wright) and the ramptant sexism in America and even in The Movement.

Female Civil Rights leaders like Dr. Anna Hedgeman (CCH Pounder) were furious at their near total exclusion from the dais on the National Mall. That wasn’t really down to Rustin, who had his hands full with Black New York police officers to train as marchers practicing “passive resistance,” an uncooperative DC police chief and a National Park Service that declined to so much as meet with him for planning purposes.

Domingo catches fire in a performance given to speechifying, understandable given how quotable this man was as he drove “the cause of altering the trajectory of this country towards freedom.” Rustin’s connection to the women of The Movement is underscored when Domingo duets on “This Little Light of Mine” with Coretta Scott King (Carra Patterson) as he visits her and her children.

Turman, Pounder and McDonald are the best at holding their own with Domingo, with Michael Potts lighting up a smaller role, as the fiery and florid Jamaican-American labor organizer Cleveland Robinson.

Recreating the March itself with reenactors added to extant TV news coverage is impressive. Restaging Dr. King’s “I Have a Dream” speech is a mistake, as there’s no substitute for the real thing.

But in a story decorated with white “official” villains whom history has mostly (and rightly) forgotten, Jeffrey Wright is maybe one scene shy of stealing the movie as Powell, all arrogance, peacocking and lording his status over other Civil Rights leaders.

Wright and the script give Powell’s homophobia-as-excuse-for-grabbing-the-spotlight a venomous edge.

“Is this the man we want to see labeled ‘Mr. March on Washington?'”

Wright as Powell in “Rustin” might be the year’s best bad guy in a movie.

“Rustin” is quotable, brisk and inspiring, even if it feels less epic than it should. It has the budget, cast and scale of a good made-for-TV/streaming movie, not really “theatrical” in scope.

But if ever there was a chance its title character might once again be pushed out of the picture and removed from the story of a Red Letter Date in American history, Domingo, Wolfe, the Obamas and Netflix and their powerful movie have ensured that will never happen.

Rating: PG-13 violence, profanity, drug use

Cast: Colman Domingon, Glynn Turman, Chris Rock, Gus Halper, CCH Pounder, Aml Ameen, Audra McDonald, Michael Potts, Carra Patterson and Jeffrey Wright.

Credits: Directed by George C. Wolfe, scripted by Julian Breece and Dustin Lance Black. A Netflix release.

Running time: 1:46

The effortlessly cool actor and jazz pianist Jeff Goldblum becomes literally animated for the Fernando Trueba doc about the late ’50s Bossa Nova craze, the world’s love affair with Brazilian music and a seminal figure in that movement whose life was snuffed out young.

This looks wonderful, and a perfect Goldblum vehicle,

A couple of hard and fast rules of the cinema are proven again in “Adventures of the Naked Umbrella,” a dark screwball conspiracy thriller set along California’s wildly eccentric Salton Sea “coast.”

One rule says you should never ever set out to make a “cult film.” Those almost always just happen. Some fringe audience latches onto a movie and the cast can live their days doing autograph shows and conventions, if they’re lucky. Trying to write, cast and film one is like counting on a LOTTO ticket for financing.

And another rule is that true screen debacles are rarely the actors’ fault. Even if Tom Arnold is one of them.

Both are borne out in this tone deaf farce that begins with dousing live pigs with gasoline and torching them (not seen) and doesn’t end any lighter.

Whatever writer-director Gerald Brunskill (“It’s Gawd! was his) was going for when he eventually gets around to showing us what he’s going for wasn’t worth going for in the first place.

Whatever promise casting “Spanking the Monkey” and “Saving Private Ryan” star Jeremy Davies as a scrawny, mullet-haired pyromaniac and conspiracy podcaster named Samson married to religious-fanatic and trailer-mate Irene, played by “Hustle & Flow” alumna Taryn Manning, is frittered away.

And whatever happens in in Brunskill’s half-based UFO nut meets a UFO pilot narrative, while dodging his parole officer (Darnell Rhea) and taking “care” of his pet pig “Kevin,” who happens to be made of porcelein, it’s safe to say I didn’t respond to any of it.

Samson is on probation for being a firebug who torches 5G cell towers. He hosts a podast ” The Naked Umbrella” show from “my little slice of Hades,” their single-wide, where he panders to “patriots and Deep Statists, Communists and Tea Baggers” with his deranged theories, accusations and pronouncements.

All Irene cares about is that he not take “the Lord’s name in vain.” All his probie, Yolanda (Rhea) gives a damn about is that the podcast (theoretically) allows her to keep track of him without having to drive by and spy on him.

Yolanda assumes he’s fulminating “live.”

Then Sam’s generator blows out, and when he heads out to fix it, the trailer explodes. He and Irene run off to drug-addict/COVID cure hustler Granny (character actor Richard Riehle in drag), hoping against hope that this “CIA hit” Samson’s sure was intended for him isn’t blamed on him, an arsonist with a record.

Arnold plays the ready-to-retire police chief who likes dressing as Santa and singing off-color tunes (“Santa’s got a package”) at the department Christmas party.

And Bert Retundo plays a “cop who cares” who hasn’t come back to work, having just lost his daughter to COVID “during quarantine.”

As we’ve seen the abusive father who inexplicably made his boy torch a herd of swine, we can see the origins of Samson’s mania. Another flashback recreates his wacky wedding.

And there’s a saucer floating around the Salton Sea, which is handy, because Samson isn’t the only local who’s seen such spacecraft.

Movie buffs can pick up on the origins of some of the undigested ideas Brunskill tries to get a movie out of here, the “mad prophet of the airwaves” doing his shtick on that screenwriter’s favorite medium at the moment — podcasts.

Dropping that part of the plot to focus on the cops, Samson’s granny, and literally anything else acid-washes what little promise this picture had right out of it.

Davies could have been filmed in more conventional “madman at the mike” shots, and any pretense of taking this story in serious directions could have been abandoned. Though admittedly, when you start with a pig immolation, that’s a hard pivot to “comedy and nothing but” pull of.

The Salton Sea settings are a novelty, and the picture could have used more of that off-the-grid community’s eccentricity. The characters we meet aren’t all nuts, and the nutty ones aren’t nutty enough.

There’s not a laugh in here, not a whit of suspense to any of this and no third act twists can pull this pig out of the fire.

Rating: unrated, violence, drug abuse, profanity

Cast: Jeremy Davies, Taryn Manning, Darnell Rhea, Richard Riehle, Bert Retundo and Tom Arnold.

Credits: Scripted and directed by Gerald Brunskill. A Level 33 release.

Running time: 1:42

Veteran takes a road trip for “one last mission” is such a common plot that such missions have included not just visiting a fellow soldier or a fallen comrade’s family, but Channing Tatum playing a soldier delivering a service “Dog.”

As a genre, it’s been around so long Henry Winkler and Sally Field did a version of a PTSD trek (“Heroes”) in the ’70s, before “Post Traumatic Stress Disorder” became the replacement name for “combat fatigue.” And the veterans depicted on the road in such films have included service members from every conflict since World War II.

The challenge is in showing us something new in this narrative, a challenge that the somber, sometimes soulful and always-over-familiar “A Place in the Field” fails to adequately answer.

Whatever “fresh take” viewers want in such stories, you have to figure the survivors of combat — veterans themselves — deserve something more than a “triggered” flashback-littered tale of a couple of not-that-close “comrades” driving and hitching from Texas to California to scatter the ashes of a traumatized member of their company who took his own life after coming back home.

Veteran bit player Dom DiPetto plays Giovanni “Gio” Scuderi, a sticks-to-himself carpenter in rural Texas. He’s got steady work and a doctor girlfriend (Mishel Prada) way above his pay grade, a beautiful woman who frets over the stretches where he doesn’t answer his phone.

A bad day for Gio begins when he hits a coyote on the road. He buries it and pays tribute with a ritual howl. That’s the day the package comes, one with a letter and an urn. A former comrade of “I wouldn’t be here if it wsn’t for him” caliber came home, couldn’t adjust or tamp down his demons, and killed himself.

“Don’t grieve for me, brother,” he wrote. “Don’t freak out at the ashes.”

Gio has a mission, and another veteran of their outfit (Khorri Ellis, with DiPetta a credited co-writer of the script) shows up for a ride along.

The way stations on this pilgrimage will include the inevitable breakdown, a fellow veteran who picks them up in his RV, a stop at an artsy “hippy” compound where a dancer will interpret your poem for you, when you’re ready to recite it and the like.

Back in uniform, the burly (now bearded) Gio was “The Tank.” But this won’t be a tale of miles and reminiscences. Their combat experience — it’s not crystal clear where they served, a fact not helped by the obviously non-Middle-Eastern locations where they filmed this — is something Gio only revisits in abrupt flashbacks that could be triggered by a noise, a situation that resembles similar parked-beside-the-road moments in “in country,” or a phrase.

“I got you, bro,” from helpful Ashlee (Ashlee Brian) in his RV is all it takes to set Gio off.

The performances aren’t bad, just somewhat uninspired and generally uninteresting. The players look like the veterans a lot of us know, even if there’s little in the screenplay that lets them give away that status in their speech and actions. A boot camp marching chant here, a “Better to walk than to be dragged” remark there will have to do.

Occasional “soulful” moments sneak into the screenplay, which has a script-by-committee feel. The coyote metaphor is a nice if obvious touch. An out-of-left-field anecdote giving us the legend of White Sands’ Pavla Blanca — sort of acted-out and clumsily “related” to the story — stands outs as more indulgent than anything else we see here. The combat recreations are convincing enough, but just cliches when you break down what they say and why they’re in the script.

Any movie that sets out to engender sympathy for people who survived situations most of us will never face has good intentions. But not all of them are created equal, and “A Place in the Field” is as generic as its title.

A somnambulant pace that lacks anything like urgency and a half-hearted grasp of the pathos first-time feature director Nikki Mejia should have been going for parks this veterans on the road picture on the shoulder, never close to getting up to speed.

Rating: R, violence, profanity

Cast:Don DiPetta, Khorri Ellis, Mishel Prada, Ashlee Brian and Xochitl Portillo

Credits: Directed by Nikki Mejia, scripted by Bluesman del Vecchio,
Don DiPetta, Khorri Ellis and Xochitl Portillo. A Lionsgate release.

Running time: 1:23

Jan. 12, Fey and Jon Hamm and Jenna Fischer join the “Mean Girls” for the musical made from the Tina Fey/Lindsay Logan hit comedy of a long time time ago.

Fresh? “Fetch.” Jan.12.

By now, the studio-as-multiverse that is Marvel has so cluttered up its franchises, timelines, characters and platforms those characers are seen on that only hardcore devotees can come close to keeping it all straight.

God knows Marvel isn’t.

As their pictures drift clear of the debris from the Russo Brothers’ “Avengers” era, one can’t but notice how chintzy Marvel and their Disney paylords have gotten with the supporting players. A lifetime contract for Samuel L. Jackson means no room for any other big “name?”

And there’s that multiverse-driven feeling with the whole genre that maybe comic book movies are running out of things to show us long after they pretty much ran out of things to say.

But there’s something downright fizzy about the hard left turn that “The Marvels” does to this money-minting machine. “Candyman/Little Woods” director Nia DaCosta’s film is lighthearted and sometimes laugh-out-loud funny, with dazzling spaceflight/space-fight effects that raise the bar yet again on such enterprises.

The striking difference between comic book movies directed by men and those directed by women include characters with more compassion and self-reflection, recognizing that violent actions have consequences, an effortless inclusiveness here as well as flawless glam-shot makeup on one and all with special attention paid to flattering midriff-baring attire and nary a hair out of place when the camera rolls.

“Marvels” is still a bit of a muddle, with the usual “It is what it is” story shortcomings and endless over-the-top brawls. But there are moments of playful invention that reminded me of Douglas Adams’ “Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.”

Visiting a planet where all the beautiful people sing to communicate is a “Glee!” sized showstopper. And the biggest letdown in staying through the credits –as Marvel movies have taught us to do — is realizing that one-time girl singer Brie Larson needed a “dance double” for a hilariously out-of-character waltz.

The “This is a fangirl’s movie” tone is set straight away with new not-quite-Avenger Ms. Marvel, the teen-who-saved-Jersey-City Kamala Khan (Iman Vellani) letting us into her bedroom where her teen “team” “twinsies” fantasies about her idol and role model, Captain Marvel, are in every piece of decor.

But we’ve already seen the other version of the “bangle” bracelet that gives Ms. Marvel her powers acquired by the vengeance-seeking Cree queen Dar-Benn (Zawe Ashton). Something about the way this new threat uses that bangle causes Captain Marvel/Carol Danvers (Larson), her onetime goddaughter-protege-now-astronaut with “powers” Monica Rambeau (Teyonah Parris) and Kamala to switch places any time one of them uses her powers.

A lot of bouncing through space and time — much of it played for laughs as Kamala finds herself in the middle of a Marvel fight/chase the Captain is experiencing, etc — has the two women and the teen confused, until they all wind up in Kamala’s Jersey City home with her trying-to-accept-all-this parents (Zenobia Shroff, Mohan Kapur).

The Marvels — Monica resists Kamala’s “Professor Marvel,””Frequency,” “Pulsar” and “Lady of Light” “codename” pitches — find themselves scooting around the universe trying to solve this space-time puzzle and foil the actions of the Mean Ol’Cree.

Meanwhile, Nick Fury’s up on a space station, communicating with the Marvels and coping with assorted crises — some comical — of his own.

The plot complications have a soap operatic confusion about them, something adding Marvel content and characters via streaming series is only making worse. It’s hard to give “fan service” to everybody you’ve introduced when you’ve introduced so many, virtually none of them with the star power/name-recognition/charisma that Jackson brings to his glue-that-connects-everybody, Nick Fury.

Larson’s take on her character, quick-tempered and a little rash, is interesting. But nobody else here really registers as a character with a supposed interior life. Vellani plays a lot of shrieks of shock (“Goose” the alien-shape-shifting cat is not alone) and “OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod” fangirling, which gets old. Quick.

I kept expecting a bigger name to turn up in this surprise waltz partner (Korean pop and TV star Park Seo-Joon) or that disgruntled victim/emperor (Gary Lewis).

Even the easy laughs from the doting Indian-American family feel muted, not quite all they could have been, despite Zenobia Shroff being a familiar face and not bad at landing a stereotypical punchline.

But the fizziness of it all kind of overwhelms some of the shortcomings and distracts us from others. Maybe the actors will grow into the parts, and we aren’t looking at a Marvel Universe peopled by Terrence Howards and Ioann Griffuds — good actors bland at the Larger than Life superhero thing.

Maybe the screenwriters who just returned from the picket line have an idea or two of how to lift these convoluted, formulaic scripts to the next level.

And perhaps the whole genre, whose adherents can never get enough “content,” will migrate to streaming, interrupting the big screen assembly line long enough for all involved to figure out what’s working, what’s played-out and how to make the fizzy scenes into three acts of fizz movies for the big screen.

Rating: PG-13 for action/violence and profanity

Cast: Brie Larson, Teyonnah Parris, Iman Vellani, Zawe Ashton, Gary Lewis, Zenobia Shroff,
Mohan Kapur, Park Seo-joon, Abraham Popoola and Samuel L. Jackson.

Credits: Directed by Nia DaCosta, scripted by Nia DaCosta, Megan McDonnell and Elissa Karasik. A Marvel Studios release.

Running time: 1:45