Movie Review: Improv Comics Howard, Mohammed and Bloom go “Deep Cover” looking for laughs in London

“Deep Cover” is an exceptionally silly Brit comedy about improv actors lying on the fly as undercover bait for London police. Logic goes out the window early on, with no means of re-entry.

And it’s built around Bryce Dallas Howard, Nepo Baby Number One on filmdom’s bad casting news rap sheet.

But here’s what it has going for it. It has Sean Bean as a well-past-it-and-knows-it cop who recruits failing improv actors as undercover buyers to bust drug dealers. “Ted Lasso” mensch Nick Mohammed plays the mousiest of the improvisers. Paddy Considine is the “somp’un’s not right with you lot” drug dealer. Here’s Ian McShane, going full Scots for his cranky, Jenga-obsessed kingpin.

“Pull th’wrong piece and it all comes dooooooooon!”

And then there’s the scene stealer, the co-star who lands a laugh in every scene, almost every single time he opens his mouth. Orlando Bloom plays a “Methody” nutcase actor, 40something and still booking single-line commercials, obsessive about getting “deep” into every character, even the street corner elf (LOL) he has to play to plug a department store’s holiday offerings.

Of course the guy’s name is “Marlon.” Of course he’s from Manchester. But if you’re trying to bluff murderous mobsters into not suspecting you’re “fake,” and thus offing you, the wild-eyed gone-to-seed loon is handy to have around.

“Mess with the bull,” Marlon hisses, leaning into Manchester-accented David Caruso, “you get th’ORNS!”

Marlon, Kat (Howard) and on-the-spectrum tech-nerd Hugh (Mohammed) are the losers hardbitten Sgt. Billings (Bean) recruits for his “two hundred quid a pop” “Donnie Brasco” gig — play-act “buyers” who bait sellers into selling them drugs so he can make the busts.

Considine is “Fly,” the mid-level dealer they stumble into when all they were looking for was a quick score. He tests them, and who wouldn’t? Tough talk or not, these “city slickers” don’t pass the smell test.

The gag here is that undercover work has the same “rules” as onstage improv. Number one, “Never break character.” Number two? “Say YES.” Improvisers use “Yes AND” as transitions for their on-the-spot invented dialogue. And number three, “Always trust your partner.”

But will that, the toy guns and squeaky toy grenade Marlon insists his “character,” “Roach” would carry, see them through? Kat becomes tough-talking “Bonnie” (missing her Clyde), the “brains” of the outfit. Painfully shy mystery man Hugh is “The Squire.” God knows what he’s capable of. Especially after he’s designated drug-deal “taster,” sucking up his first-ever lines of cocaine in the bargain.

Mohammed is amusingly hapless and bounces off Bloom’s over-the-top loon nicely. Sonoya Mizuno plays Fly’s scary/sexy bi-curious gunslinger, and co-screenwriters Colin Treverrow and Ben Ashendon play unfunny cops who really should stick to writing.

Enough people (myself included) have beaten the bliss out of Bryce Dallas Howard’s limitations over the years, so I’ll just say she’s dead weight here, the least convincing “improviser” in the cast.

But McShane shimmers and Bloom reminds us that he’s been funny, he’s good at being self-serious and he’s still a lot more than Legolas, his arrows and his “Lord of the Rings” ears.

I found myself uttering the same words Keira Knightley said to me in an interview once, over and over again, when I mentioned I’d be talking to her onetime “Pirates of the Caribbean” co-star later that day.

“Orlando F—–g Bloom,” she said, not once or twice or thrice, shaking her head and laughing as she did. There’s a story there, and no, she didn’t tell it to me. That’s for her memoirs.

In “Deep Cover,” Orlando F—-g Bloom gets the dirty, funny job done, and how.

Rating: R, violence, drug abuse, profanity

Cast: Bryce Dallas Howard, Orlando Bloom, Nick Mohammed, Paddy Considine, Sonoya Mizuno, Sean Bean and Ian McShane.

Credits: Directed by Tom Kingsley, scripted by Derek Connolly, Colin Treverrow, Ben Ashendon and Alexander Owen. An MGM/Amazon Prime release.

Running time: 1:39

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Movie Review: “M3GAN 2.0,” an Update Nobody Needed

A tip of the hat to Ivana Sakhno, who gives one of the more convincingly metallic turns as a woman-playing a robot in “M3GAN 2.0,” a killer robot sequel that leans even harder into well-founded AI phobia.

She is Maria in Fritz Lang’s classic “Metropolis” rendered in brutish Robert Patrick strokes in this “Terminator 2: Judgement Day” inspired thriller.

The follow-up to the surprise smash of the winter of 2022 goes for grim laughs this time out, with star Allison Williams reduced to straight man woman. Producer credit or not, she lets us know how she feels about that in every inexpressive, under-reacting moment she’s on screen. Literally everybody and everything here upstages her.

A military grade upgrade of the child-protective-robot of the first film goes rogue. Amelia, your steely, supermodelish Autonomous Military Engagement Logistics and Infiltration Android has run amok and is on the hunt for a master cloud server that will allow her control of Life on Earth.

Naturally, there’s a smirking, chip-implanting tech oligarch (Jemaine Clement) who has wired the world for his version of an AI future that Amelia is ready-made to exploint.

Only a rebooted M3GAN, still snarkily-voiced by Jenna Davis, can stop Amelia. Inventor Gemma (Williams), now a crusading, best-selling anti-AI/anti cell-phones-for-kids foster parent to Cady (Violet McGraw), kept M3GAN’s electronic brain around, but this time she’ll keep her in check by sticking her in an AI digital assistant-bot form.

But you can’t keep our avenging AI angel in “this plastic Teletubby” if you want her to stop Amelia. They’ll have to “rebuild a deranged robot in order to catch another deranged robot” if humanity is to have a chance.

M3GAN’s “You know I could never hurt you” reassurances to Cady, her insincere apologies to Gemma’s team (Jen Van Epps, Brian Jordan Alvarez) for trying to kill them in the first movie will have to do.

Gemma’s “virtue signalling snowflake” fellow anti-AI crusader beau (“Saturday Night Live’s” Aristotle Athari) better not get in M3GAN’s way, either.

Clement and Athari make the strongest comic impressions here, with FBI home invasion “jokes” and a cocky, stumbling, rights-violating military man (Timm Sharp) giving the film a tech fascism topicality.

Sakhno is steely-eyed menace personified. Those “Be Robert Patrick” stage directions paid off.

But with M3GAN cracking jokes, striking sassy teen poses and the like, the frights are never anything to take seriously.

Some of the jokes land. Some do not. And through it all, not a moment of rising threat level or terror registers credibly on anybody’s face. It’s as if they’re all in on the joke, with Williams merely the worst at spoiling the punchline.

Rating: PG-13, violence, profanity

Cast: Allison Williams, Jemaine Clement, Ivana Sakhno, Jen Van Epps, Violet McGraw, Aristotle Athari, Brian Jordan Alvarez, Timm Sharp and Amie Donald with the voice of Jenna Davis.

Credits: Scripted and directed by Gerald Johnstone, based on characters created by Akela Cooper and James Wan. Universal Pictures release.

Running time: 2:00

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Movie Review: “F1” doesn’t miss a gear, or a trick

“F1” is a shiny, streamlined and perfectly aerodynamic version of an old fashioned star vehicle.

The star in this case is Brad Pitt, one of the most popular leading men of his generation. So it’s only natural he and director Joseph Kosinski chose to circle a track that Steve McQueen, James Garner and others rounded long ago. The echoes of “Grand Prix” and “LeMans” are intentional.

And Kosinski, who made sure Tom Cruise was never far from the frame in “Top Gun: Maverick,” knows a little something about star vehicles. The cars are cool and we get a bit of a sense of the engineering and strategies involved. But “F1” is more “Gran Turismo” than Ron Howard’s “Rush.” The idea here is swaggering, popcorny, crowd-pleasing fun.

Pitt plays Sonny Hayes, old school and old enough to avoid having his age ever mentioned by any track or TV coverage race announcer. He’s “the greatest who never was,” a driver of skill and the cunning that comes with years of experience. He’s also an iconoclast with a past. He wrecked once, decades ago, a crash glimpsed in the film’s opening and in flashbacks.

Now he lives in a van, drifts from track to track, circuit to circut, looking for a “seat,” a “ride.” His MO is laid out in the film’s blistering opening sequence at the 24 Hours of Daytona (the Rolex 24), a sports car endurance race like LeMans. Sonny drives the overnight laps that set up his Porsche team for victory lane the next day, when he hands the keys over to a teammate.

“Hey, you lose that lead, I’ll kill you!”

No amount of begging from the team captain (Shea Whigham) can convince competitive Sonny to come back for another season in this class. He’s off to find another race in another circuit, even off-road rallies like Dakar or the Baha 1000. And that old pal and rival (Javier Bardem) who shows up with an offer to return to the circuit that almost killed him, Formula 1, has just as hard a sell.

The Mercedes team’s about to go broke, unable to challenge Ferrari, McClaren et al. Their young, telegenic star of the driver (Damon Idris) may be popular on social media. It’s a pity he’s finishing last, when he’s finishing at all. Help us, Obi-Sonny. You’re our only hope.

The Erhen Kruger script sets up our expectations for a formulaic “mentor/protege” rivalry, with a love interest on the team (Kerry Condon plays the car-designer) and steady rise through the ranks F1 season of races. What’s fun about it is the ways it upends that formula, and how Pitt leans into the lighter side of his star appeal.

Sonny’s test drive/”audition” for a “seat” on his Apex Grand Prix team goes badly. He still gets the job. His mentoring consists of battling the kid so hard that they wreck. He can’t get the attention of the car builder with suggestions based on that cocky, 50something grin. But he does get her Irish up.

“I start listenin’ t’you when you FINISH a race!”

Pitt gives Sonny a flippancy about all of this that flies in the face of earlier treatments of this still-deadly sport. The character wears his “the greatest who never was” status, his years in the wilderness, driving taxis and gambling for a living, with an almost embarassed shrug.

Press conferences? He’s the king of smirking one-word answers to questions. And his solution to the team’s get-out-of-last-place problems are what we’d call “cheating.” “F1” has a whiff of “Talledega Nights” about it in that regard.

In Kosinski’s two and a half hour film, rival drivers (Lewis Hamilton got a producer credit) are barely glimpsed and occasionally mentioned. The focus is on the kid who has to learn patience and team building and the tricks of the track, and of the old dog teaching those new tricks.

We see shirtless Sonny’s scars from injuries, the tattoos, and the competitiveness. Sonny may affect a laid-back, devil-may-care vibe. He’s cavalier about the ways he games the rules and “Ooops” and “My bads” others off the track. But he hates losing.

The flippant banter gives this movie a jokey “Ford v. Ferrari” tone. Kosinski boils the travel and tracks down to a few tropes that capture the spectacle of Britain’s Silverstone, Mexico City’s Autódromo, the Vegas Strip course and Yas Marina in Abu Dhabi.

If you want a sense of the grandeur, tradition and deadly history of Formula 1, “Grand Prix” and “Rush” do it better.

But if you want a fun night out with a sixtysomething movie star behind the wheel, in his element and cheerfully, comically comfortable in his own long-worshipped skin, you’d be hard pressed to do better than “F1.” It takes the checkered flag among the popcorn pix of this summer.

Rating: PG-13, profanity, violent accidents, sexual situations

Cast: Brad Pitt, Javier Bardem, Damson Idris, Sarah Niles, Samson Kayo, Tobias Menzies, Abdul Salis, Callie Cooke, Shea Whigham and Kerry Condon.

Credits: Directed by Joseph Kosinski, scripted by Ehren Kruger. A Warner Bros./Apple release.

Running time: 2:35

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Documentary Preview: “Shari & LambChop” take another bow

You’ve got to be a certain age to have any idea what this title is about and to remember how big a deal this early children’s TV act was.

Coming soon.

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Netflixable? Baby Ballerina is Slow to Figure Out who the “Bad Influence” in her Life Is

Here’s a sordid little teen-in-trouble tease from Spain that promises threats, sex and violence presented in the most melodramatic situations possible in assorted posh settings decorated by overdressed members of the upper class and underclass.

“Bad Influence” is about a teen ballerina who is being stalked — at home, at school and in the concert hall, and her rich father’s wildly unconventional and nonsensical solution to that.

Dad (Enrique Arce) goes to prison and wrangles early release for a troubled young man he wants to to be his daughter’s bodyguard.

Yeah, it could happen. “Troubled?” Maybe giving the kid the name “Eros” (Alberto Olmo) wasn’t the safest guarantee for an easy life.

Eros is to watch over young Reese (Eléa Rochera), and his lunging save when a stage light almost falls on her should seal that deal.

But she’s underwhelmed and he’s not all that enthusiastic. And as is the way of cute teen thrillers of this ilk, there’s a whole flamenco around the mutual attraction that gets in the way of “The Bodyguard” performing duties he is in no way qualified to carry out.

At least they can bond over a “Doctor Jones” sing-along in her daddy’s Jeep.

Reese is getting online threats and real-world suggestions of exposure to peril. Her bullying rich pretty-boy ex, Raúl (Fernando Fraga) is the leading candidate. His racist “Jesus Looked Like Me” t-shirt is our first clue.

Maybe the posh private school that Eros has to enroll in and (we assume) audit classes in French philosophy is a tell, too. The screenwriter/director names it “St. Plath.” I kid you not.

It’s never the most obvious villain, so does the Sylvia Plath reference give anything away? Might the dad be staging these threats himself in a pervy, possessive bit of acting out? Could one of Reese’s friends — voraciously bisexual Lily (Sara Ariño) — have it in for her?

Could Reese be managing these menacing messages herself? How about Eros’s orphan “family”– the overdressed/underdressed and underemployed sexpot Peyton (Mirela Balic) or on-the-make hustler Diego (Farid Bechara)? Revenge on “our annoying bosses of the future” class?

The film pays about as much attention to the mystery as it does to Reese’s supposedly promising ballet career (check out that EDITING). At least the scenery (Valencia and environs) is striking, what little we see of it.

The heat between our young Spanish Alexander SkarsgÃ¥rd look-alike and the Spanish daughter Gemma Arterton never knew she birthed is palpable but teased out in the most predictable ways. That coy, carnal attraction has to do the heavy lifting in a movie with limited incidents, threats and “action.”

Because the resolution and finale co-writer/director Chloé Wallace cooks up looks more Latin American Spanish than European Spanish. It’s straight out of a telenovela.

Rating: TV-MA, violence, sex, nudity, smoking, profanity

Cast: Alberto Olmo, Eléa Rochera, Mirela Balic, Sara Ariño and Enrique Arce.

Credits: Directed by Chloé Wallace, scripted by Chloé Wallace and Diane Muro. A Netflix release.

Running time: 1:46

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Documentary Review: A bullfighter’s life in the Ring, “Afternoons of Solitude (Tardes de soledad)”

Any intimate, detailed documentary about what goes on during a bullfight is going to chase away probably two thirds of the populace in this day and age. Those who avoid it have a point.

“Afternoons of Solitude,” which follows pouty and popular young bullfighter Andrés Roca Rey through fourteen corridas over three years, doesn’t pull any punches or spare us the blood. We see the jabs of the picas (lance piercings delivered on horseback) and banderillas (darts) or the stabs from the estoque (sword) and belated coup de grace from a descabello (dagger).

Only the sword is wielded by the muleta (cape) waving bullfighter. He has a whole costumed and armed team on his side as he wades through an afternoon’s fights.

A tight-jacket/tight-pants “suit of light” dandy with a sense of theater — strutting, posturing for the crowd, eyes bugging out as he regards his foes (more than one bull) for the day — he is also a man with a high tolerance for blood. Early on, we see our torero undressing after a fight, a white suit ruined by the gruesome day’s work.

But director Alberto Serra’s film (“Tardes de soledad” in Spanish) reminds us that a high tolerance for pain is also part of that deal toreadors make with the Devil. Roca Rey compulsively crosses himself at several points as he preps to go into the ring each afternoon, and with good reason. All those other figures in the bullfight’s dance of death, armed and on foot or on horseback — a bull wounded, taunted and weakened from a long duel — and we still see Roca Rey flipped and mauled. We hear of injuries that are slow to heal.

And the crowds in Spain? They know their bloodsport. If he’s not up to snuff, or fails to kill the bull with that one elegant final stab, the whistles and jeers from the arena let him know it.

No wonder Roca Rey curses them almost as much as he curses the bulls. He professes respect for the animals, but yes, he’s aware of how much his “team” protects him.

“Bull, you spared me,” he mutters at the end of one fight that’s injured him. We know better.

“You should have been carried out,” one of his in-ring banderillos says afterward (in Spanish with English subtitles). “Today, we skirted tragedy!”

Serra, who made the fictional features “Pacifiction” and “The Death of Louis XIV,” mikes up Roca Rey and follows him through the rituals of a day’s fight. We see the elaborate costuming — beginning with a see through body sock, with layers piled over it — the van ride to the venue, a rock star and his entourage of aides in and out of the ring.

And in the fight, we hear the instructions, directions and “hype” of those assisting him in his mismatched duel with a bull.

“You’ve got BALLS,” is a favorite encouragement. “Shut them UP” is shouted when they sense the crowd turning on him.

The rides to the arena are quiet and sweaty. This is deadly dangerous work, even if bullfighters don’t often die in the ring any more. The rides back to a hotel are full of reassurances, ego-stroking and the like.

“Did I overdo it?”

“You’re a beast, a cut above the rest!”

“Solitude” is shot in a tight frame, a documentary that narrows its focus, stripping much of the pageantry and at least some of the ritual of this anicent bloodsport that much of the world condemns these days. Serra dares to show us that a bull’s death after a cruel “contest” is a sad and pathetic thing. Hemingway and those still defending bullfighting can suck it with their “noble beast” and manliness of the toreros spin.

But if you’ve ever been curious, without wanting to endure a drawn-out day-long slaughter by the world’s best-dressed and best-compensated butchers, “Afternoons of Solitude” will put you in that ring with a celebrated torero. We see him practice his bloody art, sizing up the bull, always calculating the risks, pausing to pose, but also following the shouts of direction as his team sets the animal up for him to deliver a “beautiful” death.

Rating: unrated, graphic violence, animal cruelty, profanity

Cast: Andrés Roca Rey, with Manuel Lara, Francisco Manuel Durán,
Antonio Gutiérrez, Roberto Domínguez and Francisco Gómez

Credits: Scripted and directed by Alberto Serra. A Grasshopper Film release

Running time: 2:05

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Movie Review: “If I Could Ride Again” barely Mounts Up

If only anyone could actually, you know, RIDE in “If Only I Could Ride Again,” maybe this limp noodle of a New England horse country melodrama might have some credibility.

There’s scene after scene after scene of young women in jodhpurs on horseback, being walked around a corral or stables or wherever by their trainer.

The inane-in-the-extreme script keeps referring to “horseback riding” trophies and championships. It’s as if nobody there knows the various events of equestrian competition, much less had the budget to cast actors who could vault, compete in dressage or cross country “eventing,” much less pay for on-set consultants, safety experts and stunt doubles.

That erases most chances for drama and lowers the stakes in this downbeat, low-energy “family” movie about a college coed (Eva Igo) recovering from a riding injury, a bitter rich girl who’s dropped out of college to driver her Audi SUV home and see her protege (Alexis Arnold) take all the laurels she once enjoyed.

“I’m retired,” Bridget sneers at anyone who suggests she get back up on the horse that threw her.

The added complications are a possible love interest at the local drive in (Ethan Rhoad), prescription drug addiction (supplied by the local “candy man” (who looks like he still has his learner’s permit), a trainer (Tom Vera) with a sad shadow over his life, a new single mom (Amanda Williams Pfeiffer) with her doubts about him, the single mom’s blind son and Trouble on the Farm in the form of a shyster lawyer.

Injured Bridget has a crutch that comes and goes whenever she feels the need to declare “I can walk by myself!” Younger rider Jodie’s mom (Sheri Jacobs) has taken up with a racecar driver (Don Miller, who co-wrote the script) of some local (Vermont) repute, which upsets Jodie. Or so we’re told.

There’s little friction between the “rival” girls, who were besties and still seem that way. The “losing the farm” drama barely registers and fails to raise the stakes. There’s little warmth to the potential romances and the barest dollop of sentiment about getting the blind kid (Ashton Dunford) on a horse at the Helping Hooves equine therapy farm.

And the dialogue’s as bland as the performances.

Screenwriter Miller might be the most convincing player in the cast. He’s so “natural” that he seems more like a racer than an actor. That’s because Miller’s playing a role named for and inspired by his dead racing driver brother. Pity about his screenplay, though.

“It’s what families do” is a line several characters trot out, as this picture is tailored to find its way to some Rural TV/family friendly streaming channel.

Perhaps most of the players involved were a bit bored with the idea of making this sequel. From reading the plot descriptions, there’s little difference between 2022’s “If I Could Ride” and 2025’s “If I Could Ride Again.”

If so, their boredom’s contagious.

Rating: PG, drug abuse

Cast: Eva Igo, Tom Vera, Alexis Arnold, Amanda Williams Pfeiffer, Ethan Rhoad and Don Miller.

Credits: Directed by Nick Pinelli, scripted by Don Miller and Nick Pinelli. A Vision Films release.

Running time: 1:37

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Movie Review: A Swiss Mom Takes Lovers to Fool Her son about his father — “Let Me Go”

“Let Me Go” is an intimate, brittle and somewhat chilly Swiss romance about a 40something single mom who stumbles into her feelings, despite a lifetime of avoiding that trap.

Jeanne Balibar stars as a small town seamstress who takes regular commuter rail visits to a nearby resort for casual lunch pick-ups, sex and small talk.

It’s a bit more than you think.

Claudine bribes the desk clerk (Adrian Sevigny) to find out who’s by himself, and who is due to check out “tomorrow.” She approaches the table of each mark, confidant of her looks — she makes her own dresses as well as many others’ — and appeal, and hits each man up with questions about where he’s from and most importantly, “What’s it like there?” (in French with English subtitles).

She wants details about the street life, neighborhoods and people of Florence, Brighton et al. She doesn’t take notes. But she parrots those details in letters she writes to her 30something special needs son Baptiste (Pierre-Antoine Dubey), telling them they’re from his long-estranged father, who travels for business.

Claudine is a woman of routine — customers, their daughters and granddaughters, age-appropriate outfits for the seniors, a wedding dress when the need arises, train trips and posting letters.

But let’s not leave out the transactional nature of all this. She has sex with these pick-ups. Just a coy-not-coquettish “let’s go to your room,” and she satisfies her urges and his, and in essence compensates each man for his story of where he lives.

Amusingly, the pushy Brit from Brighton (Alex Freeman) doesn’t get to cross that finish line.

But this routine, catering to her Princess Diana and Johnny Logan fan son in the late ’90s, is interrupted by the charming man who picks up her dropped scarf on the aerial tramway up a mountain on one of these treks. The hotel overlooks a lake, and to get to it she walks across a dam.

Michael (Thomas Sarbacher) is a journalist who writes and photographs stories about such hydro projects. Claudine must cope with a guy she’s a bit interested in, someone worthy of more than just her skip-the-preliminaries, avoid the niceties of conversation (“books,” “things in common”) hook-ups.

And that forces her to wrestle with what’s best for her son, who is a tad under-socialized hanging around her home sewing shop, with only elderly sitter Chantal (Véronique Mermoud) there to teach him sonatinas on the piano while Mom’s off collecting another man, another story to send in a letter (no postcards or photos) as this week’s version of his “Dad.” He needs to be in a group home.

Balabar gives the film it’s arms-length iciness, a woman of expectations and routines, shut off from the emotions that led up to a marriage to a man who left her with a disabled son to raise and care for by herself. Claudine is practical and earthy, sexual and businesslike. Letting her feelings figure in the decisions is out-of-cultural-stereotype-character for someone so very Swiss.

The script’s period piece choices are solely based on the need to keep seamstress as a viable livelihood and Princess Diana as a style icon. You’ll know it’s 1998 by the time the big news story of that year crashes into the headlines.

Writer-director Maxime Rappaz had two female co-writers’ help with the script, and it wasn’t enough to give this story warmth, romance and stakes beyond the biff-bam-thankyou-man nature of the “affairs.” Not enough is done to distinguish the German from Hamburg from all the other guys Claudine sleeps with and make their connection special.

But it’s an engrossing character portrait of a woman who has been so on-task for so long that she doesn’t recognize real romance when it shows up and makes her an offer of a better or at least different life, and her struggles with what to do with that.

Rating: unrated, sex, nudity, smoking

Cast: Jeanne Balabar, Pierre-Antoine Dubey, Véronique Mermoud, Adrian Sevigny and Thomas Sarbacher

Credits: Scripted and directed by Maxime Rappaz, with additional script assistance by Marion Vernoux and Florence Seyvos. A Film Movement+ release.

Running time: 1:33

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Classic Film Review: Dick Powell knows when Time’s Up as “Johnny O’Clock”(1947)

There’s aren’t a lot of stars from Golden Age Hollywood that I regard as “can’t miss.” It’s basically a list that starts and ends with Dick Powell.

Even Bogart had a misfire or two. John Wayne was a lumbering lump out of the saddle. Bette Davis, Crawford, Cooper, Grant, Stanwyck, all had their programmers and contractual obligation projects.

But Powell gave fair value every time out. If the writing was even half-decent, he’d give you crackling wisecracks and tough-guy talk in that William Powell meets Bogart persona he carved out in film noir.

“Johnny O’Clock” may not have the twistiest or most intricate plot of Peak Powell pictures like “Murder, My Sweet,” “Pitfall” or “Cry Danger.” But with Robert “All the King’s Men/The Hustler” Rossen’s script and Powell’s way with a line, this down-and-dirty double-cross thriller just sings.

“In return for certain information,” a cop teases…

“You’ll do what?”

“I’ll give you a break.”

“My arms or my legs?”

“Koch,” the inspector is called.

“How’d you spell it? ‘C-O-P?'”

Powell plays the title character, one of many aliases this big city casino manager has used since the war. But he’s got a dirty, greedy cop (Jim Bannon) elbowing and threatening to take over his half of the business he runs with the mob boss (Thomas Gomez) Marschettis.

The boss’s bomshell wife (Ellen Drew, not subtle and good at it) never got over Johnny. His hat check girl (Nina Foch) is mixed up with the crooked detective Blayden. People are going to die. People are going to disappear. And the inspector on the case isn’t the only one giving Johnny the stink eye over all of this.

That’s the perfect time for the hat check girl’s chorine sister (Evelyn Keyes) to show up, rattled and grief stricken.

“What do I do now, Johnny?”

“Dry your eyes and blow your nose — in the order named.”

Powell doesn’t get all the good lines. But the former musical comedy star knew how to make them pop, how to make the underworld argot sound natural, no matter how polished the tough guy in the tux might seem.

Lee J. Cobb wasn’t born with a stogie sticking out of his mug, but nobody was more at home with one, a fedora and a badge. He leans back into his role as Koch. He knows he’s here to look tough, ask questions and absorb Johnny’s zingers.

“You mind if I have a laugh in your face?”

Keyes, of “Here Comes Mr. Jordan,” makes the “love interest” a cynical, worldly but instantly love-struck foil.

Gomez oozes menace, as does John Kellogg as Johnny’s ex-con bodyguard/assistant. Look for future leading man Jeff Chandler in a bit part, cracking a joke at the poker table after the players hear a fusillade of gunfire.

“Somebody’s got a nasty cough.”

It’s a bit too slick to be one of the great noirs. The corruption is superficial, not something you feel and smell in the shadows. The “set-up” is a tad too obvious.

But Rossen’s plotting and dialogue keeps the picture moving, for the most part. A montage of close-ups of card shuffling and chips stacking at the casino has become a favorite cinematic shortcut for immersing us in gambling without showing any gambling to speak of.

And Powell delivers, a leading man who’d never steer you wrong, never let you underestimate him and never blow a punch line. Ever. I laughed and laughed at his comebacks.

The chorine wants the piano player to stop playing depressing music? A simple “Knock it off” would never do for Dick Powell.

“You, with the hands. Go. Home.

Rating: TV-PG, violence

Cast: Dick Powell, Evelyn Keyes, Ellen Drew, Lee J. Cobb, Nina Foch, John Kellogg, Jim Bannon, Jeff Chandler and Thomas Gomez.

Credits: Scripted and directed by Robert Rossen. A Columbia Pictures release on Tubi, Amazon, other streamers

Running time: 1:37

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Movie Review: Mom’s lost it, Dad’s “rescued” her and Kids Give Chase — “A Kind of Madness”

It must be the lucid moments that hurt the most, the ones that can remind those with dementia or the other madnesses of old age of just what they’ve lost and what a fog they’re trapped in the rest of the time.

That’s the big take-away from “A Kind of Madness,” a sweet, amusing, sad and just sentimental enough South African dramedy about a great love affair’s final Grand Gesture.

We meet Ellie and Daniel when they met — half a century ago — on Walker Bay. He pulled her out of the water, where flower child Ellie was “trying to remember what it was like to die.” She’d almost drowned as a little girl. When Dan figures out what she means, “morbid” or not, he’s smitten.

“Teach me how to die.”

A whirlwind romance, over the disapproval of her parents, saw them road tripping across the country in his new Ford Taunus wagon, sailing the coast on his 38 foot sloop.

But an accident is what jars Ellie awake in a hospital bed. She’s confused about where she is and why.

“You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be,” the head nurse reminds her, as she does every day. Ellie is 70ish and in Memory Care (Frail Care Unit is how they describe it in South Africa). Her panic and rages just tip us that she’s “off” her anti-psychotic meds.

Only a comforting visit from Daniel (Ian Roberts of “Tsotsi”) can calm Ellie (Sandra Prinsloo of “The Gods Must be Crazy”). But that’s no comfort. Daniel takes Ellie’s latest “I don’t BELONG here” as a call to action. They make a break for it.

Aww, he still has that same ’70s yellow Ford wagon. Isn’t that cute?

The people who don’t think any of this is adorable are their adult children. Olivia (Amy Louise Wilson) is a chef in mid-service when she gets the call. Lucy (Erica Wessels) is a psychotherapist between patients. And the youngest, Ralph (Evan Hengst) is gay and on the verge of a poolside pickup when his life is interrupted.

Lucy is the one who appreciates Mom’s illness and how scary it is for her to be off her meds. Olivia is resentful as this distraction from her life. And Ralph acts guilty as he tries to talk reason to their father when they finally get him on the phone.

No worries. Ralph turns on the tracker for Dad’s phone. Whatever merry chase Dan was going to lead them on, whatever “plan” he comes up with, the kids are right on his heels — talking a cop out of arresting Mom, chasing them across a lake or through the woods.

The flashbacks is in this Christiaan Olwagen film — he did “Poppie Nongena” and a recent South African adaptation of “The Seagull” — give it the air of “The Notebook.” But the sentimental is upended by the practical as we spend more time with the irate, panicked and bickering children. And one of her flashbacks will reveal why Ellie is haunted by visions of an opera singer dressed all in red, why that image obsesses her in her least lucid moments.

The narrative gives us plenty of reminders of how dangerous this situation is, for the demented Ellie and for anyone around her. She might get behind the wheel. She might get hold of Dan’s gun. We invest in this dubious quest, and we fear for where this is going because we all remember “Chekhov’s Gun,” and how Ellie and Dan met.

Movies tend to sentimentalize madness, but co-writers Olwagen and Wessel Pretorious jar the movie back to reality by chasing cute moments with ugly ones, and returning time and again to the children, who are reminded constantly by the expert eldest sibling how badly this could go.

Olwagen deserves a lot of credit for making this a “real world” South African story. The scenery is stunning, and there far more Black people in it than such whitewashed movies as “Semi-Soeter” would show.

Dan speaks Xhosa to his Black countrymen, and the supporting cast is as colorful as you’d expect from this milieu. Understanding, compassion and kindness rear their heads, even as Lucy is climbing onto the hood of a Black policewoman’s car in an effort to stop an arrest and “explain.” Dan doesn’t have that kind of “understanding” from a white cop.

The performances move, amuse and to a one pop — especially Wessels and Wilson as the two feuding sisters. They get the best lines.

“You’re taking this guilt trip alone!”

“What you’re resisting will persist, Liv!”

“A Kind of Madness” delivers an incredibly touching finale, and a just-mysterious-enough coda that lets us guess how this will end up. It’s wistful and sad and uplifting in unexpected ways as it underscores the prophecy of the knowing nurse (her name is omitted from any cast list I can find) who counsels the family about what’s really going on here.

“The heart always remembers even when the mind forgets.”

Rating: PG, fairly explicit sex, some profanity

Cast: Sandra Prinsloo, Ian Roberts, Erica Wessels, Amy Louise Wilson and Evan Hengst

Credits: Directed by Christiaan Olwagen, scripted by Christaan Olwagen and Wessel Pretorious. An MGM release on Amazon Prime.

Running time: 1:39

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