Movie Nation

Plum parts for film actresses over 50 have always been in criminally short supply, and roles “with legs,” as Susan Sarandon likes to say — with romantic, sexual subtexts — are even rarer.

So the great British beauty Natascha McElhone makes the most of such a unicorn in “Carmen,” a sad-eyed last chance romance set on the scenic isle of Malta. In the title role, she impresses and sometimes dazzles as a downcast local figure of fun, the village priest’s sister who “never smiles and never speaks,” so the locals gossip.

Always dressed in black, always seated at the back of mass, she has been her older brother’s housekeeper since he joined the priesthood. But what’s she to do when he dies?

God never abandons the faithful, the smug bishop tells her, taking care to not use the word “church.” She’s got to move out for the new priest — returning to Malta from abroad — and the new priest’s caretaker sister.

“In prayer you can find your way.”

With no family, no money, no friends and no home, Carmen wanders the streets with her lone suitcase in silence, utterly at a loss. She overhears lover’s quarrels and flashes back to some romantic trauma from her past. She sees the local hooker bow and accept her affectionate catcalls, notes how much the village policeman naps. And she ‘s in the shadows when the new priest’s sister, a local (Michela Farrugia) moves into the rectory, and fights with her lover (in Maltese and English), who wants to take her away from all this.

The lover, the church bellringer, breaks the clapper on the bell as he storms off. And Rita, like Carmen, finds herself alone.

But there are places within the church to hide. A purloined set of keys means she can take a nap in the confessional. When locals duck in, thinking the new priest has arrived, Carmen starts hearing the women’s complaints, darkens her voice (not much), and doles out homespun, blunt advice.

Your dead weight husband won’t leave? “Cook him the same meal, morning noon and night.” The offering box starts to fill up as word gets around.

Carmen may have found her calling. But surely Rita’s going to catch on to this. Eventually.

Maltese actress turned director Valerie Buhagiar (“The Anniversary”) does three things with great elan here. She showcases the beauty of her rocky island home. She gives her leading lady free rein. And she trips up expectations time after time in this quirky 1980s period piece.

A street vendor selling capers from his donkey cart flirts with quiet Carmen with Zorba-like enthusiasm.

“A person can get sick keeping their love to themselves!”

That’s not what the movie’s about, him courting her and leading her back to life. We never see him again.

The whole fake priest in the confessional bit is cute, but more a means to an end. The backstory of a lost love/forbidden love dating from “the war” has more import, but isn’t really the meat of the movie either.

Buhagiar keeps things on the cusp of fantasy as Carmen’s distant past and recent past and simple survival (we wonder how she eats) aren’t fussed over. She just is, and she’s overdue for a makeover. Maybe that cute younger pawn shop operator (Steven Love) in the capital city of Valetta can help.

McElhone mopes in the early scenes and shimmers through the later ones, even as she suffers. “Carmen” becomes a veritable Maltese fashion shoot at times.

But shortcuts and missing details aside, it’s never less than charming and a grand showcase for a busy and beautiful actress whose best roles are on TV (“Hotel Portofino,” “Designated Survivor”) these days.

Rating: unrated

Cast: Natascha McElhone, Michela Farrugia, Steven Love

Credits: Scripted and directed by Valerie Buhagiar. A Good Deeds Entertainment release.

Running time: 1:28

This one promises to stand out, a 1950s “Sin City” noir about gangs and gay men and Andrea Riseborough and Demi Moore as a couple of tough broads.

Oct. 28.

Musical road warriors Chicago, who have toured for half a century and faced their first enforced year not touring thanks to COVID, this one hits select cinemas Sept. 30.

They used to travel with The Beach Boys, who’ve been around in some form even longer.

Snoop Dogg produced this Oct. 7 buddy comedy. Inhaling might help.

Remember that sequence of scenes in “The Godfather” in which Don Corleone receives visitors who come to ask for favors, make complaints and request justice?

That’s basically the plot for Eduardo Filippo’s play, “Il sindaco del Rione Sanità,” “The Mayor of Rione Sanità.” Director Mario Martone (“The King of Laughter”) may take us to a club, a street shooting and out of doors for more action in the third act. But the film he serves up is a maddeningly talky morning, noon and early evening of a Neapolitan mobster — Antonio Barracano — granting audiences to assorted petitioners on his turf and dealing with the sorts of nonsense a mob boss must contend with because only he can dispense justice in this lawless underworld.

Francesco Di Leva plays Don Antonio, a charismatic and fit 40something who has such a hard time sleeping that his underlings fear disturbing him with whatever goes on in the wee hours in his world or in his Vesuvius villa in the hills overlooking Naples.

Two of his young toughs (Ralph P., Armando De Giulio) joke around about who’s stepping on whose toes, and laughingly pull their pistols in the alleys outside of the club where they grinned and played macho. Joking or not, one dude gets shot, and the villa’s doctor (Roberto De Francesco) has to stitch somebody up.

The don’s wife (Daniela Ioia) comes home late, and the don’s mastiffs attack her and maul her. Somebody’ll have to break the news to the boss that his beloved dogs sent his wife to the emergency room.

The doctor is held in virtual involuntary servitude and wants to travel and visit his brother in America. The don may smile and joke around about who he will ask to “greet” him (in Italian with English subtitles) in the U.S. But that’s a threat. And that trip? No dice.

This man with a debt, that one with a beef with his rich baker father, approach. A young pregnant woman is here with her boyfriend, another petitioner, all of them wanting the favor of/a favor from Don Antonio, whom one and all know is a “sincere man,” a reasonable man, if not someone to be trifled with.

The fact that one hand is bandaged up speaks volumes. The way the don wears his hoodie and does sit-ups — boxer-style — lets us know he’s tough. And he’s smart. The two pot-shot taking underlings get a good beatdown — with his good hand — when they come to beg his forgiveness.

“He has his own take on the law,” his wife admits as the doctor tries to get her on board the idea of sending those dogs into quarantine.

The little bits of action are well-handled. The setting is less striking than the dimly lit office of Don Corleone, but interesting in a “This is how the Naples mob lives” way. But the movie’s theatrical origins — stagey and talk-talk-talkie– weigh it down and render it too boring to justify an investment of two hours.

“Basta,” as the Italians say. Enough is enough. Give us some ACTION.

Rating: unrated, violence, profanity

Cast: Francesco Di Leva, Daniela Ioia, Roberto De Francesco, Ralph P., Armando De Giulio and Francesco Di Leva.

Credits: Directed by Mario Martone, scripted by Mario Martone and Ippolita Di Majo, based on the play by Eduardo De Filippo. A Film Movement release.

Running time: 1:57

The tamest movie ever made about dabbling in LSD and Riot Grrrl culture has to be “Acid Test,” a non-prescription sleep aid of a movie.

Here’s a PG rated treatment of an R-rated subject.

It’s about a high school senior rebelling against her conservative, Harvard alum dad by being hesitant to become a “legacy” applicant to his alma mater. Nothing says “Viva la REVOLUCION!” like attacking the patriarchy on your Harvard admission essay.

 Juliana Destefano is Jennifer, wearing the Harvard hoodie and all-in on her father’s (Brian Thornton) dream of her following him into the Ivy League and all the doors it could open for her. We meet her at her pre-admission meeting with a counselor, follow her and her kid brother to the movies with Dad and pick up on the dynamic of her home life. Mom (Mia Ruiz) is Latina, and that’s another leg-up for getting into Harvard.

It’s 1992 in Texas, and her senior year begins with civics class focusing on the election — lots of Clinton, Bush and Perot news coverage in montages — and “Hamlet.” Does Dad, who doesn’t seem all that unreasonable at first, know what he’s doing when he quotes “To thine own self be true” to Jennifer?

It turns out she’s not sure of her life direction. Her BFF Drea (Mai Le) is headed to UT-Austin. That gives Jennifer her first second thoughts. Then they duck out to catch a live show and are introduced to estrogen-powered punk rock and the Riot Grrrrl Manifesto.

“What is a girl?” Jennifer wonders. Here, in Bikini Kill pamphlet form, is an answer.

“BECAUSE I believe with my wholeheartmindbody that girls constitute a revolutionary soul force that can, and will change the world for real.”

Next thing we know “straight edge” Drea is debating her supposedly straight edge pal’s decision to accept a tab of acid from the flirtatious hunk Owen (Reece Everett Ryan). Everything that follows — the shift in Jennifer’s music tastes, the decision to lop off her hair, the “SLUT” magic marker tattoos she and Drea don to join the Riot Grrrl scene, sex with Owen — flies in the face of Drea’s seemingly sound advice before that first tab is dropped.

“Rich kids are the worst!”

The club scenes, capturing what I assume are real bands in real performance, are shot and edited so flatly that you’d swear we were seeing a Three Tenors show.

The acid trips are no-budget DIY dull, the “romance” isn’t remotely romantic and the character’s story arc isn’t A-to-Z, passing through a hell of self-discovery. It’s A to B. Yawn.

Writer-director Jennifer Waldo grew up in DC and went to USC, so whatever “memories” she was tapping into for this just-short-of-“true” story (per the opening credits) are seriously mild-mannered.

She must’ve forgotten that “acid” added or not, “Riot Grrrl” is more than a haircut and a bit of magic markering.

Rating: unrated, drug content, profanity

Cast: Juliana Destefano, Brian Thornton, Mia Ruiz, Reece Everett Ryan and Mai Le.

Credits: Scripted and directed by Jennifer Waldo. A Giant Pictures release.

Running time: 1:43

A thriller that turns horrific?

Nov. 23 in theaters, Dec. 16 streaming.

A small distributor backs a little known cast that takes on the sensation of 1930s Broadway, Welles’ Haitian set “Voodoo Macbeth.”

Oct. 21.

Mostly unknown cast for this Sept. 20.

If it was a “spoiler,” I wouldn’t use the word. And the word for “Don’t Worry Darling” is “Stepford.”

I mean, read and comprehend the title. There it is.

It’s an easily-grasped and obvious analogy for this satiric thriller from director Olivia Wilde and screenwriters Karen Silberman and Carey and Shane Van Dyke, and any filmgoer should pick up on it early on.

What matters is what they and the cast add to that sort of framework, the other possibilities about where this is going and why. A little whiff of “The Master,” a bit of “The Matrix,” a taste of “Truman Show” and a hint of “Twilight Zone” all enter into Wilde’s oddly unaffecting overreach of a Statement on Women in a War-on-Women/Age-of-Incels and the End-of-Roe era.

“Handmaids” much? “Logan’s Run,” anyone?

Forget the bad buzz surrounding the film, meet it on its own terms and it’s a chilly-not-chilling story set in a desert. Avoid the gossip about the actors and you’re still stuck with how uninteresting pop moptop Harry Styles is as an actor, how much Chris Pine leans into his inner Shatner and how unflattering the light or the way the cinematographer lights them makes Pine, leading lady Florence Pugh, the director/co-star Wilde and others look.

Lose yourself in a story that’s cryptic, but not so cryptic that one cannot figure out that it’s all about the wives, and whatever’s going on they’re kind of “Stepford” about it.

Pugh and Styles play “perpetual newlyweds,” a young couple in a 1950s oasis of middle class privilege — a mod ranch-style house in a posh, uniform subdivision, “Victory Town,” in a Palm Springsish corner of the desert.

Alice and Jack don’t need an excuse to go at it, and vigorously, morning noon and night. But dutiful and sexually-fulfilled housewife Alice can’t keep Jack from his clockwork AM departure for work, popping into his T-bird along with all the men in the neighborhood, convoying into the desert to work at “The Victory Project” run by the mysterious, cultish Frank (Pine).

Every day, Alice drinks and gossips in the sun, at the local pool or shopping with her posse (Wilde, Kate Berlant) between bouts of maniacally cleaning the entire house.

At night, rowdy cocktail parties rotate through town, with everybody showing off their Mid Century Modern decor and 1950s pre-rock record collections. Lots of Mel Torme and hepcat jazz-pop and martinis and Tom Collins highballs and cigarettes, even for the ever-pregnant Peg (Berlant).

Whenever the mysterious Frank is around, he praises those willing to “join this mission” to “change the world,” and Frank’s wife (Gemma Chan, chilling), who teaches the ladies’ dance class, compliments one and all for realizing “how extraordinary (Frank) really is.”

But something’s going on, something the wife (Kiki Layne) in the only Black couple of note seems to notice. And Alice can’t help but notice Margaret’s confusion and growing dismay.

“I’m not fine,” Margaret snaps at those who try to comfort her. “Nothing is fine.”

The immaculate design allows us to pick up on “signs” of what’s happening, the daily “radio” chats from Frank that the wives tune into, the buzz words in most every sentence he speaks, the calculating eye contact Pine makes with one and all.

The parody of 1950s life is so on-the-mark that the occasional anachronistic haircut and scripted line doesn’t so much break the movie’s spell as make you ponder what it will do as it takes you where you know it must go. It gets so invested in the women that next to no time at all is devoted to the “providers,” the men also trapped in gender roles in what older, conservative Americans (and Britons) seem to regard as “the good ol’days.”

Pugh, who came to fame in period pieces, seems out of place here, and that could be by design. Alice is an interesting choice for her first real star vehicle. The character is a passive, compliant “team” player waiting for her call to action, and we have to patiently wait with her. Pugh might have had more chemistry with Styles if he didn’t seem like a tall, gawky forelock and a child hanging with the grownups.

Wilde lets herself be filmed and made-up in a way that emphasizes the severity of her features, the “TRON” beauty with a Cruella in her future. I shouldn’t even get into how Nick Kroll, as one of Jack’s colleagues, is lit and framed.

But the original sin of “Don’t Worry Darling” might be how drunk the filmmakers get on the universe they create, dragging and dragging a less and less interesting pastiche of ’50s life — a drunken office party with a stripper, because we’re all so liberal and “modern” — on for so long that the more exciting third act comes as a refreshing jolt.

Sure, it’s as predictable as scores of science fiction finales. But the viewer’s big gripe at this point has to be, “OK, but what TOOK you so long?”

Rating: R for sexuality, violent content and language

Cast: Florence Pugh, Harry Styles, Olivia Wilde, Nick Kroll, Timothy Simons, Kiki Layne, Gemma Chan and Chris Pine

Credits: Directed by Olivia Wilde, scripted by Katie Silberman, Carey Van Dyke and Shane Van Dyke. A Warner Brothers release.

Running time: 2:02