Movie Review: “The Conjuring: Last Rites,” Forever and Ever, Amen.

“The Conjuring” universe staggers and finally folds in on itself with “The Conjuring: Last Rites,” a tedious, stumbling “finale” (perhaps) to a franchise that cannot help but repeat itself.

Even the ongoing presence of Oscar nominee Vera Farmiga and Emmy and Golden Globe nominee Patrick Wilson as the leads, infamous charlatan “ghosthunters” Ed and Lorraine Warren, can’t class up a lumbering “Conjuring’s Greatest Hits” more filled with filler than frights.

The script-by-committee serves up not one prologue, but two. So don’t bother asking if there’s an anticlimax or two at the end. Scenes that don’t advance the plot or deepen our knowledge of the characters abound. And adding two new characters to the extended Warren family further waters down the dread and muddies the narrative waters.

We see the 1964 “stillbirth” of daughter Judy, with Lorraine (played by Madison Lawlor in the prologue) induced into labor by a haunted mirror topped with the carvings of three sinister looking babies. When the power goes out thanks to a Satanic storm over the hospital, Lorraine prays that breathless baby to life.

In 1986, the big Catholic Smurl family of Pittston, Pennsylvania come into possession of that mirror, with their daughter Heather (Kila Lord Cassidy) and her sister Dawn (Beau Gadsdon) slow to pick up on the menace it portends.

At least the growling, barking dog knows. The dog always knows.

The 1986 Warrens — remember, these are “characters” created by Chad and Carey W. Hayes, sanitized versions of the couple who dominated credulous chat shows (Phil Donahue, etc.) of the ’70s and ’80s — are semi “retired.” Ed “can’t afford another heart attack.” And Lorraine is policing that.

Daughter Judy (Mia Tomlinson) has grown up to be the spitting image of Zooey Deschanel, bangs and all. She’s inherited Mom’s “gifts” and is haunted by voices only repeating a nursery rhyme can drown out.

She’s got a beau (Ben Hardy), the latest guest Ed can regale with a visit to the family’s storage room of horrors — artifacts from the “1000” cases they claim to have investigated.

“Everything you see in here is either haunted, cursed, or used in some sort of ritualistic practice,” he counsels. So no touching Annabelle.

Meanwhile, The Smurls’ world is unraveling, no matter how slow the parents (Rebecca Calder and Elliot Cowan) are to listen to their daughters. Or their dog.

Not to worry. Father Gordon (Steve Coulter) still has that “Exorcist” outfit he bought at Max von Sydow’s yard sale. Maybe he can help, or talk the Warrens into pitching in.

It’s always fun to consider how the movies have legitimized the Warrens’ “life’s work” via “Annabelle,” “Amityville” and “Conjuring” movies, and how New Line Cinema was the one distributor to make a “universe” out of their um “exploits.”

That’s the sort of thing your mind wanders off to, that Ghislaine Maxwell “image” burnishing a couple of unsavory characters earn when Hollywood gets on board, when the movie is this predictable.

There’s always an “Amityville” moment in these movies when the doubts are erased and all hell breaks loose in this or that “haunted” house.

The “evil” always seems all-powerful and insurmountable right up to the moment our heroes make their “Poltergeist” stand. Remember when tiny Tangina (Zelda Rubenstein) comforted that family and rolled up her sleeves for “battle?”

“Cross OVER, children! ALL are welcome! Go INTO the light!”

Farmiga’s Lorraine fixes her frightened but furious stare and grabs a book and Ed starts to read from it, with resolve. That’s the turning point the four “The Conjuring” films and a couple of “Annabelles” work towards.

“Poltergeist” may be more overtly connected to the “Insidious” universe, but the formula was never patented by Tobe Hooper or “Exorcist” author William Peter Blatty before him, and it turns up everywhere.

“Conjuring 3,” “Nun 2” and “The Curse of La Llorona” director Michael Chaves dutifully shoots the pages handed to him when the picture plainly needed serious whittling down to the emotional moments and few big frights that work. He only has that problem working on sequels.

The new “couple” add nothing but more grist for the demonic mill to grind.

Wilson and Farmiga still give good value. But this franchise and these fictionalized characters and their Catholic boogeymen claptrap have gone about as far as they can go.

Rating: R, bloody violence, horror, profanity

Cast: Vera Farmiga, Patrick Wilson, Mia Tomlinson, Ben Hardy, Steve Coulter, Rebecca Calder, Beau Gadsdon, Kila Lord Cassidy and Madison Lawlor.

Credits: Directed by Michael Chaves, scripted by Ian Goldberg, Richard Naing and David Leslie Johnson McGoldrick, based on characters created by Chad and Carey W. Hayes. A New Line Cinema release.

Running time: 2:15

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“Conjuring DCLVI” time!

So many “Conjurings” I’ve lost count. You?

Nothing like that 35th “Tron” preview to get the night rolling.

Bring on Vera and Patrick!

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Movie Review: Gangsters pull a Heist that Goes Hellish –“All the Devils are Here”

“All the Devils are Here” is a slow, simmering heist-goes-wrong thriller from Jolly Olde where the “types” are familiar and the cliches go down easily. That’s the cinematic comfort food genre pieces promise and this one, taking its title from The Bard, delivers.

Eddie Marsan‘s a high-mileage mug pushed into one last job. Or maybe it’s just one more job. “Mr. Reynolds,” whom we never see, doesn’t like to be disappointed. His man Laing (Rory Kinnear) handles the details. And the villains Laing’s cast for this gig pretty much guarantee drama.

The wheelman, Royce (Tienne Simon) is young and green. The muscle, Grady (Sam Claflin) is a simpering psychopath — all sniggering sadism and “the old ultraviolence,” a creep given to playing “five finger fillet” to relax. The armed robbery goes wrong the moment Grady decides to get his beat-the-hostages jollies behind the back of “the old man” in charge, Ronnie.

The getaway drive leaves more carnage in its path. Their arranged remote hideout in the treeless barrens of The North might go on for longer that the “one week” they expect.

As Mr. Reynolds has arranged for “Numbers,” an accountant (Burn Gorman) to sit on the cash in an upstairs bedroom until they’re summoned, things are sure to turn uglier. The accountant’s a junkie with a portable reel-to-reel tape deck filled with late ’60s Brit pop, a soundtrack for his tuned-out all-nighters.

Ronnie, who understands “honor,” Mr. Reynolds’ idea of a good “soldier,” accepts his fate and takes on the peace-keeping and the cooking — bangers and cabbage and beans, bangers and eggs, bangers and whatever.

Threats aren’t enough to shut Grady up once he’s busted into the bar cabinet of this tumbledown farmhouse straight out of your nightmares. Or maybe just mine.

The kid? He gets the “Don’t end up like me” lecture from Ronnie. Not that Royce listens to the warnings about the decades-long cycle of crimes, arrests, prison and repeat.

“They have to catch me.” “They always do, son. They always do.”

The full quote from Shakespeare’s “Tempest” is “Hell is Empty and all the Devils are Here.”

That and the period piece nature of “All the Devils Are Here” give away what we’re looking at.

Four sketchy goons trapped in an ancient dump of an English house in a late ’70s foggy wasteland with moldy copies of “A Tale of Two Cities,” a deck of cards, bad plumbing, a cathode ray tube TV that gets no reception and a junkie listening to “Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves” and the rest of Cilla Black’s greatest hits? On reel-to-reel?

Did I mention the English cuisine? And that the director’s name is “Barnaby?” Dickens couldn’t have been more blunt.

So the puzzle of this parable is adorably obvious. But Marsan, Claflin, Simon and Gorman make sure it plays and holds our interest start to finish, when Suki Waterhouse shows up.

Rating: R, graphic violence, drug abuse, profanity

Cast: Eddie Marsan, Sam Claflin, Tienne Simon, Burn Gorman, Rory Kinnear and Suki Waterhouse.

Credits: Directed by Barnaby Roper, scripted by John Patrick Dover. A Republic Pictures/Paramount release.

Running time: 1:31

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Movie Review: An Animated Messiah Movie –“Light of the World”

A couple of Disney veterans and some big screen animation newcomers combined their talents for “Light of the World,” a polished, kid-friendly and even lighthearted Life of Jesus animated film.

“Mulan” and “Aladdin” veterans Tom Bancroft (co-director) and Tony Bancroft (animation director) ensure that the production has that Disney sheen. And Katie Sung Lee’s angular, chiseled character design and Luke Lehenbauer’s production design reminded me of “Emperor’s New Groove.”

That’s kind of the tone, too, a “Messiah’s New Groove.” And yes, that’s glid and flippant. But it fits.

When Jesus (voiced by Ian Hanlin) helps brothers James (Dylan Leonard) and John (Benjamin Jacobson) and their friend Andrew (Vincent Tong) improve their dad’s catch on the Sea of Galilee, a “Jaws” joke is in order.

“We’re gonna need a BIGGER boat!”

When tweenaged John is trapped by a centurion (Colin Murdock) whom he’s embarassed, the kid knows just what to yell to distract the Roman.

“LOOK! Two babies and a WOLF!

The story is told from the young disciple John’s point of view, and he becomes a witness and participant in a brisk dash through some of Jesus’s Greatest Hits — water into wine, the fishing boat miracle, teaching Peter (Sam Darkoh) to walk on water, healing the lame and “curing” Mary Magdalene (Ceara Morgana).

“I see you, Mary!”

The script’s scene-setting has the Jews of Judea of 2000 years ago waiting for deliverance from Roman oppression by a Messiah, with the crazed wilderness man “The Baptizer” (Jesse Inocalla) the first to announce “the Messiah is among us ALREADY.”

The still-handy-with-a-hammer carpenter’s son Jesus jokes to young John about John the Baptist living in the wilderness when the Messiah thought 40 days of that would suffice.

But the people? Their big gripe, a running thread through this occasionally pandering script, is “taxes” and “crooked tax collectors” and the like. No “Render unto Caesar” messaging to upset the target audience, I guess.

Introducing Judas as “the money man” among the disciples is a clever burn.

But the film’s light tone doesn’t water down the washing of feet and ministering to the poor as “The Good Samaritan” parable is related.

“In my kingdom, those who serve others will be the greatest.”

And when the end comes — Last Supper, Betrayal, Arrest, Trial and Crucifixion — the filmmakers take it all seriously and render it in moving strokes.

No, the voice cast hasn’t a household name in the lot — Michael Benyaer is Nicodemus and has been in a lot of films, “Jesus” is a voice-actor with “My Little Pony” credits — but the voice acting is good, the animation is sharp and layered and the narrative just dashes by.

It’s not “Prince of Egypt,” but it sure isn’t “Veggie Tales.” Not a bad start for the Salvation Poem Project. Let’s see if it finds its audience.

Rating: PG, animated violence

Cast: The voices of Ian Hanlin, Benjamin Jacobson, Erin Matthews, Dave Pettitt, Jesse Inocala, Sam Darkoh, Colin Murdock, Adam Nuradah, Michael Benyaer, David Kaye and Rebekah Schafer.

Credits: Directed by Tom Bancroft and John J. Schafer, scripted by David M. Armstrong, Drew Barton Armstrong and Jason Heaton.A Salvation Poem Project release.

Running time: 1:31

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Documentary Review: A True Crime tale about an “Unknown Number,” “High School” Catfishing and a Real Villain Hiding in Plain Sight

As “true crime” documentaries settle into their podcast-perfected formula, too many of them spend too much time obsessing over their “gotcha.”

It’s understandable, as the “You’ll never believe whoREALLYdunnit” twist is both relished and expected by the viewer.

But as that becomes essential to the appeal and the hype involved in selling such films or series to the public, they can’t help but give away the game. And if that’s all your movie is about, that’s game over.

“Unknown Number: The High School Catfish” falls right into that trap. Say “You’ll never believe” in the opening TV news coverage montage of this rural Michigan phone stalking case of a couple of years back and we guess, pretty much five minutes in, who spent almost two years sending the most graphic, hateful and detail-oriented/privacy-invading texts to a couple of teens in the blush of First Love.

“American Murder: Laci Peterson” director Skye Borgman and editor Hans Ole Eicker put so much effort into disguising the tree they lose track of the forest. What this movie is really about isn’t the mystery, but was how easy it is to do this and how difficult it is — for the victims, administrators and law enforcement — to figure out who the culprit is and expose and prosecute them.

It’s no wonder online trolling dominates the Internet, that spammers have access to every phone via voice or text, as elected officials take big donations from those who ensure that a “National Do Not Call Registry” never got funding for enforcement or research and development of counter measures to combat harassers, stalkers, thieves and propagandists.

Lauryn Licari was just 15 when she and her beau Owen McKenny became the targets of online hate in tiny, one-school-for-all-grades Beal City, Michigan, a one-traffic-light crossroads that’s a “city” in name only.

A couple of innocent kids into sports and each other, families connected by the intimate size of their community, you’d never think it could happen to these people in this hamlet.

The anonymous texts had physical and personal details of their lives folded into them. They could be sexually graphic, teen-speak slangy or explicitly threatening. All seemed aimed at destroying Lauryn’s self-esteem and breaking up the couple.

It’s a small town with a small school. Who could be doing this? Was it a sports rival of one of them, the class wallflower, a jilted lover, the resident “mean girl,” who was conveniently the daughter of a cop?

The accusations come out and the documentary leads us down this or that path as a local sheriff (Mike Main) gets involved and interrogations kick in.

The parents wring their hands, try to organize to investigate this seemingly solvable mystery mystery themselves and complain about a school that seemed like it could do little because truthfully, it couldn’t.

The big reveal is left for the third act, of course. But I wonder if the filmmakers know what that actually is? Phone-number masking and spoofing apps are available to any lunkhead with a grudge, or on the payroll of a nefarious actor. There are a tiny number of legitimate uses for such tools — corporate, governmental, environmental whistle blowers and crime tip anonymity. The possibilities for abuse — by catfishers, blackmailers, harassers and worse — are legion.

And it takes the involvement of the FBI and subpoenas and Big Government tech to nail down what IP address in this tiny village was the source of all that turmoil, anguish and mental health mayhem.

That isn’t right. And if you haven’t figured out that under-regulation and deregulation, the Holy Grail of Big Tech online access and services, is the cause of all this and that you’ve been voting for people paid to allow this to happen and to go on, you’ve lost the plot as surely as the folks who made this film.

Those are the real villains. As to the one the movie tries to hide, read the early text messages and figure out if they sound “teen” or “fake teen” to you, and start from there.

Rating: TV-MA, profanity, sexual content

Cast: Lauryn Licari, Owen McKenny, Sophie Webber, Khloe Wilson, Jill McKenny, Kendra Licari, Dan Boyer, Dave Barberi and Mike Main.

Credits: Directed by Skye Borgman. A Netflix release.

Running time: 1:34

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Movie Preview: Elisabeth Moss and Kate Hudson tangle over the Beauty Tyranny of the Future — “Shell”

A dash of “The Subtstance” and maybe a taste of “Soylent Green” dial up this paranoid thriller about “Look Young Forever” standards and their end game.

Ick.

Oct. 3.

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Movie Preview: “28 Years Later: The Bone Temple”

So, the director of “The Marvels” and “Candyman” (Nia DaCosta) filmed this back-story to how “Dr.” Ralph Fiennes wound up at The Bone Temple in the “28 Days/Weeks/Years” universe?

A way of getting more value out of what Danny Boyle was designing, casting and building for “28 Years Later” by concurrently shooting more scenes with Fiennes, and building a back story of human devolution bringing on the Zombie Apocalypse?

That sounds like writer and futurist Arthur C. Clarke talking about “predicting the future” to an audience staring down a fascist/oligarch collapse of human civilization on the soundtrack to this trailer.

January is a dumping ground for new titles, with the occasional sleeper popping up amongst the holiday holdovers and Oscar hopefuls already in cinemas. Jan. 16, “The Bone Temple” will try to draw another crowd to Boyle’s Zombiverse.

Low expectations? Did you see “The Marvels” or “Candyman?”

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Movie Review: A Tender, Tentative Romance in the Cradle of Crabshacks — “The Baltimorons”

Writer-director Jay Duplass returns to his “Puffy Chair” roots with “The Baltimorons,” a simple, funny and incredibly touching tale of two damaged people who find each other when one of them busts his tooth.

It’s an unassuming, redemptive romance and a Christmas Eve to Christmas Day meander through down-market, off-the-tourist-track Baltimore in search of a dentist, an impound lot, a bitter wedding reception, a pop up improv show and “soft shell crabs.”

Baltimore native Michael Strassner, a career bit and supporting player, co-wrote this and stars as Cliff, a big lump who expends a lot of effort trying to be funny.

Dumb joke. Didn’t mean anything.”

It’s what he used to do, what he remembers being good at. Now, he’s engaged to Brittany (Olivia Luccardi), aspiring to a sober “mortgage broker” future and a just-as-sober holiday with her family.

But we meet him in an opening flashback about the time he ineptly tried to hang himself.

A “promise” was made. “No more alcohol,” and by extension, “no more comedy shows,” the milieu that encouraged that drinking.

But Cliff’s a walking pratfall even without booze. That’s how he busts a tooth and finds himself frantically bleeding, driving around the empty city streets in his late dad’s ’90s Cadillac as he calls to find a dentist who’ll show up for an emergency.

Dr. Didi (stage actress and career supporting player on film and TV Liz Larsen) is the only one to pick up. She has plans for the day, but she’ll come in and fix him up first.

She’s bluff, blunt and all business. He’s compulsively riffing, even when he’s got a serious question.

“What’s the needle situation here?” “The situation is that we use needles.”

One fainting later, she changes course.

“You’re so pretty,” he mumbles. “You’re on nitrous, buddy.”

But a phone call that interrupts her work derails Dr. Didi’s plans. Her ex has abruptly remarried and hijackered her daughter and granddaughter for a holiday party he’s calling “the reception.” And when Cliff heads out the door, he sees that his car’s been towed.

It’s Christmas Eve. The streets are empty. And they towed his car. Baltimore, man.

A moment’s weakness lets Dr. Didi sympathize with his latest plight as well. That sets these two — 30something Cliff and a 60ish grandmother dentist — off on a holiday odyssey that will include breaking into an impound lot, sloughing off parties, then showing up at one, hunting for a restaurant that’ll seat them, a midnight boat ride, a lesson in improv sketch comedy and a DUI.

Cliff has a secret — secrets, to be more precise. Didi’s past is more conventional, but with its own flavor of melancholy.

And for everything you “know” will happen, thanks to the way the story is set up — that “pop up improv,” for instance — there’s a bittersweet surprise. Comedy is intense for those who take it seriously. And for people Cliff considered his tribe, his friends, these jokers and their audience can be some pretty callous a-holes.

Everything here happens organically, from the cascading series of “quests” to the encounters and the whimsical way she discovers his improv years made him great at lying on the fly and his realization that he’s having a great time with her, no matter what happens.

The players clash and click in all the best ways — subtly, gingerly and even tenderly. Strassner and Larsen beautifully capture the sensitivities of wounded people who don’t want to add to another’s wounds.

“Baltimorons” is a marvel, the first great Fall Film of 2025, one so good it makes you wonder why it took the prolific producer, actor, writer and director Duplass so long to film a proper followup to his heartfelt and funny, bigger budget/”name” cast “Jeff, Who Lives at Home” (2012). No, the failure of his and his actor/writer brother Mark Duplass’s “The Do-Deca-Pentathlon” doesn’t explain it.

And then you remember he has 73 producing credits, heroically helping other indie filmmakers realize the dream of getting their features, series and mini-series made. “Tangerine” and “Blue Jay” and the “Somebody Somewhere” series are highlights mixed in with a staggering number of produced misses. Throw in 34 perfectly adequate Duplass acting credits (“Transparent,” “Search Party”) and you see the intervention that’s needed.

With “Baltimorons,” Duplass finds rediscovers the perfect tone and lets the viewer come to it — listening in on a chatty character who says more with what he’s reluctant to talk about, taking in a divorced pragmatist’s reluctance to be fooled by false hope and relishing every minute that we spend together with them.

Rating: R, adult themes, profanity

Cast: Michael Strassner, Liz Larsen, Olivia Luccardi, Rob Phoenix and Brian Mendes

Credits: Directed by Jay Duplass, scripted by. An IFC release.

Running time: 1:41

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Movie Preview: Silkworms and Revolution hit 19th Century Hispaniola — “Under the Same Sun”

The latest from Catalan filmmaker Ulisses Porra is a drama from the Revolutionary Birth of the Dominican Republic.

Mulberry trees and silk production in a Spanish colony teetering towards independence?

It’s a centerpiece at this year’s Toronto International Film Festival and it has the Air of Early Herzog about it.

Wow.

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RIP Graham Greene: Actor who humorously humanized Native Americans on Screen dies at 73

Damn. Graham Greene died.

He was one of my favorite character actors, a stoic and noble but more often lighthearted presence in films such as “Dances with Wolves” and on TV (“Northern Exposure,””Longmire,” “Tulsa King”).

An Oneida Indian, he was born in Ontario and took up stage acting there, even making it to Britain, before making his big screen debut in a Honk Kong martial arts thriller (“Bei Shao lin”) for Golden Harvest in the ’70s.

“Dances With Wolves” (1990) was his big break, playing a humorous Lakota foil to the hapless, idealistic white cavalryman (Kevin Costner) who tries to make a connection with the natives.

“Thunderheart” to “The Green Mile” to “The Twilight Saga” to “Wind River,” he was always a reliable presence, offering up a whiff of inscrutability that could pass for wisdom, patient suffering or amused contempt.

He transcended Native stereotypes in pretty much every role he played. And man, 73 is too young to go.

Greene managed to have a pretty broad career for an actor the movies were sure to want to pigeon hole. Hos “Northern Exposure” turn as a businessman always outsmarting the white folks was a hoot.

Well done, and rest in peace.

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