Movie Nation

I watch the signature stand-up specials on Netflix and elsewhere, but I rarely bother to review them because they aren’t movies — for the most part.

Not in the sense of “Eddie Murphy: Raw” or the various Richard Pryor concert films of legend. They lack cinematic qualities, story (Pryor’s films had that), etc.

But all the online hullabaloo over Dave Chapelle’s latest “Sticks & Stones” drew me to the reviews that his fans were ridiculing, and then to the special itself. That’s worth tapping out a few lines about.

It struck me that the complaining fans have a few legit beefs, that other critics were groping for things to hate on. And it struck me that “fans” weren’t facing up to whether or not this was Chapelle’s weakest special yet.

Comics get a LOT of license and leeway with me, and always have. Jackie Mason was a hate-mongering slur slinger. Andrew Dice Clay, Eddie Murphy both crossed a lot of lines.

Ever hear George Carlin’s nuclear assault on bulimia and anorexics?

So Chapelle gets a pass or at least, “Well, that was a bit that didn’t come off” on a lot of this from me, just by default.

To the first point, several reviews I noticed label Chapelle “a truth teller,” somebody who “tells it like it is.”

Really? He’s a stand-up. Whatever other pointed observations he’s made about the culture, mainly in his Comedy Central “Chapelle’s Show” way back years and years ago, he’s played stoners in movies and he makes up bits for laughs. “Truth” rarely enters into it. He’s a storyteller.

He shoves a big “gun story” in the middle of “Sticks & Stones.”

He’s making a point about African Americans buying guns to finally force racist America to do something about gun violence and mass shootings (especially in schools, which is his most pointed observation of the night). He talks about buying a shotgun for protection, and shooting an intruder with it in his house. Near as I can tell, it never happened (Internet searches).

“Truth teller?” It’s a BIT. Do not take a “bit” literally.

So when he kicks off a long routine about Michael Jackson’s accusers in “Leaving Neverland” with “I do NOT believe it,” declaring that he is a notorious “victim blamer,” that “somebody’s gotta teach these kids, ‘There’s no such thing as a free trip to Hawaii,'” he’s simply going for shock value laughs.

The evidence against Jackson is overwhelming — the payouts to victims for their silence was in the millions. Chapelle not “believing” that is like him advocating that the Earth is flat. He’s not in the NBA. It’s just a bit. Do not take it literally.

Tasteless? Somewhat.

He throws a pedophile version of the Trump “not my type” defense in bringing up Macaulay Culkin, as if Jackson didn’t molest Culkin, he must be innocent. A bit. Stupid, but a bit.

Anthony Bourdain’s suicide? Fair game and just funny enough to be worth the grimaces.

When Chapelle gets into the funniest portion of the act, the last third, he comments on the Jussie Smollett fake hate crime, exaggerating and ridiculing the actor’s name in a fey-French fashion. That sounds a tad homophobic there, Dave, but no matter.

He claims “black folk” never believed Smollett from the start. Not just black people, Dave. One of the attacks on this bit came from this conservative critic, who used the Rev. Al Sharpton “took Smollett’s charges seriously” to puncture Chapelle’s thesis.

Kyle Smith, who used to write for The New York Post, is being disingenuous or at the very least, is using Rev. Al — who is black — to beat up another black person — a favorite conservative tactic. Rev. Al came into the public eye by virtue of his defense of Tawana Brawley, the Jussie Smollett of her day. Rev. Al is a racialist, willing to legitimize any claim that fits into his outrage. He’s a sucker for a good hate crime fabrication. Always has been.

When Chapelle describes his friend Kevin Hart as “damn near perfect,” you realize he’s too close to the subject to have an impartial take on the “cancellation culture” that “the alphabets” — the LGBTQ “social justice warrior” twitter outrage machine — used to take Hart’s “dream, hosting the Oscars,” away from him.

Hart’s a scandalized womanizer, which has cost him his share of payoffs, a standup who has let his “fat and happy” years of success deflate his stand-up act. And like too many African American comics to count, he’s pandered to his audience with homophobic remarks, tweets about “beating” his son if he found the kid exhibiting gay tendencies.

Granted, this was YEARS ago. But not that many.

As Chapelle has been attempting to reclaim the word “faggot” as acceptable for him to use in his act earlier in the show, you can see why people are upset about that. White comics don’t pepper their acts with the N-word. Not allowed. A straight black Ohio comic doesn’t have permission, nor should he seek it, to hurl that slur into the ether.

Even in front of an audience in Atlanta.

You want to be daring, Dave? Here’s an idea for a future bit. You know who ELSE went down the homophobic route in African American stand-up? Tracy Morgan. And what ELSE do Tracy Morgan and Kevin Hart have in common? They both followed that “scandal” with an awful car accident.

There’s a bit. You can’t be black and slur “the LGBTQ alphabets” (“The T’s hate my f—–g guts!”) because, if you do, you wind up in the hospital.

Drive carefully, Dave.

The overarching grievance I see expressed about this special is the power imbalance on display here. The contrite, self-skewering Chapelle of his post “break down” and “quit my TV show” years is long gone. He’s an older, popular, rich comic punching down at some targets. He’s lost some empathy.

That’s not a cardinal sin, by the way. A lot of comics (Seinfeld comes to mind) never had any.

When Chapelle opened his “alphabets” bit by warning us that he was about to, like Hart and others, violate “an unwritten and unspoken rule of show business,” I leaned in a bit. Is Dave going after Jews?

Naaaah. He’s punching down at LGBTQ. But swap “Jews” for pedophilia victims, or LGTBQ activists, for the #MeToo movement (which he states, flatly and laughably, is responsible for the tidal wave of anti-abortion legislation in conservative states like Georgia). Or for that matter, swap “N—gas” for any of those. Maybe he’d get it. Pointlessly speaking on these subjects in those ways brings out the worst in some listeners. It gives them comfort in their bigotry or denial.

Yeah, there are people in the audience in Atlanta, and Netflix viewers, who hoot and holler and feel validated when Chapelle belittles pedophilia, gay bashing and the like.
Sometimes, the shock value isn’t reason enough to “go there.”

More to the point, it’s no substitute for material that kills. I only laughed a few times at “Sticks & Stones” — yeah, the Culkin bit was funny in addition to taking one aback. Same with Bourdain (he found a payoff) and Smollett, and the whole racist crack vs opioids epidemics connection has been made elsewhere, but still stings.

You got our attention, pal. But for the most part you didn’t deliver the funny.

You’re just doing what those of us reviewing you are doing — trolling.

MPAA Rating: TV-MA, crude sexual humor, profanity, and lots of it

Cast: Dave Chapelle

Credits: Directed by Stan Lathan, written by Dave Chapelle. A Netflix release.

Running time: 1:02

It’s the movie that could make you fall in love with Morgan Spurlock, all over again.

With “Super Size Me 2: Holy Chicken!” the quixotic documentarian returns to his first, best destiny — investigating fast food and the “myth” that it’s gotten better in the dozen or so years since he almost killed himself gorging on it with “Super Size Me.”

Since then, Americans have gotten fatter, and to all appearances more gullible. So Spurlock digs into this rebranding and spin, with its new brick restaurants with fake wood decor and green imagery, the “health halo” fast food has been giving itself, and pulls back the curtain on their ability to make us believe what we want to believe.

He wants us to know that “free range” and “artisinal” and “all natural” and “No GMOs!” and “healthier” mean nothing in our fast foodie culture.

Burger America is giving way to Chicken Sandwich America, and Spurlock explores why that is and what the consequences of it are — to consumers, farmers and fast food employees.

He finds a new villain, “Big Chicken,” which isn’t that new a villain. We know the evil Koch family is involved (and Perdue and Tyson and Sanderson Farms and Pilgrim’s), and we’ve known about the “indentured servitude” they put farmers in when they sign on to their “Tournament System” of rewards, punishment and “control” since “Food, Inc.”

And he sets out, in this 2017 film just now making it to theaters (Big Chicken strikes again?), to study the market with food, nutrition and restaurant consultants, to visit the competition — reading the MSG on the menu at Chick Fil A (“It’s how they hook you on their sandwiches!”), noting how a Wendy’s chicken sandwich (“It’s like somebody cleaned the grill with a cleaning solvent”) and Burger King’s inedible “chicken bits ground up into…a chicken mitt!” leave the field open for something better.

Which is what he sets out to do, open his own chicken sandwich franchise with “farm to table” branding, renting a grow house in Alabama to raise his own “free range” broilers served in a fast food joint with truth in advertising filling the walls, the cups, the food wrappers and the floor.

Yes, a tiny piece of the Holy Chicken lobby measures out how much square footage you have to have in the open air to call your birds “free range.” It isn’t much.

It’s when he’s riding around with a couple of food consultants, going from Chipotle to Wendy’s to Popeye’s to Chick Fil A to Burger King and McDonald’s that we wonder why this guy needs experts at all. He is THE expert on fast food, its unhealthy ingredients and the underpaid people who create it, all up and down the line.

But let’s see how hard it is to buy a few thousand chicks when Big Chicken controls most of the hatcheries, how Big Chicken punishes a farmer who rents him a “grow out” house to start his enterprise, what maladies hit chickens forced to grow to many times the size they used to grow in a fraction of the time.

For that, he visits a veterinarian who does a chicken necropsy with him. They die with bones breaking under the excess weight they’re raised to reach. The poor cluckers have heart attacks due to the strain.

As with other films he’s made, he points out it’s all about “the story,” the spin, how food consumption trends drive us to seek “bucolic, farm images” that exist only in a fantasy past — or in “The Biggest Little Farm”.”

We learn about the “health halo” that marketing and advertising agencies help restaurant chains attach to the food that is no longer “fried,” that’s “the F-word.” It’s “crispy.”

And yes, he really did open a restaurant.

There’s a laid back confidence to the jokes, a flippancy to his chats with corporate types, consultants and nutrition experts, and a down home connection to the interviews (a farmer cries, fast food workers decry their exploitation) with real people trapped in this onarus machine.

True, he is covering ground he and others have covered before. But the simple fact that we’re getting fatter and unhealthier suggests that this is Spurlock’s true mission in life, to wipe away the “fake” USDA “regulation,” the “fake” euphemisms that saved McDonald’s as it adapted to a changing landscape (The food is still inedible swill, he suggests on visiting one for the first time in over a decade.), the lies we’re letting ourselves believe as our arteries clog, our waistlines bulge and we wonder why we feel so bad after gorging on yet another meal in a place that won’t let “facts” get in between you and your fix.

“Honesty never tasted so good,” he says. It’s still fried, still loaded with fat and calories. But at least now we know, thanks to “Morganic Farms” and Morgan Spurlock.

MPAA Rating:PG-13 for brief strong language

Cast: Morgan Spurlock, Jonathan Buttram

Credits: Directed by Morgan Spurlock. A Samuel L Goldwyn release.

Running time: 1:42

A child’s hearing-loss is “corrected” by cochlear implants, leading to him wanting to perform Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata.

The boy’s deaf grandfather faces the perils of old age, adding new maladies to his lifelong one.

And the boy’s filmmaker-mother ponders them both, the meaning of it all, the rewards that losing one’s hearing can offer your focus versus the challenges and even prejudices that historically face the hearing impaired, and presents their story and her conclusions in a documentary, “Moonlight Sonata: Deafness in Three Movements.”

Irene Taylor Brodsky wrote, directed and narrates this very personal documentary, sharing the story of when she and her husband (never named or mentioned, but on camera) discovered that “family genes have a way of arriving unannounced.”

Their first-born was going deaf in toddlerhood, just as her own mother did.

Brodsky’s camera captures little Jonas, singing or humming to himself, bonding with his very-understanding (both deaf) grandparents, learning to speak but talking in the indistinct enunciations of the hearing-impaired.

But Brodsky’s parents had cochlear implants, and even doing that at an advanced age changed their lives. The daughter ponders what they gained and what they lost as Jonas has the operation and takes up the piano, ambitiously wanting to learn Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata” (one movement of it, anyway) before The Big Recital.

Brodsky uses the example of Beethoven, who lost the distractions of the world as he lost his hearing, composing works based on what he could hear in his head, and of her father, who invented TTY (a means for deaf people to use the phone), in opining that “silence gave us all something really valuable… It shaped who we were.”

Dad is more sanguine. “You can’t understand the world through your ears,” so you adjust. He had a fruitful career, married and raised a family (none of their children were deaf). But as “Moonlight Sonata” was filming, he faced new adjustments — a life shrinking around him due to his advancing years.

Brodsky uses music, animation and simple footage of Jonas trying to practice the piano in a house with noisy younger siblings and a puppy to make her point. Being able to tune that “storm” out, literally by pulling the magnet plug off his skull, must be a blessing to Jonas, who is a cute, mop-topped and precocious kid. He still has good piano lessons and bad ones. He acts out like any 11 year-old, even one who has taken on the daunting task of learning a movement of this subtle, emotional sonata.

The kid’s other grandfather, a pianist himself, foreshadows how the film will treat the boy’s performance at that recital, explaining to Jonas the difference between playing to please oneself as opposed to playing in public.

It’s a meditative movie, as one underscored with Beethoven’s solo piano pieces “Moonlight Sonata” and “Für Elise” would have to be. Brodsky isn’t the first to get across what it feels like to experience the world without hearing it, so she doesn’t dwell on that, even if it is her central thesis.

The “Three Movements” are as arbitrary as you’d expect a framing device like that, mimicking the “Sonata” itself, to be.

Mostly, what she gives us is an appreciation for the progress science has made in diagnosing and remedying hearing disabilities, and the merest hint of the way not hearing shapes how the mind works when forced to confront the world without aural stimuli.

In that portion of the film, she asks more interesting questions than “Moonlight Sonata” can really answer, leaving this “Sonata” incomplete.

MPAA Rating: unrated

Credits: Written, directed and narrated by Irene Taylor Brodsky An Abramorama release.

Runing time: 1:29

This is an October release about a real life clown hired to show up and scare the kids — grownups, too.

And it looks revelatory, in terms of why folks are scared of people in facepaint and wigs.

Sorority vengeance fantasy.

Love that Imogen. The fact that she Poots is irrelevant.

What’s that old saying about too much of a (mediocre) thing?

That’s the second half of Stephen King’s “It” saga, an everything horrific but the kitchen sink thriller destined to be a blockbuster, treated — by virtue of its excessive length — as “an event,” a signature moment on big screen horror.

Derivative, a veritable catalog of the author’s “greatest horror hits,” “It Chapter Two” is overloaded with characters, filled with flashbacks, with endless dollops of exposition, right up to the absurdly drawn-out, fan-servicing finale.

The dialogue is laced with profanity that has a gratuitous “Just because we can” R-rated air. We get a couple of genuinely chilling moments and one or two touching ones (There are MANY supposedly emotional scenes that fell flat, for me.), a couple of actual movie stars delivering fair value in the cast — and Bill Hader. But the best scenes and character are handed to a pretty good supporting player.

“It Chapter Two” plays like any of the lesser Harry Potter pictures, all over the place, overlong, where there’s actual market-researched fear in “leaving anything out,” for the fans.

So when a character eventually declares, “Nothing lasts forever,” feel free to keep “Except this f—–g movie!” under your breath.

Twenty-seven years have passed since “The Losers” of Derry, Maine, killed Pennywise the Supernatural Clown (Bill Skarsgård) and took a pact to return “if ‘It’ ever comes back.”

Considering how all of them eagerly fled the town where they were abused, beaten and bullied, where one lost his brother, and most have led full lives since “forgetting” most of what happened that summer of ’89, this “pact” thing doesn’t strike one as anything any of them would feel obligated to keep. Wouldn’t stand up in court, in any event.

But when Mike (Isaiah Mustafa), the one who stayed behind, kept the flame and kept a vigilant eye out calls each in turn with a “You need to come home,” they do.

Almost all of them, anyway.

Bill (James McAvoy) is the writer of the lot, the “Stand by Me” success, a successful horror author and screenwriter married to an actress (Jess Weixler), trying to write a new ending for director Peter Bogdanovich, in mid-production of their latest film.

A running gag? “Your endings suck.” Everybody says so, including his wife and the shopkeeper who reads his books back in Derry (a Stephen King cameo). And by the time we get to the second anti-climax at the conclusion of “It,” we might agree.

Beverly (Jessica Chastain) runs a fashion line, but is in a miserable, abusive marriage.

Ben (Jay Ryan) is no longer fat, no longer a poet, but a successful builder of architectural marvels.

Eddie (James Ransone) is a “risk assessment” expert for Big Insurance, still accident and injury prone, still a hypochondriac, still afraid of his own shadow.

Richie (Hader) is a neurotic stand-up comic made even more nervous by Mike’s call.

Stanley (Andy Bean)? He’s the one who’d rather die that “go back there.”

What Mike has seen as a “sign” is the film’s opening murder, a horrific homophobic hate crime finished off by Pennywise. The damned clown is back to his snatching and dismembering ways. Let’s skip by the real crime by four thugs (Cops are basically a non-presence in the Big Little Town of Derry) and focus on the supernatural one!

Andy Muschietti’s film folds flashback upon flashback into the proceedings as these characters, who vow to “stay together” because that’s how they foiled the clown the first time, are separated and each faces her or his fears in search of “artifacts” (talismans) from their youth that will help them repeat their defeat of Pennywise.

One thing those flashbacks accomplish is showcase Jaeden Martell’s growth spurt between the first film and this one. He plays the young Bill, and he’s already taller than McAvoy, and looks little like his original self in many scenes.

It’s a film of close-ups — used to make a laugh pay off (they rarely do), a fright bigger or that lump catch in your throat longer when the once-bantering teens rebuild their childhood pecking order and go all Stephen King gooey in their devotion to one another.

Ransome’s Eddie is the best match between the young Eddie and his adult guise, and he gives us lots of touches that show the boy who turned into the same sort of man he was as a child.

Characters not only have solo confrontations with Pennywise, they pair up a couple of times, facing him in teams of two. This helps survivability, even if it does nothing for the narrative.

King’s favorite themes of remorse, guilt and savage bullying are much in evidence, as is his inabilty to conjure up a love story — tomboyish Bev flirted her way through all the possible beaus, way back when, and hasn’t quite shaken that “the band’s sex symbol” thing as an adult.

The flashbacks rob the picture of its flow, even if they give characters noble moments — publicly rebuking the life-expectations of one’s family and faith at a Bar Mitzvah, for instance — or ones that further illuminate how this person turned out that way.

The picture feels cluttered, with the big set pieces outlined and diagrammed and arriving at precise moments in the 160 minutes of the movie.

“It Chapter Two” isn’t awful, especially by King in the late ’80s standards. It’ll make a mint, and congrats to one and all when the checks clear.

But if The Great Stephen King revival won’t end here, we can sure see the beginning of the end of it. Whatever the virtues of his books, they’re repetitious, derivate and bloated, and often turn out that way on the big screen, too.

So coming up with a good “ending” is only the tip of the narrative iceberg, as far as the reasons why are concerned.

MPAA Rating: R for disturbing violent content and bloody images throughout, pervasive language, and some crude sexual material.

Cast: Jessica Chastain, James McAvoy, Bill Hader, Isaiah Mustafa, Jay Ryan, James Ransome, Andy Bean and Bill Skarsgård

Credits: Directed by Andy Muschietti script by Gary Dauberman, based on the Stephen King novel. A Warner Brothers release.

Running time: 2:49

For those of us who have longed for a “Romy and Michelle’s High School Reunion” meets “Wedding Crashers” in French, Netflix is here to fill that void.

The streaming service has had decent luck with French farces (“I Am Not an Easy Man” is their best), so “Back to School,” aka “La Grande Classe,” seems like a safe bet for them, and for we the paying customers.

And one this indifferent Gallic romp finally gets up to outrageous speed, there are laughs and just enough surprises to tide one over. Waiting until the movie is over halfway done before providing its first real laugh? Must be a French thing.

Pierre-Yves and Jonathan, played by Ludovic Day and Jérôme Niel, are lifelong friends who just closed the deal that insures the success of their internet marketing company. Jonathan (Niel) is the tech whiz, short and uncertain of himself in public situations. Pierre-Yves, or “PYC,” is the tall, cocky blowhard whose off-color joke makes the sale.

But back in middle school, “Jon” was the plump runt nobody noticed. PYC? He was “Bozo the Clown” (as funny in French, with subtitles, as it is in the English dubbed version). He was bullied, like Jon and other chess club nerds.

Oddly enough, Diderot Middle School (snort) back in Brétigny is holding a reunion, which they learn about by accident. Nobody remembered to invite them. Nobody remembered them, period. A little social network research convinces the one-bullied duo to return to the scene of the crime and lord it over their inferiors.

“It’ll bring up bad memories!”

“EXACTLY!”

Robert Palmer’s line that “Wise men know that revenge does not taste sweet” must lose something in translation. Because as soon as they return to Brétigny and borrow Jon’s dad’s BMW to make their “entrance,” things start to go wrong.

That “You haven’t changed” (Since MIDDLE SCHOOL?) lie doesn’t help. Nobody knew them, then. Nobody remembers them, now.

Jon came, reluctantly, because he has a mission. There was this letter expressing his feelings for the fair Linda “all through sixth grade.” He plans to give it to her tonight.

And Linda (Caroline Anglade), a blonde beauty who bites her lip in lascivious interest, just might be willing to read it.

But she’s made a mistake. This “Jonathan” is not her “Jonathan,” the punk who led Les Dragons, a gang of middle school toughs who tormented PYC and Jon. She thinks he’s Jonathan Lopez, who “burned down the gym” and was expelled, who fled to Thailand and became a kick-boxing legend.

And with the lust in her eyes and purpose in the come-ons, Jon isn’t quick to correct her. Oh no, not at all.

This is when “Back to School/La Grande Classe”) gets off the ground and on its feet.

PYC is the first to see how the provincials are just as provincial as ever, sneering at the Paris swells he and Jon have become. The headmaster’s daughter (Joséphine Draï) has staged this reunion as an ego trip, because inheriting your father’s job in a small town is the greatest measure of success.

The mean girls are still mean, the chess club nerds Jon and PYC hung around with still debate semantics and which characters in “The Lord of the Rings” were gay.

“Read the Elvish version!”

And the bullies still judge their lives by the brutish standards of adolescence, none moreso than car wash assistant manager Hervé (Nicolas Berno). He’s as brawny and bull-necked as ever. Thank heavens he thinks his brother in bullying, Jonathan Lopez, is the guy Linda has just dragged over to get reacquainted.

Linda clings to Jon like the Big Man on Campus he once was, and any distractions — Les Dragons have some hash they stashed 20 years before that they want to smoke with him — freak her out. She searches the empty school rooms with a pal, storming in on a couple having sex on lab table in science class.

“That should be ME on that table!”

And bullies being bullies, the old pecking order quickly and cruelly reasserts itself.

Will these nerds have their revenge? Will Jon fess up to Linda, Hervé and the gang? Every time he’s about to, Linda does something that stops him short. Like calling her husband on her cell.

“Ferde? It’s me. I’m LEAVING you!”

Day, Berno, Anglade and Draï — the last a Jami Gertz “goodie two-shoes” with a dark side type, if you know your late model American teen comedies — are the stand-outs in the cast. Taken together, they lift “Back to School” close to a passing grade.

A word of warning, though. In these sensitive times, a movie with this much stomach-churning bullying can said to be “triggering.”

And for all the third act twists that point toward tying this comedy up in a bow, it’s that age-old universal message that is really the point here.

“Vous ne pouvez pas rentrer à la maison.” No, “you can’t go home again.” Or at least, you should know better. Especially if you’ve ever seen a movie or TV show about the perils of class reunions, even middle school ones.

MPAA Rating: TV-MA, some violence, drug use, sex, profanity

Cast: Ludovik Day, Jérôme Niel, Caroline Anglade, Nicolas Berno, Joséphine Draï and Pauline Deshons

Credits: Written and directed by Remy Four, Julien War, with additional dialogue by Florian Assous. A Netflix release.

Running time: 1:23

Two young couples, with patriarch Sterling K. Brown holding the family together as it is tested by life these days.

It’s from A24, so chances are it’s very good.

Let’s get the “icky” part out of the way up front.

“Scarborough” is a drama about two teachers showing up at the same British coastal resort town, off-season from the looks of it, for a weekend with their student-lovers.

They know what they’re doing is wrong, “illegal.” None of this French/Continental indulgence on a sliding Polanski perversion scale. This is Britain and each teacher is paranoid about prison.

As they should be.

Barnaby Southcombe’s film, based on Fiona Evans’ play, makes its intentions clear. One teacher is male, another is female. This is going to be an exploration of how we look at this sort of imbalanced, improper coupling between the allegedly mature and “ought to know better” and impulsive, hormonal teens who don’t know better.

Is it more wrong for a woman to seduce or be seduced by a teen boy than for a man to seduce or be seduced by a teen girl? And how have those attitudes evolved over time?

“Scarborough” asks us to get past the nudity, the sexual heat and blatant titillation and consider the dynamics and consequences of these situations. Go beyond the #MeToo passions of the day, the amorality, and consider the psychological damage to the kids and the broken souls who know right from wrong, but insist on carrying on such affairs anyway.

Liz (Jodhi May of “Last of the Mohicans”) looks guilty the moment she furtively sidles up to the front desk of the Hotel Metropole.

She’s over 40, and her hair and dress suggest “lonely” and “plain.” Not that the desk clerk isn’t picking up on something else. He (Daniel York) wonders about her solo reservation, mentions that “extra guests do incur a surcharge,” and winks at the fact that she’s booked the bridal suite.

The hunky young jock (Jordan Bolger of “Peaky Blinders”) who slips into the elevator with her is awfully cocky. And when the doors slide shut, “eager” enters into the description.

Their silent arrival in the room has a brisk role-playing to act out, standoffish and nervous vs. dress-lifting impatience. Whatever 16 year-old boy Daz has on his mind, she’s acting out some sort of fantasy.

“The act” is about as sexy as a road accident, and just as quick.

Aidan (Edward Hogg of “Anonymous,” the Shakespeare “expose”) is just as nervous at that self-same front desk. Only he gets more than a wink from Mr. Concierge. It’s practically a leer of approval, once the clerk has spied the teen sneaking upstairs with him.

Beth (Jessica Barden of “Far from the Madding Crowd” and TV’s “Penny Dreadful”) is a hyperactive pixie, tarted up for the occasion, reckless in her public displays of affection.

“That’s not why I brought you here.”

One of the tricks to Evans’ play is how dialogue and gestures are repeated with each couple. “We need to talk” and gifts (from the kids to their older lovers) of photos which the adults warn “You know you can’t SHOW anyone.”

“I’m not STUPID,” the kids protest. Naive in that “I didn’t think about that” way, both of them.

This “We need to talk” weekend has snatches of dialogue underscoring visits to the picturesque empty beach and boardwalk, a Punch & Judy Show or an arcade, underlining the age and maturity difference with lighter moments that don’t hide the weight of what’s going on and what’s to come.

Beth bounces on the bed, literally. Daz makes mock loud sex noises that anybody near the room could hear. She wants to see the puppets, he wants change to play the arcade games.

The kids trivialize what they’re doing, feigning how they just saw “the Headmaster,” sending their partner in crime into a panic. The adults are desperate, clawing for an escape.

There are complications. One is cheating on a would-be fiance, the other on a husband.

The kids?

“Five minutes of something wonderful is better than a lifetime of nothing special.”

I know nothing of the playwright Evans or her agenda, which gives “Scarborough” the necessary remove from the likes of Woody Allen and Luc Besson, whose predilections are well-publicized and whose movies often “normalize” such “consensual” couples.

That lets us mull over what’s going on, what brought them all here, even if we can guess the melodramatic turns that will point the stories towards their resolutions.

May brings a brittle fragility to Liz and lets us see the youth that one relives when involved with somebody much younger. She has a downtrodden quality, but gives us flashes of giddy when she’s with Daz and not worried sick about…everything.

Hogg’s Aiden is less shaded. We regard such affairs as vampire-like for a reason — the older person sucking the youth out of the younger. Is this nerdy/artist 30ish teacher getting the “hot girl” he never had a shot with in high school? What else could be in play?

The kids? They’re here for the adventure, the play-acting at being an adult with none of the responsibilities and nothing but an open future in front of them. They have no idea, either of them. Bolger gets across Daz’s callowness and inability to see past the next meal or “shag,” and Barden dazzles with a Lolita-ish native cunning. Beth may be dizzy, may call on her high school brain to attempt manipulations no adult would fall for. But she knows what she wants.

The theatrical feel of it all excuses the viewer from the need to immerse oneself in the situation, to imagine him or herself in one of the roles. That allows us to wrestle with the psychological issues like a shrink, hearing about these affairs in the course of a day seeing patients.

It’s as if we need inoculation against the disease portrayed here, one that we and the world turned a blind eye too just a blink-of-an-eye ago. Thinking about that too much lets “Scarborough” get under your skin, and we mustn’t have that, must we?

MPAA Rating: unrated, adult themes and sexual situations involving minors

Cast:  Jessica Barden, Jordan Bolger, Edward Hogg, Jodhi May and Daniel York

Credits: Written and directed by Barnaby Southcombe, based on a play by  Fiona Evans.   A Level 33 release.

Running time: 1:27

This full trailer for Taika Waititi’s “JoJo Rabbit” has whimsy (“What We Do in the Shadows”), scope (“Thor: Ragnorak”) and darkness, heart and pathos.

It’s like a Wes Anderson movie about Nazis, without a grand hotel. And a German cover of The Monkees.

And it opens in October.