Movie Nation

Liberated and liberating, “Captain Marvel” swoops onto the screen with baggage, expectations and a comic book bragging rights agenda.

It plays like an extension of that age old “Anything you can do, I can do better” Marvel/DC publishing grudge match, parked on the big screen. You’ve got “Wonder Woman?” Here’s “Captain Marvel.”

The films share female empowerment messaging, a Men Can’t Keep Me Down ethos,  stars with comparable charisma and a sense of fun. Oscar winner Brie Larson’s engaging turn in the superhero saddle has a generous dose of “The Marvel Touch” — flippant self-awareness, a tendency to hit the jokes HARD and effects that push the CGI envelope.

Jude Law and Ben Mendelsohn provide the requisite Brit Mentor/Brit Heavy presence.

The story? Same old comic book righteous alien come to save us/war between aliens brought home to Earth stuff, filtered through the Avengers universe, leavened with lots of 1995 pop culture references and gags.

By the time Vers, of the planet Kree’s “race of noble warrior heroes” kicks butt and cleans house in a Nine Inch Nails t-shirt, choreographed to No Doubt’s “I’m Just a Girl,” the only proper viewer response is, “What TOOK you so long?”

As on-the-nose as it seems, as much as it drags through the middle acts, as often as Larson gives us the Badass Smirk through hair flopping over one eye, the just-over-two-hour film rarely stops in its tracks.

The twists in the plot are more feints than shocks, but pay attention to the double entendres, the several references to “The Right Stuff” and “Raiders of the Lost Ark.”

Watch the way Larson sprints. She’s Marion Ravenwood/Karen Allen redux — plucky, feminine and ungainly in ways no personal trainer could pound out of her.

Vers (Larson) wakes from a dream, the shattering end of a battle she lost. The blood is blue and the memory faint. Fortunately, as a member of the Kree, her deity — “The Supreme Intelligence” — is there to reassure her that she’ll figure this out.

As Ms. “Supreme” is played by Oscar winner Annette Bening (every Kree sees someone they “most admire” when they’re talking to God), we’re inclined to take her at her word.

Vers trains with her mentor (Law) who lectures that her sarcasm won’t take her far — “Humor is a distraction!” — and they set off with a team of warriors on an extraction mission. They’re to rescue a spy from the clutches of the green-blooded lizard shape-shifters, the Skrull.

The boss notes that “This is the perfect spot for an ambush,” so of course, that is exactly what happens.

And that’s how Vers ends up stranded on Earth, crashing into a Blockbuster video in the middle of the night in the middle of 1995.

Radio Shack jokes, Altavista dial-up Internet service gags, “grunge” and Garbage (“I’m Only Happy When it Rains”) on the jukebox, and damned if Vers doesn’t start to piece together a past that connects her with Planet C-53, aka “Earth.”

Perfect time for Nick Fury (Samuel L. Jackson, looking 30+ years younger) and this new guy, Coulson (Clark Gregg, even younger) to show up with some “questions.” It’s an even better time, it turns out, for the Skrull who were interrogating the captured Vers to wade up on a beach.

Their leader, Talos (Mendelsohn) insists that “She knows more than she knows” and that he’ll help them find whatever it is that will give them the edge in this war with the Kree.

As the S.H.I.E.L.D. guys try to follow “Blockbuster Girl,” whose uniform looks as if “she’s dressed for laser tag,” the Skrull shape-shift their way into that pursuit and the stage is set for the deal to go down.

You’ve got to give it up for the co-writers/directors Anna Boden and Ryan Fleck for wrestling the most complex and copyright-tetchy history of any comic book superhero into something manageable, if a bit ungainly  and heavy-handed.

An ex-Air Force pilot (Lashana Lynch) who has history with Vers shares in the slapbacks at male privilege packed into the story. And EveryVillain Mendelsohn gets to show off his comic chops to an almost nonsensical degree. Talos is impressed, for instance, with Vers’ lightning-bolt fists. But you do have to wonder how much “Friends” he’s been watching in his corner of the 1995 Universe.

“Miss Jazz Hands” he calls her, among many other colloquialisms and slips of slang.

Jackson has reached the “Let’s make fun of every ‘one bad mutha’ this guy has played'” stage of his career. He doesn’t have a single serious scene in this movie, which never takes itself seriously. Fury has a weakness for pussy cats which we’ve never known. Until now.

Larson’s dead-weight appearance in “Skull Island” gave me doubts about whether she’d have “The Marvel Touch.” She’s no light comedienne, but she gives the film’s quiet scenes a nice gravitas even if she hits her punch-lines too hard and requires too many close-ups to squeeze in a smirking smile, hair blowing in the Deep Space breeze.

Gemma Chan, Lee Pace and the great Djimon Hounsou have barely enough to do in supporting roles to justify the staggering amount of makeup and costuming Marvel put them through.

Boden and Fleck, whose indie hit, “Half Nelson,” came over a decade ago, find laughs in the simplest places — even if they land on the raised eyebrow, double-takes and shrugs (when lizard-faced alien “science guys” do it, it’s hilarious) with both feet.

They’ve made a cute comic book movie, amusing but forgettable, probably not as culture-shifting as “Wonder Woman” and “Black Panther” turned out to be. But take your daughters to “Captain Marvel.” They’ll be the final arbiters here. Because Disney princess fans are the ones who’ll really be liberated by this rock’em sock’em role model.

MPAA Rating: PG-13 for sequences of sci-fi violence and action, and brief suggestive language

Cast: Brie Larson, Samuel L. Jackson, Jude Law, Ben Mendelsohn, Annette Bening, Lashana Lynch, Gemma Chan, Lee Pace

Credits:Directed by Anna Boden, Ryan Fleck, script by Anna Boden, Ryan Fleck and Geneva Robertson-Dworet. A Marvel Studios release.

Running time: 2:04

I’ll let you know how it goes. I think the embargo’s off Tuesday AM.

Here’s a bracing blast from the past, a time capsule of Jamaican London and the prehistory of hip hop via its dub reggae birth parent.

Franco Rosso’s “Babylon,” a 1980 near-classic that had little in the line of a real release, back when new, is a cult film that’s been cleaned up, restored and fully subtitled for theatrical release.

Because unless you be Jamaican mon, Cho, it be tuff to understan’. We all bomboclaat if we’re not from the Island when it comes to the gloriously musical, dense patois spoken there and here.

Rosso’s film captures a slice of London’s Thatcher era subculture, transplanted Jamaicans working, loving, hustling and — in this film’s circle — hunting for that “fresh” sound, that record with “not one scratch, mon.” Only a tune — “Straight from the J” — that no other DJ has scratched for use as a backing track to sing/rap to will do for the likes of Ital Lion.

That’s the collective fronted by Dreadhead (Archie Pool), with guys like the hothead Beefy (Trevor Laird), trusted lieutenant Errol (David. N. Haynes) and soldering iron wizard Scientist (singer/composer Brian Bovell) all supporting singing mechanic Blu (Brinsley Forde) as they pursue dub battle victories that trace a path to pop stardom, riches and glory.

Not that this “pursuit” is what the film is about. This “life” that Rosso slices is of the world these guys live in — rough hustles and endless hassles by The Man, anti-assimilating anti-social behavior exacerbating the pervasive racism they face every day in every way. Cy

Blu lives at home with a school-skipping little brother his mother (Cynthia Powell) orders Blu to ride herd on.

Blu’s a mechanic who long ago used up his excuses for why he’s late.

“I don’t like monkeys who get too clever in my garage,” his racist boss gripes. Best pal Ronnie (Karl Howman) may be able to get away with not showing up, back-talking. That’s because he’s white.

Ronnie hangs with the Ital Lion crew, their amusing token Cockney reggae expert who doesn’t fit in and gets a dose of what “your kind, Mon. Your f—–g kind” is doing to keep these guys down.

Rosso follows put-upon Beefy as he is disrespected by one and all, only to lose his temper and pull out a knife. His temper and the knives grow through the course of “Babylon.” Dude pulls out a machete at one point.

The hard edge is rubbed off somewhat by many comic moments — Dreadhead haggling with Fat Larry, an Indo-Jamaican producer/hustler who is always trying to max out the sales price of whatever tune he’s got “straight from the J to me!”

“I hear dem tune a good two year…When come dot release, ‘pre-war?'”

The guys get into it with all manner of working class locals, who trot out “jungle bunnies” with their “bloody jungle music” when the arguments start.

The objects of their racist contempt don’t help matters by carrying out muggings, petty theft and vastly increasing the traffic of ganja in 1980 London.

Beefy, at one point, steals a briefcase-sized video camera. But he’s either ahead of the times or clueless. He forgets the SUITCASE sized recorder unit. They’re always stealing speakers from schools, rounding up the pieces to a massive sound system that they use for their performance/battles.

Laird, Forde and Pool give dazzlingly unaffected performances, and Haynes and Howman hold up their end of the picture, too. Every bit part feels documentary real in its execution.

It’s dated, sure, a piece of pre-assimilation history built on music that hasn’t been in fashion for decades and fashion that never quite become “The Fashion.”

“Look, Mon, he’s a walkin’ flag of Ethiopia!”

The story isn’t anything to put on a resume.

But “Babylon” brims over with life in ways that few films of recent vintage could manage, a movie-moment that remembers when “One Love” was enough to end any argument and calm any troubled waters.

MPAA Rating: unrated, violence, drug use, profanity

Cast:  Brinsley Forde, David N. Haynes, Trevor Laird, Beverly Michaels, Victor Romero Evans, Archie Pool, Cynthia Powell and Karl Howman

Credits: Directed by Franco Rosso, script by Franco Rosso and Martin Stellman. A Kino Lorber release.

Running time: 1:36

Four academics, experts in their fields, have been summoned to a dingy, cedar-paneled basement office in a remote Chilean astronomic observatory.

Each was exceedingly flattered by the invitation, by a famous scientist legendary for his secrecy.

But when the door is locked behind them, they’re puzzled. And when the video screen on the wall flickers to life, their summoner (Daniel Epstein) tells them that he’s actually dead. He then recites a long list of numbers to them, which some are quick enough to write down.

They must figure out what those numbers mean to possibly stave off what their late science hero regards as they inevitable.

“You will all die at 10 o’clock tonight!”

Welcome to the “Tangent Room,” where only their brains can save Sandra (Lisa Bearpark), David (Håkan Julander), Kate (Vee Vimolmal) and Carol (Jennifer Lila).

Something only theorized about up until now is about to reveal itself. It could be catastrophic for all of them, or only the ones who can’t escape this room, or the entire planet. They just don’t know. But the numbers will tell them.

As Sandra, the token optimist in the quartet reminds them, “The right numbers can solve anything.”

“Tangent Room” is an “Escape Room” variation — basically “Six Actors in search of an author” or “Twilight Zone’s” sci-fi variation, “Five Characters in Search of an Exit.” Only with little in the line of dangerous thrills, and a Big Science Concept at its core — two, actually.

As the pragmatic David and nonplussed Carol argue for finding a way to short out the electro-shock lock that seals the door, the prickly on-the-spectrum Kate reminds the others that “Not all of us will leave this room,” and if she has to whack somebody, she will.

What the four try to reason out is part of “conformative cyclic cosmology,” an opening title told us.

First concept — that the universe, post-“Big Bang,” has reached “the end of expansion.” The explosion that blew everything into being and has been expanding and petering out ever since has petered out.

Second concept — It’s that whole “parallel universe(s) thing that classic “Star Trek” toyed with and “Spider-Man: Into the Multiverse” explored.

Writer-director Björn Engström’s movie leans more towards cerebral drama than edge-of-your-seat thriller. He’s more interested in the ideas these four are wrestling with than the actual wrestling. The four quarrel, apply reason built out of their areas of expertise and bicker some more.

Where things get interesting in terms of tension and actors portraying people (Lila and Vimolmal give the stand out performances) confronted with something so extraordinary as to be almost supernatural, is when characters literally flicker — in the room — jumping about in space AND time.

You’d freak out, too.

It’s a simple, inexpensive effect — digital video jumpcuts that move this character or another around the room in mid-conversation. And the ways the four figure out how to cope with that, to figure which “version” of their multi-verse selves they’re dealing with and why they have actually been summoned here and locked in this room are the best reasons to see “Tangent Room.”

It’s a fairly dry film, otherwise. But if it’s a great compliment to say any movie “makes you think,” hats off to Björn Engström for making a short, smart sci-fi picture that makes you wish you’d stayed in college a few years longer.

MPAA Rating: unrated

Cast: Lisa Bearpark, Daniel Epstein, Håkan Julander, Vee Vimolmal, Jennifer Lila.

Credits: Written and directed by Björn Engström. An Epic release.

Running time: 1:05

Netflix has responded to Steven Spielberg’s reported efforts to ensure that the Academy Awards, for over 90 years the showcase for honoring the best THEATRICAL motion pictures the world experiences in MOVIE THEATERS, makes Netflix play by the same rules as everybody else.

With nominated films such as “Mudbound,” “Beasts of No Nation” (produced elsewhere and purchased for release by Netflix) and Alfonso Cuaron’s Oscar-winning “Roma,”  reaching viewers under the Netflix banner, it’s the right time to have this conversation.

Steven Spielberg started it — when word got out that he was preparing to throw his weight around at the upcoming Academy (AMPAS) Board of Governors meeting to ensure that cash-rich streaming services whose product is almost entirely experienced on TVs and mobile devices don’t get to compete for Academy Awards.

Go for the Emmy, which is where you belong, is his argument.

He has gotten the expected pushback. It’s spread far and wide.

Which is fine, but there’s not a lot of discussion of this idea on its general merits.

Movie watching is evolving, something the whole dustup brings to the fore. Theatrical attendance is generally flat to falling in North America, and yet people are still watching movies — Redbox and Netflix, Hulu, Crackle and too many other streaming services to name are proof of that.

But whatever the future of movies, I have been arguing all Oscar season that the minute the Academy gives Best Picture to “Roma,” the game is up for the Oscars. Giving Cuaron the Best Director prize for an indulgent, interesting but far from fascinating or well-acted bore, was bad enough. Hollywood has long shown a willingness to throw theatrical under the bus — home video, shrinking video release windows, etc — but this would underscore that tendency with a slap in the face that would hasten the demise of the magic of seeing a film as a shared experience, with other true believers.

Netflix is changing the rules, and throwing a LOT of money to elbow their way into the spot at the head of the table. They shoved a mediocre melodrama into the Oscar conversation with the muddy-lensed “Mudbound.” “Beasts of No Nation” was a natural Indie Spirit Award contender, had it been a real “theatrical movie.”

“Roma,” with staggering, laughable hype backing it and Cuaron fanatics (normally, I am one) pushing it to the front of awards season conversations, utterly upset the applecart.

If the nominations for “The Ballad of Buster Scruggs,” a lesser Coen Brothers effort, were all we were arguing over here, that’d be cause for alarm. Blank check financing from Netflix, the “Nobody else will make this” script gathering dust in a drawer, which this film and “Roma” have in common, and Netflix’s indulging Big Names and then spending Big Bucks to get them Oscar attention, is changing the rules.

These films wouldn’t have stood a chance in the theatrical marketplace, for a lot of reasons. Overlong and myopic and indulgent top that list. And really, not a lot of people are actually watching the movies — even though Netflix won’t provide streaming numbers — is backed up by the fact that the Academy turned its nose up at them.

Back when cinema was going digital, Spielberg famously came out to me and others declaring he’d cling to celluloid to the end, “even if I’m the last guy shooting on film.” So yes, the Wunderkind is showing his age with this high-handed move.

But Spielberg’s core argument, “They’re not REAL movies” has merit. These movies ARE a part of the cultural conversation, but they’re not part of the Hollywood traditional model, which includes Big Screen showings, movies experienced communally.

Another argument that Hollywood should take VERY seriously is “It is Netflix’s BUSINESS MODEL to KILL THEATRICAL and swallow Hollywood.”

They started out as another revenue stream for other studios, now they want to replace them. Letting them money muscle and bully their way to legitimizing this creation of a monopoly is a mistake.

But as I said, moviegoing is changing, and Oscar needs to adapt to that. The question remains, “How do you do that and not utterly blur the difference between cinema and Teevee?” Because the Emmys, whatever their value, aren’t remotely as prestigious as the Oscars in the EGOT realm.

I’m with Spielberg, mainly because I think this is a conversation that filmdom needs to have. It’s one thing when a documentary earns a token release in theaters to qualify for an Oscar. It’s quite another when a “studio” that turns out more product than most of the rest of Hollywood put together tries to Weinstein/bulldoze its way to prestige that its pictures — ALL of the ones I’ve mentioned looked and felt “small screen” to me, especially the flatly lit and shot, dull “Roma” (a critic friend who saw it in a cinema said he felt he was being “held hostage,” NOT a problem a home TV viewer would experience) — don’t deserve.

A caper comedy/heist hoot about the origins of “Stockholm Syndrome.”

Looks badass and funny, and as Noomi Rapace and Ethan Hawke co-star in “Stockholm,” we have our fingers crossed. We do.

It doesn’t appear to have a release date, but sometime this year, we figure out if this riff on history works.

We meet Steve at what might be his lowest — 60, alone, weeping and brooding. It’s a bottle-by-the-bed/pistol to the head moment.

Steve, played by J.K. Simmons, long ago discovered what the writer Mark Lawrence observed in his “Prince of Thorns” — that “memories are dangerous things. You turn them over and over, until you know every touch and corner, but still you’ll find an edge to cut you.”

Stuck in a darkened home, with only an answering machine and his grimmest recollections for company, Steve is in the middle of what could be a terminal binge of booze and regrets, his outgoing answer message summing him up more than we realize.

“I’m not here.”

The film of that title is a sad and supposed-to-be-touching series of flashbacks brought forth by one answering machine message — tucked in between the “final notice” calls alerting him to the power and water that are about to be cut off.

It’s from his mother. “Karen died,” she says. “She never remarried…I’m sorry.”

From there, “I’m Not Here” takes us into two earlier timelines. Steve wanders the dimly lit rooms, rummaging for stashed bottles and mementos — a child’s bicycle here, an AA sobriety token there.

We see Steve as he (Sebastian Stan is younger-Steve) and pal Adam (David Wexler) drunkenly try out a two-headed stand-up act. It was the night Steve met Karen (Maika Monroe), almost giddy hook-up that led that “romantic” screen romance cliche — a slam against this wall, then that one, dishes and lamp-upending first sexual encounter that is Hollywood shorthand for “heat.”

Getting stuck in an elevator within minutes of their marriage?

“I hope this isn’t a sign.”

It is. Just because they were both tipsy way back when they met doesn’t mean that BOTH of them are trapped in “The Days of Wine and Roses.” Steve’s an alcoholic, and the desultory honeymoon sex proves the old maxim, “Nothing more whets the appetite, and dulls the performance.”

The other timeline for Steve’s flashbacks take him to his childhood, where Stevie (Iain Armitage of “Big Little Lies” and “Young Sheldon”) is closely-supervised by his classic early ’60s mom (Mandy Moore) who teaches him how to properly brush his teeth and the ways of the world as well.

“You’ve got to take better care of yourself, Stevie. You only get one life. Don’t waste it, like I did.”

Helluva thing to tell a kid.

His dipsomaniacal dad (Max Greenfield) dotes on him, plays with Stevie and fights with his mother over his drinking. There aren’t many sights sadder than a boy of eight pouring his dad’s drinks, and trying them for himself.

Stevie is destined for the trauma of divorce court, the boy stuck in the middle between warring adults. And that isn’t even the worst of it.

Co-writer/director Michelle Schumacher (Mrs. J.K. Simmons) lets us swoon at the romance of a young couple swirling around the room — the camera circling them in joy — to “I Melt With You,” and see the connection between Steve and Karen. But it’s the grim aftermath, the “Sunday morning coming down” with Steve waking up after passing out drunk in their son’s bed, that dominates “I’m Not Here.”

Steve, this script suggests, was pre-destined for misery. Children of divorce get divorced themselves, children of alcoholics…

A child pleading to a judge “I want my family back” tugs at the heart, but get used to heartbreak, kid. You’re pretty much bred for it.

The Oscar-winning Simmons broods well. He looks positively hollowed-out here, broken and wishing the liquor would ease his pain or kill him, that he could change at least one of the tragedies that mark his life.

Greenfield and Moore make a convincing, conventional doomed “Mad Men” era couple. Sebastian Stan — Bucky Barnes in the “Captain America” movies– ably gets across a younger Steve unable to shake off, even at that age, his past and his seeming pre-destiny.

Monroe (“It Follows”) has too little to play, her scenes and situations limited to cliches.

And that’s a shadow hanging over the whole film, its myopic main setting and its flashbacks covering familiar tropes of memory the way movies have always imagined them and alcoholism traveling the same arc it always does on screen. It’s a mopey, wallowing in the too-obvious point it never gets around to making.

“I’m Not Here” is never more than a short, morose melodrama whose chief shortcoming is that there’s not more that’s new, that there’s not more “here” here.

MPAA Rating: unrated

Cast: J.K. Simmons, Sebastian Stan, Maika Monroe, Mandy Moore

Credits: Directed by Michelle Schumacher, script by Tony Cummings, Michelle Schumacher  A Gravitas release

Running time: 1:17

OK, this is starting to look like some seriously twisted goings on.

Love Harbour’s take on the character, and I have to say, it’s had to grow on me because I was quite amused by Ron Perlman’s hulking slow-burn version of “Hellboy.”

Funny funny red band trailer (Uncensored, unfiltered, so if you’re delicate, move along — move along).

Nice use of Deep Purple’s “Smoke on the Water” in the score. Apt.

There are a lot of cartoons in cinemas this weekend — “Lego Movie: The Second Part,” “Into the Spider-Verse.”

And let’s be brutally blunt, “How to Train Your Dragon 3” isn’t all that. Once audiences started seeing it, those comically endorsement-happy reviews were going to induce head-scratching. I said as much, and damned if that hasn’t turned out to be the case.

“Joyless” is not a great word-of-mouth recommendation.

Second weekend numbers show “How to Train Your Dragon: The Hidden World,” falling off the box office cliff. The $30-35 million second weekend projections of many are over 30% off, unless Saturday (traditionally the big take-the-kids-to-the-cartoon day) turns it around.

Bearing that in mind, Deadline.com may be off in projecting “A Madea Family Funeral” winning the weekend with a $25 million+ take, with “Dragon 3” fading in a plummeting fashion to $23 and change. Deadline is notorious for under-counting Saturday animation box office takes. But if this holds, that’s a 60% drop from “Dragon’s” opening weekend.

I saw “Madea” with a paying late afternoon matinee crowd in rural NC. Half-full house at 4:30? That’s telling. As Tyler Perry is giving the character her curtain call here (he’s not playing Madea again, he insists), longtime fans (older, female) are checking out her final bows.

“Greta,” the other new wide release, doesn’t have any branding or supernaturalism to make it appeal to today’s horror audiences — just a screen legend, Isabelle Huppert, abusing a beloved starlet (Chloe Grace Moretz) via stalking, kidnapping, etc. It’s not bad, but a $5 million+ is all she wrote for this Neil Jordan thriller.

“Alita: Battle Angel” will have to break even with its overseas take — down to $6 million this weekend.

“Green Book” is getting a decent Oscar bounce. No word yet on how re-issues of “Spider-Verse” and “Favourite” and “A Star is Born” are faring.

I guess it was too much to hope that Tyler Perry would send the old broad off in style.

He’s losing the dress, the fake chest, the wigs and the wildly uneven makeup and bidding everybody’s favorite auntie adieu with “A Madea Family Funeral.” 

Decades of playing the character on stage, and screen — you can’t blame him for running out of gags, out of ideas and phoning it in. You CAN blame him for letting us SEE him phone it in.

He flings a funnier new Perry-in-heavy-makeup character at “Funeral,” a brother to his stand-bys, the preachy, threatening, Jesus mis-quoting, language-mangling Force of Nature Madea, and out-of-you-know-whats-to-give pothead/dirty-old man brother Joe.

Heathrow has no legs and an electrolarynx for his missing voice box. No, he didn’t lose that much of himself in ‘Nam. Blame “the diabetes” and cigarettes. It’s a funny effect and a great gag, making even limp lines the character growls

The film surrounding this unholy trio, their nephew Brian (Perry, out of drag) and Madea’s crusty running mates Hattie (Patrice Lovely) and Aunt Bam (Cassie Davis) is another Perry melodrama folded into Atlanta African American affluence.

It’s about a family of beautiful people — many of whom cheat. Madea and crew show up for an anniversary celebration just as the news that patriarch Anthony has died in the S & M clutches of a voluptuous and faithless family friend (Quin Barker).

Actually, they don’t “know” this. Only cheating Renee (Barker), cheating son Anthony (Courtney Burrell) and his brother’s fiance Gia (Aeriél Miranda) KNOW. They were having an assignation in the hotel room next door to Anthony’s bondage-games demise.

But the sharp-nosed Joe and Heathrow know. And Madea and her girls catch up. It’s all they can do to keep a lid on it when the widow, Vianne (Jen Harper) starts asking questions.Two

“Hotel?” Madea evades. “These ho’s don’t TELL.”

That soap opera stops the movie every time it moves front and center. Fortunately, Madea is put in charge of the hasty funeral.

“Two days? Black people do NOT bury people in two days!”

Perry’s pictures have always had outtakes which show his version of the “best joke on the set wins” tradition. The problem is, he’s not surrounded by funny people competing for the best line. It’s just him. And he’s run out of one-liners.

I doubt Davis and Lovely, the two hammy supporting actresses, come up with their own jokes. And everybody else Perry casts is a comic stiff. The melodrama is played straight — or straight-ish. Beautiful, buff shirtless black men and perfectly coiffed and made-up women who are the victims of these no good/no count yard dog males.

Boring characters boringly-played.

The big, multi-bedroom house and hotel settings, with all these cheaters, offer the promise of a “door slamming farce,” people stumbling into and out of rooms and the mistaken identities/intentions that follow. As comedy-savvy as Perry is, that’s beyond his dramaturgy.

His most promising homily is a scene in which young, professional Brian is schooled on the origins of “#BlackLivesMatter” when Madea instigates a traffic stop as he’s hauling them all to the party. Brian figures its a teachable moment on how Black people’s “compliance” would prevent all these police meltdowns and shootings.

Nope. Madea knows better. And Joe. Brian will, soon. But there aren’t enough gags there to pull the scene off, and like every other sequence in recent TP movies, it goes way beyond its comic payoff. His movies lack comic timing and pacing.

They’re slow, Joe.

His desperation to find a cheap laugh in many scenes has Joe doing something Classic Madea would never stand for — dropping the N-word for a giggle.

And there are continuity errors (including a doozy in the final act), blown lines and other signs Perry has moved on from big, brassy “Angry Black Woman” Madea.

I guess he’s letting us know we should move on, too.

MPAA Rating: PG-13 for crude sexual content, language, and drug references throughout

Cast: Tyler Perry, Cassi Davis, Patrice Lovely, Courtney Burrell, Aeriél Miranda, Kj Smith

Credits: Written and directed by Tyler Perry. A Lionsgate release.

Running time: 1:44