Tag Archives: Review

‘Blockers’ Review: A comedy as raunchy as it is heartfelt

The primary narrative strand in Blockers follows Lisa (Leslie Mann), Mitchell (John Cena) and Hunter (Ike Barinholtz) as they try to stop their daughters — Julie (Kathryn Newton), Kayla (Geraldine Viswanathan) and Sam (Gideon Adlon) — from losing their virginity on prom night. Immediately, it sounds like a comedy we’ve seen before.

What makes Blockers so refreshing and delightful, though, is that this point-of-view is not the location of our heroes, who are the daughters, but it’s also an entirely necessary point-of-view to pull off what the film sets out to.

Blockers is littered with its share of awfully raunchy, unambiguously absurdist moments of comedy, and director Kay Cannon injects an infectious energy into each one, primarily through razor sharp pacing. But Cannon also utilizes nearly every single one of these moments to develop character. Comedies can run themselves into the ground when the humor exists for the sake of itself, but Blockers dedicates itself to its story and never falters.

Most of these moments, in fact, challenge the parents and their perceptions of their children. Is it right for these parents to try to “save” their daughters? Would they do the same if it were about their sons? The trio are framed as anti-heroes, but are still allowed sympathy, leaving the door open for redemption.

As these parents learn to accept their daughters, the daughters are learning to accept themselves, but not necessarily from a starting point of negative. Cannon brings a tone of sensitivity to these women’s explorations of their sexuality, affirming them rather than shaming them, while still offering them their own hilarious bits.

It truly is an outstanding balancing act from Cannon, who is aided by an equally outstanding ensemble. Mann, in the leading role, is as steady as she ever has been. Barinholtz both plays into type as the over-the-top idiot, while also playing against type as a surprisingly progressive father. Cena capitalizes on the tough guy persona, rendering his sensitive moments hysterical in juxtaposition. Newton is certainly serviceable, but Adlon shines with her vulnerability and Viswanathan nearly steals the whole show.

And when Blockers brings the families together toward the end, that dedication to the story the film set out to tell from the beginning pays off, leaving us with some genuinely powerful quiet moments.

Grade: B

 

Featured image via Universal Pictures.

‘Chappaquiddick’ Review: An unsettling portrait of political gaslighting

Political scandals are nothing new, or quite surprising, in today’s world. And as possible, even likely, as it is that Chappaquiddick was made without the specifics of today’s world in mind, its release at this moment in time colors the film in a deeply unsettling way.

The film picks up with Senator Ted Kennedy (Jason Clarke), brother to the assassinated John F. Kennedy and Robert Kennedy, at a turning point in his life. After a party and some drinks, he takes a drive with Mary Jo Kopechne — a drive that ends with the car flipped off of a bridge into the water off Chappaquiddick island, and Mary Jo dead by drowning.

But Chappaquiddick doesn’t choose to focus on the event itself for too long. A majority of the story revolves around the aftermath, around Ted Kennedy’s attempts to turn himself from a possible criminal into another victim of the event. And that is where the film reaches into the filth of politics.

Rather early on, the film takes a side. Ted, on his way back to mainland, is advised by his cousin Joseph Gargan (Ed Helms) to immediately notify the police the night of the accident, and director John Curran chooses to crosscut between Ted ignoring Gargan’s advice and Mary Jo screaming for help, clinging onto the sliver of air left in the car as it sinks. The sequence is incredibly uncomfortable and infuriating to watch, but that’s purposeful and effective to the story the film tells.

Much of the visual look of Chappaquiddick, in regard to the costume design and production design, is rather standard, and risks rendering the film dull. But Curran’s composition of the film continues to work to reveal political filth. As Ted and the powerhouse publicity/legal team put together by his father plan their “version of the truth,” Curran chooses to literally manifest and show the type of story that they plan to feed to the American people, granting the film an almost dry-yet-unnerving humor in the immorality of it all. At a point, the film’s use of visual juxtaposition becomes almost cruel in its effectiveness, such as when the edit reveals that the manipulation is working on, of all people, Mary Jo’s parents.

Chappaquiddick does present us with some sense of identification in the form of Gargan. While the film makes clear in its editing that Gargan is, at the end of the day, complicit, the character creates constant tension at nearly every development. Ed Helms is particularly magnificent, the role playing into the typical good-guy tone that Helms is so good at, while also offering some quiet (and loud) dramatic moments that we don’t see much of from him.

But the film undoubtedly rests on the shoulders of Jason Clarke, and Clarke turns in one of his finest performances. He takes a character so clearly positioned as an anti-hero and doesn’t necessarily make him sympathetic, but makes him intriguing, accentuating the despicable faults of Ted Kennedy with force. Clarke hits on the pressure that the character feels with that last name and, in turn, evokes the whiplash infantilism, masked in the facade of the mysticism of “Kennedy,” that that pressure has resulted in.

And that is precisely why the film succeeds. It doesn’t deny the mysticism of the Kennedy family. It just simply understands that that mysticism can turn very, very ugly.

Grade: B

 

Featured image via Entertainment Studios Motion Pictures.

‘A Quiet Place’ Review: A juggernaut of a horror film

About half way into A Quiet Place, which follows a family living in silence due to monsters that track down victims by sound, Evelyn Abbott (Emily Blunt) asks her husband Lee (John Krasinski) a question that defines the entire film. “Who are we if we can’t protect them?”

“Them” refers to the Abbott’s children, Regan (Millicent Simmonds), who is deaf, and Marcus (Noah Jupe). A Quiet Place is, by all means, one of the scariest films of recent memory, but it’s even more effective because it’s a horror film with a gripping emotional basis — that of parenthood and the lengths we go to to protect our kids.

The film is almost entirely silent, with most of the interactions utilizing sign language. That set up leaves co-writer/director John Krasinski — wearing many hats on this project — with the difficult task of achieving the emotional basis through the physicality of the characters, through the actions they take more so than the words they say or sign. But Krasinski pulls it off.

A Quiet Place is a tight, lean picture — every second dedicated not only to Evelyn and Lee trying to protect their kids, but also to the kids learning the bravery necessary to begin to survive on their own. Many of these character moments are elevated immensely by the performances, and each one feels entirely integrated into the world. Movements through space are careful and calculated. And facial expressions are exacerbated excruciatingly, as they would be for people living in such a situation. The clear standout, however, is Emily Blunt, who bears the weight of her character — the weight of love, grief and the worst physical pain of any character — so thoroughly.

While Krasinski is undoubtedly rather strong, with his performance’s emotion sitting right under the surface, his most assured role on this film is as the director, composing every feature into a brilliant whole. The sound design is bare, but brutal. Charlotte Bruus Christensen’s cinematography is stark, but tender. And the production design builds a world far beyond the frame. In fact, it’s the world-building of A Quiet Place that is so astonishingly impressive. Some aspects of the layout of the Abbott’s home exist without explanation (to the film’s benefit) — and are then capitalized on for some harrowing imagery.

Yet, the film isn’t just harrowing and scary. It’s often incredibly invigorating and fun. And as A Quiet Place turns to its end and champions its female characters specifically, especially in a banger of a closing shot, it’s difficult not to walk out with a big, stupid grin on your face.

Grade: B+

 

Featured image via Paramount Pictures

‘Phantom Thread’ Review: An elegant, dreamlike, hilarious psychological romance

Phantom Thread is a strange film, one that could only really sprout from the mind of writer-director Paul Thomas Anderson. Yet, its strangeness might be precisely what offers viewers so much to eat up.

Following master fashion designer Reynolds Woodcock (Daniel Day-Lewis) as he courts Alma (Vicky Krieps), the film revels in the psychological dynamics between the two as their relationship grows. From misunderstanding each other’s intentions to nailing each other’s faults directly on the head, the two constantly negotiate emotional control. It’s often overtly uncomfortable, toned by a sense of deliberateness in Anderson’s delivery. We’re meant to, ourselves, become a third party in the fluctuating conversation.

That aspect of the film, the ambiguity and the resulting passive aggressiveness, is deliciously hilarious in its nastiness, especially when blurted with full pompous force by Daniel Day-Lewis. Woodcock is rendered utterly charming, magnetically powerful and horribly ridiculous, all at the same time.

But the relatively unknown Vicky Krieps goes toe-to-toe with Day-Lewis, even owning him in certain scenes. The film likely wouldn’t have worked without her turning in a performance so effectively controlled, her glare as cutting as razor blades, because much of the content literally requires Krieps to dominate her co-star with her presence. And thankfully, Alma is given the necessary agency and moments of power to keep the film from becoming some kind of sick show.

In Anderson’s construction of story, which is both fiercely and elegantly polished, Phantom Thread can be described as a genuine psychological romance — a subgenre not too common in contemporary cinema. But there’s also something about the director’s touch that evokes a nearly dreamlike aura when watching the film, similarly to the effect of The Master.

This film is, by all means, about love. When Woodcock and Alma are in sync — and especially in that climactic moment when they finally come to a true understanding of what exactly makes the other tick — the characters seemingly float in space and time, lifted up by the rich and depthful film photography of Anderson and his camera crew, the transfixing work of costume designer Mark Bridges and the somehow pleasantly visceral, overwhelmingly wistful and absolutely enchanting score by Jonny Greenwood.

As the credits start to roll, Phantom Thread begins to feel like a lovely dream itself. It’s an experience that’s hard to put to words, but it’s one that we long for and fall for in storytelling.

Grade: A

 

Featured image via Focus Features.

‘Molly’s Game’ Review: Jessica Chastain is electric in Aaron Sorkin’s directorial debut

Aaron Sorkin is one of the few screenwriters to have become a recognizable name to the general audience, and for good reason. His scripts, for the likes of The Social Network and Steve Jobs, are masterful. So, him making his directorial debut, not only in features, but in either film or television, is a major point in his career.

With Molly’s Game, Sorkin proves himself behind the camera as well as he does on the page. Following Molly Bloom (Jessica Chastain) as she runs one of the most prestigious underground poker games in the country, the film is full of flash and glamor, and the editing of high stake sequences both at the table and beyond it is razor sharp.

But Sorkin does not simply allow the film to be about the extravagance of the poker. Every part of the story builds the character of Molly Bloom in deliciously dynamic feminist fashion. Much of the conflict of the story comes from toxic men and their abuse of power, such as when Bloom’s day job boss, who initially started the poker game, forces her to work for free because he thinks she’s making too much off of tips from the game.

Yet, this conflict adds to the central dilemma at Bloom’s core. She was nearly an Olympic skier until sustaining a devastating injury, and, ever since, or maybe even much earlier from her father’s tough parenting, she’s been searching for identity. The structure of the film revolves around this search, in that Bloom is portrayed at her highest when the games are going well and the players respect her, but that high only leads her to overcompensate and endanger what defines her — a structurally brilliant ebb and flow of character development.

Bloom is so well-defined and well-rounded, but it’s difficult to imagine her in the hands of anyone other than Jessica Chastain. Bloom narrates throughout the movie — a surprising move that somehow works, in part because the narration is edited so smoothly into the rhythm of the pacing, but largely because of Chastain’s vigorous line delivery.

When on screen, Chastain manages the tricky balancing act of channeling the spark of Sorkin’s dialogue while also shaping a character that feels naturally lived in. And as the film comes to an end and Chastain completely owns the character’s climactic moment, we truly feel for Bloom on an unexpected emotional level.

While it may not have held a stylistic flair quite like David Fincher’s The Social Network, Molly’s Game showcases Sorkin’s undoubtable directorial ability to translate the page into a magnetic visual story. But even regardless of that, the film is a platform upon which Jessica Chastain reasserts herself as one of the most powerful actresses working today.

Grade: B+

 

Featured image via Michael Gibson/STX Entertainment.

‘The Greatest Showman’ Review: Too showy and never great

It’s never a great sign when many aspects of a film have been done better elsewhere, which is the case with the Hugh Jackman-starring musical The Greatest Showman

In it, Jackman plays P.T. Barnum, a showman in the late 1800s, and he’s unsurprisingly charming. But Jackman has played almost this exact role before with far more complexity and emotional vigor in The Prestige. If one has seen the Christopher Nolan film, it’s difficult to watch The Greatest Showman without thinking of it.

Television spots will also make sure that the general public knows that the songwriters on this film are the Oscar-winning duo behind La La Land. And while there are some rousing numbers, such as the popular “This Is Me,” the music never really plants itself in viewers’ minds as each piece feels overdone and jarringly anachronistic. The seemingly key ingredients that the duo is missing are the musical help of the masterful Justin Hurwitz, composer of La La Land, and a good story.

The music seems to end up emotionally manipulative because the story asks the songs to do the leg work. When key character development is meant to occur, we’re asked to accept it in the form of a song. This can occasionally work when the song is beyond exceptional, such as the gleefully playful and vulnerable “A Lovely Night” or the heart-wrenching “Audition (The Fools Who Dream),” both from La La Land. But no song here reaches that kind of level, resulting in what is meant to be an emotional journey falling flat.

“This Is Me” comes close, but that song leads to another issue with the film, which posits itself as a celebration of humanity through outcasts and those who’ve been othered. But, outside of the song, the film never takes the point of view of those characters nor develops them thoroughly. At one point, one of them professes his appreciation for the “family” that Barnum has built. Yet, we haven’t seen much of this family in the first place and we’ve seen too much of Barnum treating them poorly for a redemption to be earned, or for its purported celebration to be earned either.

Strangely, though, it’s difficult to entirely hate the film. It’s not consistently visually dazzling, but it has its moments of pure wonder amid colorful, eye-popping costumes and sets. To go along with that, there’s an undercurrent of a struggle for happiness in every storyline, which latches on, at least loosely. And Zendaya stands out with the most lived-in and genuinely felt performance.

If anything, The Greatest Showman is a film that can bring families to a show, just as Barnum did. That’s worth something.

Grade: C-

 

Featured image 20th Century Fox.

‘Star Wars: The Last Jedi’ Review: A humanist, subversive, new kind of ‘Star Wars’ story

With Star Wars: The Force Awakens, the most signficant franchise in popular culture awoke from a deep slumber. However, it did so with a sense of familiarity that, while perhaps necessary, hurts the film in hindsight.

But Star Wars: The Last Jedi takes another necessary step, that of subversion of the very things that The Force Awakens hinged on. And in doing so, The Last Jedi breathes urgent purpose into the new trilogy, purpose it had yet to prove.

What’s immediately evident about The Last Jedi — through a nailbiter of an opening sequence, which includes an absolutely hysterical bit that tops Poe’s opening of “who talks first?” in The Force Awakens — is that this film is interested in people. While some large scale action films focus on the spectacle, writer-director Rian Johnson and cinematographer Steve Yedlin’s camera situates us with the fighting, the sacrificing and the dying that fuel those battles.

When it comes to his focus on our main characters, Johnson succeeds in giving them all heavy, deeply personal character arcs. Finn needs to learn how best to fight for the Resistance. Poe needs to learn leadership that thinks ahead of the enemy, that thinks of everyone that a potential failure in leadership might affect. And John Boyega and Oscar Isaac inject the same kind of charismatic vigor into their characters that made them so lovable in the first place.

But Johnson’s portrayal of Luke Skywalker, this mammoth figure in pop culture, is the film’s most dynamic feature. And that’s because Johnson takes him out of the familiar, out of what we know him to be. Essentially, Johnson dissects “the legend” of Luke Skywalker, questioning that title by focusing in on Kylo Ren’s turn to the dark side years prior while at Luke’s Jedi school. It gives Mark Hamill new space to explore, as a rehash of pure heroism would’ve failed to be profound, and Hamill offers up a hilarious, pained, tired and tender performance. Though the trilogy jumps decades, we still get to feel the weight of those decades because Hamill bares it tangibly and beautifully.

Johnson intertwines Luke’s arc with those of Rey and Kylo in a way that challenges Rey’s almost original-trilogy-Luke sense of purpose, and in a way that cuts straight to the heart of Kylo’s light-dark conflict. It’s a brilliant framework, as the film adds new layers to Kylo, not only in the context of his turn but in the context of his purpose moving forward. Adam Driver ingrains those emotions deep into his performance, rendering him as one of the more complex villains in large scale cinema.

The framework also places Rey at the forefront, mainly through her search for identity now that she’s been thrust into the world of the Force. The film’s answer is decidedly feminist, fitting into Johnson’s overall idea of who heroes are, and Daisy Ridley capitalizes on the material, delivering a performance that is, appropriately, searching, yet also gripping in its painful anger and raw vulnerability.

The film is truly an ensemble piece, even more so than most typical ensembles as there’s a sense of individualized growth within nearly every character. And the performances of the rest of the cast are wholly committed, including vibrant work by newcomer Kelly Marie Tran, a towering presence from Laura Dern and a brave turn by the late Carrie Fisher.

This is, however, where the film slightly falters, as it becomes, at times, too stuffed with so much character work happening at the same time and in different places, which impacts the film’s pacing. Certain moments, such as when the plot needs to catch up, happen too quickly or conveniently and other moments, such as those of thematic significance, feel a bit too drawn out. The film also has four acts, which is not unusual, but it requires an extremely careful sense of flow and progression, perhaps exemplified by The Dark Knight. And while the flow from the third act into the fourth isn’t terrible, it’s unbalanced.

But the film, despite its flaws, is genuinely stunning. Johnson choreographs action — both in space and on the ground — with such rhythmic intensity and fluidity, but also with an underlying grit informed by the film’s humanism. And the settings within which that action takes place are so singular and transfixing, often due to Rick Heinrich’s spellbinding production design and Steve Yedlin’s soaring and awe-striking cinematography, especially in his long shots. 

The story, while not perfectly executed, also holds beauty. As said before, this film is about people. And Johnson engages with the political, shedding light on the First Order’s impact on the poor and forgotten, on those that come from nothing but a little bit of hope. Fascinatingly enough, however, Johnson, while portraying the Resistance lovingly, doesn’t shy away from critiquing the larger notion of the “machine” of the Resistance.

But it’s those like Rose Tico (Marie Tran), someone who works alone in the dirty underbelly of a Resistance ship and is not really a part of any “machine,” who can embody a heroism in the face of tyranny that leaders of the Resistance have yet to fully understand. It’s heroes like Rey who can represent the greatest that hope can stand for.

In that sense, The Last Jedi is a new kind of Star Wars story. Along the way, the film challenges a lot of what we’re familiar with, especially in regard to the mythology of the universe. At points, the film almost feels satirical in how it critiques what we expect a Star Wars film to be.

Therein lies the film’s value. More of the same, especially in a wasteland of traditional, unengaging hero stories, would’ve been a shame. It was necessary for The Force Awakens, for that film to care about what we thought of it.

But The Last Jedi believes in a new kind of hero and, thus, a new kind of Star Wars.

Grade: A-

 

Featured image via Lucasfilm.

‘Coco’ Review: A deeply felt depiction of culture and family

Animation is a platform for boundless imagination. Pixar’s maximization of that platform rocketed them to the top, until they lost it. But with Inside Out, the studio began to regain its form. And with Coco, the studio continues that return — at least for its original ideas.

The film is steeped in Mexican culture, and not just as representation for representation’s sake. The intricacies of its culture are deeply felt on a visual, auditory and thematic level. Traditions and family dynamics that sprout from those traditions are integral to the progression of the plot. Dialogue consists of both English and Spanish, the latter not being subtitled nor placed on any level of less importance than the English. Each frame pops with wonderful colors in costumes, festive decorations and more. Michael Giacchino’s score uses instruments and style that come from the culture to create swells that enhance emotional moments. Like Moana before it, Coco shows that, when researched and executed on all levels, culture and its representation can be beyond profound.

But while Coco’s characters, especially Miguel (Anthony Gonzalez) and Héctor (Gael García Bernal), are well-defined, the film’s narrative isn’t quite as refined, and thus as intricately affecting, as Pixar’s best outings. Much of the middle of the film is predicated on convenience and obstacles rather than true conflict, stifling the energy of even the wondrous visuals. And the themes of family, death and forgiveness are intertwined, evident and developed — but only so much so. Miguel’s initial goals are, naively and innocently so because of his young age, misguided and ignore the specific importance of the women in his family. While Miguel learns a lot that allows him to appreciate family, he’s not afforded the deeper lessons that hold the men of the film as accountable as they can be held.

However, Coco does hit emotional highs that can compare to even Toy Story 3. In its last 30 minutes, while not as deeply mined as it could be, the film does enough with its central family and their culture to push even the hardest shelled people to tears. It’s trademark Pixar, constructing a build of emotions that provoke such a response because we care.

Grade: B+

 

Featured image via Pixar.

Note: We at MovieMinis denounce the alleged sexual harassment of Pixar’s now ex-executive John Lasseter. His significance in the creation of Pixar and its films is undeniable and we would be remiss not to acknowledge that. We do believe that, with ‘Coco’ specifically, which Lasseter produced but did not direct, and with animation in general, because there are so many brains behind the creation of a film and even the creation of a single frame, to write it all off because of one man would be irresponsible, especially when it’s doing such important cultural work like ‘Coco’ is. However, we would also be remiss not to acknowledge that Pixar films have a glaring problem with how they depict women both in the animation of their bodies and through their roles in the stories, which likely stems from the fact that they’ve only hired one woman to co-direct one of their films and the understanding that, with a man like Lasseter in power, women were and are excluded from or feel unsafe in being a part of important conversations and stages of development that they should be involved in. Overall, we would like to extend our support to the victims of Lasseter’s alleged abuse and make sure that this discussion is had where it must be.

‘Mudbound’ Review: Flowing with powerful symbolism, novelistic ambitions

Mudbound, exquisitely directed by Dee Rees, is an epic tale of two families — one black (the Jacksons), one white (the McAllans) — intertwined before, during and after World War II. Within this grand scope of two large families connected by financial and emotional trials and tribulations, Netflix’s Mudbound poses an intimate yet still relevant examination of racism, familial bonds, God, war and love within American society.

Featuring incredible, depthful performances from Jason Mitchell, Garrett Hedlund, Rob Morgan, Mary J. Blige, Carey Mulligan and Jason Clarke, this ensemble brings the requisite emotion to this tale set in the harsh, rainy, muddy land in Mississippi during the Jim Crow South.

Thanks to the strong performances, sweeping timeline and a significant amount of voiceover, the film creates a novelistic feeling to its story. The audience is given insight to the motivations behind Ronsel’s (Mitchell) decision to join the military, why Jamie (Hedlund) became an alcoholic after World War II, why Florence (Blige) only prays for her son Ronsel instead of her other children. The devices at play with time and voiceover create a narrative structure akin to watching something in the vein of a great novel by Steinbeck or Faulkner, yet Mudbound always uses the voiceover for character interiority rather than forced exposition.

While straightforwardly told, classically so, director Rees and editor Mako Kamitsuna create dynamic parallels between the families, as Jamie experiences a brutal dogfight in a bomber plane while Mulligan’s Laura (married to Jamie’s brother) experiences a disheartening miscarriage after an indescribably stressful situation.

Yet these crosscuts are used in strong ties between the two families, as Jamie and Ronsel describe their horrific war experiences to each other, both shown with flashbacks over the sharing of a strong whiskey in present time.

All of this world and character building create an expansive look at many issues within American society. However, the film makes clear the ways in which racism creeps into the lives of good people. In particular, the muddy land that the Jacksons and McAllans are forced to share becomes often symbolic of the two families intermingled relationship to each other — at times fertile with hope and respect, and at others drowned of any light and filled with mud that is bound to slow any sort of progress.

When the film moves towards its heartbreaking and unexpected ending — Rees’ sense of how this history still plays out in today’s society — the film paints a damning portrait of what it means to be living in a divided America.

As with every classic story though, there’s a sense of optimism in the power of hope and unity. And if there is an element of Mudbound that seems to be its most vital and hopefully rewarding aspect to viewers, it’s that, with a shared understanding of the human experience and the ability to realize the stronger similarities between us all rather than the general differences in appearance predicated on something only skin deep, there may be hope in America’s future.

History, like the one seen in Mudbound, will tell what comes next.

Grade: 9.0/10

 

Featured image via Netflix.

‘Thor: Ragnarok’ Review: Hidden behind visual brilliance and irreverent humor, story and character fall flat

Thor: Ragnarok, directed by Taika Waititi (What We Do in the Shadows), attempts to make up for the weaknesses of Thor, an otherwise bland character, by enveloping him in the immense potential of the universe’s magic and humor — or, in truth, by making it similar to Guardians of the Galaxy.

For the first two-thirds of the film, the jokes land, and land hard, pulled off with pitch perfect timing by Waititi, the editing and Chris Hemsworth, in one of his finer performances. In fact, the momentum of the film’s energy, fueled plenty by the comedy, is so vivid and infectious that it’s hard not to get wrapped up in Ragnarok. It’s also quite refreshing to get a superhero film that knows how to shoot action and render visually interesting spectacle. Colors pop brilliantly through production design, CGI and costumes. Dynamic choreography, along with coherent composition, create action scenes that are easy and exciting to engage with.

But it’s hard for the energy and visuals to keep us engaged when the film, all along, has been failing its character and, thus, its story. Toward the end, there comes a moment when Thor is meant to realize something about his family and the Asgardian people, about who he is now that the villain, Hela, has broken his hammer — similar to Iron Man 3’s journey of Tony learning to be a hero without the suit. It’s the close to an arc that would’ve been fascinating for the character — had Thor actually traversed and earned that arc. Throughout the film, there are obstacles placed in front of Thor, but they never create conflict in his character. He’s simply resolute in that he has to save an endangered Asgard from Hela, which is not a journey that holds much depth, since it strangely has no effect on his character. Ironically, at one point, Thor says that Loki hasn’t changed and won’t, when it’s actually Thor who’s not changing one bit in this film.

In fact, the film seems to be strangely aware of its own shortcomings. Bruce Banner/Hulk (Mark Ruffalo) appears, and Banner has some dialogue that addresses how Thor is simply using the Hulk because he’s a good fighter. And he’s right. The film makes no legitimate reason for Hulk to be present in a way that makes sense with his character. It seems like simply a ploy for the sake of spectacle. And Hela is yet another entirely whiffed villain in the MCU. Cate Blanchett is great, but the character is one-dimensional and disappears for much of the second act.

It’s tough to hate Thor: Ragnarok, as the film is beautiful to look at and one of the funnier entries in the MCU. But it’s more difficult to love it, especially because the failures in story and character make the beauty and humor feel empty and tiresome in the final act. It’s not a bad film. It’s just rather frustrating, given its potential.

Grade: C

 

Featured image via Marvel.

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