Week Ending 10/24/25

Sometimes the demons overpower the genius. When the work ceases to be enough to continue ignoring the distractions and struggles of unprofessionalism, one cannot be blamed for choosing to move on. Lorenz Hart (Ethan Hawke) knows this truth, but it doesn't make the pain sting any less. Because he didn't just lose his partner in art for twenty-four years when Richard Rodgers (Andrew Scott) choose sanity above Hart's alcoholism. He lost the opportunity to enjoy the unparalleled success their creative divorce would ultimately birth.

Robert Kaplow (inspired by letters written between Hart and the twenty-years-his-junior co-ed Elizabeth Weiland) conjures the night in which this unfortunate realization officially hits the famed lyricist like a ton of bricks: the afterparty at Sardi's to celebrate Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein II's (Simon Delaney) debut hit Oklahoma! Not only must Hart ingratiate them for work he deems beneath himself (on-stage and conceptually considering he declined doing it himself), but he must also reconcile the fact he's become Broadway's the odd man out.

Directed by Richard Linklater, Blue Moon actually begins on the rainy night when Hart collapsed in an alley only to pass away four days later in the hospital. Why show us this first? Because he and Kaplow must only rewind seven months to find him regaling Eddie the bartender (Bobby Cannavale) and Knuckles the pianist (Jonah Lees) while awaiting Rodgers' arrival. That's how impactful the Sardi's evening was to his demise. It's the professional and personal (Margaret Qualley's Weiland is also en route) emotional cliff he could never escape.

The resulting chamber drama unfolds with a powerhouse performance by Hawke as his Hart is engaged in almost unceasing conversation from start to finish. Act One has the room hanging on his every word being that he's the star both in his stature with characters like Knuckles and inevitable sorrow with Eddie and Patrick Kennedy's E.B. White understanding his mental state. So, Hart tries to distract them as much as himself by focusing on Elizabeth instead. Sure, he takes some jabs at Oklahoma! too, but he longs for that impossible love.

Why? Because its potential has rejuvenated him. He's (mostly) on the wagon. He's got his creative juices flowing if only he can corner his former partner and pitch a new epic Marco Polo musical. He's clinging onto hope from an abyss of despair by entertaining his everyman audience and endearing himself to White's parallel genius with the written word. And we become so enamored by his enthusiasm that we salivate at the chance of him sticking it to the guests of honor in Act Two. We don't quite know yet that they don't deserve the vitriol.

It's like the lifting of a veil. All that manic self-aggrandizing is replaced by Rodgers' genuine desire to keep working with Hart if he promises to get his act together and Hammerstein's earnest appreciation of him as a mentor and icon to aspire towards. That's not to say we didn't realize the façade Hart had built for his own ego's salvation or the sadness lying under his grinning exterior. It's just hard to deny the suffering of watching people with the position and justification to remind him that he has no one to blame but himself.

Act Three is therefore up the air as far as Hart finding redemption in that naked truth or a newfound ambition to retreat into the ruse of remaining in his heyday of yesteryear with the promise of putting this trouble behind him. I guess it's not that up in the air considering what we know from the first scene of him lying in the street, but it's nice to think he might allow himself one more good time before the end. Because the others do try to supply it—whether from pity or not. They hope Hart can find the humility to enjoy in their success.

That's a tough sell, though. Anyone who hasn't found themselves in a similar situation of needing to remember your resentment is actually you denying your own part in your self-destruction is lying. It's a thin line to walk. Hart wants to be appreciative and self-aware, but the jealousy and shame find him spiraling to the point where his flimsy mask of joy starts slipping to let some of that sarcasm through. And since the nerve is raw for Rodgers too, he can't help but hear these jabs as attacks. As reminders of why he cut him loose in the first place.

Add Elizabeth and the over-arching theme of Hart as the consummate friend those he adores respect more than love shines through. He sees beauty and desires its company regardless of its intellectual, artistic, or emotional purposes. Even so, however, he can't stop his compulsion to let those feelings overwhelm him. It leads to ill-fated marriage proposals, feelings of scorn, and a perpetual trend of unrequited love that leaves him in an even deeper depression. He knows friendship can be stronger than romance, but he craves the romance.

It's a sentiment Hart shares with George Roy Hill (David Rawle), director of The Sting and Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. His dialogue with White apocryphally inspires Stuart Little too. Kaplow wants us to see just how indelible someone can be to the world beyond a hit song like "Blue Moon" or a love that never manifests. Because people did respect him. They did listen to his words and take his advice. Rodgers himself admits he owes his whole career to Hart finding him and putting his talent to work. Hart just couldn't see it himself.

Hawke is fantastic. Cannavale and Lees provide wonderful targets for his quick wit. And Scott adds poignant history with each reaction considering he can't keep pretending the jokes aren't hiding a dark narcissism that put his own career at risk. Blue Moon is also just a smart and lively script that lets the actors breathe the era's attitude and energy while Linklater moves around the single locale to prevent the frame from stagnating—a feat made more impressive by the forced perspective necessary to keep Hawke so much shorter than everyone else.

8/10

I've seen many people questioning the use of a score in Dream Eater since found footage films should "only utilize diegetic sound." Not only is this a dumb thought since you're sitting in a theater watching a movie edited and polished from said found footage by a distributor rather than firing up a camcorder of uncut material passed your way by a friend of a friend, but Alex (co-writer/co-director Alex Lee Williams) calls Mallory (co-writer/co-director Mallory Drumm) out very early for using him as her next doc subject. A score only adds to that exploitative nature.

I'd argue it's the most intriguing part of a whole that was also co-written/co-directed by Justin Hewitt-Drakulic (he's not seen on-screen but does voice a TV show host). Because without that angle—Alex and Mallory constantly arguing about money with neither wanting to be the one to sacrifice their own industry passions for steady work as a hired hand—this is just another Paranormal Activity redux whose possession plot line is put through a cosmic horror filter. The idea that they might be willing to cash in on their own tragedy is exciting.

Especially considering how the film ultimately leads to a somewhat open-ended question about whether either character leaves the wintery cabin where their terror unfolds. These aren't the final images of dead people that a stranger stumbled upon. This was intentionally shot content for medical purposes (Alex's parasomnia has grown violent and his doctor requests evidence to better diagnose the condition for treatment) that they've intentionally shared with their contacts in the business ... if it's actually them who came home.

It therefore adds to the couple's on-screen tension. It adds to Alex's anger whenever Mallory tries to coax out information from a very traumatic past that he refuses to revisit. And it allows us to perhaps question her motives. Yes, we know she's filming this much needed vacation away to protect him, but why couldn't she also be killing two birds with one stone? The longer we spend with them, the more we discover that she might have broached the subject in the past. So, maybe his current rage is colored by a dormant mistrust.

Her fear definitely is considering she's the potential victim in all this insanity. If Alex cannot remember what he does or says while sleepwalking, who's to say he won't direct his violence towards her? His aggression while awake could be a product of his frustration and fatigue, but his aggression while asleep could also be a product of his uncertainty in her motives. Mallory's footage (shot on an expensive camera rather than her phone to exacerbate his suspicions) might be threefold: his health, her career, and trial evidence of assault.

This dynamic is the draw. Who or what Alex is speaking about/with almost becomes inconsequential considering the repetition and budgetary constraints (although we do eventually receive a chilling blink-and-you'll-miss-it payoff). It and his dark past are but catalysts for his escalating condition and off-kilter actions. Mallory's research speaks to the validity of supernatural forces being at work instead of just PTSD hallucination, but that too only tints her reactions. Because, reality or fantasy, nothing will stop her from trying to save him.

Is it enough to render Dream Eater a top-tier entry into the genre? No. But it does add extra incentive to stick with the otherwise familiar jump scare tropes. Because I would have enjoyed more variety to the action. That first time hearing the "entity's" voice is legitimately creepy, but there really isn't any evolution from there beyond the usual theatrics (minus that aforementioned payoff). So, we do need love's ability to make these characters do stupid things. We need their desire to help the other to put themselves in greater danger.

And we need that score and those jump cuts progressing time to remember that we aren't the first people watching what Mallory filmed. It adds a layer of artifice that forces us to realize nothing is purely objective. Someone stitched these sequences together. Someone excised the "boring moments." Someone saw the potential of Alex and Mallory's nightmare to make money. It renders the final result even scarier because it preys on a family's worst moment for profit. Or, depending on your read, does so to further spread its ancient gospel.

6/10

There’s a difference between being awkward and never having been socialized as a child. Craig Waterman is the latter. It therefore makes sense why he has no friends. He shouldn’t have friends.

This was my first experience with Tim Robinson and I did laugh enough to think his sketch comedy schtick might work for me. As a feature film, though? When every other character is more interesting, but Andrew DeYoung stays on him from start to finish instead? Boy, that’s a huge ask.

It’s one where I think the happy ending would have been better simply because it would humanize Craig enough to make any of it make sense. He’d just be another white dude who desperately needs therapy. And Friendship would become an actual movie.

That’s not to say the ending doesn’t still work. It simply reminded me that this was never about characterization. It was only about pushing the envelope. The filmmakers are playing with dolls to see how far they’ll allow themselves to go. Fun, but hollow. Because it does hit on societal truths that demand our attention. It just never quite figures out how to say anything about them.

6/10

A really wonderful memorial for a celebrity everyone who watched him loved and a man everyone who knew him loved more.

Absolutely adore the thought of him taking so many of his roles as a means to play himself: a father, a friend, an empathetic soul.

The clips bring you back to make you laugh and cry all over again, but the words (Macaulay Culkin on how John never talked down to kids and genuinely sought to make sure he was okay; Chris Candy crediting his father’s willingness to go to therapy as a reason for his own treatment; Candy turning down roles that demanded travel because he wanted to be home with his kids) truly resonate. And Colin Hanks utilizes every bit of what seems to be a treasure trove of home movies, photos, and trinkets to their fullest value.

He was a man who never let his demons haunt anyone but himself. An artist who could tap into the sort of pain you can only know exists because you feel it yourself. And a legend so larger than life that he inevitably made good on the gag to actually become Johnny Toronto.

8/10

It took three years from the time director Elizabeth Lo discovered the perfect subject to follow into the world of "mistress dispelling" with Wang Zhenxi to finally find the perfect clients with which to document her profession. That's not to say there weren't equally captivating examples before Mrs. Li walked through the door. She, her husband, and his mistress (Fei Fei) were simply the most accommodating as far as letting Lo continue to use the material she filmed under what proved to be crucial yet false pretenses.

This is a delicate matter, after all. It's a unique profession—one that truly only works in a country with similar cultural values tied into the concept of marriage as more than just a contract. When someone discovers their spouse is having an affair in America, pulling the trigger for a divorce is almost instantaneous. Our laws are built in such a way that the union's dissolution provides compensation to the wronged party and our society is built to more or less champion the scorned so they may find the happiness they deserve away from the cheat.

China is a different story. While the footage Lo splices in throughout Mistress Dispeller to help Teacher Wang's influence on the Li family breathe might seem unrelated, it actually provides necessary context to the nation's philosophy on love and why someone would hire her rather than go to court. There's a gentleman talking stats that state how only 3% of families believe themselves to be happy while 24% say they aren't. A matchmaker working to conjure love from an algorithm. And public classified ads desiring companionship.

Not only is marriage "final" in ways that would drive people to want to preserve what they've built rather than throw it all away, but it's also a sort of comfort insurance insofar as not wanting to risk being alone or lost in an even worse situation. So many times we hear the Lis and Fei Fei speak about being treated well as though it's a very rare occurrence. It's like they are forced to choose between a coupling based solely on kindness or a future as a pariah. That love itself arises from marriage and not the other way around.

There's a delicate psychological process that Wang wields to traverse this fact en route to hopefully allowing all parties involved in an affair to move forward in ways that benefit each one. She isn't hired to berate the husband and scare off the mistress. She's here to analyze the situation, engage with the players, and provide her assessment first and foremost. Because Mrs. Li wants to preserve the marriage, Wang injects herself into their turmoil in a way where she can become Mr. Li's confidant to discover if he hopes to do the same.

As such, Mrs. Li knows who Wang is from the beginning. Mr. Li knows her only as a "new friend" of his wife who has experience in psychology and a willingness to play mediator. It's therefore through him that Wang ultimately meets the mistress once he acknowledges his family is more important than whatever spark of adventure and excitement he sought elsewhere. And it's that same emotional guardedness that made him step out of his marriage instead of talking to his wife that pushes him to ask Wang to do what he can't: hurt Fei Fei.

Is Mrs. Li pretty much hiring a dispeller to be her husband's therapist? Yes. It's a shrewd business plan on behalf of Wang and her peers because it taps into the prevalent silence that people in repressive societies feel. That's the other difference from this situation to similar ones in America. Where we have no problem telling friends and family about our affairs (because we love to cast ourselves as victims and the victims as the problem), Mr. Li and Fei Fei are on islands of their own. They're trapped by their own insecurities.

So, Wang lends them an ear. She lets Mr. Li conclude that his love for his wife is more valuable than his love for Fei Fei. She lets Fei Fei conclude that being a mistress will never be enough to satisfy her own needs and desires since she'll always be the second choice (third if you bring in work). Teacher Wang gets paid the big bucks (fees start at tens of thousands of dollars) because she builds her deceptions on the sincerity of wanting her marks to emotionally evolve. They are the ones who decide it's time to stop.

That's surely why Lo got Mr. Li and Fei Fei to sign-off on her film after they discover Wang's true identity. Three years to find a trio willing to do that seems short considering how vulnerable they've allowed themselves to be on-camera for what they were told was a documentary about love in China. That's still what Mistress Dispeller is in its broad strokes, but it's easy to see why most would use the manipulation as an excuse to impulsively pull their support. Give them a ton of credit for recognizing their shared story was bigger than their pride.

It's a testament to Lo for going into the film with an awareness of the ethical tightrope she'd need to walk and Wang's professionalism and empathy to treat each piece of her clients' puzzles with the care necessary to never exploit their intimacy. In lesser hands this would be a reality-TV train wreck of entertainment that used its subjects for cheap melodrama and cringe comedy. That Lo chose to instead provide an informative look into this career through the compassionate lens of love's myriad complexities cannot be overstated.

8/10

A Cambodian artist living in Japan, Soriya (Thanet Thorn) is on the brink of having her debut manga published when her mother passes away. While going through some boxes, her boyfriend Daichi (Yoshihiko Hosoda) finds an old photograph dated 1984 with her mother and Aunt Mao (Sveng Socheata) in front of their old home. It doesn't make sense, though, because Soriya's mother always said the rest of their family died during the Khmer Rouge's genocide in the 70s. So, they decide to go and see if her relatives are still alive.

The tenement building they find upon arrival is in rough shape and thus a perfect subject for both Daichi's photography and Soriya's foray into the horror genre. One could therefore say this is more work trip than reunion, but Aunt Mao, young Nimol (Ban Sahrahpech Manika), and the others don't seem to mind. They're simply happy to have her in their midst—so much so that they even volunteer to supply her meals for the duration of their stay. But then the nightmares start and the veil between dream and reality dissolves.

Writers/directors Inrasothythep Neth and Sokyou Chea's debut feature Tenement does a wonderful job setting up their world as far as teasing a horror premise via a disturbing prologue (complete with nursery rhyme) and presenting their protagonists with an air of curiosity and trust. They're blindly visiting strangers, after all. Strangers who live in a building that caused their taxi driver (Rous Mony's Jam) to lose his smile upon hearing the destination. They want to believe they're safe despite an atmosphere begging them to run.

Where things get a bit shaky is the third act. While aesthetically and formally captivating with flawless shifts between hopeful delusions and the hellish truth, this blurring might be wielded with too heavy a hand. It's not that I found myself confused, though. Context clues and revelations right the ship whenever things get turbulent. But finding your footing within the present chaos doesn't automatically add clarity to the whys or hows of what's going on. So, don't expect any answers here. This is purely about experience.

Does it feel as though I only got two-thirds of the story once the credits rolled? Definitely. But I did appreciate the narrative decision to ensure our mindset match the uncertainty Soriya contends with on-screen. We truly only know what she does. The helplessness. The fear. We also become paralyzed to the fact that there's no escape, lost in an architectural loop manufactured by her mind to cope with the futility of already having her freedom stolen. The film's ritualistic horror is supernatural, but its terror lies in her desperation.

This makes sense considering its notion of an evil (manifested by Vandalis Sav's little Metta holding her stuffed animal tight) residing in their housing complex with the ability to kill at will. By not bothering with the spirit's origin story, Tenement is able to concern itself solely with Soriya's place inside a never-ending cycle of death and sacrifice. So, maybe her moments of aggression aren't about desperation either. Maybe they're distractions used to keep her a pliable vessel with which to be used for the good of the residents.

Any shortcomings of its story leaving a lot to interpretation is more than made up for by the acting, emotions, and artistry. There are some really gnarly visuals (a young girl's face marred by maggots wriggling themselves out from under her skin, the terrifying concept of a "punishment room," and the unflinching violence born from survival) and the use of extras to enhance the scope of involvement by neighbors can get intense. A claustrophobic sense of imprisonment takes hold as they won't allow themselves to lose Soriya again.

7/10

The youngest son of a very Mormon family in Syracuse, Simon (Maxwell Jenkins) is discovering that he has no allies within the confines of his home. Not only are his parents (Robert Longstreet and Alana Hawley Purvis) strict to the point of being oppressive wardens, but his older brother (David Feehan) has become their eyes and ears on the ground to serve him up for punishment whenever he dares to do anything one could construe as fun. His latest transgression? Missing curfew. It proves to be the nail in the coffin of Simon's future social life.

So, in a moment of desperation that feels like survival, Simon cajoles his friends into joining him for one last hurrah. While some of the details are shared (the wad of cash paying for the weekend getaway to Ottawa is stolen from the church funds his father had to lead a congregation trip), others are most definitely not (their supposed host, Nikki Roumel's Shelly, whom they just met the previous night, is not expecting their arrival). What matters, though, is that they all know Simon needs this. Heck, they need it too.

This latest Breakfast Club-inspired poster (see The Texas Chainsaw Massacre Part 2, Bottoms, et al.) is both intentional in the sense that writer/director Rob Grant sought to create a kindred coming-of-age teen comedy and in his characters' ambitions to use the John Hughes template for their own adventure while remaining cognizant of the fact its sentimental optimism isn't fully conducive to reality. Yes, This Too Shall Pass still seeks to provide Simon his "dare to dream moment," but it isn't without a heavy dose of instructive misfortune.

The whole enterprise unsurprisingly begins with Simon beaten and bloodied in the back of a police car, waxing on about the journey to get there. Think of it as a confessional of sorts with Officer Harris (Chris Sandiford)—and us—serving as his priest. It's not that the teen is necessarily looking for absolution, though. Simon is simply trying to work through everything to understand where he went wrong. The answer: where didn't he? Theft, lies, fraud, self-pity, love ... maybe even kidnapping across an international border considering the false pretenses.

He's the naive protagonist trying to pack in as much sin as possible before his family turns him into an automaton. Tim (Ben Cockell) is the facilitator thanks to a mother (Joanne Kelly) with a laissez-faire attitude that ultimately reveals its own two-sided reality. Chris (Jeremy Ray Taylor) is the life of the party to his own drunken puke-stained detriment. John (Aidan Laprete) is the wild card who's always selfishly seeking fun. And James (Jaylin Webb) is the movie-loving realist whose race demands that he see the consequences they can't.

Grant injects a bit of Monkey's Paw chaos by presenting his quintet opportunities for excitement before turning their smiles upside down by revealing the common stereotype of Canadians being nice is more anecdotal than universal. So, what should be a straight line to adventure with money in-hand and a love interest's roof over their heads devolves into seedy motel bars, five-finger discounts, and the hospitality of strangers. That last part doesn't seem too bad until you factor in the boys' age and immaturity. If it can go poorly, it will.

But that's exactly what a good coming-of-age story needs. It's not about getting the girl, bucking authority, and thinking you're untouchable from fate's cruel inevitability. It's about learning why you can't get them, where that specific authority went wrong, and why accepting responsibility for one's actions is a crucial learning experience to become an empathetic member of society. Misty (Katie Douglas), Helen (Saylor McPherson), Sophie (Jade V. Robinson), and Eric (Dylan Floyde) aren't one-dimensional romantic targets. They're mirrors.

Sophie is put together; John is a mess. Eric is confident in his identity; Tim is lost. Misty owns her fears by sharing them with the world; Simon represses them. Helen and James are sweet and authentic—everyone should probably just watch them and adjust accordingly. As Simon says, however, they're still teens (save Eric). Being stupid and making mistakes is part of the deal. Even Officer Harris gets it. There's a difference between malicious destruction and things getting out of hand. The same goes for a lack of boundaries versus the freedom to fail.

So, while it works nicely as its own film, This Too Shall Pass also succeeds at being a worthwhile critique of what Hughes' scripts provide. It shows the dark side of absentee parenting. Corrects the representation of Black and gay characters. And shatters the fantasy that "grand gestures" are a catch-all to get your way instead of compromise, conversation, and understanding. It may have the same feel and soundtrack of your problematic 80s faves, but Grant's use of a contemporary lens allows its lessons to hit with honest (albeit lucky) stakes above the nostalgia.

7/10