“The Edge of Seventeen” is a strong successor to John Hughes’ legacy with its mix of biting humor and bittersweet heart. But writer-director Kelly Fremon Craig also dares to go to places that are darker and truer in her feature filmmaking debut. Hailee Steinfeld is just radiant as a high school junior whose hormones and immaturity won’t allow her to enjoy being the smartest person in the room. If you were a teenager in the ’80s — or the parent of a teenager now – you’ll love this. My rave, at RogerEbert.com.
The book wasn’t great. It was solid trash — a juicy page turner. The movie version isn’t even that. It’s a surprisingly flat and suspense-free tale of pretty people in peril. Emily Blunt gives it her all, though, as the title character: a damaged woman on a misguided quest for redemption. My RogerEbert.com review.
It’s essentially “Groundhog Day” meets “X-Men.” But really, Tim Burton’s latest fantasy adventure is much more complicated than that, with a dense mythology and overly explanatory dialogue that may leave you wondering what you’d just seen. The costumes are gorgeous, though. My RogerEbert.com review.
“Storks” is shockingly good — way better than it looks. It’s got a zippy, zany streak filled with absurdist asides reminiscent of “Looney Tunes” cartoons. But it also sneaks up on you with genuine emotion by the end. Just don’t look for real-world logic here — and enjoy those awkward conversations with your kids about where babies come from during the car ride home. My RogerEbert.com review.
“Dancer” is an intimate, riveting documentary about Ukrainian ballet superstar Sergei Polunin, the media-hyped “bad boy” who reached the heights of success at an astonishingly young age, only to walk away from it all at 25. Director Steven Cantor explores the paradox of having it all and still not feeling satisfied. My RogerEbert.com review.
“Other People” breathes new life into the formulaic dark comedy about death. Molly Shannon will rip your heart out as a wife and mother of three who’s battling a rare form of cancer. It’s a career-changing performance in an auspicious feature debut from writer-director Chris Kelly. My RogerEbert.com review.
This is a very strange, little movie. I’m still not entirely sure how I feel about it, but I liked it a bit more than I didn’t like it, if that makes any sense. I appreciate what it’s trying to do in mixing Hitchcockian suspense with magical realism. It works, and it doesn’t. My RogerEbert.com review.
The latest stop-motion animation extravaganza from Laika is as poignant for adults as it is entertaining for children. Inspired by a multitude of Japanese art forms, it’s textured yet crisp, frighteningly dark yet radiant with bold color. It’s a classic hero’s journey full of action and adventure, but it’s also an intimate fable about love and loss, magic and memory. See it with your kids. See it if you don’t have kids. My rave, at RogerEbert.com.
For better and for worse, the largely improvised “Joshy” believably creates the sensation of a low-key weekend hang with a bunch of bros. You probably wouldn’t want to spend that much time with these people yourself, but at least they’re never boring. My RogerEbert.com review.
Rated PG for thematic elements, language and some rude humor.
Running time: 87 minutes.
Two stars out of four.
It’s hard to explain how incredibly strange “Nine Lives” is. I mean, the premise is pretty simple: Kevin Spacey plays a talking cat. It’s as high-concept as you can get. But the execution of that idea, and the caliber of talent that agreed to take part in this project, are just mind-boggling.
Barry Sonnenfeld directs. Spacey stars. Jennifer Garner plays his wife. Cheryl Hines plays his ex-wife. And in the greatest coup of all, Christopher Walken plays the “cat whisperer” who’s responsible for the cosmic human-feline body swap that sets the story into motion. The performance is exactly what you might expect if you’ve ever wondered what it might be like to see Christopher Walken play a cat whisperer.
And yet … and yet. I didn’t completely hate it. I laughed here and there, simply because “Nine Lives” seems fully aware of its innate ridiculousness and willing to embrace it. The script is awful, of course, full of wacky antics and hokey, third-act changes of heart. And it’s squirm-inducing watching Spacey and Walken, two of our most enduring, influential actors, exchange the inane dialogue they’re stuck with here. (Somehow, it took five credited screenwriters to come up with snarky retorts for the supremely gifted Spacey such as “Seriously?” and “Nailed it!”)
It’s not that “Nine Lives” is terrible. It’s just that it’s not terrible enough. It certainly isn’t such a travesty that it needed to be withheld from critics. I took Nicolas to a 6pm showing the Thursday night that it opened, and he was cackling consistently from the opening montage of real-life YouTube cat videos. This is your target audience: 6-year-olds on summer vacation. But for all its shoddy CGI and convoluted plotting, “Nine Lives” is certainly more enjoyable than … oh, say, “Suicide Squad,” for example, and of those two movies, it’s the one I’d rather watch again.
Speaking of the plot, here’s what “Nine Lives” is actually about: Spacey stars as Tom Brand, an egomaniacal, billionaire industrialist who’s obsessed with building the tallest tower in North America. (Gosh, an arrogant and abrasive real estate mogul who’s preoccupied with size … who could have been the possible inspiration for this character?) When he once again forgets the birthday of his 11-year-old daughter, Rebecca (Malina Weissman), his neglected wife, Lara (Garner), insists that he get her the gift she really wants to make up for it: a cat. Naturally, Tom hates cats.
But between abrupt business meetings and terse exchanges with his older son/protege, David (Robbie Amell), Tom finds time to stop by a pet store and pick up a cat. This is no ordinary pet store, though. This is like some creepy curiosity shop Harry Potter would wander into in Diagon Alley. There, Walken’s Mr. Perkins says a few cryptic things to him, hands him an angry-looking, gray-and-white fluffball named Mr. Fuzzypants and sends him on his way with a bowl and a carrying case.
The way the actual body swap goes down — if you can call it that, because it’s unclear whether the cat conversely ends up inside Tom’s body — is sort of adorably retro. He literally gets zapped by lightning while standing at the top of his skyscraper. At the hospital, while Tom lies in coma, his soul or spirit or personality or whatever magically has transferred inside Mr. Fuzzypants.
Madcap hilarity ensues, as Tom-in-cat-form pees inside an expensive handbag belonging to his boozy ex-wife (Hines), leaps into the kitchen cabinet to eat an entire box of cereal and struggles to use a pen and an iPad. So much of what the cat gets himself into is so insane and so cheesy-looking that it’s good for a goofy giggle — including the overall fact that his mouth doesn’t even move. We’re just hearing his thoughts while the other characters think he’s meowing. That’s how low-budget this whole endeavor is. I will admit I enjoyed the sequence in which Mr. Fuzzypants figures out how to open a decanter of 50-year-old Scotch, pours it into a crystal ashtray and then laps it up like milk — all without the benefit of opposable thumbs! Smart kitty.
And Spacey playing a sardonic cat just makes so much sense. In the best of his performances, there’s often a rage simmering just below the surface, waiting to explode. And that’s Mr. Fuzzypants. It makes you long desperately for stronger writing — hell, halfway-decent writing — to make the most of Spacey’s abilities.
What’s worse, though, is that Tom is supposed to learn a lesson about the importance of family and right longstanding wrongs while being trapped inside the cat. This involves board meetings with old white men pressuring Tom’s son to take the company public. Capraesque, it is not. It’s barely even Cat Fancy. But you could do worse in August.