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It’s official: Jude Law can make any look work. Give that mustache hazard pay.

Waaaaay too long to get to Kong. An hour in, my 11-year-old son double checked the slip case, thinking that, instead of Jackson’s rollicking magnum ape-us, I had mistakenly grabbed some schmaltzy period piece about a struggling actress making her way in Depression-era New York. But once the film finally kicks into gear, it’s still a good time. Twenty years on, the digital characterization of Kong remains moving thanks to those deftly animated micro expressions and Serkis’ soulful mo-cap performance. The gloriously unhinged T-Rex battle remains incredible too—a jaw-snapping ballet that had us cackling throughout. Fleshy sphincter-toothed pool noodles from hell, a lovely Naomi Watts at the center of a Brody and the Beast love triangle, plenty of third-act smashy-crashy—aside from the runtime, what’s not to love? Oh yeah, the uh… pretty gross and dehumanizing depiction of the natives. Ironically, while the film lavishes empathy on Kong, it offers none to the actual human beings on the island. Then there’s the weird step printing slow motion technique Jackson uses that I’m never a fan of. Plus a totally forgettable score by James Newton Howard. I guess there are a few things not to love, including that final line. I know “It was beauty that killed the beast” is a callback to the 1933 version, but here, uttered by Black’s contemptible film producer character, it seems especially delusional and a weird note to go out on. Sure, the lady who was tricked into ing this expedition and then kidnapped/sacrificially offered to Kong is responsible for this wondrous beast’s death. Black’s avarice and ambition surely had nothing to do with it. Right?

Some all-time imioned pointing from Ford in this. The man really has weaponized the index finger like no one else.

We used to crash real trains into real buses in this country.

Celtics City, where the skyline is made of banners, the streets are paved with parquet, and the little guy is defended by Tatum and Brown, the most boring law firm in town. They seem like nice enough fellas, and their games certainly aren’t dull. But their interviews are dry enough to sand furniture. Also, get well soon, Jayson Tatum. Tough break (or rupture) for arguably our best American-born player right now. Although, Ant-Man may have something to say about that. Correction: Ant-Man absolutely has something to say about that. Now there’s someone with charisma on tap. 

No surprise that the best episodes are about Bill Russell. That and, of course, the (Larry) legendary 80s teams. No episode devoted to the Raef LaFrentz and Vitaly Potapenko era. Disappointing.

As neighbors go, I give the slight edge to Totoro over the Yamadas. Granted, giant forest deities may not be the most reliable when it comes to things like shoveling snow or borrowing tools. And then there’s the noise issues—full moon seed-sprouting dance parties and random eruptions of guttural yelling at all hours of the night. But, you know what? The soot sprites keep to themselves, getting dropped off at the airport via cat bus would rule, and, given my wife’s plant obsession, I can’t imagine a better gardening consigliere. 

This is not to diminish the Yamadas. Both the characters and the film are very endearing. The animation swaps Ghibli’s usual lush realism for loose pencil lines with soft watercolor washes. Backgrounds are often just white space or a single brush of color, and the characters look like quick, lively sketches—almost doodles—mirroring the four- yonkoma manga it was based on. The result feels light, airy, and intentionally unfinished, appropriate for a film that’s essentially a series of stitched together vignettes. 

Part of what makes the Yamadas so lovable is that they aren’t all that likable. We see their foibles, we recognize their pettiness, we laugh at their messes and misfortune. But ultimately, we ire their connection and genuine care for one another. The Yamadas aren’t meant to inspire us, but neither are we meant to judge them. Instead, in them we recognize our own faults and hope that if we can love them, other people will love us too, weak as we are.

Watched on Saturday May 10, 2025.

My daughter loves The Greatest Showman, which, as best I can tell, is a film designed for tween girls to watch on the way to church camp, scream singing every song while obsessing over what Zendaya is wearing.

As I see it, this is essentially a playlist of bangers strung together by the thinnest of narrative threads. The songs are capital “S” Stirring, but they’re sung by characters we barely know, in service of emotional arcs we barely . Each time the music swells and the screen erupts in glitter cannons of color and choreography, the film sweatily begs us to FEEL something. The result is a series of power ballads filled with empty crescendos, sung by poorly established characters, for a movie that wants to lift your heart without risking breaking it. 

Hugh Jackman as P.T. Barnum is rendered as a vague silhouette of ambition and charm. ing characters exist solely to deliver show-stopping numbers before being swept offstage. Instead of a rich exploration of spectacle, exploitation, and self-creation, the film is a shimmering, jaggedly edited, goosebump delivery machine. You might leave humming, maybe even smiling, but you won’t why.

Certainly better than 2022’s Fall (2 stars), but decidedly worse than my favorite crunchy-leaf season (5 stars). Better than the song by ELO from the Xanadu soundtrack (3 stars), but worse than the post-punk English band (4 stars). Probably better than this delightful little poem by Russell Edson (3 stars), but way, way, way better than the bruise beneath the skin of all creation—humanity’s fall from grace in Eden (0 stars).

Remains wonderfully audacious. Really blew me away back in the halcyon days of 2008 when my girlfriend and I rented it from a floundering Blockbuster breathing its last shallow gasps of business. In fact, after watching the film, I immediately bought it on Blu-ray, a format in its infancy, with the thought that it would make a great demo disc for new TVs. 

The locations (filmed over four years across 20+ countries) continue to make our world seem fantastical and strange, like a half-ed dream. But I always wish the story within the story were better as told by Lee Pace’s bedridden stuntman, Roy Walker, who, after his titular fall, isn’t walking much anymore. The narrative can’t help but feel slight under the weight of its dazzling visuals. All the globe-trotting, lush production design, and EFFORT to bring this “epic” tale to life is almost… unwarranted? Like a thousand-piece orchestra playing a nursery rhyme. Or maybe that’s a feature, not a bug, as it certainly feels like an improvised story told by a manic depressive looking to score enough morphine from a little girl to off himself. Which, when put that way, makes this a surprisingly dark film—truly a fable for grownups—where imagination can be both an engine of wonder and a battleground for grief and where the story is as much about the exotic locales as it is the painful geography of loss.

Watched on Saturday April 26, 2025.

Watched on Saturday April 26, 2025.

Born from the same spirit of high-adventure pulp, classic serials, and mystical archaeology that inspired the creation of our favorite fedora-wearing prof, The Mummy is a swaggering, Hollywood romp that understands the assignment: deliver silly thrills and wisecracking camp for 124 minutes. The only problem being that Sommers is no Spielberg and Rick O’Connell (boring name) is no Indiana Jones (the coolest name). Consequently, the whole enterprise can’t help but feel like a derivative, self-aware trifle. Still, for mummy-nnials that came of age in the late '90s, the film clearly struck a cord. My sense is that, for many, this is a comfort movie—probably rewatched endlessly on cable, quoted amongst friends, and rediscovered through memes and nostalgic reappraisals. It seems to have hit that elusive sweet spot: scary, but not traumatizing; sexy, but not explicit; funny, but not dumb. It offered just enough danger to feel like an adventure, with just enough heart to feel like home. Also, it’s fitting that a movie called The Mummy has so many well-preserved bodies, with Fraser and Weisz at their otherworldly hotness apex. Evelyn Carnahan, please excavate me.

Hugh is risen!

Hugh is risen, indeed!

Not since January of 2025 has such power been given to a three year old.

Watched on Tuesday April 8, 2025.

Watched on Saturday March 29, 2025.

At 3 am, when your son projectile vomits off his Pokémon-themed loft bed in a kind of puke-achu cascade, splattering half-digested detritus on virtually every surface, and, while shepherding the boy into the tub and putting a load of soiled linens in the laundry, your wife asks you to deal with the mess, taking special care to get the bits out of the carpet lest we have to live with the acrid funk for weeks on end, you telling her that, “I'm not a miracle worker, I'm a janitor. The math on this is simple: the smaller the mess is, the easier it is for me to clean up” because you just rewatched Michael Clayton for like the thirteenth time, is a very good idea and is a helpful thing to say in that moment and won’t at all be met with eye daggers and unamused silence from your wife and potentially jeopardize the long-term health of your marriage. 

Don’t ask me how I know this.

“I don’t discuss things with my wife. We’re beyond that stage.”

Not a lot to laugh about in 1940. Globally, you had the rise of fascist powers like Nazi , Italy, and Japan, who, by then, had already declared their expansionist ambitions. Domestically, the US was at the tail end of the most severe and prolonged economic downturn in modern history. If ever there had been no time for comedy, it would have been 1940. Then again, maybe the optimal time for comedy is when things are bleakest—when the escapist release of laughter can help us momentarily forget the world’s woes. 

“Gay, the most wonderful idea came to me during the second act intermission. Gay, why don’t you do a comedy—a satire on all the smug contented, callous stuffed shirts? The people who say that dictators are inevitable, who say the average man is bloodthirsty and contemptible. Oh, Gay, you could set the whole world to laughing at these people.”

Gay, the world needs you now more than ever. 

Stewart plays Gaylord Esterbrook, a bumpkin playwright from Redfield, Minnesota (pop. 786, including livestock) who becomes a Broadway sensation thanks to a string of comedic hits, all starring leading lady Linda Paige (Rosalind Russell), who, in a very charming first act romance, also becomes his costar in life. 

Act two takes a turn as Gay, fat off success, suffers from a debilitating case of imposter syndrome and acute creative block, which he hopes to find relief from in the bottom of a cocktail glass. To make matters worse, he’s fallen under the spell of Amanda Swift, a meddling patroness who, with little regard for current marital status, loves to “collect” and “inspire” men (so to speak). Amanda convinces Gay that he’s wasting his gifts on comedy. Instead, he should write something meaningful and serious, in other words, something pretentious and morose.

I won’t get into how act three resolves itself. Suffice it to say, this was a delight from start to finish, full of satirical wit and snappy one-liners. It’s fun to watch Stewart go from guileless naïf to worldly rake, all the while, managing to be, if not sympathetic, then likable and relatable—his two acting superpowers. 

One of my favorite line deliveries, maybe ever, is in It’s a Wonderful Life, when an incredulous Stewart, one hand holding up his oversized football tros, the other holding Donna Reed’s robe as she hides in the hydrangeas, proclaims, “This is a very interesting situation.” Imagine my surprise when Stewart delivers the same line in the same way seven years earlier here.

The Lion King 1½ (stars)

Watched while huddled up in the basement with my wife and kids during a tornado warning. Was secretly praying for the storm to knock out the power and save us from this direct-to-video calamity, but even the tornado had the good sense to change course and avoid it. 

Timon sounds like a Jackson Five member. Or maybe it just rhymes with “shamone,” that weird vocal hiccup that Michael used to do. Anyway, wish there were more “hee hees” to be had. Although, the kids and I did enjoy the bubbling hot springs bit. Hakuna Ma-toot-a.

Someone stuck a movie inside this bad TED Talk.

This made many deep and thought-provoking arguments that caused me to question my faith (in cinema)

Sometimes my kids ask me why they can’t have social media s, and I tell them, “For the same reason I wouldn’t hand you a loaded gun.”

As The Watch’s Andy Greenwald said while discussing this series, “Phones and social media give us the illusion of doing things, the illusion of connection, the illusion of purpose. And it eats us out from the inside.”

This one will stay with me for a while. Amazing that on Netflix, something as formally and thematically ambitious as this can sit alongside vacuous, 320-million-dollar dreck like The Electric State.

The best art often serves as a powerful lens through which we can understand our world. Like in this film, how everyone wanting to stab Johnny Depp reveals something universal about the human condition.

“Well, don’t you believe in marriage?”

“Sure I do, for women. But it’s the sons of Adam that they gotta marry.”

For a movie based on a play written by a woman, adapted for the screen by women, and performed by an all-female cast, The Women is all about the sons of Adam. Every conversation is about men. Every inciting incident is by men. Every scene is haunted by the specter of unscrupulous men. Of course, this is not a fresh insight, nor is it a bug. As its tagline “It’s all about men!” makes plain, The Women’s male-centric narrative within a no-men structure is by design, as if the film itself is reassuring dudes dragged to the theater by their dates to “Relax fellas, I’m not actually about women. That would be insane.” 

Still, The Women is a delight with its machine-gun symphony of barbed quips and icy put-downs, its medley of deliciously over-the-top performances, and its incisive skewering of high-society vanity and marital politics. The sharpest claws sometimes make the most cutting satire. It all makes for fascinating viewing as both a progressive conceit and a regressive product of its time—a time when, ittedly, a woman’s social standing was often defined by her husband. 

Come for the captivating women, stay for the Technicolor fashion, leave for the sour-taste ending.

Pleasant enough but asks nothing of you.

Stand in awe at the calmness with which those Brits carry on. Wonder at their untwisted knickers. Marvel at the stiffness of those upper lips. Speaking of lips, I was going to comment on the surprising amount of mother-son mouth kissing between Mrs. Miniver and Vin, only to discover that Greer Garson and Ricard Ney went on to wed. What kind of a freaky Freudian soirée must that film set have been like? Anyway, here’s to you, Mrs. Miniver. Heaven holds a place for those who prey. Grrrrrrr.

Btw, this movie kind of rules. Churchill reportedly said Mrs. Miniver contributed more to the war effort than 100 battleships. FDR ordered the film’s final sermon to be printed on leaflets and air-dropped over Europe. As propaganda, Mrs. Miniver goes down easy. No shame in soul-stirring persuasion when the cause is just, i.e., vanquishing fascism. I’d much rather this than present-day recruiting appeals which, instead of invoking honor and fealty, make warfare look like Call of Duty.

Need to rewatch Dunkirk.

Things I knew about Flow:

1. It was about a cat (not a fan)

2. It had no dialogue (I like dialogue)

3. It was animated using Blender (a program I once opened and summarily closed, so frightened was I by its Byzantine UI and proliferous feature bloat)

4. It won the Oscar for Best Animated Feature (never wrong)

5. It was streaming on Max (conjuring thoughts of Flomax, the medication used to treat enlarged prostates)

Combined, these factors made me dubious of the film. The soft bigotry of Flow expectations, I guess. Verdict? Flow is fine. It has some striking imagery, a lovely, studied approach to animal animation, eschewing anthropomorphism, and you can’t help but ire and marvel at its modest production and subsequent ascendancy.

I just thought it was, dare I say,… a bit boring? ittedly, as a non-gamer, I’m allergic to its PlayStation aesthetic, which gave me the same ive spectator feeling of watching someone’s Twitch stream. 

Anyway, my kids were locked in, and I’ve enjoyed and been enriched by reading others’ overwhelmingly positive reactions. All the cool kids are Flowin’, but as furry animated parables released this year about the need to lay aside that which makes us different in the face of existential threats, I’m team Wild Robot.

Psychiatry was on an absolute heater in 50s cinema.

Less a fallen angel and more a bottom-feeder, Eric Stanton (Dana Andrews) is a washed-up press agent and small-time grifter who drifts into a sleepy California town. Upon arrival, Eric immediately starts scheming, seducing local heiress June (Alice Faye) for her money so he can in turn win the heart of sultry waitress Stella (Linda Darnell)—a common preoccupation of the men of Walton.

When Stella is inevitably murdered, the mystery surrounding her death feels less like the tragic culmination of dangerous ions than an obligatory plot point hastily scribbled into the script. Preminger seems remarkably uninterested in the mystery itself—the whodunit unfolding with all the urgency of a toaster guide. When the truth is revealed, it lands with a shrug rather than a gut punch, followed by a bizarre pivot into an oddly wholesome (and baseless) redemption arc. 

The film seems torn between noir fatalism and Hollywood redemption, and that split keeps it from reaching greatness. It flirts with darkness but ultimately backs away, leaving a murder mystery without much mystery and a fallen angel who doesn’t fall so much as stumble into an unearned happy ending. Loved those road sign opening credits though.

“I hope to see you in my room later. I have a fine collection of friendly spirits there, Scotch ancestry.”

A forerunner of the “bad cop” thriller, Preminger’s Where the Sidewalk Ends examines the failure, weakness, and psychic instability of post-war American men through its main character, detective Mark Dixon (Dana Andrews), who, in the aftermath of the accidental death of a suspect, has a fateful choice to make: do the right thing and it the truth or try to cover the whole thing up. Guess which one he chooses. It’s a classic noir setup in that a small moment of indecision, then poor judgment, sets the protagonist on a destructive path.

The film looks great, with several beautifully composed shots in shadowy NYC environs. Everything up to Dixon’s moral quandary is compelling and propulsive. But the film loses steam in the subsequent coverup, and Gene Tierney’s character, Morgan, the stunning wife of the dead man and eventual love interest of Andrews, isn’t given much to work with. I didn’t buy her arc. It’s hard to believe A) in the wake of her husband’s death and father’s indictment, that she would have the emotional bandwidth for a relationship with Dixon and B) that she can’t do better than unstable, abusive alcoholics and surly, punch-happy detectives. 

Andrews is good, if a bit unreadable, allowing the quiet intensity of his eyes to do the heavy lifting. Dark, deep-set, and heavy-lidded, Andrews’ peepers could make him look sorrowful, calculating, or quietly haunted—three states of mind deployed to great effect throughout the film. His whole being effortlessly expresses the exhaustion of someone living on borrowed time. 

Eventually, the film adds layers of complexity to Dixon’s character revealing the origins of his anger, transforming his self-destructive obsession with justice into an anguished Oedipal quest. 

Some great, classic-film fisticuffs with punches that sound like chicken breasts being slammed against concrete. A bit of a mixed message in of policing (is the film for police brutality or against it?), but there’s a lot to like about this bleak and brutal noir. Where does the sidewalk end exactly? As the striking, hand-painted concrete typography of the title card suggests, it ends in the gutter with an inevitable descent into utter darkness.

Watched on Friday February 21, 2025.

It’s so rare when the mood and vitality of a film’s concept art make its way on screen. I can’t tell you how often I’ve flipped through “The Art of fill-in-the-blank film” and thought, “Why didn’t the movie look like this? Where were these colors? These textures?” The Wild Robot actually achieves the painterly, sun-dappled brilliance of concept art, each frame a golden-hour embrace with its soft hues and radiant glow. It’s like The Revenant of animated films, complete with a memorable grizzly attack. 

At its heart, the film is a parenthood parable with Roz, our shipwrecked robot, finding herself the unlikely caregiver of an orphaned gosling. Roz’s journey mirrors that of any new parent—filled with uncertainty, trial and error, and a bone-deep commitment (or crushing obligation) to protect their child from an unforgiving world and to prepare them to one day spread their wings and fly. Roz learns that parenthood isn’t about perfection but about showing up, adaptation, and sacrifice. 

“I will not leave until I have completed this task which has delayed me, damaged me, and violated my protocols potentially voiding my warranty.” 

Sing it, sister. Despite all the pain and heartache, Roz’s programming, (like our own) compels her to take on this mission and see it through to the end.

Also present is the theme of cooperation over competition—how our biggest existential problems won’t be solved by dominance and brutality but by coordination and mutual understanding. As Roz integrates into the island’s ecosystem, she fosters connections with the animals, who initially see her as an outsider. Over time, she proves to her furry denizens the value of kindness, both for its intrinsic value and its utility in survival. Not the worst message in an era where global crises demand collective action—an increasingly unlikely outcome in a world fractured by tribalism and the malignant distortions of our information landscape. 

Anyway, a delightful little film. Also delightful? The moment when Thunderbolt, the Ving Rhames voiced peregrine falcon, first spoke and my kids yelled in unison, “WE HAVE THE MEATS!”

With a diner full of marooned travelers, a trunk full of stolen cash, and a script full of dramatic irony, The Last Stop in Yuma County is a lean, well-crafted bottle thriller that effectively ratchets up the tension. Oh, did I mention that the AC is on the fritz? Everyone’s hot, sweaty, and on edge. Speaking of heat, this being Arizona, everyone’s packing too, just killing time until it’s time to kill. I hear the rhubarb pie is to die for. Meanwhile, the Chaco finch acts as a silent witness to the unfolding events, reminding us of the proverb: how we cast but a glance at riches, and they are gone, for they will surely sprout wings and fly off to the heavens.

Watching pulpy films like this is like biting into overripe fruit—juicy, messy, and unapologetically excessive. What’s not excessive is the budget and runtime. Made on a shoestring and clocking in at a tasty 90 minutes, Last Stop is an impressive debut for Francis Galluppi, who wrote, directed, produced, and edited the film. Although infused with modern sensibilities, it’s a loving tribute to 70s cinema that, from the opening title typeface, is clearly in conversation with that era’s gritty spirit. Tonally, it’s more knowing and referential à la Tarantino, the long shadow of Pulp Fiction continuing to influence a new generation, right down to the beshirted “Bigfoot for president” felon who reminded me of a big-armed Travolta.

The kind of wholesome, heartwarming family fare that simultaneously fills you with soul-stirring joy and crushing parental inadequacy. Starring real-life husband and wife (at the time) Betsy Drake and Carey Grant, the film follows a seemingly ordinary couple, Anna and George, who take in all manner of strays (both bi and quadrupedal varieties) and heap upon them the kind of patience, wisdom, and boundless love that most parents can only aspire to on their best days. 

George catches strays in more ways than one as Anna playfully razzes him, ignoring his protests that, given his meager city engineer salary, they don’t, in fact, have room for one more. You get the sense that Anna makes the calls in this home and that George is just along for the ride, an arrangement that, despite his complaints, he seems totally fine with. It’s Grant’s comedic chops that carry this thing. There’s an ongoing bit about how George’s amorous advances with Anna are constantly foiled by all the child-induced chaos, a reality that I found to be, um… extremely relatable. Upon catching the troubled ward, Jimmy-John, peeping through a window during their family beach getaway, George gives the boy an impromptu sex ed lesson that involves drawing a woman in the sand. When Anna sees the diagram, it sets up this delightful exchange:

“What’s that supposed to be?”
“A woman.”
“It’s a very poor likeness.”
“I had to draw it from memory.”

My first Drake experience. From reading about her, she had a fascinating life and career beyond film. But as a screen presence, she didn’t quite work for me. Something about the way her lips wrapped around the words—her breathy elocution with those British-leaning vowels, all voiced by a virtuously one-note character. Might be a personal thing though. Others seem to laud her performance here. 

Not much conflict to speak of, mostly just episodic good humor, moral fortitude, cute kids, and general feel-goodery.

Watched on Friday January 24, 2025.

*Chugs Red Bull* Look, don’t you get it, idiot? The only way to kick fear in the dick is to do the incredibly reckless thing that got your husband killed all over again.

Instead of scaling rickety, 2,000-foot-high towers to feel alive, people should do what I do: assemble IKEA furniture without looking at the instructions.

In the absence of inherent meaning, individuals have the freedom to create their own purpose. A dubious claim. “All pie is good pie.” An equally dubious claim. 

What if the Ego hired the Id to murder the Superego? Perform a bayou burial; separate the head from the body, so to speak. Well, you’d be left with Ron, suave and assertive, confident and fearless, the raw expression of human desire, willing to justify any behavior, buck any social norm, so long as it’s in the name of self-preservation. 

Big sitcom-pilot energy, both in tone and look. Smart choice. Keep things light. Don’t let us dwell too deeply on the implications. Pretty salient advice as I lay in bed with the technicolor yawns on this MLK/Inauguration Day. Might’ve liked the film even more if I wasn’t bumping so much on the ethics. Then again, I like countless other films where the protagonist commits heinous acts. Not sure what the difference is. Who’s the relativist now?

Watched on Monday January 20, 2025.

“The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.” — atherosclerosis 

Seriously, not sure how this gaggle of gastro-bros’ hearts hasn’t exploded after years of these indulgent, culinary tour de forces. Surely more calories per frame than any film I’ve seen. Thankfully, not empty calories. If you’re not one who swoons over lengthy stretches of meticulous, dialogue-free food prep, this may not be your thing. Strictly speaking, not a lot happens in The Taste of Things. But what does happen is more than enough to chew on, with its careful study of Eugénie and Dodin's relationship/partnership—a thing as layered, complex, and sweet as a classic mille-feuille. I never imagined that “May I watch you eat?” would be the most erotic sentence voiced by a character in 2024. 

I make no claims as a gourmand, but was really taken with the film. Almost certainly the best thing I saw from last year. This ode to patience, collaboration, and shared ion for food is both a beautiful metaphor for what a mature, slow-cooked connection with another requires and an unparalleled cinematic homily on the romance of cooking—that tender alchemy of turning intention into nourishment.

What I like about Rohmer’s films is how people rarely hide their feelings; instead, they dissect them openly, often with startling clarity. Even if those feelings are self-deluded and capricious, they’re never less than authentic. This unflinching openness, this raw transparency, acts as a kind of cinematic laxative for the emotionally constipated like me.

Watched on Friday January 10, 2025.

I was more of a Salute Your Shorts kind of guy.

Watched on Thursday January 9, 2025.

Watched on Wednesday January 8, 2025.

Watched on Wednesday January 8, 2025.

Watched on Wednesday January 8, 2025.

A pretty effective anti-war statement seething with anger at our government’s handling of Vietnam, wrapped inside an absorbing chase movie, with a dash of Coen-esque deal-gone-wrongness as plans spiral out of control and characters realize all too late that they’re in way over their heads.

Who’ll Stop the Rain seems largely forgotten today. Maybe other films of ‘78 which touched on similar themes, like The Deer Hunter and Coming Home, sucked all the oxygen out of the room. Anyway, it’s good. Nolte is electrifying as Ray Hicks, a merchant marine who’s persuaded by his war correspondent buddy, John (Michael Moriarty), to smuggle heroin into the States from Vietnam. John arranges for Marge, his pill-popping wife (Tuesday Weld), to pay Hicks for his services, but when Ray goes to drop off the dope and close the deal, he realizes that someone else wants in on the action. 

The film convincingly depicts the widespread despair and disillusionment that defined the 70s. Gone are the utopian ideals of the hippie movement, which now feel hollow in the wake of such violence and loss. Notably, it‘s not LSD or grass being smuggled—the drugs of choice of the counterculture. Rather, it’s smack. Somehow, that’s emblematic of the hard-bitten mood that pervades the film, the sense that the confusion and madness of war continues to claim victims long after it's over and has a corrosive effect on our collective moral intuitions. 

Clouds of mystery pourin' confusion on the ground.
Good men through the ages tryin' to find the sun.

As you might have guessed, the title comes from the CCR song of the same name which plays throughout the film. With its open question, both the film and the song, become a kind of desperate prayer for the end to the chaos of the era—caught in a storm with no relief in sight.

“This isn’t what you want. Not really.”

“Maybe it is. It’s simpler than life.”

I liked it when Adam Pontipee sang about his future wife’s hide.

Watched on Saturday January 4, 2025.

My son drew a giraffe the other day, and it looked just like an erect penis. May he never be given a magic purple crayon.

“I believe in hope.”
“That’s a poor man’s disease.”

Nothing better than unearthing a great noir. Even better when you discover it’s season-appropriate, in this case, the rare Christmas noir. The first noir-el? The film has plenty of the post-war cynicism and disillusionment associated with the genre. But that darkness is often splintered by moments of light, resulting in a fascinating mix of tones. 

Glen Ford plays Joe Miracle (what a name), a war veteran who’s returned home only to find his business partner murdered and his nightclub seized by the mob. Joe’s not the take-it-sitting-down type and proceeds to steal 100k from his former business, thus incurring the wrath of the San Fran syndicate. Now, his only chance of survival is to leave the country. Trouble is, his ship doesn’t set sail for Japan until two days later on Christmas Eve. 

“We helped to win a war, didn’t we? I want to see what we’ve won.“

Joe has got to find a place to hide out til then. He finds refuge in the form of the saintly Jenny Jones (Evelyn Keyes) who runs the Borden Street Settlement House. He poses as his former business partner’s brother, Vincent, an alcoholic, wife-beating, out-of-work musician. He gets himself itted to the settlement house and quickly falls for the reserved but complicated Miss Jones.  

“Mr. Soft Touch” is an idiom referring to someone who’s easily persuaded to give money or do favors. It’s usually pejorative, implying a person who’s too willing to help others, often to their own detriment. Here it’s used to describe Joe as a tough nut with a tender core. In his brief time at the house, he reveals that soft side, putting the pilfered funds to good use, helping out the disadvantaged residents, and, in so doing, finding meaning and purpose, even if it comes at a great cost. The tension between his past and his growing sense of morality drives the narrative, with Joe increasingly risking everything to do the right thing.

It’s a noir, a comedy, a romance, AND a holiday drama, all wrapped up for me (and you if you so choose) on YouTube. Truly, a Christmas (Joe) miracle. 

“Everybody does the best they can the best way they can.”

Hey, everyone. As you know, I left the room at the 43-minute mark to make more popcorn, and here I am, back at the 48-minute mark. Did I miss anything? Grams? Son? Why won’t anyone look at me? Man, is there anything better than old Feathery Fred and Ba-Ba-Ba-Bing doin’ their thing? Can’t wait to watch the rest of this beloved holiday classic. Why’s everyone so quiet? To think, this is the debut of the song “White Christmas.” Boy, I’M dreamin’ of a white Christmas, I’ll tell you that much. Wish we had some of that white powder on the ground right now. Sweetie, why do you keep wincing when I say “white”? What I love about these old movies is how they transport us to a simpler, more wholesome time—how you don’t have to worry about any questionable content or weird scenes. Uncle Bob, why are you gripping your chair so tightly? You look like you sat on a pine cone. Anyway, this popcorn isn’t gonna eat itself. Get Holiday Inn my mouth, amirite? Who wants some? Guys? Anyone?

A repository for beautiful iconography

• Portrait of a Lady on Fire
• Mon Oncle
• Man from Reno
• Dunkirk
• Some Kind of Heaven
• Peter and the Farm
• Fedora
• Mikey and Nicky
• The Last Duel
• The Souvenir

...plus 38 more. View the full list on Letterboxd.

1. Sunset Boulevard
2. The Apartment
3. Double Indemnity
4. Ace in the Hole
5. Witness for the Prosecution
6. Some Like It Hot
7. The Lost Weekend
8. Avanti!
9. Five Graves to Cairo
10. The Fortune Cookie

...plus 2 more. View the full list on Letterboxd.

1. My Neighbor Totoro
2. Spirited Away
3. The Wind Rises
4. Whisper of the Heart
5. Kiki's Delivery Service
6. Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind
7. The Secret World of Arrietty
8. Ponyo
9. The Red Turtle
10. Howl's Moving Castle

...plus 8 more. View the full list on Letterboxd.

1. Crawl
2. Lyle, Lyle, Crocodile