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Review – The House With A Clock In Its Walls


FILM REVIEWTHE HOUSE WITH A CLOCK IN ITS WALLS. With Jack Black, Cate Blanchett, Owen Vaccaro, Sunny Suljic, Kyle MacLachlan. Written by Eric Kripke. Directed by Eli Roth. Rated PG for thematic elements including sorcery, some action, scary images, rude humor, and language. 104 minutes.

house_with_a_clock_in_its_walls_ver2If I were to sit down and rank sentences I never thought I’d write, “That new children’s film directed by Eli Roth is really rather delightful,” would be pretty high up there. And yet it turns out the smirky torture-porn auteur behind the “Hostel” movies and this year’s odious, enervated “Death Wish” remake has a real knack for the old Amblin Entertainment house style of junior thrills and chills. Based on the beloved 1973 novel by John Bellairs, THE HOUSE WITH A CLOCK IN ITS WALLS is a kicky throwback to those mischievous, slightly sinister kids’ adventures Spielberg proteges uses to churn out on a fairly regular basis three decades ago. Funny how it took Eli Roth, of all people, to make the best Robert Zemeckis movie in ages.

Owen Vacarro stars as Lewis Barnacvelt, recently orphaned and sent to live with his estranged Uncle Jonathan (Jack Black) in a giant shambles of a house we quickly figure out is haunted. Lewis’ laissez-faire approach to parenthood includes pearls of wisdom like “Why go to the trouble of having cookies for dessert when you can just eat them for dinner instead?” but he’s a bit of a stickler about his magic.

See, Uncle Jonathan is a warlock (don’t call him a “boy-witch” because that makes him angry) and not a particularly accomplished one at that. Along with Lewis we soon discover that Uncle Jonathan’s far more gifted former partner (Kyle MacLachlan, having a grand old time) turned evil and stashed a doomsday clock somewhere in these walls before blowing himself up in a blood magic ritual. Now it’s up to Uncle Jonathan, his nephew and a retired witch living next door (Cate Blanchett, all clipped consonants and clad exclusively in violet) to find and stop the clock before a lunar eclipse brings about the end of us all.

Roth establishes his Amblin bona fides almost immediately, tossing out “Space Man From Pluto” and “Young Sherlock Holmes” references to warm the hearts of middle-aged geeks. The film is set in 1955, but feels more like that particular 1980s brand of ’50s nostalgia than the actual period, with scenes of Lewis at school only a Jean Shepherd voice-over away from “A Christmas Story” territory. There’s plenty of Ovaltine, along with a Captain Midnight secret decoder ring and if the school looks anachronistically integrated, then that’s just another reminder that this is all the stuff of charming fantasy.

I’ve never been a big Jack Black fan, but I do get a kick out of him in children’s movies, where his oversized mugging plays like a little kid’s idea of what an adult would act like. He’s got a surprisingly great rapport with Blanchett, the two affectionately rattling off insults at one another with a cozy, lived-in warmth that seems sincere. Of course, our trio forms a makeshift family while doing battle with flying jack o’lanterns that puke pumpkin seed paste and other assorted, just-scary-enough gross-outs. And while I personally could have done without the winged topiary lion pooping brown leaves I also realize that’s the scene my niece and nephew are gonna be talking about clear through Christmas dinner.

“The House With A Clock In Its Walls” neither overstays its welcome nor spends too much time setting up the presumably inevitable sequels. There’s a modesty to the film that’s becoming, and a nimbleness to the wit suggesting Roth could have a big future in children’s entertainment if he so desires. I guess in retrospect his skill with a PG-rated picture shouldn’t be that much of a surprise, as his R-rated films weren’t exactly “adult,” either.•••

North Shore Movies has given this film a score of 3 out of 5.Over the past nineteen years, Sean Burns’ reviews, interviews, and essays have appeared in Philadelphia Weekly, The Improper Bostonian, Metro, The Village Voice, Nashville Scene, Time Out New York and RogerEbert.com. He stashes them all at Spliced Personality.

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Review – Life Itself


FILM REVIEWLIFE ITSELFWith Oscar Isaac, Olivia Wilde, Annette Bening, Olivia Cooke, Antonio Banderas. Written and directed by Dan Fogelman. Rated R for language including sexual references, some violent images, and brief drug use. 118 minutes.

life_itselfLIFE ITSELF is a movie that wears its heart on its sleeve. For the terminally cynical that will make it unbearable. For those open to its message that life is a mixture of comedy and tragedy, it can be an engaging parable about how we can’t always foresee what will happen next. Sometimes, out of the depths of despair, there may be planted the seeds of future happiness. If that thought makes you gag, you’re probably not a fan of writer/director Dan Fogelman, best known for his TV show, “This is Us.”

The movie is told in chapters and seems to be jumping from one story to another until – and some viewers may anticipate it – everything is tied together in the end. It begins with Will (Oscar Isaac), who appears to be working on a screenplay but is really recovering from a mental breakdown after the end of his marriage to Abby (Olivia Wilde), the love of his life. His therapist (Annette Bening) tries to get him to face reality, but it does not end well.

The story continues with their daughter Dylan (Olivia Cooke), who acts out her anger and depression at the hand she’s been dealt as the lead singer for a punk rock band. Suddenly the film shifts gears and we’ve moved from New York to Spain, where we focus on the marriage of Javier (Sergio Peris-Mencheta) and Isabel (Laia Costa). When their young son witnesses a horrific accident and is troubled by nightmares, Javiar’s benevolent boss Mr. Saccione (Antonio Banderas) takes an interest. Unfortunately, he also takes an interest in Isabel.

To reveal much more of the plot would be to give things away. Fogelman’s point is that life is messy and doesn’t always work out as one might have hoped. As the old Yiddish expression goes, “If you want to make God laugh, tell Him your plans.” Terrible things happen to these characters. Yet wonderful things happen as well. Coping with the bad times instead of giving up seems to be the way that they can move beyond them.

Fogelman has assembled a wonderful cast. Isaac and Wilde, and Peris-Mencheta and Costa, are engaging as the loving couples, with Mandy Patinkin and Jean Smart offering yet another couple as Will’s parents. While finding true love is no guarantee of happiness in the long term, it remains part of the human condition to seek it out. Rodrigo (Alex Monner) – Javier and Isabel’s son – learns this anew with the two relationships he pursues in the story.

“Life Itself” is a movie that wants to push your buttons. There are moments that will shock, moments that may move you to tears, and others that may make you smile.  On the other hand, if your attitude is that life is meaningless and then you die, you may want to give this one a pass. Fogelman clearly believes life has meaning, even if we can’t always see it for ourselves.•••

North Shore Movies has given this film a score of 3 out of 5.Daniel M. Kimmel is a veteran movie critic and author of a host of film-related books. His new novel, Father of the Bride of Frankenstein, will be released in January. He is the 2018 recipient of the Skylark Award given by the New England Science Fiction Association. He lives in Somerville, Massachusetts.

Review – Lizzie


FILM REVIEWLIZZIEWith Chloë Sevigny, Kristen Stewart, Kim Dickens, Fiona Shaw, Jamey Sheridan. Written by Bryce Kass. Directed by Craig William Macneill. Rated R for violence and grisly images, nudity, a scene of sexuality and some language. 105 minutes.

lizzieIt’s one of the most famous of unsolved American murder mysteries. In 1892, Andrew Borden (Jamey Sheridan) and Abby (Fiona Shaw) the woman he married after the death of his first wife, were found brutally killed, apparently from being attacked with a hatchet. The chief suspect was Andrew’s younger daughter Lizzie (Chloë Sevigny), but what actually happened was never uncovered. Over the years numerous theories have emerged, from Lizzie being involved in a lesbian affair with the family’s Irish maid Bridget (Kristen Stewart), to the suspicion that the brother (Denis O’Hare) of the first Mrs. Borden was involved.

There have been various novels, movies and TV shows that have explored the case, but none are likely to be as dull as LIZZIE, a film that moves at such a glacial pace that by the time we finally see the murders occur you’re unlikely to care who is responsible. Apparently, it was a longtime passion project for Sevigny, but it is a film utterly lacking in passion. Those still awake at the end and unfamiliar with the history may be surprised at how it turned out.

The problem is not only the sluggish pacing, but the bloodlessness with which the characters are depicted. Lizzie Borden herself is largely a cipher. In this telling, she defies a bullying father and engages in a sexual relationship with Bridgette – whom her parents condescendingly call “Maggie” as if all Irish maids had the same name – but whose motivation for murder is obscure. Is it her objection to her father’s business dealings with his former brother-in-law? Is it because he beheaded a number of pigeons over her objections? Or is it because he seems to be sexually abusing Bridgit?

And what is driving Bridget? Is it class differences? For all the buildup to the connection between her and Lizzie, it seems more like something to titillate modern audiences than any real feelings between them. Likewise, the gratuitous nudity seems more in the nature of goosing the box office than anything having to do with character or plot. Given the drabness of their clothes, burning any blood-stained evidence would have been unlikely to have been noticed.

A cast that has done interesting work elsewhere seems to have been encouraged to sleepwalk through their roles, as if stodginess somehow made them more believable as 19th-century persons. “Lizzie” is the sort of movie where you keep checking the time and can’t believe how little has passed since you last looked. A serious drama about this American mystery might serve as the basis for an engaging movie. Unfortunately, this one isn’t it.•••

North Shore Movies has given this film a score of 1.5 out of 5.Daniel M. Kimmel is a veteran movie critic and author of a host of film-related books. His new novel, Father of the Bride of Frankenstein, will be released in January. He is the 2018 recipient of the Skylark Award given by the New England Science Fiction Association. He lives in Somerville, Massachusetts.

Review – The Predator


FILM REVIEWTHE PREDATOR. With Boyd Holbrook, Olivia Munn, Trevante Rhodes, Sterling K. Brown, Trevante Rhodes. Written by Fred Dekker and Shane Black. Directed by Shane Black. Rated R for strong bloody violence, language throughout, and crude sexual references. 107 minutes.

predatorI have no way of knowing what actually went down behind the scenes of THE PREDATOR, the latest attempt to reboot a floundering Fox franchise that began 31 years ago with Arnold Schwarzenegger fighting a giant dreadlocked lizard man in the jungle. But I can tell you that the end product of this notoriously troubled production feels like a patchwork quilt somebody finished stitching in an awful hurry. It’s got all the elements of a more ambitious, expansive epic that’s been scaled back and cut within an inch of its life into a surprisingly shoddy-looking, breakneck B-picture. This is an entertaining enough Friday night at the movies, but to say that the seams show is an understatement.

Co-written and directed by cheeky genre deconstructionist Shane Black, the movie is a hodgepodge of expansive, half-developed science fiction concepts, splattery set-pieces and Black’s specialty: tough guys talking a lot of shit. I really liked the shit-talking parts.

Bland Boyd Holbrook stars as McKenna, an Army sniper who witnesses one of our scaly foes ripping up some cartel baddies south of the border, so he swipes the creature’s helmet and mails it up north for proof that our government has been covering up the increasingly frequent visits from these extraterrestrial sportsmen. This isn’t exactly the brightest idea, because in addition to being treason it also puts dangerous alien technology in the hands of McKenna’s estranged, autistic son (Jacob Tremblay of “Room”) who accidentally activates an interstellar distress signal while wearing the predator’s hat as a Halloween costume.

McKenna is quickly locked up and headed for a military-ordered lobotomization along with a bus full of other PTSD wash-outs who call themselves The Loonies. Led by Travante Rhodes (“Moonlight”) – who makes a surprisingly credible and charismatic action hero – this hardscrabble dirty half-dozen also includes, among others, Thomas Jane and Jordan Peele’s own D.J. Jazzy Jeff, Keegan-Michael Key. The gang speaks almost exclusively in obscene put-downs, discussing in minute detail the great breadth and expanse of your mother’s vagina. But how much do you want to bet that when the chips are down — like say when we’re faced with a couple of angry giant aliens — these are gonna be the guys you want watching your back.

It’s all straight out of the Shane Black playbook, as from “Lethal Weapon” to “The Nice Guys” this singular writer has been both kidding and extolling the self-aware patter of sad, violent men who find redemption by living down to their reputations. There are all the ingredients of a terrific Shane Black movie in here, but they’re jostled around by a lot of obvious studio notes and what executives like to call “franchise world-building” when they really mean setting up sequels. (The film’s tacked-on final scene is by far the worst in this regard, so egregious it saps most of the goodwill earned up until then.)

The Loonies also have to compete for screen time with Olivia Munn’s deathly dull Dr. Casey Bracket, a molecular biologist who might be the unlikeliest movie scientist since Denise Richards was a nuclear physicist in that Bond picture. The role was clearly written at some point to goof on the character’s incongruous va-va-voominess — there’s even a cleverly juvenile set-piece geared around how quickly she can get naked to escape a quarantine zone that’s under attack — but Munn plays her as stiffly as Joan of Arc, the only humorless scold in a movie otherwise populated by class clowns.

“The Predator” has been breathlessly edited so that the picture is constantly stepping on its own punchlines. The scenes aren’t allowed room to breathe, which is a shame because we like hanging out with these guys. Rhodes, in particular, should be playing more leads, and there’s a terrific heel turn by Sterling K. Brown as a sinister scientist. He really savors the profane poetry of Black’s dialogue, though the character’s ignominious exit is given unforgivably short shrift in the cutting.

I suppose this is the best “Predator” film since the original, which sounds like a big deal but really isn’t all that much of a compliment. The movie ultimately gets by on attitude, with Black’s brash, wiseacre sensibility brightening up the mandatory franchise maintenance. (It’s very much at the “Iron Man 3” end of his filmography.) In the end, I’m just hoping it earns enough money so that Shane can make “The Nice Guys 2.”•••

North Shore Movies has given this film a score of 3 out of 5.Over the past nineteen years, Sean Burns’ reviews, interviews, and essays have appeared in Philadelphia Weekly, The Improper Bostonian, Metro, The Village Voice, Nashville Scene, Time Out New York and RogerEbert.com. He stashes them all at Spliced Personality.

Review – A Simple Favor


FILM REVIEWA SIMPLE FAVOR. With Blake Lively, Anna Kendrick, Henry Golding, Andrew Rannells, Linda Cardellini. Written by Jessica Sharzer. Directed by Paul Feig. Rated R for sexual content and language throughout, some graphic nude images, drug use, and violence. 117 mins.

simple_favor_ver2_xlgAbout halfway through A SIMPLE FAVOR, I started imagining how much I’d rather be watching a Lifetime TV movie of this same story, maybe something starring Tori Spelling and Tiffani-Amber Thiessen. At least such an undertaking wouldn’t be so smug about the tawdry pleasures of this twisty tale, which was adapted by Jessica Sharzer from Darcey Bell’s novel and directed by Paul Feig – of “Bridesmaids” fame, as well as the bafflingly controversial “Ghostbusters” reboot that sent thousands of incels into paroxysms of rage.

Set in a chichi Connecticut suburb and scored to jaunty French music, the film stars Anna Kendrick as Stephanie Smothers, a hyper-attentive helicopter mom who keeps a chirpy video blog chronicling her efforts to become a miniaturized Martha Stewart. A single mother whose husband and brother were both killed in the same car accident, Stephanie’s overbearing affect leaves her with few friends around the schoolyard. A least until Emily comes along.

Played with a blowsy, throwback femme fatale magnetism by Blake Lively, she’s a negligent mother and charming, mid-afternoon drunk, bringing home the bacon at a powerful fashion P.R. gig while her onetime hotshot novelist husband (“Crazy Rich Asians” star Henry Golding) finds excuses not to write. Emily introduces Stephanie to the pleasures of cocktail hour and does her best to make the girl stop apologizing all the damn time. She also takes advantage of her kindness by enlisting the chipper kid as an unpaid nanny.

It’s all good and well until Emily up and disappears, leaving the door wide open for Stephanie to “single white female who rocks the cradle” into her missing friend’s postcard house and perfect marriage, that is until we start seeing signs that our “gone girl” might still be around,

“A Simple Favor” is obviously, screamingly derivative, yet the story’s beach-read hooks might have found some traction if the filmmakers had any idea how to manage the tone. Not funny enough to pass as satire yet too snarky to provide any genuine chills, the movie exists in a half-kidding limbo, with none of the performers on the same page. Kendrick gives a brittle, exaggerated boost to her tiresome Kewpie doll persona while Lively’s game performance will make you wish they still made 1940s noirs. She’s miles better than the rest of the movie, which slows to a crawl during the long stretches she’s offscreen.

In his previous pictures, Feig’s primary skillset seems to have been staying out of the way while Melissa McCarthy improvises. Without her around this time he seems stumped by the rudimentary requirements of setting a scene. The garishly overlit cinematography excels at finding unflattering angles of these beautiful actresses, their inexplicably extravagant high-fashion getups more distracting than anything else.

(It’s almost impossible to pay attention to the plot while Lively is wearing some sort of sleeveless tuxedo and detachable white cuffs. I kept wondering why she went to work dressed as a Chippendale. There’s also an entire expository monologue that goes missing behind a large flowery thing Kendrick wears around her neck.)

The saucy Serge Gainsbourg songs on the soundtrack are supposedly meant to summon a spirit of insouciance, as the plot twists of “A Simple Favor” grow increasingly more absurd. The problem is there’s nothing for us to enjoy in its self-mockery, the flat staging and abject absence of visual style signal more contempt than amusement. Nobody’s taking this silly story very seriously, but Feig is too prudish and (let’s face it) incompetent to provide any compensating sensual pleasures, the way Brian De Palma or David Fincher have in the past with similarly chintzy material. At least Tori and Tiffani-Amber would have committed.•••

North Shore Movies has given this film a score of 1.5 out of 5.Over the past nineteen years, Sean Burns’ reviews, interviews, and essays have appeared in Philadelphia Weekly, The Improper Bostonian, Metro, The Village Voice, Nashville Scene, Time Out New York and RogerEbert.com. He stashes them all at Spliced Personality.

Review – The Wife


FILM REVIEWTHE WIFE. With Glenn Close, Jonathan Pryce, Max Irons, Christian Slater, Elizabeth McGovern. Written by Jane Anderson. Directed by Björn Runge. Rated R for language and some sexual content. 100 minutes.

wife“I think his philandering is a cliché,” offers the unfortunately named Nathaniel Bone. A bookish biographer played by a miscast Christian Slater in reading glasses, Mr. Bone is sharing a drink and a secret cigarette with Glenn Close’s tight-lipped title character in THE WIFE.

It’s 1992 and the two are in Stockholm, where her husband Joe Castleman (Jonathan Pryce) is about to be awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. Basically just along for the ride, Close’s long-suffering Joan tends to her husband’s blood pressure medication and brushes crumbs out of his beard, silently seething for reasons only gradually revealed.

Adapted by screenwriter Jane Anderson from Meg Wolitzer’s 2003 novel, “The Wife” is a tangy little bit of literary score-settling, taking the piss out of mid-century macho myths of what a Great American Writer was supposed to be. Staged in a deceptively dry fashion by Swedish director Björn Runge, the movie lulls you into a false sense of decorous complacency before the claws come out. After hedging its way around a glaringly obvious plot twist for perhaps a bit too long, the melodramatic second hour is simply delicious.

Pryce plays Castleman as a happily married cousin to literary pugilists like Norman Mailer and Philip Roth. He’s a man of appetites with a quick temper and a buried Brooklyn honk that occasionally creeps back into his more profane outbursts. (Pryce is an old pro at this by now, having brilliantly skewered a passive-aggressive Roth stand-in a few years ago in Alex Ross Perry’s great “Listen Up Philip.”) With all his swaggering and screwing, Joe Castleman couldn’t be a more stereotypical tormented genius if he were an actor hired to play the part.

And that’s where “The Wife” gets really interesting, asking pointed questions about who we deem worthy of attention in the arts, and the preferential treatment afforded to those who fit our preconceived notions of creative “types.” Close occupies the center of the film in a marvel of minimalism. She’s been doing this for so long she knows exactly what to give and when to withhold, so that slightest ripple of an eyebrow sends shockwaves through the theatre. She’s also an actress who knows when to go big, and boy does she get some chances here.

The story occasionally ventures back to the 1950s, in which flashback sequences unfurl the background behind the Castlemans’ mysterious marriage. I wasn’t sold on Harry Lloyd as Joe, as he’s way too British to pass for a Brooklynite. (If this kid wasn’t in “Dunkirk” then he should’ve been.) But Close’s real-life daughter Annie Starke gives a remarkable performance as the young Joan, matching her mom’s reserve while infusing the character’s reticence with an at times startling erotic charge.

There’s a darkly comic element to the film’s continual diminishment of Castleman’s legend on the stage of his highest honor. A splendid scene finds Pryce hitting on a young female photographer (Karin Franz Korlof) hired by his publishing house. There is the Great Man, eating dinner alone in an opulent ballroom, trotting out creaky old seduction tactics that barely worked on co-eds forty years ago, reciting the closing paragraph of James Joyce’s “The Dead” to someone who has no idea what he’s talking about.

His wife watches this all through a distant doorway and we at last see Castleman through Joan’s eyes, in a wide shot that makes this literary giant and his larger-than-life personality look so very, pitiably small.•••

North Shore Movies has given this film a score of 3.5 out of 5.Over the past nineteen years, Sean Burns’ reviews, interviews, and essays have appeared in Philadelphia Weekly, The Improper Bostonian, Metro, The Village Voice, Nashville Scene, Time Out New York and RogerEbert.com. He stashes them all at Spliced Personality.

Review – Destination Wedding


FILM REVIEWDESTINATION WEDDING. With Winona Ryder, Keanu Reeves. Written and directed by Victor Levin. Rated R for language throughout and sexual content. 86 minutes.

destination_weddingWinona Ryder and Keanu Reeves may never be considered the finest actors of their era but damned if they aren’t two of the most likable. Put together they’re a Venn Diagram encompassing almost the entirety of Generation X’s most ardent movie star crushes. (I used to sing “My Winona” to the tune of The Knack’s “My Sharona,” much to the annoyance of everyone else in the car.) Now well into middle age and embarking on their fourth film together, the two appear sparklingly, almost distractingly well-preserved and cast confoundingly against type in writer-director Victor Levin’s gimmicky, ultimately endearing DESTINATION WEDDING.

Keanu plays Frank, a surly, misanthropic cheapskate who deeply resents being dragged out to wine country for the weekend to attend the annoyingly lavish wedding of a brother who hates his guts. Winona is Lindsay, the groom’s basketcase of an ex-fiance who was only invited as a magnanimous token gesture she lacked the social graces to read as such and stay home. They get off on the wrong foot almost instantly at the airport and begin lobbing increasingly verbose insults at one another, soon realizing to their mutual horror that as the two single people nobody wants to be around they’re going to be stuck together all weekend.

“Destination Wedding” doesn’t bother giving anyone else any lines, positioning Lindsay and Frank off to the side or seated at the back of the weekend’s various expensive events, which are glimpsed in faraway long shots as we listen to acerbic commentary from our dyspeptic duo. There’s a sense in which I suppose their formal isolation is meant to mimic the characters’ self-centeredness, as the picture is (somewhat puzzlingly) subtitled: “A Narcissist Can’t Die Because the Whole World Would End.” But on the other hand, it also feels like the filmmaker realized that with stars of Ryder’s and Reeves’s wattage, there might as well just not be anybody else onscreen. So there isn’t.

Levin’s heavy-duty, occasionally labored dialogue flings around hundreds of fifty-cent-words with intent to maim, the miserable Frank and Lindsay constantly cutting each other down before pivoting back to how much they hate themselves. Initially, it feels like a bizarre choice, casting such affable actors as crabby neurotics. When Keanu and Winona smile, they practically provide their own light sources, so who wants to see them snipe like this? (Not to mention, as much as I adore them, neither performer has ever particularly excelled when handed large chunks of text.)

But then the whole history of screwball comedy is lovers who doth protest too much, and the whole reason we watch movies like “Destination Wedding” is to watch people fall for each other despite their better judgment. The counterintuitive casting works here because the chemistry between Ryder and Reeves is so instantaneous – their ease on screen with each other so delightfully palpable – all the yammering put-downs become a form of flirtation. Ugly-spirited zingers that would draw blood from other actors end up tossed aside here with wry, rumpled smiles. A version of this movie cast according to type with performers better equipped to sell the material would probably be unbearably unpleasant.

Instead, the nasty quips and sour asides are suffused with a sunny glow. Frank and Lindsay spend a lot of time telling you (and each other) about how they deserve to be alone, trying to talk themselves out of happiness as Levin’s initially distant camera creeps closer from scene to scene. It’s a silly, predictable and yet nonetheless enormous pleasure when these two grouchy chatterboxes finally drop their put-on scowly faces and do what we’ve been waiting for — shut up and beam at each other the way only movie stars like Keanu and Winona can.•••

North Shore Movies has given this film a score of 3 out of 5.Over the past nineteen years, Sean Burns’ reviews, interviews, and essays have appeared in Philadelphia Weekly, The Improper Bostonian, Metro, The Village Voice, Nashville Scene, Time Out New York and RogerEbert.com. He stashes them all at Spliced Personality.