The Only Living Pickpocket in New York (2026)

Modern life is increasingly difficult for Harry Lehman (John Turturro), whose lifelong pickpocketing career doesn’t yield the same profits it used to in the present year of 2026, where everyone’s money is digital and their consumer electronics are easily trackable and difficult to fleece. Estranged from his daughter Kelly (Tatiana Maslany), he spends his days on the streets and in the subways trying to get together enough money to cover medical expenses for his comatose second wife, Rose. When he manages to lift a set of keys off of a young punk named Dylan (Will Price, who plays Tim Robinson’s son on The Chair Company) driving a classic car, he empties out a duffel with some cash and a USB drive, which he recognizes as a computer gadget but doesn’t know anything else about. When his regular fence Ben (Steve Buscemi) plugs it into the pawn shop’s computer, neither of the old men understand that they’ve managed to tip off the drive’s owner to their location or that they’ve got their hands on a crypto wallet worth close to a million dollars. By the time Dylan shows up to Ben’s shop and ransacks it looking for the crypto drive, it’s already been hawked to Ben’s counterpart in Chinatown, forcing Harry to go on a trek to get it back before Dylan, who turns out to be the scion of a mafia family, kills Rose.

The Only Living Pickpocket in New York is an elegy for a lost era and a lost city, which it telegraphs from its opening moments, set to LCD Soundsystem’s “New York, I Love You but You’re Bringing Me Down.” It also feels as if it’s drawing inspiration from the 1974 film Harry and Tonto (down to the main character’s name), which was also about a New Yorker experiencing late in life alienation from the city that had been his home for his entire life, and whose situation leads him to a single, meaningful encounter with his estranged daughter. While Art Carney’s Harry goes on an emotionally uplifting journey where we join him in finding a place in a changing world, Pickpocket is a much more bittersweet narrative, as we know from the moment that Ben reveals that Dylan’s family is connected to organized crime that Turturro’s Harry’s days are numbered. Everywhere he goes, Harry Lehman encounters others of his generation who are unable to keep up with the times. His friendly-but-antagonistic relationship with soon-to-retire detective Allen Warren (Giancarlo Esposito) is marked by a mutual respect, but Warren has also been relegated to a basement desk because he “can’t be retrained” for cybercrime; Ben is useless with computers and requires assistance from his granddaughter Eve (Victoria Moroles) for anything more advanced than checking his emails; the crime boss who is Dylan’s grandmother (Jamie Lee Curtis) expresses the same hesitancy about crypto currency as Harry does for cell phones, and is ultimately right to be concerned. The world of crime that they all know and can contemplate, theft on a scale from petty to grand, no longer exists.

The key difference between Dylan and Harry is that for the former, crime is a business. At one point, Dylan complains that his family doesn’t respect that he’s trying to bring them into the twenty-first century by lamenting that they can’t send him off to an Ivy League school and then get annoyed that he’s committed to “first concepts.” For the latter, crime is a way of life. Harry doesn’t moralize his way of “earning” a living, he just does the only thing that he knows how to do, acting as part of a larger economic ecosystem. Dylan is established early on as a fad chaser, as he orders a drink because he was inspired by an influencer and ends up hating it. As the bartender says, nine thousand likes on the video he saw does not translate to nine thousand people trying the drink. This scene also establishes something important about how the two men approach their business; Dylan is loud, flashy, and trendy, and only gets away with what he does because of his family connections, while Harry’s entire mode of being revolves around being unnoticed, quiet, and unassuming, and his line of work ultimately cost him his family. Neither is a particularly good way to live, but it ends up proving easier for an old dog to learn a couple of new tricks than it is for a young buck to learn not to run his mouth; if Dylan hadn’t been so concerned with showing off his smart watch and all of its features to Harry, then Harry would never have had the small victory that he does in the end. Although this could lead to the film feeling too reactionary in a “it’s the children who are wrong” way, the narrative smartly balances Dylan’s arrogance by including both Ben’s aforementioned granddaughter and a young pickpocket that Harry catches in the middle of a lift and briefly mentors.

Turturro is quite good here, although this is such an undemanding role that an actor of his talent could sleepwalk through it (which Curtis does in her single scene). The film goes out of its way to show you that Harry is very talented at what he does. Lock-picking, palm-greasing, and wallet-lifting come to him as easily as breathing; it’s just that those skills aren’t relevant in a more modern world. As such, the film also feels like a comment on the decline of the power of labor in the modern age. Turturro is fun even if he’s not being challenged as an artist, and he and Buscemi have an easy natural chemistry that ensure the film is worth checking out just to see the two of them spend some time together, if nothing else. If one had to choose between Buscemi’s performances in Wild Horse Nine and Pickpocket, his nomination for best supporting actor should be for this one. I’ll admit to some bias because I adore her, but Maslany is the real standout for me here. She fulfills the same role that Ellen Burstyn did in Harry and Tonto as the daughter that our main character has let down too many times. The dialogue is rote and a little trite—”I go to a real job [for my family],” “My family doesn’t get bologna sandwiches from a food bank while I’m waiting for a bond ticket,” etc.—but Maslany is magnificent and wrings pathos from the tired tropes anyway because she’s just that good.

Carefully riding the line between conservative movies that your dad would like because old salts get the upper hand over young upstarts and a lo-fi heist picture, this is one to check out, although it’s not going to be one that you need to rush out to theaters to see on the big screen.

-Mark “Boomer” Redmond

You Can See Everything (2026)

There’s a woman with whom I attended school who had the misfortune of enduring multiple childhood brain tumors. She was still quite smart, and although she was severely awkward, this was a magnet school, so she wasn’t that much weirder than the institutional average. I did figure she’d grow out of that like most people do, but when we reconnected years later, she was still stuck in a state of emotional immaturity. Although the reasons for her inability to connect with others on the same level were recognizably clinical, it wasn’t difficult to see how those without knowledge of her past would sometimes find her company off-putting, and as fellow Louisiana expats in Texas, I unsuccessfully tried to integrate her into my friend group. She departed for parts unknown during the first year of COVID, and when I think about her now what I remember most was how uncanny she looked when she smiled. Her brain simply didn’t produce neurochemicals in a typical way, and as such she didn’t naturally smile or frown; these facial movements were clearly practiced in a mirror to better fit in, and witnessing a smile that never reaches the eyes can be unnerving. Elizabeth Holmes is the same, but my high school classmate didn’t commit mass fraud and negligence (that I know of).

You Can See Everything is directed by Lance Oppenheim (Some Kind of Heaven, Spermworld, Primetime) and Nathan Fielder, a graduate of one of Canada’s top business schools with really good grades. Following on the success of his Comedy Central TV series Nathan for You, which was at once both a Bar Rescue/Kitchen Nightmares style “save the floundering business” reality show and a satirization of the same featuring Nathan concocting outlandish schemes, Fielder went to Showtime and HBO, where he conceived The Curse and The Rehearsal, respectively. Both are two of the most fascinating and bizarre pieces of art of this century, blending surreality, human interest stories, and psychological manipulation. As time goes on, it’s becoming increasingly difficult to tell where the lines lie between Fielder the person, Fielder the documentarian, and Fielder the subject. If Fielder ever became as notorious as Holmes and a Dropout-style TV series were made about him, and (even less likely) he ever dropped his public persona (if that’s even what it is), I can conceive of how he might respond to the question of how he felt about it the way that Holmes allegedly did when asked about Amanda Seyfried: “They’re not playing me. They’re playing a character I created.”

That quotation bears significant relevance on You Can See Everything, as it seems to be the one issue that Holmes is hung up on, and it is admittedly a potential key to her entire puzzling deal. Holmes makes a great number of claims about herself, many of them spurious at best: that she was never in tech for the money and was always altruistic in her desire to make medical testing more widely available, that she doesn’t feel that she did anything wrong, that she has never lied in her adult life. They cannot possibly be objectively true, but could this possibly be her truth? Is she simply delusional? At a pivotal juncture in the film’s first half, Holmes’s partner Billy Evans tries to make the case that Holmes’s contemporaneous claims of what the Theranos machine “can” do during her girlboss heyday wasn’t an attempt at deception but part of a larger fundamental gap between how Holmes thinks/speaks and how everyone else interprets her. To that end, Fielder shows the couple the classic Abbot & Costello “Who’s On First?” routine, and observes Holmes, who seems to laugh not because she finds something funny, but because she’s conditioned herself to laugh when others are laughing. When questioned, she can’t identify what is funny about the routine, and Nathan has to spell out for her that the joke is that a player has the unlikely surname of “Who.” When is she pretending—when she says that to her there was no difference between verbalizing “Theranos can do X, Y, and Z” and “At some point in the future Theranos could theoretically do X, Y, and Z,” or when she misses the point of the most famous comic banter of all time? Is it all just playing a character she created? I can’t conceive of why Elizabeth Holmes and her husband would think that Fielder would be the ideal person to document her final weeks before going to federal prison; it makes no sense. But I can see why Fielder would take the job.

I was fortunate enough to go into this film without being spoiled by some of the more unusual metatextual jumps that it eventually makes. There are elemental, recurring ideas in Fielder’s work that, in retrospect, I should have expected, but even if you guess he’s going to do some Rehearsal-esque stuff, I would not have guessed who he was going to involve in his scheme. It leads to some of the film’s best material, especially as the surprise star of the second half manages to embody what you would expect from a more standard documentary treatment, balancing empathy for Holmes against recrimination for her, and when Nathan starts to become a little too charmed by Holmes, it’s this person who sees through it. One could criticize the film (or Fielder through it, as the man and the text are inextricably intertwined) for being too empathetic for Holmes at certain points, as You Can See Everything isn’t really about her; it’s about Evans, which we should have known from the beginning since it’s his image that we open on. Holmes departs the movie at the halfway point to begin her term in federal prison in Bryan, Texas, at which point we jump ahead two years to where we find Evans firmly ensconced in tech bro culture in Austin: operating out of a WeWork, shooting automatic rifles at the weapons range, and creating deepfakes of his incarcerated partner while various reptiles slither and slip about the room.

Holmes and Evans are a match made in hell. She trusts him fully and completely, and he is a control freak who can’t even let her scramble eggs without intervening. He makes deals on her behalf (maybe), has taken over Holmes’s online presence by providing proof of his power of attorney over her to Twitter, and accepts the nonconsensual generation of AI porn of Holmes as an inevitability that he chooses to profit off of. Despite all of this, he and Holmes seem to remain completely simpatico, up to and including describing their love for one another with the same faux-poetic narrative. It’s bizarre. Is everyone just playing characters that they’ve created? Is anyone real, ever?

I’m not sure what You Can See Everything is—documentary of a criminal, confession of a voyeur, character study of a master manipulator (or two?), or docufiction of a woman with no sense of reality. It’s both earnest and detached; it’s damning, and sometimes surprisingly sweet. For now, I’ll settle for “utterly engrossing.”

-Mark “Boomer” Redmond

Wicker (2026)

Let’s take a moment to appreciate how wonderfully bizarre it is that Yorgos Lanthimos is now an award-winning, crowd-pleasing auteur célèbre, when just a few years ago he was considered one of cinema’s cruelest basement-dwelling freaks. No one was watching Lanthimos’s sociopathic incest thriller Dogtooth and thinking, yes, this man will soon be nominated for major-category Oscars on an annual basis. Recent titles like The Favourite, Poor Things, and Bugonia have earned the Greek filmmaker enough of a cultural foothold that his influence is starting to show in other directors’ work, though, whereas earlier efforts like Dogtooth, The Lobster, and The Killing of a Sacred Deer were so singular in their distanced, self-delighted cruelty that they were peerless to the point of feeling otherworldly. Signaling this new paradigm, the fairy-tale romcom Wicker is loudly & proudly Lanthimosian in its tone: playing flat, affectless human cruelty for farcical humor in a way that’s unmistakably indebted to the director’s signature style. It’s also a much cozier, gentler picture than anything Lanthimos has ever directed himself, repurposing his alien viewpoint on everyday social rituals for something that can be sincerely, sweetly romantic.

In genre terms, Wicker is a monsterfucker romcom. Olivia Colman stars as a medieval fisherwoman who’s shunned from everyday social rituals by the younger, prettier women in her village who don’t reek of fish. Annoyed by her designated role as the town spinster & punchline, she commissions a magically gifted basket weaver (Peter Dinklage) to weave her a husband of her own whom she can parade about town to spite her many nemeses. The basket salesman over-delivers on the deal, crafting her the most handsome, devoted, virile husband the village has ever seen, as voiced & embodied by Alexander Skarsgård under a layer of interwoven prosthetics. The unlikely interspecies newlyweds canoodle, fuck, and promenade in such a cartoonishly loving fashion that it drives their fellow villagers mad with jealousy, none more so than the queen-bitch tailor’s wife (Elizabeth Debicki). The ads for Wicker sell it as a ribald sex comedy, but it’s ultimately much sweeter and more restrained than all that, functioning more as a  tongue-in-cheek fairy tale than as sincere erotica. Plenty of fan fiction is already being written on the subject, though, I’m sure, as Skarsgård’s basket man makes for the perfect himbo arm candy no matter what material he’s made of.

To Wicker‘s credit, it doesn’t borrow Lanthimos’s dry humor just for the sake of it; it serves a clear thematic purpose. Lanthimos’s movies always have a way of examining everyday social rituals from a distanced perspective that makes them look absurdly arbitrary, whether they be the rituals of familial life in Dogtooth or the rituals of romantic courtship in The Lobster or the rituals of office-work hierarchy in Kinds of Kindness or so on. For its part, Wicker takes a distanced, outsider look at the rituals of a traditional marriage and finds them as inhumanly arbitrary & absurd as any uncanny behavior in a proper Lanthimos film. It portrays marriage as a never-ending series of self-imposed social rituals, with the small European village where it’s set having developed its own variations on marital traditions that stray only a few steps away from the ongoing absurdity of modern social behavior. Instead of a bride being marked as her husband’s property with a shiny wedding ring, she is ceremonially collared with a giant ornate shackle that clamps around her throat. Instead of tossing a bouquet to expectant maidens, she distributes wicker eggs that explode into puffs of colored powder, à la gender-reveal announcement parties. Instead of the husband enjoying one final night of sexual freedom before marriage at the local strip bar, he is costumed with a strap-on carrot that’s ceremonially eaten by a goat, signifying his loss of manhood. It’s all very silly, and none of it is entirely foreign to the way we actually celebrate modern weddings.

Things get a little more serious inside the wicker man & stinky fisherwoman household, where the more private, routine rituals of married life are portrayed as natural & worthwhile. Colman & Skarsgård’s physically mismatched lovers are sincerely, demonstrably affectionate towards each other, which is a difficult sentiment to come by in a proper Lanthimos film. Most of the dramatic crises that arise are a result of outsiders’ petty jealousy for their mutual affection, while everyone else’s marriages appear to be primarily practical unions in commerce & sexual reproduction. This is a town where everyone’s personhood is defined by their occupation, after all, known only by names like Fisherwoman, Butcher, Butcher’s Wife, Tailor, Tailor’s Wife, and so on. Even Skarsgård’s wicker husband is eventually known by the name Fisherfucker, since sexually pleasing his wife appears to be his most productive daily endeavor. If the movie has any recognizable value of its own outside its extension of Lanthimosian anthropology to a new social ritual, it’s all in the convincingly magical quality of that wicker Fisherfucker’s screen presence, which is just as mesmerizing to the viewer as it is to his fellow villagers. He’s an incredible creature-feature specimen, mixing practical prosthetic applications with post-production touchups that allow specks of sunlight to shine through his sexy wicker body. He is also, quite literally, perfect husband material, and the core of the movie’s heart & humor rests in the way pointless societal pressures fuck that perfect scenario up for his loving wife.

-Brandon Ledet

Family Plot (1976)

Although my journey through the Alfred Hitchcock oeuvre has not been strictly linear or chronological, I decided to save his final film for my final review. It’s a pretty good one to go out on, even if I have to disagree with Roger Ebert, who wrote in his review of Family Plot that “it’s a delight for two contradictory reasons: because it’s pure Hitchcock, with its meticulous construction and attention to detail, and because it’s something new for Hitchcock—a macabre comedy.” He’s wrong on the latter account because this wasn’t the director’s first foray into overt comedy, as the disastrous The Trouble With Harry had premiered two decades earlier, and with regards to the former, there’s nothing about it that’s quintessentially Hitchcock. It’s a good movie, but it’s also one that feels like it could have been helmed by virtually anyone. 

Phony psychic Blanche (Barbara Harris) makes her living using information that her cab driver boyfriend George (Bruce Dern) digs up about her clients. As the film opens, she’s just landed a potential whale; elderly spinster and sole heir to a great fortune Julia Rainbird (Cathleen Nesbitt) has asked Blanche to find her long-lost nephew, an illegitimate child that she forced her sister to give up for adoption to avoid scandal some forty years prior. Rainbird hopes the younger woman’s psychic prowess will avert the kind of attention that private eyes and newspaper announcements would stir up. As the pair of con-artist lovebirds depart her mansion, they almost run over a woman in a long overcoat and sunglasses (Karen Black); we later learn her name is Fran, and the story follows her for a time as she strides into a police station and accepts delivery of a ransom in the form of a gigantic diamond. Without speaking a word, she directs a waiting helicopter pilot to the location where a kidnapped businessman is awaiting rescue, and she absconds with the brains of the operation, a seemingly respectable jeweler named Arthur Adamson (William Devane). George does some great amateur gumshoe work and eventually tracks down the missing Rainbird heir, who was adopted under the name Edward Shoebridge, only to learn that the man supposedly died in a fire in 1950 alongside his adoptive parents, but there’s more going on here than meets the eye.

The production of this film was troubled. Initially, Hitchcock hired Anthony Shaffer to pen the screenplay. Shaffer was on a run of hits at the time, having drafted Hitch’s Frenzy and the stellar Laurence Olivier/Michael Caine two-hander Sleuth, both released in 1972, and had followed those up with 1973’s The Wicker Man and Murder on the Orient Express, which was the first of four Hercule Poirot adaptations he would write over the course of fifteen years (including Death on the Nile). Allegedly, while Shaffer was out of the country on holiday, his agent made excessive demands of the production, which led Hitch to instead enlist Ernest Lehman, who had collaborated with the director seventeen years earlier on North by Northwest. Hitchcock’s health was in decline at the time, and he suffered a heart attack that required the surgical implantation of a pacemaker in late 1974, but in later interviews, Lehman remarked that the man was already diminished even before this, such that he stated that during early story meetings he no longer wanted “to do creative battle with this legendary and physically weakened man.” Behind-the-scenes material found on the movie’s DVD also indicate that Hitchcock was growing so exhausted with the production that he began to cut certain corners, and it does, unfortunately, show. Some driving scenes are so poorly composited that you can actually see the light of streetlamps through an actor’s face. The film’s big set piece, in which Blanche and George barely escape from a sabotaged car before the saboteur abandons all subtlety and starts to chase them down, is a combination of the opening drunk driving scene and the later cropduster attack sequence from North by Northwest but fails to be as exciting as either part of the earlier film. Of further detriment is the supposed comedy of the scenes where Blanche is doing her schtick; it isn’t funny, and lands with a thud.

There are still high marks here, though. After decades of working with John Williams, whom I have to identify every time I write about him as “the actor, not the composer,” Hitchcock does finally collaborate with John Williams the composer, fresh off of the previous year’s Jaws. In an interview on the DVD, Williams recalls meeting with Hitchcock and working on a particular scene in which Arthur is visited by one of his accomplices, a murder-happy mechanic named Maloney (Ed Lauter), who slips out of the window when Arthur is called away by detectives seeking information about the ransom diamond. Hitchcock directed Williams to have the music stop as the camera moves to the open window, so that the silence conveys his absence, and Williams recounts the anecdote in a way that denotes fondness and awe. It’s sweet, and the soundtrack that Williams composed is a good one, especially in the comedy sequences that work. The best of these is probably Blanche’s attempts to find “A. Adamson,” who might be the supposedly dead Edward Shoebridge (e.g. the Rainbird nephew). Comedy ensues as she goes through the phone book and first meets a woman, then a Black man, then a man who is too young (and a twin to boot) before finally arriving at the jewelry store. It’s a fun bit, and effective at getting the audience to relax a bit before the thriller elements kick into high gear, as Arthur and Fran drug her and lock her in their basement cell when she comes knocking, assuming that she’s there to blackmail them for a portion of the profit from their kidnapping schemes. 

Narratively, this is something of a cozy mystery, which appealed to me greatly as a longtime Murder, She Wrote fan. When Blanche isn’t being one of the more annoying Hitchcock protagonists, she and George have a very fun dynamic as an investigative team. She takes information that he gathers and works it into her fortune telling sessions to prompt Julia Rainbird to remember certain details that George can then trace down. George himself is a likeable everyman detective and demonstrates a shrewd wit, like when he notices that despite sharing a death date, Edward Shoebridge’s headstone at the titular family plot is of a different material than his adoptive parents’. The film is perhaps overreliant on narrative coincidence. It’s a neat trick for George to nearly hit Fran with his car early on and then have the camera follow her, and it’s also convenient that Adamson happens to be Edward Shoebridge/Baby Boy Rainbird. That George tracks down the clergyman who baptized Edward and that said parson is now an archbishop who happens to be Fran and Arthur’s next kidnapping victim is perhaps a bridge too far, especially given that George arrives to meet him at the same time that the kidnapping is actually taking place, in front of an entire congregation, no less!

It’s forgivable though, given that this still works as a cohesive narrative despite the failing health of its director. It’s a relatively high note to go out on, and one gets the feeling that Hitch knew this was going to be his last hurrah by the time the film wrapped. At least he sent us off with a wink and a smile.

-Mark “Boomer” Redmond

Marnie (1964)

In my copy of Douglas Brode’s Edge of Your Seat, in the Alfred Hitchcock thriller appendix, there is an undated rating of 2/10 in the margins for Marnie. I have only the faintest recollection of catching Marnie on TCM when I was a teenager, and the way that Brode writes about the film in his negative blurb is provocative, so I must admit that at some point in the past, I saw this (in whole or in part), was bored and/or offended by it, and graded it poorly. On rewatch as an adult, although there are moments where Marnie fails, it’s also much more interesting and well-considered than I (half-)remembered.

Marnie opens on a dark-haired woman whom we only see from behind as she makes her way down a train station’s departure line. Elsewhere, business owner Mr. Strutt (Martin Gabel) opens his safe and realizes that “Marion Holland,” the pretty brunette with nice legs whom he hired despite her lack of references, has made off with nearly $10K in cash (about $108K in 2026). He complains about this to publishing magnate Mark Rutland (Sean Connery), for whom he handles accounting, and reminds Mark that he met “Marion” at an office party. The dark-haired woman from the opening washes the dye out of her hair and inspects her newly blonde look in the mirror; this is Marnie (Tippi Hedren), a compulsive kleptomaniac and pathological liar. She returns to Baltimore to visit her mother, Bernice (Louise Latham), in the latter’s skid row home, where Marnie expresses great envy over her mother’s attention to a neighborhood girl named Jessie, whom the older woman treats with affection that she never showed to Marnie. On to her next con job, Marnie applies to the Rutland publishing house under the name “Mary Taylor,” where Mark instantly recognizes her, but he directs the manager to hire her anyway. Once she’s under his employ, Mark courts “Mary” despite the antagonistic relationship between her and Lil Mainwaring (Diane Baker), the widow of Mark’s deceased brother who is also in love with Mark, while he patiently waits for the day when Marnie will steal from him so that he can blackmail her into marrying him.

There’s one big misstep in Marnie, and it’s the fact that Mark sexually assaults the title character on their honeymoon cruise. This is apparently something that happened in the novel on which the film was based, and screenwriter Evan Hunter (best known to most by his pen name Ed McBain), who had previously written The Birds, objected so strongly to transliterating that into his script that he was ultimately let go from the project. Stating that all sympathy for Mark would be lost afterward, he insisted upon omitting the sequence and was replaced for his trouble by Jay Presson Allen, who received full screenwriting credit despite Hunter’s work, making this the only Hitchcock film to be credited to a woman screenwriter. Allen would later go on to be nominated for an Oscar for Best Adapted Screenplay twice, with one of those nominations coming for her penning of Bob Fosse’s Cabaret, and she also penned Deathtrap and did an uncredited rewrite on Copycat. She had no problem adhering to Hitchcock’s vision, up to and including the rape scene, although it is possible that we owe her a debt of gratitude for handling it with subtlety and grace, as it occurs entirely offscreen and only in implication. Still, when people talk about Alfred Hitchcock as a man who “hated” and “terrorized” women, this is probably the movie that codified that idea best.

Brandon outlined it best when writing up the “Bonus Features” guide to Notorious when it was our Movie of the Month; starting out strong with Norma Bates in Psycho in 1960 and following that up with Jessica Tandy’s frigid mother of the love interest in The Birds, the 1960s were the decade where Hitchcock let his mother-hating flag fly. Although Bernice Edgar isn’t the main antagonist in Marnie (that would be either Lil or Mark, depending on how you look at it), she is the film’s primary villain, as it becomes clear that Marnie’s frigidity and intermittent outbursts stem from something that happened in her childhood. Although the film seems to be headed toward a conclusion where we learn that former sex worker Bernice also, um, “offered” Marnie to her clients, this is, thankfully, not the case. Ultimately, the root of Marnie’s psychological issues is more mundane, if no less violent. Instead of doing a single thing to address her daughter’s mental health when the girl blocks out the memory of the inciting event, Bernice justified said temporary amnesia as a gift from God, even though her own memory of the event makes her shrink at her own daughter’s touch, all while doting on neighborhood children. She even seems pleased to stoke her daughter’s resentment and jealousy, instead brushing neighbor girl Jessie’s hair while explicitly stating that she never did the same for Marnie. No wonder Marnie ended up the way that she did.

The opening half-hour promises a different kind of movie, centering on a master lady thief, that I would have liked to see Hitchcock try at some point in his career. What we end up with is an exploration of the dark side of sexuality through the lens of contemporary psychology. A year before this film was released, JFK signed the Community Mental Health Act, and mere months after the film’s premier, an article was published in the September/October issue of Fact magazine that inspired the American Medical Association to establish the Goldwater Rule as part of the group’s medical ethics guidelines. Psychology was a pop phenomenon, and it’s no surprise that Hitchcock would want to capitalize on that, given that he was fascinated with the subject long before it was in vogue. Mark’s layman’s attempts to get to the root of Marnie’s issues are as effective as they are blunt, leading her to quip “You Freud, me Jane” at one point, and it’s not a flattering portrait of him. Hitchcock was probably wagering that Connery’s sex appeal would make it easier to stomach Mark’s most evil action, which it may have at the time, but given that Connery would later remorselessly admit to slapping women around, it’s a bit more difficult to stomach in a different way. It’s also implied that Marnie recognizes that Mark is truly trying to help her and is willing to let him, as she attempts to commit suicide the following morning by drowning herself in the ship’s pool rather than throwing herself overboard. Although she quips that “the idea was to kill [her]self, not feed the fishes,” it also reads as a statement that she wants to be saved. Ultimately, that makes Marnie a movie about something truly dark and twisted, and although it isn’t the con artist girlboss movie that it tricks you into thinking it will be, it’s still much more worthwhile than the film’s grimy sexpolitick would lead you to expect.

-Mark “Boomer” Redmond

Vertigo (1958)

Brandon & I recently recorded a podcast episode about our major Alfred Hitchcock oversights; Brandon had never seen North by Northwest, and I had never seen Rebecca, but perhaps the greatest oversight on my part was that I had never seen Vertigo. Vertigo had a lukewarm reception upon release in 1958, but has in more recent decades been re-evaluated and come to be considered not only Hitch’s greatest film, but in the Sight & Sound poll for 2012, it was considered the greatest film of all time (the 2022 re-draft put Jeanne Dielman, 23 Commerce Quay, 1080 Brussels at number one). I’ve done some reading about the 2012 voting, and it seems there is some suspicion that several of the participants simply wanted to dethrone Citizen Kane from the number one spot and seemed to rally around Vertigo more for contrarian purposes than genuine belief that it’s the greatest film ever made. I didn’t go into this project with the expectation that I would compose a ranked list of Hitchcock’s work that would greatly upset the commonly accepted wisdom, but now having seen all but one of the director’s thriller films (I’m saving his final film, Family Plot, for last), I must put forward my most controversial opinion here; Vertigo is “merely” good, not exceptional.

The film opens with Detective John “Scottie” Ferguson (Jimmy Stewart) and a fellow police officer in the middle of a rooftop chase of a suspect. Scottie loses his footing and finds himself clinging to a gutter over a fatal drop into an alley. When his partner attempts to rescue him, the man slips himself and falls to his death. Sometime later, Scottie has retired from the force when he receives a request from college acquaintance Gavin Helster (Tom Helmore) to put his skills to use by following his wife, Madeleine (Kim Novak). Gavin does not suspect her of infidelity, but instead fears that she may come to some harm as the result of her connection to a long-dead woman named Carlotta Valdes, Madeleine’s great-grandmother who killed herself at the age of twenty-six, the same age Madeleine now is. As Scottie follows her around, he learns that Madeleine occasionally seems to enter a fugue state where she takes flowers to Carlotta’s grave, spends hours staring at a portrait of the woman in a local museum, and even rents a room in the hotel that was once Carlotta’s house. Over time, Scottie falls in love with Madeleine, and after he rescues her from an apparent suicide attempt when she leaps into San Francisco Bay, she seems to reciprocate these feelings. Madeleine’s apparent haunting/possession by Carlotta seems to be hurtling toward a tragic end, but when something unthinkable does happen, that’s only the beginning of many more twists and turns.

I can see why this is as popular as it is. Like Psycho, Spellbound, and Marnie, Vertigo reflects Hitchcock’s fascination with contemporary psychology, even if the science was very Freudian and of its time. It’s also the only Hitchcock thriller that, at least for a time, presents itself as being a more traditional, supernaturally-influenced horror story, as the presumably skeptical audience is led to wonder whether Madeleine is, in fact, being possessed by her great-grandmother’s ghost. Other than the possibly preternatural link that Young Charlie and Uncle Charlie share in Shadow of a Doubt, this is the only Hitchcock thriller that contains that element, and even though there is a logical explanation for what happens, I understand the appeal that the plot line holds. If Kim Novak is your cup of tea, then you’re in luck, as the film spends long periods of time gazing at her or at a painting of her; I don’t personally find her performance here to be very strong, and learning that Hitch wanted either Vera Miles or Eva Marie Saint for the role makes a lot more sense. Arguably this is the point, as her tabula rasa nature allows Scottie to obsess over her without anything pesky like a personality getting in the way (presumably the only reason that he doesn’t go for the available, lively, spunky, adorable Midge), so I can make an allowance for it, but imagining either Miles or Saint in the role is frustrating, since I can only see either of them improving my personal absorption in the narrative. Stewart’s character here is largely indistinguishable, personality-wise, from Jeff in Rear Window, which is well within his wheelhouse, even if it feels like he’s doing an impression of himself rather than really trying to make Scottie feel real.

If one were to judge the film on its visual merits alone, it’s virtually peerless and its reputation is unassailable. The film is definitively one of the director’s most beautiful; Helster’s office is one of the most sumptuous sets I’ve ever seen, and it’s not a surprise that Hitchcock was so taken with it that he had his own real life office redecorated to imitate it. Ernie’s Restaurant is likewise a gorgeous locale, with crimson damask wallpaper and matching carpeting that make one feel as if they are looking at the interior of a heart, all that red making Madeleine’s green dress stand out all the more. In the scene where Scottie follows Madeleine to a floral shop, the way that the bounty of flowers frames the grey-suited Madeleine is simply gorgeous, and the reverse shot of her reflected in a mirrored door as Scottie peers out from a gap is one of the best compositions of Hitchcock’s career. There are excellent counter-compositions as well, as we move from the rundown McKittrick Hotel, which still retains all of its dark, ornate woodwork and its now-faded wallpaper, to Midge (Barbara Bel Geddes)’s modern apartment with her drawing desk and cluttered supplies and artworks, then to the beautifully appointed Argosy Bookstore. Exterior shots capture some of the best American architectural feats of the early twentieth century as we visit the California Palace of the Legion of Honor (where Carlotta’s painting is kept), spend some time on the Presidio marveling at the Golden Gate Bridge, and gaze at the distant Coit Tower Madeleine uses as a landmark to retrace her steps back to Scottie’s home. We even spend some time in a forest of sequoia trees, and the effect is magical, and there’s not a single window in the film that doesn’t feature a gorgeous view of San Francisco. Every frame is perfect, and I haven’t even mentioned the bizarre, perfect acid-dream nightmare sequence that Scottie has at roughly the 2/3rds mark, which is a perfect piece of cinema unto itself.

The narrative has a lot of potential, but it falls apart under scrutiny. Spoilers (for a nearly seventy-year-old film) through the end of this paragraph. The twist that the “Madeleine” Scottie has followed for so much of the film is really a woman named Judy Barton whom Helster hired to play the role of Madeleine while his wife is away in the country, so that Scottie can witness her slowly deteriorating mental state and testify to it, is a solid one. Knowing that Scottie’s acrophobia will prevent him from following “Madeleine” to the top of a tower in an old Spanish mission, Helster is already there, and he throws the real Madeleine’s already murdered corpse from the top, seemingly committing the perfect crime. Things start to fall apart when Scottie sees Judy some time later and begins to court her in an attempt to recreate “Madeleine” without realizing that they are the same woman, which stretches the bounds of credulity a bit too far. The mystery is decently maintained until the moment that the audience learns what Helster did, as it carries that same maybe-supernatural element through since it appears that Madeleine has a doppelganger, but once we learn the truth about Judy, the film plods along for far too long before it reaches its conclusion. To relate this to Hitchcock’s famous discussion about the tension that is created by telling the audience that there is a bomb under a table and how that tension is diffused the moment that the bomb goes off, this is like telling us that the bomb under the table has already been defused, with half an hour left to go. The sequence of events also leads to audience confusion as well; Scottie witnesses “Madeleine’s” death, then attends the coroner’s inquest, then has the nightmare sequence that seems to render him catatonic when Midge leaves him in a recovery facility, then immediately cuts to Scottie walking down the street, where he thinks he sees Madeleine. Watching this, I had to ask my viewing companion: “Wait a second, when did he recover?” before I decided to just go with it. Since I was in that state of mind, it didn’t even occur to me that Scottie wasn’t aware that Judy was Madeleine until he has his epiphanic moment when she puts on Madeleine/Carlotta’s necklace.

I’m sorry to say that I was largely disappointed in Vertigo. I understand the appeal, and I even understand the acclaim, but I was left fairly cold by the film overall. It’s a visual feast, but the narrative is convoluted in a way that’s more frustrating than fun and the performances are merely adequate. I did appreciate that the reveal explains some things about Helster’s performance. In his initial meeting with Scottie, he jumps straight to the “It’s not what you think” explanation of his hiring of the man to follow his wife without waiting for Scottie to react to the initial overture, which makes sense in retrospect given that he had likely rehearsed the monologue to death. It also explains some of his dialogue choices from the coroner’s inquest, but it doesn’t gel with his other poor line deliveries in other scenes. The effectiveness of Kim Novak’s performance will vary from person to person depending upon how much one is willing to accept that her monotony is intentional. In doing some light research about the film, I can see that it has been the subject of great academic criticism, and I can understand that as well, since this is a very mood-oriented piece and thus gives itself over to style over substance in a way that invites dissection. I’ve also seen that there are a great number of people who argue that the film is an extended dream sequence, in whole or in part, beginning either in the wake of the animated dream sequence, immediately following the first bell tower scene, or (An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge style) all the way back at the five-minute mark when Scottie is dangling from a gutter. I don’t usually think too highly of any flavor of extratextual “it was all a dream” explanation, but I have to admit that I might adopt that belief for myself, as it does improve the text for me as an audience member, at least this time (and it would explain why we spend so much of this film watching Scottie slooooowly drive from place to place). Maybe I was simply too excited for this one, and the movie itself was never going to be able to live up to my expectations. It’s still a good picture, just not (for me) a great one.

-Mark “Boomer” Redmond

Torn Curtain (1966)

In discussions about my upcoming plans to rank all of Alfred Hitchcock’s thrillers, I’ve mentioned the number “forty” several times, but that’s because I am simply not that interested in his non-thriller films. Even among those that theoretically count as thrillers as a secondary genre, like the comedy The Trouble With Harry and the period piece melodrama Under Capricorn, those have turned out to be the ones that I like least of all. There are about a dozen inarguably non-thrillers that Hitch directed, mostly in his early career, and as such, the 1966 release of Torn Curtain was a landmark, as it was the director’s fiftieth film. Ultimately, it was one that really only pleased the studio due to its financial success, as contemporary audiences and critics as well as the stars and the director himself weren’t terribly pleased with it. 

Torn Curtain opens aboard a passenger ship experiencing heating problems while traversing the European fjords, bearing several dozen scientists to Copenhagen for a physics conference. At lunch, two people are conspicuously absent: Michael Armstrong (Paul Newman) and his assistant and fiancée, Sarah Sherman (Julie Andrews), as they are canoodling together in his cabin, where they make pillow talk about his recent departure from D.C. following the ending of funding for an anti-missile program in which he was involved. Armstrong receives a radiogram that he conspicuously denies is for him, only to later retrieve it from the ship’s radio room. There, he runs into East German physicist Gerhard (Hansjörg Felmy), who was expecting to have a lunch date with Sarah. Upon arrival in Denmark, Sarah takes it upon herself to retrieve a book that is being held for Armstrong at a nearby shop, and Gerhard tags along. Later, alone, Armstrong decodes a passage in the book that directs him to make contact with someone or something calling themself Pi (as in π). Growing more suspicious as to why Armstrong tried to keep her from joining him on this trip, Sarah watches as he retrieves a ticket from a concierge that he claims is for a quick side trip to Stockholm. When she learns that he is actually going to East Berlin, she follows him and boards the same plane, arriving alongside him behind the Iron Curtain just in time to watch him publicly defect to the Soviet Union.

Hitchcock’s espionage thrillers in the lead up to (Sabotage, The Lady Vanishes), during (Foreign Correspondent, Saboteur, Lifeboat), and immediately following (Notorious) WWII are all explicitly political. For the most part, his Cold War era spy features, of which there are only four, are not. The Stewart/Day version of The Man Who Knew Too Much, which was the first espionage thriller since Notorious a decade earlier, foregoes any real inspection of the foreign “other” that made the Peter Lorre version a much more exciting film. Other than a line from Leo G. Carroll’s professor character in North by Northwest in which he tells Cary Grant, “War is hell, Mr. Thornhill, even when it’s a cold one,” the film is politically vague. Hitch’s output in the back half of his career shows that he wasn’t terribly interested in cloak-and-dagger flicks anymore, and cared even less about politicizing them; if anything, one could argue that the “spying on one’s neighbor” politics of Rear Window are more politically conscious than his two 1950s espionage pictures. That changed in the 60s. By 1965, Eon Productions had released four James Bond films: Dr. No, From Russia With Love, Goldfinger, and Thunderball, and all of them had been inspired in some way by North by Northwest. With a fifth Bond on the horizon, Hitchcock took two attempts at making his own version: 1966’s Torn Curtain and Topaz, the latter of which would premiere in 1967, the same year as You Only Live Twice.

Topaz is fine, if a little overlong, and it’s more clearly evocative of the Bond format; the main character is a career spy, has a lot of gadgets, and has sexual encounters with morally dubious women on both sides. Torn Curtain is a better film because it adheres more closely to Hitchcock’s strengths: strong character work, an “everyman” protagonist, an appropriate level of comic relief, the occasional breathtakingly gorgeous shot composition, and multiple scenes of excellent tension. Unfortunately, it also features some of the director’s late-career shortcomings, notably some lazy shortcuts with some visuals. The most unconvincing is a scene in Copenhagen where Armstrong and Sarah are at an outdoor cafe where he behaves like a total ass in an attempt to get her to stop following him (and thus avoid potentially being trapped in East Germany for the rest of her life). Inexplicably, the sequence is shot not on location or even on a soundstage, but with Andrews and Newman sitting across from each other at a table while the street, the restaurant, and the other patrons are rear-projected behind them. 

To its credit, however, it also uses some of Hitch’s ideas from his other end-of-career films in the best possible way. I’ve fretted quite a lot about what the gratuitous, provocative, mean-spirited sexpolitick and violence of Frenzy (and to a lesser extent, Marnie) might imply about the man’s entire filmography, but this film perfectly combines the cheekiness of the underplayed sexuality in North by Northwest with the more liberal attitude toward sex (and violence) that Frenzy had. While the censor boards prevented him from showing Cary Grant and Eva Marie Saint climbing into bed together at the end of Northwest despite them explicitly being married by that point, this film opens with Newman and Andrews under the sheets (and a pile of coats) together. In the features on this film’s Blu-ray, they include and highlight an on-set production photo showing a bra lying in the open in a shot that doesn’t appear in the film, which is more suggestive than the director would have been able to get away with at an earlier point, and when Newman gets out of bed, he’s topless. In a reversal of the mainstream tendency for a film to ogle its female characters, Hitchcock also clearly understood Newman’s wide sex appeal, as he is slutting this man out. In addition to climbing out of bed with Andrews shirtless in the first scene, he’s shot head to toe in a shower in a Danish hotel with only a frosted shower curtain to leave something to the imagination, and Newman’s top comes off again in the back half in a doctor’s office to wake up anyone in the audience who might have started to zone out at that point. In contrast, although Andrews is gorgeous, the Edith Head costumes that she wears throughout are sharply tailored and fabulous, but also conservative in their coverage. (It’s also worth noting that the hairstyle she has here is not flattering; one assumes it’s her actual hair, still growing out from the short style she wore in the previous year’s The Sound of Music, but the two-toned highlights make her appear greying in a manner that ages her in such a way that you would believe it if someone told you that film and this one were a decade apart.) 

The production was a mess behind the scenes. One of Hitchcock’s most famous quotes is that “Actors should be treated like cattle,” and Newman was a younger performer who had studied method performance at the Actor’s Studio. The director didn’t care for this, and is quoted as having responded to Newman’s question about what his motivation was in one scene by telling the actor “Your salary.” Hitchcock may have burned a bridge with longtime collaborator Bernard Herrmann, who composed several of his films, including Psycho and The Birds. All sources note that they “never worked together again,” but Hitch only made three more movies after this, one of them after Herrmann’s death, so it’s unclear how long-term that enmity might have been if either of them hadn’t been quite old at this point. Andrews’s sudden ascendancy to superstar meant that she was cast at the studio’s insistence, even though her brief window of availability also meant that the film had to be rushed into production despite Hitchcock not feeling that the script was ready. Of the experience, she has said that she took the opportunity because she wanted to work with the famous director, “and that’s what [she] got out of it,” since she “did not have to act in Torn Curtain. [She] merely went along for the ride.” 

To be honest, all of these seams are apparent in the final product, but this is nonetheless a decently captivating motion picture, especially if you are someone familiar with Hitchcock’s work. Contemporary reviews criticized the film’s pacing, cited a disappointing second half once the twist becomes clear (especially so since, although Sarah believes Armstrong’s defection is in earnest, no one in the audience will), and criticized what they felt was an old-fashioned film. To that last point, they may not be wrong. As noted before, this was the man’s fiftieth feature, and he had been doing this for four decades; he was now in direct box office competition with two generations of directors who had been inspired by his work, while he was a 67-year-old man with only a few films left in him. Nevertheless, this might not be hitting it out of the park, but he’s still making it to second base. The most well-remembered scene finds Armstrong grappling to death with his Stasi tail, Gromek (Wolfgang Kieling), in a farmhouse kitchen when Gromek tracks the supposed defector to a farm where he finds the π symbol scratched in the dirt. This is where the looser restrictions around violence in the 1960s work better than in Frenzy. Hitchcock wanted it to be clear that killing a man is difficult work, rather than the quick and easy slayings that James Bond dished out, and so the scene lasts a long time. The academic Armstrong is no match for the man, and it takes help from a farmer’s wife to take Gromek down, in a fight that involves a knife, a shovel, and a pot of cabbage soup. 

It’s excellent stuff, but the sequence that stood out the most to me was one in which Armstrong and Sarah are escorted onto a bus full of other members of the secret π organization. The bus is a decoy that runs ten minutes ahead of schedule of the real bus that goes from Leipzig to East Berlin, and everyone aboard is a member of the resistance. It’s fantastically tense, as the audience first experiences relief when it seems like Sarah and Armstrong are finally en route to the next step in their homeward journey, then anxiety when they meet the first police barricade, then relief when they pass, then suspense when they encounter a second barricade, only to find that they now have to deal with army deserters who act as highwaymen. It’s a great ride. Once they get to East Berlin, they also find themselves assisted by a Polish expat, Countess Kuczynska (Lila Kedrova), who hopes to escape to America with their help, and she adds a lot of heart to the film. Despite her late arrival, she’s third billed, and it’s well deserved.

Time has not been kind to Torn Curtain, but its categorization as a lesser Hitchcock is largely undeserved. It doesn’t reach the director’s heights, but it’s also much more engaging and exciting than its reputation would indicate.

-Mark “Boomer” Redmond

Joybubbles (2026)

I am writing this review in a modestly sized, concerningly musty hotel room in Hot Springs, Arkansas, which still feels like the height of modern luxury in the way that all hotel rooms do. We are staying at the century-old resort hotel The Arlington, which overlooks the main stretch of the city’s historic bathhouse spas, towering above the punier tourist traps below as a monument to the timeless joys of a hotel getaway. Unbeknownst to me when booking this vacation, The Arlington is also the central screening hub for the longest-running documentary film festival in the United States, which happened to overlap with our stay. The one film in this year’s program that I was able to squeeze into my busy schedule of resting & relaxing around town also happened to be about the one person who could credibly claim to love mediocre hotel rooms more than anyone else who ever lived: Joe Engressia, whose unmatched obsession with the Holiday Inn hotel chain somehow doesn’t rank among his top ten most eccentric character quirks. Engressia was a man of many quirks, just as he was a man of many names: High-Rise Joe, The Whistler, and—most notably—Joybubbles, the last of which provided the eponymous name of his documentary profile that just screened at the 35th annual Hot Springs Documentary Film Festival (after premiering at Sundance earlier this year).

Joybubbles first earned fame as The Whistler in his college years, when his uncannily perfect whistling pitch enabled him to bypass telephone system infrastructure to make expensive long-distance phone calls free of charge. He was a naturally gifted pioneer of the practice, which made him a legend among other Phone Phreakers of the 1960s & 70s, who later went on to become the earliest computer hacker subculture of note. His own whistling hack was an innovation inspired more by loneliness than by mischief, though. Joybubbles was born blind and spent long childhood hours isolated indoors, with only the telephone connecting him to the outside world. By listening to the equipment’s clicks & whirs and pestering the phone operators on the other end of the dial tone, he gradually figured out how to extend the reach of his phone line even further, which is how he earned the Batmanesque moniker The Whistler.  Even when arrested for these violations of phone-company policy, Joybubbles always used his national notoriety as a means of expanding his social network so he’d have more people to talk to on the phone. He played the media’s bottomless hunger for “human interest” stories by becoming a human of great, continual interest — not to hack the planet but to just feel less alone.

Before he legally changed his name to Joybubbles, this first-wave phone phreaker was also known as High-Rise Joe, named after his lifelong goal of living independently in his own high-rise apartment. Being visually disabled a half-century ago made that goal a lot more daunting than it sounds now, as most people in Joe’s life attempted to limit his independence & mobility for their convenience, in the guise of ensuring his safety. He learned independence in his early 20s by booking extended stays at Holiday Inns, however, which he had to treat with the same problem-solving bravery of mankind traveling to the moon as he worked his way up to full-time high-rise living. As a result, Joybubbles ends up playing as a celebration of mundane hotel getaways just as much as it is a celebration of humanity’s intimate relationships with mundane technology. Joybubbles loved Holiday Inns and high-rise apartments with the same childlike wonder which he loved rotary-dial telephones. As interviewees put it, he made a lifelong mission out of maintaining that childlike wonder with the mundane in a commitment to “staying 5-years-old forever.” His resulting personality fell somewhere between Daniel Johnston & Mister Rogers — half age-regression as art-project coping mechanism and half age-regression as defiance against an increasingly crass & cruel modern world.

As a documentary, Joybubbles mostly functions as a feature-length human interest story akin to the news clippings that profiled its subject while he was alive. These news reports & televised interviews from Joe’s phone phreaker days are helpful in providing some visual archival material of interest, while the rest of the runtime is padded out with vintage industrial footage, modern animation, and still photographs. With a few changes to how its interviewees are introduced via chyron, the whole project could be easily reworked into a podcast instead of a feature film, which would be just as well for a documentary about a blind man. In an especially telling segment, one of Joybubbles’s friends relates his age-regressed personality to Tom Hanks’s character in Big, as he recalls describing the imagery of the film to Joybubbles in real time at the movies, since he otherwise only had the sounds of the dialogue to go by. Oddly enough, this segment includes footage of the “Zoltar” fortune teller machine that grants Hanks’s wish to become “big” in the first place, and there are multiple replicas of that machine decorating the tourist-packed sidewalks of downtown Hot Springs, just outside of the festival. Stepping outside of my own city to breathe some crisp mountain air, enjoy a couple late-night beers in my overly air-conditioned hotel bed, and meet some sweetheart strangers along the way has been a truly restorative experience for my soul. And I owe the Hot Springs Documentary Film Festival for introducing me to the biggest, quirkiest sweetheart of them all.

-Brandon Ledet 

Verity (2026)

A couple of months ago, when writing about The End of Oak Street, I mentioned that Anne Hathaway has a generational talent for delivering dialogue that is overwritten, overwrought, and trite. And she does! Alas, she seems to have finally met her match in Colleen Hoover. 

A young writer with the far-fetched name of Lowen Ashleigh (Dakota Johnson) gets a call from her agent after an in-store reading that only a couple of people attend, letting her know about an opportunity that has arisen and advising her to appear for a meeting the following day. Walking to the appointment, Lowen narrowly misses being hit by a car, although an ill-fated bike messenger is not so lucky, and she ends up covered in his blood. A handsome bystander (Josh Hartnett) leads her away to get cleaned up and even gives her his shirt to replace her own ruined one. When she arrives to Hachette Publishing, Lowen learns that the man is Jeremy, husband to best-selling author Verity Crawford (Hathaway), and that Verity’s publisher is seeking someone to ghost write the last three books in Verity’s ongoing series, per some unexplained tragedy that has befallen the Crawford family. Initially resistant, Lowen eventually accepts the job, and the invitation to stay at Verity’s home and work from her office there. Upon arrival, she meets Verity and Jeremy’s young son Crew, as well as Anna (Irina Dvorovenko), who is now nurse to the completely catatonic Verity. But all may not be as it seems . . .

I had a lot of fun watching this, but make no mistake, it is a bad movie. I was hoping that all of its negative reviews would prove to be untrue, that there would be something really enjoyable and noteworthy here, but I’m sorry to say that this was simply not good. I’ve never read any of Hoover’s books in their entirety, but I’ve read enough samples (and been subjected to enough trailers of adaptations of her films) to realize that I should have known better than to think this cast and this director would be able to make a good film out of her source material. I’m no stranger to Dakota Johnson’s acting, and in fact, I’m a fan. I gave Madame Web a 5-star review and forced my fellow podcasters to watch it so I would have someone to talk to about it. I’m so charmed by her that I was tricked into enjoying The Materialists, for goodness’s sake. Josh Hartnett’s career resurgence has been a source of delight for me, and I was also excited to see him and Hathaway on screen; they’re both great performers who rarely let me down, even in mediocre flicks. Unfortunately, Johnson’s charm only shines through in rare moments, Hartnett is stiff and wooden at the best of times and has zero chemistry with Johnson, and Hathaway is mostly reduced to reciting passages from her own (read: Hoover’s) work, which has less literary merit than the “1 gallon / 1.78 liters per flush” sticker on the urinal at the megaplex where I witnessed Verity in all of its “glory.”

Verity bears more than a passing resemblance to Hitchcock’s Rebecca; a working-class woman who has recently lost her mother is given the opportunity to live in a gorgeous, remote home with a man who is rich, charming, and handsome, and the film’s primary conflict revolves around a drowning that may be more than it seems. There are other borrowings from Hitch’s filmography as well, most tellingly in the superimposition of images over one another as in The Wrong Man and Spellbound, which run the gamut from somewhat inspired (Lowen puffs on her vape reading Verity’s work while Verity smokes a cigarette as she composes it) to absurd (a scene wherein Lowen looks out over the house’s view is poorly composited to look like she’s reflected in the glass rather than doing so in camera, for reasons I cannot fathom). Unlike the first Mrs. de Winter, Verity is still alive, but only in the most technical sense, and thus she haunts the house in a much more literal way than Rebecca did Manderly, but the connections are there. You can imagine my disappointment when the apparent Mrs. Danvers stand-in, Anna, ultimately ends up having very little to do with the plot; she doesn’t even do enough to function as a red herring. Instead, the narrative hinges on Lowen’s discovery of a concealed manuscript entitled So Be It, an autobiography in which Verity confesses that she was jealous of the portion of Jeremy’s affection that her twin children took from her, and that she despised them for it even before they were born. In it, Verity paints herself as a monstrous sociopath devoid of all but one recognizable human emotion (unquenchable lust for Jeremy) and admits to taking several criminal actions. Lowen briefly asks Jeremy how he and Verity met, and when it matches the manuscript, she believes everything else found within it, which leads her down a path where she begins to suspect that Verity may be feigning her incapacitation.

Reading a summary of the source novel indicates that there were some wise excisions and some baffling changes. In the novel, the Crawfords actually have two deceased children, while the film condenses these two characters down to a single dead daughter; that’s a smart choice to make this a cleaner narrative and makes the film less oriented toward a literary genre we might call “tragedy porn.” Other changes are less coherent. There’s a murder in both texts that the characters intend to make appear to be an accident, but the novel’s version will hold up to some scrutiny while the film’s will not (asphyxiation is unlikely to be confused for drowning by any medical examiner). I also get the feeling that Lowen’s mother’s passing is a more important plot element in the book, given that this would create more opportunities for her to connect Verity’s catatonia to her mother’s lingering illness in her mind, but I’m also not about to give the novel credit for cleverness in that regard, even without having read it. In this film, Lowen says that she “[doesn’t] read books you can buy at the airport,” which feels like a dig at Hoover’s own widespread, lowest common denominator of reader appeal, but we don’t get to hear or read enough of Lowen’s own work to see if she’s actually any more talented than Verity. Worse, the examples of Verity’s work that we get are virtually indistinguishable from Hoover excerpts I’ve seen. There’s a version of this story that might work, but not as written here.

Writers writing about writing is a cliché, but it’s also a forgivable one given that most academic compositional instruction directs students to “write what you know.” What’s unforgivable here, however, is that there’s a fundamental lack of curiosity about literature on display that hollows out a narrative that’s already basic and noncontemplative. We get very little idea of what drives Lowen’s own writing other than her pretentions about being better than airport novelists. She never talks about how her writing allowed her an outlet for her frustrations over having to care for her ailing mother or navigate the complexity of her emotions about said caretaking relationship. What little information we get about her, in her opening voiceover, indicates that she prefers living in a large city and the anonymity that provides over the nature of her small town, where everyone knows everyone else’s business, but this doesn’t hold up under any kind of scrutiny. How did she and her mother come to live in New York, then? Did she move to the city when she became an adult and then her mother moved in with her? We don’t get any clue about that, and at the end of the film she seems completely comfortable moving to a small town in North Carolina without even paying lip service to how her desires may have changed because of her time in the Crawford home. There’s a scene in which Lowen comes into the dining room while Jeremy is reading, and there’s a perfect opportunity for the two of them to have a conversation about the book, perhaps discussing its themes in a way that deepens one or both characters, but any chance that the narrative might comment on itself goes out of the window since we never even find out what book was in Jeremy’s hands. It’s a story in which the characters’ reading habits are irrelevant other than in the performance of being a reader. Verity wants you to know that it’s a story about literary people, but cares very little for what they might be ingesting or meditating on, what any given text might mean to them, or anything else that might give us an idea of their internal lives. I have no doubt that the source text was airport slop, and this film will end up being the same: suitable to put on a small screen on the back of an airplane seat to distract you for a couple of unchallenging hours between points A and B, and nothing more.

-Mark “Boomer” Redmond

Rear Window (1954)

When we discussed the two Men Who Knew Too Much, Brandon and I commiserated that the updated 1950s version starring James Stewart could not hold a candle to the original Peter Lorre-centered film, but he posited that one could list off Alfred Hitchcock’s three other collaborations with Stewart—Rope, Rear Window, and Vertigo—and confidently call them the director’s masterworks without that being much of a hot take. Rear Window was the first Hitchcock film I ever saw, and I immediately fell in love with it. Through viewings of several others, it remained at the top of that list, until sometime in my late teens I fell head over heels for Notorious. I hadn’t revisited it in a very long time, possibly because I became too familiar with it, but after returning to the well after such a long absence, the water is even sweeter than I remembered.

L.B. “Jeff” Jeffries (Stewart) is a WWII vet and photographer who is in the sixth of seven weeks of recuperation after a daring shot at a racetrack that resulted in a broken leg. He is attended every day by wisecracking insurance nurse Stella (Thelma Ritter), who encourages him to settle down with his fashionista girlfriend Lisa Fremont (Grace Kelly) before she finds someone better than him. Accustomed to a faster pace of living, Jeff fears that Lisa would be ill-equipped for a life of adventure with him in the often dangerous places that he finds himself on assignment, while Lisa hopes that, as he’s getting older, he’ll be willing to take a more stationary position with his magazine in New York, where they can be together. His only entertainment during his medical imprisonment is voyeuristically observing the neighbors whose windows face the same courtyard as his: Miss Hearing Aid, a sculptor; Miss Lonelyhearts, a woman who can’t seem to find a good man; Miss Torso, a dancer; the songwriter, who can’t seem to get his latest composition just right; and two married couples, one with a little dog that they let down into the courtyard with a basket and the other composed of a supposedly invalid wife and the salesman husband (Raymond Burr) who supports her. When he believes that he has witnessed a murder in one of the apartments, Lisa and Stella become his sidekicks in determining if one of his neighbors is a murderer, or if his mind has gotten so bored in his semi-isolation that it’s begun to play tricks on him.

This is an all-time classic for a reason. Although he struggled with the contradictions of his character in Rope, Stewart shines in this performance, as Jeff is a character who’s rough around the edges and a bit of a jerk, but with whom we remain nonetheless empathetic and sympathetic. At this point in his relationship with Lisa, they are explicitly chaste, as Jeff’s cast has immobilized him in more ways than one, and one gets the feeling that without being able to be intimate with one another and mistake passion for love, he’s come to realize that he doesn’t feel like he and Lisa are actually all that compatible. Unconsciously, he’s pushing her away and making up excuses for why, drawing barriers between them in the form of their class differences (she “belongs to the rarefied atmosphere of Park Avenue” while he lives in Greenwich Village with the other poor, starving artists) and trying to warn her away from joining him in his life of wandering by making it seem unsuitable to her. It isn’t until he sees that she gets the same thrills that he does when they leave a note for the possible murderer to see their reaction that he actually sees her and realizes that they could have a potential future together. Since he only comes to this realization when he sees how she could fit into his life, combined with the fact that he doesn’t cry out for help or try to distract the killer when Lisa falls into their clutches, one could find him difficult to like, and it only really works with Stewart in the role. What I see in that scene is that his realization of his helplessness paralyzes him far more than being injured did, and for the first time he has some concept that a life of adventure could actually be dangerous to her, in reality and not just as a fiction to keep them apart, and understands that he’d rather be with her than not.

More academic critics than I have spilled a great deal of ink over the film’s use of Jeff as the audience surrogate, as his viewpoints into his neighbors’ lives are metaphorically like us watching the movie. There’s also been a great deal of writing about the film’s sexual connotations, especially with regards to the prurience of voyeurism and the phallic nature of Jeff’s telescopic lens. One thing that I haven’t seen discussed is the way that each of the vignettes that Jeff observes has only a partial, fragmented view of the participants, to which he ascribes narratives that he has essentially made up, without realizing that they are all reflective of him. Miss Hearing Aid is nosey, just as he is, as demonstrated when she gets into Mr. Thorwald’s business about how much he’s watering his plants, and when she is frustrated by Miss Torso’s loud music and footfalls, she turns her hearing aid down, just as Jeff tunes out what he doesn’t want to hear. The songwriter is a frustrated artist who is blocked creatively while Jeff is a photographer temporarily caged, and Miss Lonelyhearts is a reflection of what Lisa could become if Jeff continues to waste her youth without commitment; Lonelyhearts changes her mind about overdosing when the songwriter finishes his piece and the two of them listen to it together, in perfect time for Jeff and Lisa to (maybe) commit to one another fully. Miss Torso’s similarities to Lisa are textual, as there is a conversation between Lisa and Jeff one night when she has a few men in her apartment and Jeff compares the two directly, only for Lisa to declare that the woman across the way is “juggling wolves” and that she doesn’t love any of her suitors. When Jeff asks her how she knows, she says “You said it’s just like my apartment, didn’t you?” This proves true in the end, when the dancer’s beloved, a short nerd named Stanley, returns from the war and she takes him passionately into her arms, just as Lisa, who could do a lot better than grumpy old Jeff, really does love her flawed man. It also leaves the open question of which of the couples the two will end up like: the happy newlyweds (whose cracks start to appear in the end), the unhappy Thornwalds (with their one bedbound party), or the dog-owning couple, who only seem to need one another. That’s left for the viewer to ponder.

Every performance here is delightful. Thelma Ritter really shines as the take-no-guff nurse with sharp instincts. One of my favorite jokes in the picture is when she’s trying to advise Jeff, who still sees himself as the young flyboy in a photo taken while he was in the service, that he needs to marry the glamorous, youthful Lisa before it’s too late. She does so in the middle of massaging the gray-haired forty-six year old and calling him “young” also, presumably facetiously. Grace Kelly (25 at the time) looks just about as beautiful as a human being possibly can as she lounges around in gorgeous fashions and gets excited about breaking and entering, and she’s a delight. The limited setting for this one also means a limited main cast, as only five characters ever pass through Jeff’s apartment, where all of the film takes place, although the extended cast does a lot with the little pieces of their lives that we get to see, and the fact that this whole thing was done on a soundstage is also unbelievable. The complexity of it all looks so simple, and it’s pure movie magic. Rear Window is a top-tier Hitchcock and a classic picture in its own right.

-Mark “Boomer” Redmond