Becky
by Hope Madden, MaddWolf.com
Finally, someone truly understands what it’s like to be an incredibly angry adolescent girl.
At the very least, Jonathan Milott and Cary Murnion’s film Becky understands enough to be afraid of her.
The titular 13-year-old, played with convincing charisma by Lulu Wilson, is a handful for her widowed father (Joel McHale). Still, dad has decided this is the weekend to take Becky for a getaway with his girlfriend (Amanda Brugel), and her 5-year-old (Isaiah Rockcliffe). They head to the old vacation cabin for a big talk.
He soon finds that his 13-year-old may not be the scariest thing on earth.
Or, you know what? Maybe she is.
Kevin James plays against type as a swastika-tatted up inmate, leader of a band of escapees. James may be hoping to catch the same mid-career fire Vince Vaughn has been fanning, mainly portraying the heavy in various indie thrillers. Early scenes play well, James cutting a solemnly menacing figure as he quietly organizes and orchestrates. But as the film wears on it becomes clear the actor can’t manage the sinister energy needed to really make an impression.
I’ll take this over Paul Blart, though.
Robert Maillet’s a lot of fun, though. At 6’10”, the one-time wrestler dwarfs even the gangly McHale. He’s no master thespian, but his arc creates a spectacular punctuation for Becky’s own transformation and his sheer immensity brings a little needed anxiety to the film.
The writing team, which includes Lane and Ruckus Skye of the brilliant and as-of-yet undistributed Devil to Pay (originally titled Reckoning), cheats a little with this script. Backstories, motivations and mysteries—particularly as they articulate the villainous characters—feel less undefined than lazily obscured. Between that and James’s inability to truly sell the viciousness in his character, the family’s jeopardy lacks the intensity it needs for this film to truly impress.
Wilson does not. In her hands, Becky is a fascinating character, and it is with this character that the writing team and directors score the most points. The film is bloody, angry and, even for its fairly formulaic premise, unpredictable.
https://youtu.be/Ymt6c-h9pgY
Shirley
by Hope Madden, MaddWolf.com
I’m not sure which thrilled me more, that Elisabeth Moss was set to portray the great Shirley Jackson, or that Josephine Decker was slated to direct.
If you’re not familiar with Decker, give yourself the gift of her 2014 minor miracle Thou Wast Mild and Lovely. Decker’s languid style seduces you, keeps you from pulling away from her films’ underlying tensions, darkness, sickness. She specializes in that headspace that mixes the story as it is and the story as it’s told, which makes her a fitting guide for Susan Scarf Merrell’s fictionalized account of this slice of Jackson’s life.
Which brings us to Moss, quickly ascending the ranks of “best actors of our generation” into the rarified air of “genius.” Moss has proven time and again that she can inhabit any character with a fearlessness that allows her to disappear and the character to emerge, fully human. Such is the case with the enigmatic, damaged and brilliant Jackson.
Shirley takes us into the period where the already reclusive writer begins work on her novel Hangsaman.
This stretch of time coincides with the arrival of some help
for Jackson’s husband Stanley Hyman (Michael Stuhlbarg). The couple will be
opening their home to Stanley’s new teaching assistant (Logan Lerman), and his pregnant
wife, Rose (Odessa Young).
The film’s plot follows Jackson’s relationship with Rose,
which develops in tandem with her newest manuscript. The friendship unveils unkind
truths about power, sexual politics and other uglinesses that Jackson always
mined so formidably in her creepiest work.
Decker manipulates the pacing, melancholy and sensuality of
her tale beautifully, drawing a stirring performance from Young. But my god,
what she gets from Moss and Stuhlbarg.
To witness two such remarkable talents sparring like this,
aided by a biting script that offers them ample opportunity to wade into the
sickness and dysfunction of this marriage—it’s breathtaking.
The result is dark and unseemly, appropriately angry and gorgeously told—fitting tribute to the author.
