Alice McDermott, 70, writer There are three kinds of novels I’ve never taken to heart: science fiction, murder mysteries and novels about novelists. So I’ve decided to try my hand at each. If I fail, they’re probably not books I’d want to read anyway. Thurston Moore, 65, musician and author I’m putting the final touches […] More
Alice McDermott, 70, writer There are three kinds of novels I’ve never taken to heart: science fiction, murder mysteries and novels about novelists. So I’ve decided to try my hand at each. If I fail, they’re probably not books I’d want to read anyway. Thurston Moore, 65, musician and author I’m putting the final touches […] More
Alice McDermott, 70, writer There are three kinds of novels I’ve never taken to heart: science fiction, murder mysteries and novels about novelists. So I’ve decided to try my hand at each. If I fail, they’re probably not books I’d want to read anyway. Thurston Moore, 65, musician and author I’m putting the final touches […] More
In this cheerfully unambitious vampire movie, a bloodsucker is shut up in an old mansion with some nitwit criminals. Will there will be gore? You bet.A cheerfully obvious splatterthon, the new horror movie “Abigail” follows a simple, time-tested recipe that calls for a minimal amount of ingredients. Total time: 109 minutes. Take a mysterious child, one suave fixer and six logic-challenged criminals. Place them in an extra-large pot with a few rats, creaking floorboards and ominous shadows. Stir. Simmer and continue stirring, letting the stew come to a near-boil. After an hour, crank the heat until some of the meat falls off the bone and the whole mix turns deep red. Enjoy!That more or less sums up this movie, a horror flick that’s serviceable enough to make you occasionally giggle or flinch, yet is also so aggressively unambitious that it scarcely seems worth griping about. It centers on the kidnapping of the title character (a fine Alisha Weir), an outwardly self-possessed 12-year ballerina who’s snatched one night by a half-dozen genre types. A formulaically diverse cohort of underworld bottom feeders (played by Dan Stevens, among others), these Scooby-Doo-ish chuckleheads come with divergent skills, histories and expiration dates, and are largely tasked with padding the reed-thin story and dying horribly.The filmmakers — it was written by Stephen Shields and Guy Busick, and directed by Matt Bettinelli-Olpin and Tyler Gillett — have outfitted the story with the usual particulars. Much of the movie unfolds inside a sprawling labyrinthine mansion that looks like it was imagineered by an amusement park designer who scanned some old horror movies while thumbing through picture books on the history of the European aristocracy. There are suits of armor flanking the front door, a bearskin rug on the floor, an empty coffin tucked in a corner and oddly, given the genre circumstances, some fresh garlic in an otherwise derelict kitchen.We are having trouble retrieving the article content.Please enable JavaScript in your browser settings.Thank you for your patience while we verify access. If you are in Reader mode please exit and log into your Times account, or subscribe for all of The Times.Thank you for your patience while we verify access.Already a subscriber? Log in.Want all of The Times? Subscribe. More
Minhal Baig’s third feature follows two boys living in a public housing complex in Chicago as they cope by building their own dream worlds.The two boys in the gauzy nostalgia piece “We Grown Now” are total charmers. They’re also worryingly vulnerable, something you clock soon after the movie opens. Set in 1992, it takes place primarily in Cabrini-Green, at the time a public housing development in Chicago. There, the boys frolic and dream amid cinder block walls. Every so often, they wander outside to the concrete playground and to a jumble of old mattresses that the local kids use as cushioning. One boy likes to vault through the air and onto the mattresses; he likes to fly.The two boys are around 10 years old, and the closest of friends. They live in the same broken-down tower building, one of several in the complex, where sometimes they hang out in an abandoned apartment. There, they like to talk and stare at the stained and cracked ceiling, conjuring up visions from it the way they might do under the sheltering dome of the sky. Malik (Blake Cameron James) turns out to be an especially dreamy child, a pint-size philosopher who lives with his loving mother (Jurnee Smollett), doting grandma (S. Epatha Merkerson) and sister (Madisyn Barnes), a typical if benign sibling thorn in his side.For his part, Malik’s best friend, the more prosaically drawn Eric (Gian Knight Ramirez), lives with his older sister (Avery Holliday) and their father (Lil Rel Howery), a kindly fount of praise and disappointment. The friendship between Eric and Malik — the child performers are dear — is one of the truest parts of the movie, and it’s easy to fall quickly into step with them as they wander Cabrini, head to school and one day briefly escape from their routine. Bored one day while in class, the boys jump on a train and eventually make it to the Art Institute of Chicago, where they roam its galleries, at one point pausing before Walter Ellison’s striking painting “Train Station,” a 1935 canvas that depicts a segregated terminal.Their interest in the painting is easy to believe: It’s beautiful, arresting and at once familiar and mysterious (as the child of a former museum guard, I can relate). At the same time, like so much of this movie, the scene also feels forced, partly because the writer-director Minhal Baig’s expressionistic reveries don’t always fit with the issues she recurrently invokes. When the boys run through the museum, the other patrons remain frozen in place, as if they were in a different dimension. Yet when Malik connects the painting to his grandmother’s home in Mississippi, he opens a window onto a profound history that’s too heavy for this otherwise fanciful scene. He also sounds more like a filmmaking conceit than a child, however wise.We are having trouble retrieving the article content.Please enable JavaScript in your browser settings.Thank you for your patience while we verify access. If you are in Reader mode please exit and log into your Times account, or subscribe for all of The Times.Thank you for your patience while we verify access.Already a subscriber? Log in.Want all of The Times? Subscribe. More
In this ultimately sentimental drama, a lonely fashion magazine editor in Tokyo meets a personal trainer with a secret.Kosuke (Ryohei Suzuki), the protagonist of Daishi Matsunaga’s “Egoist,” is a lonely fashion magazine editor in Tokyo, with high cheekbones and deep pockets. When he meets and falls for Ryuta (Hio Miyazawa), a fresh-faced personal trainer, it all seems like a dream — until Ryuta reveals that he moonlights as a prostitute to make ends meet, and that their romance complicates his livelihood. Kosuke makes a proposition: He’ll give Ryuta a monthly stipend to cover his expenses.It’s the perfect set up for a juicy erotic thriller. But “Egoist,” adapted from the novel of the same name by Makoto Takayama, has many surprises in store, not all of them pleasant. Halfway through the movie, a tragic twist turns what seems like a sexy romance full of intrigue into a sentimental (albeit handsomely performed) drama about loss.Suzuki and Miyazawa have crackling chemistry, and they turn in delicate, finely tuned performances that are sometimes undercut by the script’s broad strokes and unsubtle flourishes. When we first meet Kosuke, his designer outfits, puffed chest and sad eyes show all we need to know; his voice-over, which tells us that clothes are his “armor,” is redundant. So are the film’s many montages underlining Ryuta’s plight — he toils at multiple jobs to care for his sick mother — that reduce the character to something of a sob story.Class is the central theme in “Egoist”: Kosuke and Ryuta’s star-crossed romance shows us how money, and the struggle to make ends meet, can complicate even the most genuine love. But as the film leans into melodrama, it loses both its friction and frisson, and a steaming-hot premise turns into something cold to the touch.EgoistNot Rated. In Japanese, with subtitles. Running time: 2 hours. In theaters. More
On a recent Tuesday night in a dressing room of the Brooklyn Paramount Theater, Annie Clark, the 41-year-old musician who records as St. Vincent, thumbed through a shelf of secondhand records and sipped a glass of pink champagne. Clark, invited to D.J. the venue’s grand reopening party, was the room’s first inhabitant since a major renovation restored the former movie palace; a pristine, new-car smell lingered.Holding court among a few members of her team and her 23-year-old sister, Clark was an attentive host in this antiseptic space, ready with a witty remark (the carefully curated LPs were probably “someone’s deceased grandma’s record collection”) or a topped-off beverage. She wore a cream-colored silk blouse, black kitten-heeled shoes and a gauzy black bow tied artfully around her neck.Even in a moment of relative repose, Clark possessed a feline hyper-awareness of her surroundings. Dave Grohl, who plays drums on two tracks off St. Vincent’s blistering new album “All Born Screaming,” later told me in a phone interview, “When you’re talking to her and you’re looking in those eyes, you can only wonder what reels are whirring in her brain, every second.” He added, amused, “I’ve never seen her with her eyelids half closed.”Clark is a gifted and nimble guitarist with a dexterously spiky playing style that contrasts with the moony smoothness of her voice. She is also known for the absolute commitment of her live performances. “What she does is so transformative,” said the musician Cate Le Bon, Clark’s close friend of over a decade, in a video interview. “When I see her play, it freaks me out sometimes. I can be even helping her get ready for a show, and it’s like I know nothing of the woman who’s onstage.”“All Born Screaming” began with a sonic puzzle: “How do I render the sound inside my head?”Raphael Dias/Getty ImagesSeven albums and 17 years into an acclaimed solo career, Clark has eked out a singular space in music, occasionally intersecting with the mainstream but for the most part staying uncompromisingly countercultural. She has collaborated with both David Byrne and Dua Lipa; the riot grrrl pioneers Sleater-Kinney and the post-post-riot-grrrl pop star Olivia Rodrigo. She was one of four female musicians asked to front Nirvana for a night in 2014 when the band was inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. “She’s obviously outrageously talented,” Grohl said. “For her to play a Nirvana song was, maybe, a lot less complicated than her own music.”We are having trouble retrieving the article content.Please enable JavaScript in your browser settings.Thank you for your patience while we verify access. If you are in Reader mode please exit and log into your Times account, or subscribe for all of The Times.Thank you for your patience while we verify access.Already a subscriber? Log in.Want all of The Times? Subscribe. More
