Aurelia Butler

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    ‘Stealing Pulp Fiction’ Review: A Lowbrow Homage

    A couple of loser cinephiles concoct a dumb heist plan, and hilarity is the last thing that ensues.Quentin Tarantino’s first two films, “Reservoir Dogs” and “Pulp Fiction,” had a galvanic effect not just on American independent film but movies the world over. From 1995 on, you couldn’t go to a film festival without tripping over several “Dogs” or “Pulp” impersonations, none of them a patch on the real thing. To be fair, one or two of the perpetrators of such items, Joe Carnahan to name a noteworthy example, grew into makers of more distinctive and enjoyable work. But the counterfeiters were, and mostly remained, a drag.“Stealing Pulp Fiction” is an overt Tarantino homage. Written and directed by Danny Turkiewicz, it concerns a few Tarantino-obsessed cinephiles who believe they can make a fortune by kidnapping the director’s personal print of his film and holding it for ransom. A witless duo, played by Jon Rudnitsky and Karan Soni, enlist a snarky female pal who objects to Tarantino on misogyny and thievery grounds; they also reel in the therapist of Rudnitsky’s character. These two are played by Cazzie David and Jason Alexander, but their high-octane comedic talents elevate the proceedings not a whit.Said proceedings eventually involve Tarantino himself, played by a gentleman named Seager Tennis, who, to paraphrase James Thurber, looks as much like Quentin Tarantino as Calvin Coolidge does the MGM lion.Turkiewicz apes Tarantino’s great film by giving chapter titles to its sections and setting multiple scenes in a diner. These sequences don’t resemble “Pulp Fiction” so much as they do television ads for Chili’s — a locale where you’ll have a better time than watching this utterly misbegotten movie.Stealing Pulp FictionNot rated. Running time: 1 hour 18 minutes. In theaters. More

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    Pam Tanowitz’s Dance ‘Pastoral’ Weaves Beethoven and More

    Tanowitz’s new dance, made with the painter Sarah Crowner and the composer Caroline Shaw, premieres at the Fisher Center at Bard College.What exactly is the pastoral, that tradition from about Virgil to Wendell Berry and beyond that devotes itself to nature? And can it even exist in a honking, smoggy metropolis?The choreographer Pam Tanowitz welcomes questions like these in her latest work, “Pastoral,” which premieres on Friday at the Fisher Center at Bard College. In her signature blend of classical ballet and free-form modern dance, it is set to a reworking of Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony, nicknamed the “Pastoral,” by the composer Caroline Shaw, with décor by the painter Sarah Crowner that puts nature front and center.All three of these artists live in New York City, and while “Pastoral” draws from Beethoven in name, it pulls equally from their daily work and lives. It is also, for a dance, uncommonly engaged with the vocabulary of visual art. One late spring morning, with the fog low and cow daisies high in the Hudson Valley, Tanowitz strode into rehearsal with a book under her arm of Nicolas Poussin, the 17th-century French painter of allegorical and historical scenes.“We have two tableaus in this dance,” Tanowitz said, describing scenes in which her dancers arrange themselves into a particular formation and hold it, facing the audience. “And this is what I want those moments to feel like,” she said, flipping to Poussin’s “A Dance to the Music of Time.”From left, the artist Sarah Crowner, the composer Caroline Shaw and Tanowitz.Lauren Lancaster for The New York TimesIn that painting, four youthful figures frolic in a hillside clearing. They are mid-hop, the hands joined into a maypole ring, backs to one another, togas billowing in colors not too far from the lavenders and combinations evoking pink lemonade and smoked salmon that are used by Reid Bartelme, the costumer for “Pastoral.”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

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    ‘Ponyboi’ Review: The Cost of Living Authentically

    In this gritty film by River Gallo, an intersex character has to navigate New Jersey gangsters and double crosses.Classic neo-noir motifs are upended by a rare antihero in “Ponyboi,” thanks to its titular character: an intersex sex worker.Ponyboi’s job servicing regular clients is a dangerous necessity that offers him access to hormones to maintain his male identity. They’re supplied by Vinnie (Dylan O’Brien, perfectly smarmy), a pimp running a prostitution ring out of a laundromat in New Jersey. Predictably, a high-stakes death occurs, leaving Ponyboi (River Gallo, who wrote the screenplay) to confront the cost of living authentically.A fractured relationship with his father haunts him from the start. In a flashback, Ponyboi jolts awake after remembering his dad placing a cowboy hat on his head and promising he’d grow into a “big, strong man.” Amid this macho posturing is Bruce (Murray Bartlett). Seemingly conjured from Ponyboi’s imagination, Bruce is a drifting embodiment of human decency, moving through the film like a cool breath against the heat. Their scenes together are welcome dreamlike escapes.Directed by Esteban Arango, “Ponyboi” mimics the visual style and thematic tropes of pulpy crime noir (think “Blood Simple” and “Drive”), from double crosses to a past that torments its gritty protagonist. What better distillation of old-school manliness than sleazy swagger and neon-lit vendettas? Yet Gallo’s star-making turn pushes back against this version of hypermasculinity, reshaping genre conventions that have privileged rigid gender binaries. Watching Gallo carve out space for Ponyboi is its own kind of powerful assertion.PonyboiRated R for explicit drug use, graphic sexual content, nudity, strong language and scenes of violent abuse. Running time: 1 hour 43 minutes. In theaters. More

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    ‘My Mom Jayne’ Review: An Exceptional Family Tale

    Mariska Hargitay sets out to learn about her mother, the Hollywood actress Jayne Mansfield, through intimate conversations with her siblings.When Mariska Hargitay was three years old, her mother, the Hollywood star Jayne Mansfield, was killed in a car accident. Hargitay was seated beside her brothers in the back of the vehicle, and was lodged under a seat during the crash. She was almost left behind by rescuers, until her brother asked about her. In her moving documentary “My Mom Jayne,” Hargitay relays this past trauma with a mixture of sorrow and gratitude.Best known for starring as Olivia Benson, the dogged detective in “Law & Order: SVU,” Hargitay begins the film — her feature directorial debut — by explaining that she set out to learn about Mansfield, the mother she hardly knew. But instead of the typical biographical approach of interviewing historians and writers, Hargitay sits down for intimate conversations with her three elder siblings, whose testimonies she pairs with archival material depicting Mansfield’s life in the public eye.As Hargitay shows, the grainy footage tells one story while the family’s recollections tell another. Over her career, Mansfield curated an image of a ditsy coquette. She affected a Minnie Mouse speaking voice and received leering men with a genial giggle. This performance of vacuity belied Mansfield’s profound intellect and talents as a classically trained violinist, but it was an easier sell in Hollywood, and so she used the persona as a stepladder to climb to the top.For much of her life, Hargitay judged her mother for these acts, and although she doesn’t draw a line from Mansfield’s work as an actress to her own, it’s tempting to wonder whether Hargitay’s powerhouse role in “SVU” was a disavowal of the blonde bimbo archetype. It’s this tension that makes “My Mom Jayne” as much an experiment in autobiography as in biography, closer in kind to Sarah Polley’s “Stories We Tell” than the polished or salacious celebrity profiles clogging up streaming platforms.Like that predecessor, “My Mom Jayne” eventually builds to a brave personal disclosure where Hargitay shows how the mysteries encircling her mother’s life complicated her own identity as a daughter and sister. She makes the revelation with gentle courage, in a spirit of honesty and appreciation for the small ring of people who loved her family enough to avoid sharing the information.Folded into the project are questions about what defines a person’s legacy. Is it the face one puts on for the world or the private one shared with kin? Since Hargitay has little memory of Mansfield, how does she reconcile her mother’s many selves? Hargitay explores these ideas in voice-over, and settles on a generous understanding of Mansfield that centers on her talent for music. These efforts offer a clean conclusion, but it is the exquisitely relatable messiness of this exceptional family tale that lingers.My Mom JayneNot rated. Running time: 1 hour 45 minutes. Watch on Max. More

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    ‘M3gan 2.0’ Review: Back to Slay Another Day

    Everyone’s favorite campy killer doll returns in a movie that has some thoughts about artificial intelligence.The “M3gan” franchise — look, we all know there’s going to be a “3.0” — is the opposite of serious. In 2022, the first film played on the time-tested horror trope of the killer doll, adding an artificial intelligence twist. It became an instant camp classic, owing largely to clips from the trailer that were meme-ified all over the internet, especially its queer corners. Critics even loved it, probably because it clearly knew what kind of flamboyant nonsense it was aiming for and leaned all the way in.“M3gan 2.0” is no more serious than the original, but occasionally feels like it’s trying to be. When we last saw Gemma (Allison Williams, still sincere and excellent) and her tween niece Cady (Violet McGraw), they were picking up the pieces of their lives after M3gan, the A.I.-powered android that Gemma programmed to protect Cady, followed her prime directive so single-mindedly that she wreaked total havoc on their lives. Now, two years later, Gemma has become an author and an advocate for legislation and safeguards in A.I. development, and she carefully monitors Cady’s tech usage.This is an interesting turn of events for a movie like this, because it seems to take Gemma’s concerns seriously, laying out convincing arguments for not leaving all the A.I. development to profit-obsessed tech bros. Watching “M3gan 2.0,” I got the sense someone had done their homework, thinking about the ways that rhetoric about enhancing mankind’s future and creating a better world can, and do, function as a smoke screen for less altruistic ends. Once in a while, I caught myself thinking this movie was more grounded in the reality of A.I. in our world than films like the “Mission: Impossible” series.But it’s still a killer doll movie. With her labmates (Brian Jordan Alvarez and Jen Van Epps), Gemma is still developing products designed to help humans live in this brave new world, like a kind of exoskeleton that increases human stamina and strength. She’s also struck up an ambiguously warm relationship with the tech ethicist Christian (Aristotle Athari). But when a mysterious weapon named Amelia (Ivanna Sakhno) turns up abroad, and a billionaire (Jemaine Clement) starts sniffing around Gemma’s lab, it’s clear things are going go to sideways.In returning to M3gan’s world, the screenwriter and director Gerard Johnstone repeats some of the same formula, most notably the reappearance of the deranged A.I. doll (once again performed by Amie Donald and voiced by Jenna Davis). It’s still camp galore, with lines designed to be meme-ified again, and a lot of elaborate silliness. There’s acrobatic fighting; there’s a dance scene; there’s a hilarious nod to an A.I. product that notoriously flopped in the real world.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

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    ‘Hot Milk’ Review: Mommy Issues

    Emma Mackey and Fiona Shaw star in this drama about a young woman in a codependent relationship with her disabled mother.Under a forgiving light, “Hot Milk” plays like a surrealist comedy about a 25-year-old British woman who is too depressed to finish her thesis. Sofia (Emma Mackey) lives with her mother, Rose (Fiona Shaw), in southern Spain. Groups of girls practice flamenco near the rocky beach where Sofia broods in solitude, and the neighbor’s dog, which is chained up to the roof, never stops barking.And one day Ingrid (Vicky Krieps), a bisexual manic-pixie-horse-girl from Germany, enters Sofia’s life and quickly breaks down her defenses with an annoyingly whimsical flirtation style. How are we supposed to react when, for instance, the two women enjoy a moody moonlit tryst and Ingrid breathily declares that she once killed someone?Baffling choices like these make “Hot Milk,” the directorial debut of the playwright and screenwriter Rebecca Lenkiewicz, hard to take seriously. The film, adapted from the novel by Deborah Levy of the same name, is a tonal scramble, which makes the story’s intended throughline — Sofia’s toxic, codependent relationship with Rose — feel unexpected once it finally takes control of the narrative.The mother and daughter are in Spain indefinitely to meet with the renowned Doctor Gómez (Vincent Perez). Mysteriously, Rose is unable to walk, but as her treatment with the doctor continues, her disability seems to be linked to stranger psychological issues — and, perhaps, a desire to control Sofia.Shaw, at the very least, is a hypnotizing and treacherous presence, her seemingly guileless prattle masking deep trauma and cruelty. Mackey, despite flashes of ferocity, feels miscast. Beautiful and angsty, her Sofia doesn’t carry the story’s psychological layers about manipulation and masochism. The film eventually finds its footing, but the journey there might convince you not to care.Hot MilkRated R for sex, nudity, and psychological trauma. Running time: 1 hour 32 minutes. In theaters. More

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    ‘F1 The Movie’ Review: Brad Pitt Goes Zoom

    In tanned, tousled form, the actor stars in a Formula One story about fast cars, last chances and pretty people by the director of “Top Gun: Maverick.”Set in the world of Formula One racing, the easy, oh-so breezy “F1 The Movie” wants you to believe that it’s about winning and losing, talent and teamwork and all the tough love and hard work that go into Grand Prix glory. That’s the pitch, though there’s both more and less at play. An enjoyably arranged collection of all the visual attractions and narrative clichés that money can buy, “F1” is very simply about the satisfactions of genre cinema and the pleasures of watching appealing characters navigate fast, exotic cars that whine like juiced-up mosquitoes. It’s also about the pleasures of that ultrasmooth performance machine, Brad Pitt.At once calculated and almost touchingly sincere, the story is as formulaic as its title subject. Pitt plays Sonny Hayes, a driver who could’ve been, should’ve been, a world-class contender. Recruited for service by an old pal, Ruben (a silky Javier Bardem), Sonny gets one last proverbial chance to prove himself while facing the customary hurdles, including his past, a wary crew, a corporate tool and a hungry young rival. There are crackups, breakdowns, near-misses and some well-lit darkish nights (well, minutes) of the soul. Three women have decent speaking roles; all share at least one meaningful moment with Sonny.The whole sleek package is as hackneyed as it sounds, but when the cars and cameras zoom around the track, it scarcely matters. A great deal depends on your love of or maybe just tolerance for straightforward, ostentatious, professionally crafted spectacles that don’t ask much of you but time and money. In return, you get nearly three hours of fizzy drama, some superficial peeks into a rarefied world and a studiously casual, tousled and tanned Pitt in classic Hollywood Zen master mode. Much like the movie itself, which is an enjoyable metaphor for the filmgoing experience, Pitt’s star performance is nothing if not self-reflexive.To that end, the director Joseph Kosinski showcases Pitt like an old-studio attraction, bathing him in pretty light, putting him in signifying outfits — think of a coyly grinning, blue-jeaned Robert Redford circa the 1970s — and at times stripping off some of that clothing. Kosinski buffed Tom Cruise to a similar high gloss in “Top Gun: Maverick.” As in that movie, “F1” deploys its star for a classic setup between an individual and a community, one in which a loner-outsider rides in to deliver wisdom and near-mystical gifts. (The producers include Lewis Hamilton, a seven-time Formula One world champ, and Jerry Bruckheimer, who, with films like “Top Gun,” helped define modern American blockbuster cinema.)Written by Ehren Kruger, the veneer-thin story opens with Sonny at Daytona, where he awakes in his van next to the speedway, fires up Zeppelin’s “Whole Lotta Love” and runs winning circles around the competition. Not long after, his former track rival, Bardem’s Ruben, offers Sonny a chance to drive for a (fictional) losing Formula One team. Sonny takes it, sliding into an aerodynamic open-wheel ride amid some back story, character development, pro forma antagonism with a hotshot teammate, Joshua (Damson Idris), and a romance with the team’s technical director, Kate (Kerry Condon), all elements that the filmmakers use like brick mortar to help build what is effectively a series of races into a cohesive whole.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

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    Wet Leg Became Indie Superheroes Overnight. Now They’re Acting Like It.

    Taking the stage in a muscled power pose is a declaration of frontwoman confidence. And Rhian Teasdale is gleaming with it.When her band Wet Leg played at Market Hotel in Brooklyn this spring, she strode up in a dingy undershirt and some glorified tighty-whities, and flexed her biceps at the crowd — a stance somewhere between bodybuilder and Wonder Woman.Launching into the come-at-me lyrics of “Catch These Fists,” the pulsing lead single from the band’s upcoming album — “I don’t want your love, I just wanna fight” the chorus snarls — Teasdale, the rhythm guitarist, dropped her custom-made, bubble gum pink instrument, and flashed her guns again. Beside her, Hester Chambers, the college friend she started the band with, was playing lead guitar with her back to the audience (her version of a power move). When they got into “Chaise Longue,” the underground hit that put them on the map, they were both dancing and grinning.Since Wet Leg emerged three years ago, its trajectory into indie-rock stardom has been a series of almost absurd feats. Pals from the Isle of Wight, England — a far reach from a musical hot spot — the group saw its self-titled debut LP explode, a chart-topper in the United Kingdom that also earned two Grammys. “Chaise Longue,” perhaps history’s catchiest track about a grandfather’s upholstered chair, had vocal fans in Elton John, Lorde and Dave Grohl; seemingly overnight, Wet Leg ascended from dingy clubs to stadiums, opening for Foo Fighters and Harry Styles.This is a heady place to activate a sophomore album, “Moisturizer,” out July 11. Especially because, unlike the debut, which was mostly written by Teasdale and Chambers, the latest effort is the work of a five-piece — including Henry Holmes, the drummer; Ellis Durand, the bassist; and the multi-instrumentalist Joshua Mobaraki, who is also Chambers’s boyfriend.And though Chambers, the lead guitarist, is still a full-fledged member of the group, she has stepped back from the sort of promotion she did for the first album, when the two women were featured as soft-spoken musical partners in matching cottagecore dresses. They were billed as a duo, and now, “we’re definitely a band,” Teasdale said decisively.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