I Saw Ash!: Blurbing FTW 3/28/25

Having experienced more years than movies in theaters this decade (catching up, though), I assumed I'd write a stand-alone review any time I entered Nicole Kidman’s sacred space. But I can’t say Ash merits one. The movie, like more than a few, concerns a space crew drifting to the outer reaches of the galaxy in search of a new home for humanity. An intriguing discovery of alien life turns dark, with this new creature brutally offing everyone except a solitary strong lady. Or did she just go crazy? Is the movie paying homage to Alien, The Thing, Event Horizon or a mystery fourth option? If this all and Aaron Paul sounds like it could wait for streaming, you’re right.

Directed by Flying Lotus (charmingly sticking to his musical alias), Ash is full of startling inserts of loud noise and gooey carnage, which is endearing or annoying depending on your love of loud, sudden jumps and gooey carnage (the goo was bubbly and Cronenbergy enough that, in this case, I’ll allow it). The mood-lighting inside the space capsule and the screensaver surreality of the atmosphere outside will also live or die on your willingness to play along with the tropes. Vibe guy that I am, I was mostly on board until a twist that left me wondering why we saw one thing when it was another thing, who caused the thing and with what intent. You can’t have a plothole this big in a movie with such minor virtues. I once assumed I wouldn’t do popcorn ratings for movies still in theaters, but Ash was totally FOUR BAGS OF POPCORN, with a possibility of graduating to Popcorn Classic if I decide to indulge in the goo and jump cuts at home. 

I’m sure there were plotholes in Heretic too, but I’m overwhelmingly focused on the virtue of Hugh Grant showing how easily blockbuster romcom charm could be terrifying with a slight change of perspective. What if the arbitrary obsession of a Lloyd Dobler wasn’t what a Diane Court needed? What if Tom Hanks wasn't clearly waiting for a blind date with Meg Ryan? What if the ingratiating, wry Brit locked the door behind the woman wishing someone would appreciate her? When does a disarming stammer, sweet smile and a refusal to give up on you become a felony?

The answer is "very early into Heretic," with Grant's Mr. Reed only making us wonder how nefarious his intentions are with a pair of young Mormon missionaries. Inspiring this ambiguity is his delightfully interminable, cruelly interactive lecture on the nature of religion, which somehow incorporates Voltaire, Fanny Alger, and Lana Del Rey. I was giggly with delight during the My Kidnapping With Andre portion of the film, and frankly would have been fine with an extra half-hour of it and no horror beyond "this guy is lonely and created a Jigsaw house to force philosophical debate." Of course, the stakes eventually transcend that hypothetical Before Amber Alert, with Grant forced to mime wounds and convey emotions well beyond his wheelhouse. But for as long as this would-be educator's ambiguously not taking "no captain, my captain!" for an answer, Heretic is sweet evil. FIVE BAGS OF POPCORN.

And now, some Criterion biz.

Ghost Dog: The Way Of The Samurai. Forest Whitaker plays a hitman who pretends he’s a samurai, grudgingly forced to eradicate a club of retired Italian-American animation enthusiasts. The tragicomic tone of Jim Jarmusch's Wu-fantasy rests heavily on Whitaker’s wounded sincerity and burly gravitas; Danny McBride wouldn’t have to change a word to play it for laughs, and most actors would look foolish playing it straight. The mobsters lethally frustrated by this pigeon-employing man of honor are almost Lynchian in their stiff stupidity, Whitaker’s Ghost Dog traversing from a human-populated New York to their doddering shtick underworld in the name of warrior poetry. It's truly a credit to Whitaker that it took me as long as it did to realize how ridiculous the film was. FIVE BAGS OF POPCORN.

I saw Coffee And Cigarettes back when it hit DVD, and it holds up as a prix fixe brunch at Chez Jarmusch. Watching Cate Blanchett play cousins was an unfortunate reminder of how annoying a try-hard she used to be, and I'm only theoretically disappointed Jarmusch never remade a Road To... movie with The White Stripes. But Tom Waits making Iggy Pop feel like a schmuck? Alfred Molina making Steve Coogan realize he's a dick? Roberto Benigni refusing to acknowledge what Steven Wright's doing? RZA & GZA refusing to acknowledge what Bill Murray's doing? French actors and native New Yorkers in darling bits? I wish Jarmusch ran this format into the ground. POPCORN CLASSIC.

It's not hard to guess 1968's The Boston Strangler takes truly tacky liberties with the actual murders, and I was on the fence about even finishing the film for the first hour, a mixture of lurid intimations of sexual violence and procedural cliche (I stopped The Bird With The Crystal Plumage after realizing the most entertaining aspect was proof of how old Law & Order tropes are). But, whether his performance has jack-all to do with the actual Albert DeSalvo, Tony Curtis is gripping as a deadly dissociative man who can't grasp the depths of his cruelty. All Detective Henry Fonda can do when Curtis is on screen is watch. FOUR BAGS OF POPCORN.

I thought I was going to finish Collateral, despite my antipathy for Tom Cruise, my fondness for needling Michael Mann fans and my vague awareness Jamie Foxx has been accused of some ugly shit. I know I made it through twenty years ago! But when it was belatedly revealed that the cabbie's crush happens to be the killer's quarry, I stopped giving a shit. Like Billy Bob Thornton in Fargo (the show), Tom Cruise's Vincent seems awfully obtuse, trigger-happy and drama-prone for an alleged veteran assassin. At least No Country For Old Men's Anton Chigurh was supposed to be kind of unbelievable. And didn't have deep thoughts about jazz.

I forgot to acknowledge something I'm going to miss while I'm not subscribing to Netflix! Most of Guillermo Del Toro's anthology series Cabinet Of Curiosities fails to add up to more than ersatz, overlong Twilight Zone episodes (Zach Galifianakis could do such a cruel parody of Del Toro's introductions if he dared). But I adore Panos "MANDY!!!!" Cosmatos' The Viewing, where Peter Weller plays the Coolest Billionaire Ever, like a mellifluous cross between Gary Oldman's aging Dracula and the Dos Equis Guy. It's 1979, and he's invited the most fascinating late night TV guests he can think of (including Charlene Yi as a subtly assertive astrophysicist and Eric Andre as a more neurotic Quincy Jones) to see how the .00000000001% lives, and get their two cents on...well, it would be wrong to spoil. But if you have Netflix, think Mandy earned multiple exclamation points, and have any appreciation for Peter Weller, you should know or find out soon.

The popcorn ratings are explicated here. If you think there's something I should see on Criterion (or elsewhere), I'd appreciate the tip! That, or anything else you're compelled to share, should be sent to anthonyisright at gmail dot com.