Mack Staton

Class and Passion Well, well, well, now ain’t love grand? Yes, it is —especially when it’s colorfully melodramatic and slippery when it’s wet. Love’s also grand when in bed with the genius of Sam Cooke singing “Nothing Can Change This Love,” the legendary Nancy Wilson singing “All My Tomorrows,” the perfect harmony of Anthony and the Imperials crooning “Tears on My Pillow,” and the sensuous Jackie Wilson singing the Berry Gordy penned “To Be Loved.” You get music for the heart and lots of late 50s and early 60s kissable lip stick and dazzling period fashion in Sylvie’s Love. At 114 minutes, director and writer Eugene Ashe’s new, love me till it hurts, romance will gently invite you in and charm you into spending the night. Tessa Thompson stars as the beautiful, ambitious and solid class Sylvie who is engaged to the solid class Lacy (Alano Miller), but falls desperately in love with the dashing but searching Robert played by the amazingly talented Nnamdi Asomugha who commands the screen with his magnetic presence. The chemistry between Tessa and Nnamdi is immediate and transformative. Their chemistry is reminiscent of the connection between Diana Ross and Billy Dee Williams in Lady Sings the Blues. The same chemistry that was lacking between Issa Rae and Lakeith Stanfield in The Photograph. But let’s blame that on the weak dialogue in The Photograph’s uneven though promising script. Interestingly enough, the dialogue in Sylvie’s Love is not exactly king of words, but fits the scope of the film and the façade of social simplicity the film choses as its focus. Viewing Sylvie’s Love is like being drowned in the noble life choices of a female headed moral-centric American film of the 40s and 50s. These movies based on things not said and actions not taken gave way to the more yes, I said it and did it movies that immerged in European films in the late 50s and American cinema mirrored in the mid/late 60s. But a sensational level of innocence and vulnerability disappeared with the earlier films. These female-led movies of the 40s and 50s often embraced a theme of class duality highlighting love complications between the haves and the ain’t gots or the tryin’ to gets. Think of numerous hanky ringers starring Joan Crawford, June Allyson or Susan Hayward. The object of Sylvie’s Love, Robert, is all for upward mobility with dreams of becoming a famous jazz musician. Sylvie comes from a solid family that dictates who she is to marry and the social circles she is to frequent. Being from different worlds sets up the perfect tension for Robert and Sylvie and this difference creates a revolving plot point on love’s complications. This plot point is revisited time and time again in the course of five maybe six years. Fortunately, in the name of love I only sighed once (deep sigh) for the movie to please move on. I thought I needed more just like we, yes, we, often do in real love. My deep sigh, however, was quickly assuaged by the beauty and gravity of the film’s engaging set design and the vivid cinematography of Decian Quinn. The acting is solid all around and the overall simplicity is its passionate strength. The ending is a bit complicated. It can easily be taken as syrupy sweet at a glance as the couple walk off happily into the sunset. But on closer inspection of the rosy glass, maybe everybody’s dream doesn’t come true. This being the case, maybe the class difference has turbulence around the corner, and in this way, class rivals the intensity of passion. Anyway, ain’t love grand?

Home Is Where the Horror Is In 1971 Gil Scott-Heron released the terrifyingly beautiful song Home Is Where the Hatred Is from his first studio album, Pieces of a Man. In January 2020, His House, a brilliant psychological horror-thriller, directed by Remi Weekes premiered at Sundance. His House, Remi Weekes’ directorial debut, and Scott-Heron’s song vibrate through my head as if they are organically intertwined. Never mind that Scott-Heron’s song signifies a junkie’s twilight horror and Weekes’ movie encapsulates the horrors of past and future ghosts; they both investigate global ills that skewer blood baths of systemic and cultural injustices. Scott-Heron’s song is not in His House but both movie and song dig deep into internal hauntings. His House stars Sope Dirisu as Bol and Wunmi Mosaku as Rial, a South Sudanese couple who flee their conflict ravaged country for asylum in London. Given conditional housing during process they experience an extraordinary haunting courtesy of ghosts from their past joined by ghosts conjured on the tempestuous journey over. Both Dirisu and Mosaku give amazingly controlled performances that convey the full measures of displacement, transition, assimilation and confrontations with apparitions. One such apparition is the gruesome presence of a falsely claimed daughter who drowned in transit. It is Bol who insists they stay despite the fearsome uninvited haunts who crash their house rent free. Rejecting Rial’s protestations, Bol is adamant and steadfast. He refuses to run. This is His House. Bol’s unwavering insistence on this being His House made me play the reggae infused song, It’s My House, a 1979 Ashford and Simpson masterpiece sung by Diana Ross. The song is neither horrific nor threatening but expounds ownership of a house from start to finish. A film that can immerse me in Gil Scott-Heron’s Home is Where the Hatred Is and Ross’ It’s My House has infiltrated my left brain, awakened my right brain and twisted what’s left of my heart. This is some feat from a film that is a tight 93 minutes. A sick special effects team of thirteen and the chronic cinematography of Jo Willems boldly bring on the horror and shock. Weekes’ screenplay, based on a story by Toby Venables and Felicity Evans, is a story that demands to be told and is deserving of Weekes’ virtuoso dialogue. What gives human texture to the horror is an unshakable love story between Bol and Rial. Their love transcends emotional division and cuts through constant situational trauma. Again, kudos to Remi Weekes’ script that flawlessly balances the fright, the emotion and the reality. His House lays a solid welcome mat and is easily one of the top ten movies of terror stricken 2020.

Snow White, White Snow, White World I initially called this review Snow White and the Seven Lies but seven doesn’t begin to count the number of Lies in this cold snow job movie. Follow me if you can. There is snow everywhere. The Lie is thematically set in an affluent snowy Canadian suburb. In this world whiteness informs the set production in addition to the chalky production design. The film’s brightness, seen through a strikingly clear lens, is a joint decision between director Veena Sud and cinematographer Peter Wunstorf. All considered, the look of the film is probably its strong point. But just what is its point? Let’s trudge through the snow. Be careful, don’t slip. Sam Ifrani (Cas Anvar) and his daughter, Brittany (Devery Jacobs), are Pakistanis who don’t quite fit into the whiteness of it all. But this plot point, though buried beneath the snow, will not go unpunished. Brittany will ultimately take the rap for upsetting the twisted divorced life of Jay (Peter Sarsgaard) and Rebecca (Mireille Enos). Shame on you, Brittany. We thought you were dead. We thought our daughter, Snow White, pushed you off the bridge. Why didn’t you die in the nice ice-covered river bordered by beautiful Blumhouse production snow? Our daughter went out of her way to Lie so you could see your boyfriend. I’m paraphrasing for clarity and sly humor, but this is actually the major plot of the film which leads to snowballing tensions. Snow White tells an avalanche of Lies to supposedly help her troubled friend, Brittany. But Snow White Lies so much that no one really knows what the truth is or in most cases cares. The Lie is the ultimate story of parents with means and access breaking the law and going to extremes to protect what is theirs. The audience may be conflicted because all this is done under the guise of innocence and familial reference. The future of Jay and Rebecca’s daughter, Kayla (Joey King), who I have understandably referred to as Snow White, must be secured at all costs. The character, Brittany, serves as a hot to trot snow piercer and her father Sam is brutally murdered by Rebecca and Jay for having traditional paternal actions. Momentarily, at the end, we think the abominable snowman standing in the middle of the snowstorm will not be acknowledged. But just as we think there is no justice in this winter wonderland, we hear sirens rushing the home of Snow White and family. The sirens are reflected in the whites of their eyes as they embrace in a victorious hug fest. We hope they cannot Lie out of this one. Or can they?

Less is More — More or Less Black Box, a blending of sci-fi and horror, entertains but does not beg for a second viewing. This, depending on perspective, may be good or bad—more or less. Emmanuel Osei-Kuffour’s directorial debut exceeds entry level filmmaking while remaining faithful to Blumhouse Productions’ modest budget protocol. Budget adherence is most evident in the scientific tech used for memory transference in the film. Mamoudou Athie, as always, gives a solid performance as does Phylicia Rashad who has morphed into the go-to mature beautiful evil woman actor of her era. The script, written by Osei-Kuffour and Stephen Herman, is basic though cerebral sci-fi enhanced by a horror element provided by Troy James as a contorted backwards walking man. Less would have been much more if adorable child actor, Amanda Christine, had been given half the dialogue she delivered well but alas all too often. Too much becomes annoying and distracts from the gut of the story. I know I will be villainized for my previous observation so I will now retreat to my Black Box—more or less.

In my mind’s eye, Evil Eye would have better vision had it focused more on the evil lover Sandeep (Omar Maskati) and less on the verbal battles between mother, Usha (Sarita Choudry), and daughter, Pallavi ( Sunita Mani). But this movie seeks to be a heartwarming bonding narrative at the expense of horror and a peek at plot logic.

Almost script by Mattson Tomlin - Almost wants to build a trope around Henrietta Lacks, almost wants to expose underground scientific experimentation on the oppressed, almost wants to reveal much needed back stories on major characters - almost. But almost doesn't count.