Welcome to the film-related musings, complaints, and comments of Zack Clopton, an amateur film-critic, scholar, and screenwriter. Featured here are Director's Report Cards, essays, and other reviews. Enjoy!
Last of the Monster Kids
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From my position as a lowly nerd here in the United States, French science fiction has always meant something very specific. In the world of comic books, French artists like Jean Henri Giraud and publications like “Metal Hurlant” pushed forward visually innovative, graphically intense, and creatively detailed work. On the cinema side of things, filmmaker Rene Laloux would gain a cult following with surreal, wildly expressive animated films like “Fantastic Planet” and “Gandahar.” I don't know how many people are keeping that tradition alive today. We certainly don't get too many imports of that nature over here. However, we did get a prominent example this year with “Arco.” Thanks to a heavy advertising push from U.S. distributor NEON, which includes a star-studded dub of debatable quality, the film has gotten a lot of attention. That includes nominations for a Golden Globe and an Academy Award.
The film begins nearly 900 years in the future. Environmental disaster has led humanity to living in elaborate elevated structures in the clouds. Robotics have been outlawed but technology has still advanced to a fantastical level. This includes the ability to travel through time, which people do casually via flying rainbow-patterned suits. Time travel is off-limits to children but Arco Dorell, a ten year old boy, is still eager to experience it. He steals his older sister's flight suit, the gemstone that powers it, and sets off for the distant past. He arrives in the year 2075. In this time, humanoids robots perform most basic labor. Increasingly violent weather sees people living in domed cities. While her parents are away for work, young girl Iris is left with the family's robot butler to tend to her infant sibling. That is when she discovers Arco, who has crash-landed in this time and requires a new crystal to return home. The two youths grow closer, soon pursued by a mysterious trio of criminals and a local robotic police force, unaware of the circumstances surrounding Arco's arrival.
While never quite as wild looking as “Fantastic Planet,” “Arco” does feature some impressive visuals. Befitting a narrative so concerned with rainbows, the colors are exceptionally vivid. The film delights in putting as many flashy colors next to each other as possible. The trio of buffoonish antagonist all wear shiny, single color suits and prismatic sunglasses. The bright colors are paired with fluid animations, the characters moving in an expressive and stylized manner. This is further emphasized by the film moving at a higher frame rate than is traditional, making the movements more dynamic and striking. That “Arco” looks so darn nice is good, as it did take me a while to adapt to the particular character designs. Giving everybody such full, defined lips was a bit of an odd choice.
“Arco” pairs its brilliant colors with some imaginative science fiction settings. 2932 is so far off in the future that it allows the filmmakers to create truly fantastical technology. There are those cool sky structures, sloping straight lines with vegetation and homes build into them. People sleep in special cones of light that cause them to float. I do wish more of the movie took place in this time, where we could have seen more far-out ideas executed. That doesn't mean the slightly more contemporary 2075 setting doesn't also include some neat ideas. While Iris' parents are away, they communicate with her via life sized, interactive holograms. The everyday presence of robots is an interesting one, speaking with a voice that blends both parents and being powered by heart-shaped ports in their chest. I like that Mikki, Iris' family robot, is both so committed to protecting his charges but also a somewhat glitchy oddball who doesn't relate totally to human kind.
The film's ideas are imaginative but not too hard for the viewer to understand. This is reflective of how “Arco” pairs its science fiction premise with a more universal, simple idea. Despite being from different eras, Iris and Arco have a lot in common. They both feel unseen by their families. Her parents are always away and his status as the youngest excludes him. We only get a brief peek at Iris' life at school but she seems to be a bit of an outcast. Arco, stranded in a time that isn't his own, is similarly on his own. These are two lonely kids who, in each other, find someone who can finally understands them. The film gently bends towards a precocious romance between them, without overdoing it. An amusing detail includes one of Iris' classmates also having a crush on her, which the girl seems totally unaware of that.
Unfortunately, “Arco” is one of those movies with an interesting premise and a strong beginning that can't nail the last act. The film's antagonists are never truly fleshed out. They aren't a very serious threat, bickering among themselves and stumbling more often than they succeed. The English dub goes so far as to have Will Ferrall and Andy Samburg (plus, inexplicably, Flea) voice them, making it clearer that we aren't suppose to take these goofballs seriously. A race against time creates some high stakes for the finale but the film falls increasingly into a series of mostly farcical chases. The first time the movie does this, the trio's van flipping all around as it plummets down a hill, I was a amused. By the time everyone is outrunning a whole horde of robots through the winding halls of a high tech facility, it starts to feel a bit much. The story then concludes on an oddly low-key note, an epilogue taking up more screen time than was probably advisable.
I would have preferred to watch the film with its original French audio. The English dub is distracting at times. I like Natalie Portman and Mark Ruffalo but neither seem that committed to the material, once again a studio making the mistake of favoring big name actors who might not have much experience with voice work over performers more suited to these techniques. Despite that and a second half that doesn't totally work for me, “Arco” is still a lovely, creative, and often touching adventure. I look forward to what director Ugo Bienvenu does next. The film arose out of his sketches, which proves that his imagination is a strong one. [7/10]
The world of animation can be a delightful, unexpected place once you step outside the shallow frame work of big budget American stuff. Internationally, an animated feature can capture all sorts of tones and stories. Unless you are especially plugged into the world of French cartooning, "Little Amélie or the Character of Rain" was probably not on your radar at the start of last year. It is an independent production from Maïlys Vallade, the director of short "The Lighthouse Keeper," and Liane-Cho Han, a storyboard artist and animator who has worked on "The Illusionist" and "The Little Prince." Not big names, in other words. After getting picked up domestically by GKIDS, who have really established themselves as the face of quirky overseas animation in this country, the previously overlooked film suddenly became a serious contender for a Best Animated Feature Oscar. Maybe not quite the insane, out-of-nowhere success story of last year's "Flow" but pretty dang cool anyway.
An intelligent consciousness emerges out of the universe and claims to be God. It incarnates in the body of Amélie, an infant recently born to a Belgian family living in 1960s Japan. After "thousands of years" of silently observing the world from within an invisible bubble, Amélie begins to cry and interact with her parents and siblings. Frustrated with being treated like a baby, it's only after her grandmother gives her a white chocolate bar that Amélie reveals her unusual intelligence to her family. Now talking eloquently and running around, she begins to learn a lot about the world. That her older brother is a brat, that rain is fabulous but water can be dangerous, that a carp is an ugly fish. That people do not live forever. In particular, she bonds with Nishio-san, the family's live-in Japanese housekeeper. As their friendship grows closer, Amélie and Nishio are tested by the boundaries of physical space and Kashima-san, the landowner who still holds onto resentment of outsiders from the war.
The central metaphor of "Little Amélie" is both highly amusing and grounded. When a child is first born and has no understanding of other people or the outside world, they truly do believe themselves to be the center of the universe. When Amélie describes herself as God, it's an unavoidable expression of a mind that is new to existing. Despite her claimed omniscience and immortality, she doesn't understand concepts like death, national boundaries, or the division between reality and fantasy. She is, in other words, a baby: Utterly self-centered but completely new to the world existing around her. The contrast between what Amélie thinks about herself and what she sees with how she actually acts provides both humor and pathos. "The Character of Rain" is a story about her learning about life, like a hundred coming-of-age stories before it. By assuming the perspective of this unusually precocious child, the film approaches its premise of a newborn realizing she isn't the most important thing in the world but that she matters nevertheless in a fresh, funny, interesting way.
Maybe I'm giving the French too much credit but, if an American had made "Little Amélie," you can imagine its premise being played in a more grounded way. Amélie would think herself a God but she would still be a newborn, with all the physical and mental limitations that come with that. Europeans have more whimsy in their heart than that. This means Amélie is both just a child and also possessed of a cosmic intelligence. She stands up and addresses all her family members by name, something that both surprises them and doesn't seem worthy of further comment. The child has surreal visions of the world, the effects of which on those around her seem to vary from scene to scene. The film happily operates with a degree of magical realism, existing in more-or-less the real world but with unpredictable interventions of fantasy.
The film is based on a partially autobiographical novel by a French-speaking Belgian woman who grew up in Asia. Personal details on co-director Liane-Cho Han are scarce but we know he lived and worked in France, currently resides in Denmark, and has a Chinese name. The cross-cultural elements of this story are very personal to its creators, clearly. Nishio teaches Amélie about Japanese folklore, about the meaning of her name in the local language, and the Obon ritual of floating a lantern down a river to honor the dead. When the child is told that her family isn't actually Japanese, and will return to Belgium some day, it confuses and frustrates her. Kashima-san, meanwhile, is stern towards the immigrants, still haunted by memories of World War II. She certainly doesn't consider Amélie Japanese. This is resolved in a quiet, touching way later on but it points towards a more interesting idea. Cultural identities are not set by borders. We are more the results of the people we know and the world around us than our nationality or race, boundaries that can easily be crossed by love and understanding.
“Little Amélie” also shows a clear multi-cultural element in its animation. Studio Ghibli and Rémi Chayéhas have both been mentioned as influences, both of which are evident. The characters often have the big, expressive eyes of anime characters which are combined with the rich colors and painterly appearances of various European studios. Regardless of who inspired what, “The Character of Water” is gorgeous. The surreal flights of fantasy feature Amélie turning into a downpour of water, parting the sea, or the faces of her and her brother intermingling with cods breaking the surface of the water. Considering the important role rain and water play in the story, the film seeks similarly fluid and free-moving visuals. The blending of expressionistic colors and beautifully smooth movements makes the film a sight to behold, almost overwhelming in its loveliness at times.
I'm glad international animation like this gets the Academy's spotlight. It would be nice if films like these won Oscars more often too. Still, Vallade and Han are surely comforted by the fact that they made a wonderful film. “Little Amélie or the Character of Rain” is amazing to look at, funny, insightful, and fascinating. [9/10]
“Butterfly” is inspired by the life of Alfred Nakache, an Algerian-born, Jewish Olympic swimmer who lived in France in the thirties. It depicts an elderly man swimming out in the ocean. As he weaves in and out of the waves, he is flooded with memories of his life: Of learning to swim as a boy, of becoming an athlete and competing in the 1936 Berlin Olympic Games, where he came in ahead of the swimmers from Nazi Germany. He recalls meeting his wife and the birth of their daughter. He also remembers seeing the rise of fascism in Europe at the time. By the time the Occupation begins, he has been denied the option of swimming in public pools and soon is captured and sent to a prison camp. He is separated from his wife and daughter and never sees them again. The memories still haunt him to this day.
The first thing you'll notice about “Butterfly – so named because Nakache was a butterfly style swimmer – is its art style. The fifteen minute film was, like “Loving Vincent” and “The Peasants” before it, done entirely with hand-painted animation cells. The result is a film that seems to be in constant movie, the colors and locations blending in and out of each other much like the running water that surrounds the main character. I'll admit, I did find the simplistic character designs of the film a bit distracting. A moment when Nakache gets literal stars in his eyes upon seeing his future wife for the first time struck me as a bit corny. However, the painted animation does create an interesting, unique look for the film.
Unfortunately, I wish “Butterfly's” narrative was as striking as its visuals. The use of shifting and flowing animation is fitting for a story about both memory and swimming. However, I felt like I never got an emotional bead on the characters. The dream-like elements, places and people shifting together or changing form, is an extra layer of artifice between the viewer and the characters. The scene where Nakache is called slurs and denied entrance into the pool are effecting but feel like the only time we see him experiencing prejudice before being shipped off to the camps. The abrupt ending also means the film concludes without much in the way of a feeling of finality. This is probably intentional. Nothing can heal the pain of losing his wife and child in so horrible a condition. However, it does make the film feel vaguer than it needs to be. [6/10]
“Forevergreen” comes to us from Nathan Engelhardt and Jeremy Spears, an animator and storyboard artist who have worked on a laundry list of high-profile Disney and Blue Sky films. Unsurprisingly, the short is very much in that style. It concerns an abandoned or orphaned brown bear cub, wandering through a snowy forest. After stumbling over a cliff edge, the bear is rescued by a near-by towering pine tree. The ever green raises the cub, providing it with pine cones to eat and teaching it to foster a budding sapling. After getting a taste of some potato chips, via an almost empty bag blowing into the tree, the now adolescent bear decides it is tired of pine cones. The ursine teenager finds an abandoned campsite and begins to eat the improperly disposed of trash, unwittingly starting a fire in the process. His old pine tree friend/surrogate parent arrives to protect and save him again, in the only way it can. Everyone learns an important lesson.
The Disney/Pixar influence on "Forevergreen" is extremely obvious in its somewhat mawkish and heavy-handed story. It clearly functions as both a metaphor for parenting, much in "The Giving Tree" vein, and a story about environmental responsibility. And I guess about how junk food is bad for you. While the final title card uses a quote about friendship, the relationship between the bear and the tree is clearly meant to be a child/parent one. A young adult wanting independence and eventually fucking up, needing their parent to swoop in and save them despite it all being the child's fault, is a fairly standard narrative. A tree being a stationary thing does bring an interesting physical dimension to the final act but what follows is clearly another stand-in for how a parent will sacrifice everything for the kid they love. Like I said, it's not the least bit subtle.
Despite having the sappiness and commitment to tugging heart strings that you see in the worst Pixar shorts, I still kind of liked "Forevergreen." Mostly because the animation is neat. This is a digitally animated film but the character models are designed to have a weighted, rough, wooden look. Once again, CGI animators are figuring out that intentionally invoking puppetry or stop-motion animation is actually more appealing than hyper-realism. "Forevergreen" also plays out in a higher frame rate than animation usually does, adding to the intentionally stylized movements of the characters. I wish this interesting animation was attached to a less maudlin story but, at only eleven minutes long, I can handle it. [6/10]
“The Girl Who Cried Pearls” is another short that offers a lot on the surface but never quite comes together for me as a whole. It begins with a young girl, within an opulent mansion, searching through her grandfather's office. She uncovers a pearl in a keepsake box. He explains the story behind it. When he was a lad, he was homeless. To stay warm at night, he begins hiding outside the apartment of a family of three. From his spot, he can see the mother within beating her stepdaughter. When the girl is sad, she cries a perfect white pearl. The boy attempts to trade the pearl for cash at a pawn shop and the broker, after some haggling, agrees to give him a single dollar. He doesn't believe the boy's story but, when a jeweler confirms the pearl's excellent condition, the broker is eager to buy more. The boy quickly realizes that, in order to gain more pearls, he would have to make the girl within the apartment cry more. Which he doesn't want to do because he's falling in love with her.
While “Forevergreen” attempts to emulate the look of stop motion animation, “The Girl Who Cried Pearls” actually is. The animation is excellent, the characters moving with a surprising fluidity. The models have an intentional uncanny quality to them, giving an interesting feel of eeriness to the short. This is more apparent in the flashback sequence. During these moments, the characters are depicted with unmoving puppet faces, presumably because the grandfather is telling this tale and moving the characters like a puppeteer. The figures move within hyper-detailed settings that are impressively grimy. The amount of work and attention to detail that went into “The Girl Who Cried Pearls” is evident every minute of its runtime.
The story within is an interesting fable. This would seem to be about how, in order to make money in this world, we must compromise our ethics. The jeweler informs the broker of the story of Eve crying pearls upon exiting the garden of Eden, saying a pearl of sorrow is priceless. The broker sure is eager to put a price on it though. His cutthroat cheating of the lad, giving him dollars for something worth far more, points to what a untrustworthy character he is. His actions teach the lad to be similarly ruthless, apparent in the hard bargain he gives at the end. This is before a twist in the narrative that changes everything that came before. However, the short still ends on a sudden note of ambiguity. I feel like if another minute or two had been allowed to expand on some of these ideas to a fuller degree, I would like this one more. Still, pretty interesting and fantastic to look at. [7/10]
Probably the most understated of this year's animated short films, in both animation and content, is “Retirement Plan.” It is, simply, the recently retired Ray going down a list of all the things he plans to do now that he's no longer working. His long list of proposed activities vary wildly. He hopes to take better care of his body, organize his desk top, clean out his e-mails, read more, play more video games. He hopes to expand his horizons into new activities, like hiking and paragliding becoming knowledgeable about wine and attending an orgy. The grandiose plans the man has for his future are contrasted often with the reality of how these things will play out, often going less well than he expected. “Retirement Plan” goes further too, showing the man reaching the end of his life and beyond as well.
“Retirement Plan” nicely balances a quietly absurd sense of humor with some more pathos. Humor arises from both the specificity of the man's plans and how he often seems to revise his decisions. Whether he's actually making these choices in real time or simply imagining how they'll go is hard to say. Either way, the cuts from his plans to, say, enjoy hiking or get a pet to how that might actually play out are well timed. Domhnall Gleeson's voice over is quiet but pointed, especially in the choices of how the man specifies his plans. Such as becoming a wine expert but “not in an annoying way.”
At first, I wondered if even a seven minute long short could sustain a structure built entirely around listing activities. However, you notice that, after a while, the imagined version of the man begins to noticeably age. He's in a retirement home, soon enough. His announcement of “wanting to take better care of his body” contrasts grimly with his decaying physical form. Quietly, “Retirement Plan” comments on how what we plan for our futures and what we actually get are sometimes at odds. How what we think we want often is not what we expect. And how the little events in life sometimes become more meaningful when placed in a larger context. This is easily my favorite of 2026's crop of animated shorts. [9/10]
From Konstantin Bronzit, the director of 2014 nominee “We Can't Live Without Cosmos,” comes “The Three Sisters.” It concerns a trio of women, each one slightly taller than the other, that live on an isolated island. During a delivery of supplies, their bag of money tumbles into the ocean. With no other option for income, they decide to open up the fourth room in their home to a renter. A burly sailor soon arrives to take up the residence. Each of the sisters develop a crush on the man, all three competing to earn his attention. And he seems quite willing to give each of them the same treatment. This leads to conflict, both between the sisters and between what they all seem to want.
“The Three Sisters” is visually orientated almost like a comic strip. The camera usually looks onward on the small island and its inhabitants in profile. The film zooms in on events as they happen but largely maintains the far-off perspective. Also much like a comic strip, this progresses in a largely episodic fashion. Taking place over the course of a week, we see a different sister have an interaction with the sailor every night, usually with an amusing punchline at the end of the encounter. Such as the shortest sister passing out from apparent lust upon getting a whiff of the sailor's manly musk.
Ultimately, the intentional distance the short keeps between the viewer and the cast of characters makes it a little harder to get into its world. We never learn why exactly all three sisters are attracted to this man, other than presumably his machismo being that overwhelming. All we can really do is react to the sight gags on display. Some of those fairly amusing, such as the reaction to the tallest sister trying to make herself attractive. At the beginning of the short, a seagull grabs a big fish. By the end, it has been reduced to a skeleton. That was a nice touch. This certainly lacks the pathos of “We Can't Live Without Cosmos” and there was a chance for some deeper emotion too, in the story's conclusion. At least there is a happy ending, of sorts. Definitely the odd ball of this year's animated short nominees. [6/10]
Back when I was in the sixth grade or so, my school had one of those annual book fairs. For whatever reasons, I picked up a paperback collection of the comic book “Predator Vs. Judge Dredd,” despite its gory content probably not being teacher approved. Nestled in the back of that collection was a second story, told entirely without dialogue. It depicted an African tribesman, sometime in the distant past, encountering an extraterrestrial hunter while on a manhood ritual. Dark Horse often told stories like that through their extensive “Predator” and “Aliens” comic book series, realizing these monsters can work in almost any setting. The cinematic installment of this particular franchise never showed any interest in following this lead until Dan Trachtenberg took over with 2022's “Prey,” which did just that. Trachenberg was clearly so fond of this approach that he's doing something similar with “Badlands,” the forthcoming release in the franchise which has a post-apocalyptic theme... And the surprise animated “Predator” movie that was made in secret and dropped on Hulu back in April. “Predator: Killer of Killers” sends the iconic alien into three different eras of mankind, once again showing how versatile this particular creature truly is.
In 7th century Norway, Viking warrior Ursa and her teenage son Anders seek revenge on the Krivich warlord that murdered her father. The bloody onslaught into enemy territory is interrupted by the arrival of a human hunting alien creature, equipped with a sonic wave manipulating weapon. 700 years later, in feudal Japan, the sons of a samurai damyo are forced to duel to see who will inherit his royal role. Now as adult, the losing brother – acting as a shinobi – sneaks into the family stronghold to resolve the sibling rivalry. Plans are interrupted by an intergalactic interloper. In 1942, teenage John Torres is drafted into World War II. While stationed on a battleship, the fighter jets start being shot down by a mysterious craft that doesn't belong to either side of the earthly conflict. In the final segment, the survivors of these three encounters awaken on an alien world, forced to compete in gladiatorial combat for the amusement of the trophy-obsessed travelers.
The idea of the original “Predator” was that Earth's mightiest warriors, over-the-top icons of machismo like Arnold and The Body, had met their match in the form of a big game hunter from beyond the stars. It established a pattern that most of the four or six sequels have followed. We Earthlings are always outmatched by the Predator's superior technology at first but human ingenuity and our never-say-die attitude eventually wins out. “Killer of Killers” sees this same outline playing out four times in a row. This gives the impression that these Yautja – the species name for these creatures introduced in the comics that I guess is canonized now – actually aren't very good at hunting other lifeforms. However, it is a sturdy formula. The viking familiarity with the frozen Scandinavian landscape, a samurai's sense of brotherhood, or a World War II mechanic forced to think on his feet in mid-air all prove to be interesting ways to get the upper hand on the aliens. And maybe there's simply an evergreen appeal, in we mighty humans actually being allowed to be the underdogs against a greater threat.
Obviously, setting does ninety percent of the work in “Killer of Killers.” There's an undeniable cool factor in the concept of the Predator fighting Viking warriors, of a ninja and a samurai teaming up against the same alien, or a WWII dog-fight with an UFO. However, each segment does a good job of quickly getting us invested in the characters. Ursa introduces herself with a tale of woe, detailing her quest of vengeance. The sibling rivalry that drives the feud between Kenji and Kiyoshi is the kind of universal theme anyone can relate to. Same goes for John Torres trying to prove himself as a mechanic getting his first shot at piloting a plane. The characters are archetypal. The film does nothing to dissuade cliches of vikings being obsessed with paying blood to blood or the samurai fixation on bushido honor. Once John gets a tough but fair commanding officer, it's not hard to guess what will happen to him. (The officer is voiced by Michael Biehn, who now joins Bill Paxton and Lance Henrisken in a very exclusive club.)
As simple as the characters and stories in “Killer of Killers” can be, it works in the film's favor. The script takes just enough time with each character and setting to fully establish them, before introducing the mandibled threat on their tails. These themes are universal, the characters straight-to-the-point, to get us hooked as quickly as possible, since the film only has so much time to showcase each segment. This also leaves plenty of room for the other thing “Killer of Killers” is about: Kick-ass action. “Prey” showed Trachtenberg had a talent for creatively engineered mayhem, the camera weaving in and out of stylish showcases of high-tech butchery. Being a cartoon – visual effects expert Josh Wassung is credited with co-directing the film and presumably handled a lot of the technical aspects of the animation – allows this one to go further with that approach than “Prey” did. Ursa dismembering enemies with a battle axe and shield is a smoothly executed, highly brutal sequence. The stylized swordplay of the samurai sequence is also extremely well down, the end including a visual trademark of the Jidaigeki genre that is truly satisfying.
If there is a weak link in “Killer of Killers'” quartet of stories, it is probably the World War II sequence. That sequence sees a Predator – this one has an eye-patch, so you know he's a bad-ass – mostly doing his hunting from a spaceship. The film works hard to incorporate the species' trademark technology into this setting, shooting heated chains that can cut through jets like a cheese slicer, but it's not quite as compelling. Either way, it's incredibly clear that Dan Trachtenberg loves playing in this sandbox. Each hunter is outfitted with their own technological gimmick. There's a sonic wave super punch, a spear that sprouts extra barbs, and a chained whip. Pretty cool stuff and logical expansions on what has appeared in previous entries. The final segment takes us back to the home world, giving us a bit more of a peek at the alien culture that produced such honor-obsessed poachers. You can tell the movie was made by massive “Predator” fans because the leader of the clan has a cape of spinal columns that bares more than a passing resemblance to the old Kenner Toys conception of a “King” Predator. That made me smile, big and proud.
If all modern franchise film-making can be described as overgrown nerds playing with their action figures well into their old age, the mid-credits teaser “Killer of Killers” throws in will do nothing to dissuade that notion. Which is a fair enough criticism. I'm not sure every corner of a nostalgic nerd property needs to be overturned, in order to mine them for all they're worth. However, at least “Predator: Killer of Killers” expands more than it retreads. The freedom of animation – competently done, if not a mind-blowing application of the cell-shaded CGI style seen in most post-”Into the SpiderVerse” features – allows a lot more leeway in what can be shown here versus in a live action film. I don't think an “Avengers Assemble” of past “Predator” heroes is necessary. However, Trachtenberg and his team clearly have a passion for this world that extends beyond merely homaging what came before. That bodes well for "Badlands" – annoyingly not releasing during the Halloween season – and hopefully for the rest of the franchise's future as well. [7/10]
To me, Larry Cohen is one of the essential New York City filmmakers. Fred Williamson strutting through Harlem as "Black Caesar," Andy Kaufman becoming a rogue shooter during the St. Patrick's Day parade in "God Told Me To," "Q: The Winged Serpent" roosting in the Chrysler Building: The guy was gifted at invoking something essential about America's most prominent metropolis. In 1984, Cohen would return to NYC after an unsuccessful year in Hollywood. He would shoot two low budget thrillers back-to-back, made with no-name cast plucked from the local theater scene. While the self-reflective "Special Effects" has grabbed a little bit of attention over the years, the second of this burst of creativity, "Perfect Strangers," remains largely overlooked. If you search the title on Wikipedia, you have to scroll a bit to find this one. A Google search produces more results about the sitcom and Deep Purple song of the same name. Is this one a hidden gem or a rightfully forgotten piece of Cohen's eccentric career?
Johnny, a young punk in the New York mob, is ordered to knock off a small time drug dealer. He stabs the guy to death in a back alley. Only to realize that a toddler saw the whole thing. Feeling guilty, Johnny tells his boss about the witness. He is next instructed to clean up any loose ends, in whatever manner necessary. Johnny goes about talking to Sally, the two year old's single mother. She is having trouble with her baby-daddy, who never wanted the kid but is now protective of him, and barely scraps by as a clothes reseller. She is charmed by Johnny and soon falls in love with him. He starts to develop feelings for her too and also bonds with Matthew, the kid at the center of all this. As the police continue to investigate the murder and connect Sally to the crime, Johnny is put under more pressure to complete his orders. More killings follow, a child is endangered, and a mother will have to defend her baby.
The entirety of “Perfect Strangers” hinges on a rather implausible idea: That any judge in the land would put a two year old kid up on the witness stand. Matthew is a toddler, non-verbal and unable to dress himself. The likelihood of him remembering witnessing a murder, much less being able to identify the killer, strikes me as unlikely. Moreover, if Johnny had kept his mouth shut and simply not mentioned the kid to the mob, he wouldn't have been commanded to commit infanticide. This speaks to the rather cheesy tone that infects all of “Perfect Strangers.” Cohen and Paul Glickman, his regular cinematographer, made the baffling decision to shoot the entire movie through a waxy, soft-focus lens. This makes the whole film look like a flashback sequence. Dwight Dixon's score – his sole credit – is defined by chintzy sounding synth shrieks. This is paired with some hilariously corny songs from Michael Minard. (Previously of the hilariously corny “Fall Break” from “The Mutilator.”) It's difficult to take whatever angst Johnny might have seriously when he expresses himself by spray painting black outlines of his own body underneath bridges.
A degree of campiness or intentional melodrama would not be unprecedented, from the director of “The Stuff.” I guess there's a big difference in handing material like this to a professional eccentric like Michael Moriarty versus the less experienced cast here. Brad Rijn, as Johnny, has a strange rhythm to his delivery. He never seems entirely convinced of anything he's saying. Anne Carlisle is a little better as Sally. However, the love story between the two is never anything less than awkward. The two don't have any sparks so much as a weirdly antagonistic vibe between each other, that the script insists they play as romantic. They go from being strangers to lovers far too quickly. The eventual sex scene can't overcome a sense of discomfort. All the acting in the movie is kind of like that. Stephen Lack, the extremely wooden star of “Scanners,” plays a detective as some sort of camp-gay figure. John Woehrle, as Sally's ex, walks an uneasy balance between stilted and exaggerated. Meanwhile, Carlisle's “Liquid Sky” co-star Otto von Wernherr shows up for one inessential scene, lumbering through a conversation with a distinctly Schwarzeneggerian accent.
As a romance, “Perfect Strangers” is sunk by the bizarre anti-chemistry between its stars. As a character study of Johnny and his conflicted morality, it never comes together. Mostly because of Rijn's weird performance but also because of the script's refusal to give Johnny any real depth. The scene where he's bathing Matthew and trying to couch the kid on what to say are, I think, supposed to be suspenseful but only come off as uncomfortable. Which is odd because, as a thriller, “Perfect Strangers” is quite competent. Cohen gets right to the point – so to speak – arriving at the bloody stabbing that kicks off the plot the minute the opening credits end. That's a frantically cut scene, a furious stabbing that concludes with blood stylishly splattered on the ground. A moment where Johnny is pushing Matthew on a swing set or the kid is in a mobile merry-go-round come close to catching that same sense of out-of-control danger. As the kid flies overhead – the little actor genuinely seeming in peril – the film taps into the inevitable feeling this is all going to end in tragedy. Which it does. The last act of “Perfect Strangers” transforms into a well executed stalk-and-slash scene, the film finally committing to the slasher undercurrents it was suggesting all along. Right before ending rather abruptly but at least it goes out on a high note.
The most interesting thing about “Perfect Strangers” has little to do with the genre parameters it plays around in. As was often his style, Cohen shot part of the film right on the streets of New York without any permits at all. When Matthew is abducted briefly by his father, the reactions of the people behind the arguing couple seem genuine. Most notably, a long sequence was shot at an on-going Women Against Pornography march. This brings up another element of the film I've not yet mentioned. Sally's best friend is a die-hard feminist and talks greatly about how women have to defend themselves from men. A key scene has Johnny going ballistic on her ex, beating him in a playground. Any exact message about the relationship between men and women isn't totally coherent. It wouldn't surprise me if Larry Cohen was working through some hang-ups with his own ex-wife through this story. At the end though, the film does seem to come around to the idea that women are pretty justified in being afraid of men, who are too often driven by feelings of violence and entitlement.
To repeat a statement I think like I've been making a lot this September, “Perfect Strangers” is an extremely flawed film that still has some interesting stuff floating around inside it. When focused on being a grim little thriller, Cohen definitely shows his skills as a consumerist pro at giving the audience what they want. He also couldn't repress his tendency to make his films both a record of their time and place and a statement on some woes of the day. All of which is well and good but not quite enough to make up for the movie being a bit of a fiasco otherwise. A silly script, an uneven cast, a fine layer of cheese, and a very slow middle keeps “Perfect Strangers” from standing tall on the wings of its dreams. Vinegar Syndrome put the film out on Blu-Ray recently, meaning it will be rediscovered by people who will probably like it more, but I kind of agree with history forgetting this one. [5/10]
Door Into Darkness: Eyewitness La porta sul buio: Tentimane oculare
Last year, I watched an episode of Dario Argento's short-lived seventies anthology series. In the time since, “Door Into Darkness” has gotten a spiffy Blu-Ray release from Severin, along side a few other Argento obscurities. Ultimately, Dario's style of murder mysteries proved a little too intense for Italian television. This is why the series would end with “Eyewitness,” only its fourth episode. The hour follows Roberta who, while driving home one night, sees a woman leap out in front of her car. She looks closer and sees that the woman was already bleeding before she was nearly struck, spotting an obscured male figure nearby. She reports the crime to the police but they are unable to locate a body. Roberta is convinced of what she saw though and continues to investigate on her own. The detective and her boyfriend, Guido, both become concerned about her sanity. Especially when she claims to be pushed into traffic, despite everyone around her reporting that she nearly fell. Once Roberta receives a threatening phone call from the killer – who says he'll track her down that night, while Guido is out of town – she knows she isn't crazy. She's in danger.
“Eyewitness” has a lot in common with “The Tram,” the installment of “Door Into Darkness” I previously covered. Both episodes present a seemingly impossible mystery: A woman stabbed to death inside a crowded cable car with no witnesses in the former and an apparent murder for which no evidence can be found in the latter. Both hours get off to slow starts, as the protagonists go through the routine of everyone believing they are crazy despite never wavering in their certainty. However, where “The Tram” followed the eccentric detective on the case, “Eyewitness” has the much more classically Argento premise of an ordinary person caught up in a crazy mystery. Marilù Tolo plays Roberta as a woman who is nervous enough to be possibly cracking up but also seems sensible enough. She returns to the scene of the supposed crime, goes over the events in her memories again and again, and tries to assemble a logical explanation. Once you factor in the creepy phone call, the similarities to “Profondo rosso” truly come into focus. Like in that classic, the killer ends up revealing themselves after the hero gets too close to the truth.
The gender of the protagonist adds an interesting new layer though. Roberta is surrounded by men who think she's hysterical. Her boyfriend never outright says he's concerned about her sanity. The detective admits he respects her and believes her recollection of events. (While also implying he's romantically interested in her.) At the same time, there's an undeniable layer of condensation to their words of encouragement. Argento's work has been accused of sexism many times over the years and not always without good reason. However, “Eyewitness” does force the viewer to relate to a woman who is doubted, looked down on, and manipulated by the men around her. It feels like something of a rebuttal to the idea that the director had issues with women. (Though how pushed around Roberta is by the plot, not exactly being proactive in the second half and waiting for the killer to come get here, makes it difficult to interpret “Eyewitness” as a feminist text.)
The opening credits of “Eyewitness” claims it was directed by Roberto Pariante, Argento's second unit man on the Animal Trilogy. In fact, Dario was displeased with Pariante's work and fired him after a few days. He finished the episode himself before having Luigi Cozzi go back and re-shoot everything Pariante did complete. You can definitely see Argento's stylistic fingerprints on “Eyewitness.” Early on, there's a point-of-view shot from the perspective of a tea cup. Later, Roberta is watched by the camera as she listens to an answering machine. The episode has a jazz score, largely composed of frantic drumming, that recalls Ennio Morricone's soundtrack for “Four Flies on Grey Velvet.” The climax has the girl cornered in her own home, while a black-gloved killer wielding scissors busts through the door. It's a tense sequence and shows that the director could still create plenty of suspense without the gore of his theatrical releases. The denouncement is a bit disappointing, the responsible party simply explaining the how and why of their crimes. Still, up to that point, “Eyewitness” is a suitably Argento-esque experience that fans will surely get a kick out of. [7/10]
After having extra helpings of Grandmama's yak stew at dinner, Gomez gets out of bed in the middle of the night with an episode of sleep walking. Being an Addams, Morticia doesn't consider this suspicious. Nor does she connect this moment with the story on the news paper the next day of a cat burglar stealing valuables in the neighborhood. As the title reveals, these two incidents are very connected, Gomez's newly acquired collection of gold, jewels, and furs in the basement making it apparent. The family makes multiple attempts to prevent the patriarch's nightly somnolent activity – such as Fester standing guard outside the bedroom door or Morticia playing a snake charmer's flute to hypnotize her husband – but nothing works. When the cops show up, something more serious most be done.
"Gomez the Cat Burglar" is a very sight gag centric episode. Luckily, the bits of wacky physical comedy and implementation of goofy props are consistently amusing. Lurch acts literally when instructed to help Gomez "hit the sack." The sequence where Fester attempts to stand guard outside the master bedroom – he immediately falls asleep – keeps escalating in nicely ridiculous ways. I like the reveal that the Addams keep bags of dirt, including a fire axe behind a "Break In Case of Emergency" glass, in the hallways. The bit with Morticia playing a magic flute to hypnotize her husband also gets silly quickly too, Gomez busting out a bugle in response. The last act features John Astin disguising himself as an old man to fool the police but it's spoiled when Morticia says "Voila." Good to see the writers finding new variations on the "Tish, that's French!" running joke. The resolution also managed to catch me off-guard, one goofy joke coming back around to resolve the plot.
This episode is especially a showcase for Carolyn Jones' comedic timing. Her initial reaction to her husband sleepwalking or her response to a newspaper smashing through a window are both so perfectly deadpan. Though it does strike me as odd that she's confused by her ability to only cut paper dolls with multiple limbs. Or Fester reacting to her modernist painting with bafflement. You'd think this family would be delighted by such weirdness! Presumably not wanting to be left behind by Lily and Herman, this episode reveals that Gomez and Morticia are now sleeping in the same bed together. (He puffs his cigar in his sleep and her nightgown is almost identical to her regular clothes, both subtle little gags.) In fact, Gomez says the word "Sex" later in the episode. Maybe 1965 was less prudish than I previously thought? Also, there's a cool shot when Fester and Morticia enter the dark Playroom, the two of them framed between the spokes of gold wagon wheel. Nice cinematography there. [7/10]
2025 marks my sixth year completing the Oscar Death Race, a little community of people setting out to watch all of the films nominated at the Academy Awards that year. I also make an effort to review as many of the nominees as possible, to placate my own obsessive desires. This year, I got extremely close to doing full-blown reviews of each nominee. I probably could have done it to but, simply put, ran out of energy a little bit. Here are four reviews for films I saw prior to the Oscars. I'm recycling all of these from my Yearly Retrospective but decided to collect them here simply for ease. If you want to read my full review of "Alien: Romulus," you can find it here. See you tomorrow at 7PM EST for my yearly live-blog of the ceremony!
A Different Man
A film with a great many things to say about how we perceive ourselves, how we are perceived by others, what others truly value in us, what society values in appearances, and to what degree an author owes their inspiration anything. It's also a hilariously dark, surreal comedy with fantastic performances from Sebastian Stan and Adam Pearson that only grows more nightmarish as it goes on. I wasn't crazy about the crash-zooms in the cinematography though.
Inside Out 2
The cliché of all modern CGI family films including a realistic depiction of a panic attack is fulfilled here, though at least it's a natural extension of the story's themes. The depiction of Anxiety is well done, the new emotion not being portrayed as a villain so much as an overwhelming overcorrection. The other new emotions mostly result in some cute jokes. Honestly, this sequel might be funnier than the first, thanks to some extremely amusing sight gags about Riley's secrets. Yet, much like the first, I still feel like the central metaphor is oddly strangled and the teenage girl isn't as fleshed-out as you'd expect considering the story takes place in her head.
Memoir of a Snail
I admire the grubby, hand-made quality to the stop-motion animation, as well as the grotesque-cute character designs. The script itself I'm less certain of. The entire film walks a very unsteady line towards sympathizing with its often depressed, mistreated characters and playing their eccentricities and misfortunes for dark laughs. The misery the characters experience is so non-stop that the film often feels like a slog on the wat to a hopeful, life-affirming ending.
The Wild Robot
By adding a little painterly smearing and naturalistic lighting, this is made so much prettier than it would've been otherwise. “The Wild Robot” definitely needs that additional visual flair, since its story – full of wacky animal sidekicks and an obvious moral about the challenges and compromises of parenting – is nothing especially new or novel. The dynamic between the titular machine and the gosling she adopts is still awfully adorable. Chris Sanders never doubts the emotions in his films, despite how formulaic they may be. This went almost its entire runtime without introducing a single person.
Could the average rube off the street find Latvia on the map? Probably not and this is the kind of thing I tell myself so I don't feel so bad about being totally unfamiliar with Latvian cinema. Until relatively recently, I can't say the cultural output of the Baltic states was something I thought about much at all. Excuse my ignorance. Not many of the films made over there make it over here. Certainly not many of the animated films, of which there are only a handful. Nevertheless, one such animated motion picture from Latvia has made plenty of waves – pun intended – this award season. When I first saw “Flow,” I loved it but figured it was a long shot in the Animated Feature category at the Oscars, not being made by Disney, Dreamworks, Ghibli, or any of the other studios the Academy usually nods at. After picking up a Golden Globe, however, “Flow” managed to be nominated both in this category and Best International Feature. Now the scrappy little indie is the frontrunner in the former slate. You love to see it.
In a forested landscape, a cat encounters by a pack of dogs, including a friendly yellow lab. The chase is interrupted by a sudden flood. The cat and dog return to a home, surrounded by large statues of felines. The water level starts to rise again shortly afterwards. Our furry protagonist is only saved when a boat, piloted by a capybara, arrives. The Labrador isn't far behind. Soon, this motley crew are joined on their journey by a secretary bird and a ring-tailed lemur. The animals float through the flooded world, observing more strange ruins, encountering other creatures, and eventually arriving at a temple of some sort. There, a revelation occurs.
"Flow" is distinctive from most animated movies about animals having an adventure by two factors. First off, these critters do not speak, wear clothes, or tell jokes. Personality traits do emerge but they still act a lot more like actual beasts than cartoon creatures usually do. (This includes all of their meows, barks, squawks, and grunts coming from actual animals.) Secondly, there are no human beings in "Flow" at all. There are structures, homes and temples, and we see statues – religious idols? – here and there. However, no people appear. When combined with the unpredictable and frequent flooding, which leaves the landscape totally changed each time, "Flow" gives the impression of being set in a post-apocalyptic world at the mercy of climate change. If this was the intention, however, there's certainly no indication of this being our world. While the anxieties of rising oceans are obviously a part of the story's DNA, "Flow" most clearly takes place in a fantastical world that only resembles the Earth we know in fleeting ways. The presence of whale-like creatures that are more like legendary sea monsters than real cetaceans further establishes this as an otherworldly setting.
I don't think we are meant to think too seriously about this setting and how it came about. That's because "Flow" is clearly a fable, in which the animals and what happens around them represent truths about human nature. This world is unpredictable, massive floods happening spontaneously. Much the way our planet is a chaotic place where life upending change can occur at any moment. How each animal responds to this disaster seems to correspond to different human reactions to the unpredictable nature of life. The cat always searches for higher ground, running from the problem until it can't run anymore. The dog is always happy and blissfully unaware, pushed about by events because he has no attachment to any of it. The lemur collects trinkets and objects, desperately clinging to physical belongings despite everything else being washed away. The capybara, meanwhile, steers the boat, floating above the flood waters, and "going with the flow," as it were. The secretary bird is an exile, attempting to protect the other animals when it can. That includes saving the cat from a flock of other birds, who shatter his wing for this rebellion. The ascension that occurs in the final act gives one feelings of a sort of nirvana being reached. Does that make "Flow" a Buddhist parable, about how one should never expect certainty from an ever-changing world but should always protect most precious life, until enlightenment is finally achieved and we escape the repeating cycle of creation and destruction?
That's one way to interpret this story and, the more I think about it, increasingly feels like the intended reading. The great thing about fables, though, is that their metaphors are mutable. Making speechless animals the stars of this tale, to me, seems to suggest that we are all at the mercy of our base desires. The first thing that happens in the film is the cat catches and eats a fish. It seeks shelter from the flood. Food and survival are the most primal of all instincts. When the pack of dogs chase after the cat, those animals are simply following their nature as well. After the flood waters recede, there's a touching scene. The Labrador spots his pack once again. While he's tempted by their howls and barks, he ultimately stays behind to help the diverse group of creatures that have become his new clan. In other words: Our beastial drives are part of us and push us forward. Cat eats fish. Dog chases cat. We seek out others who are like us. However, these instinctual forces are not our only choice. We can form meaningful bonds with other living things and protect life from destruction. This, as the secretary bird's path shows us, is how we find a world that is more than physical, that is spiritual as well. Very zen and touchy-feely, I know, but I think this is all true.
If you aren't looking for philosophical subtext or deeper meaning, "Flow" can still be enjoyed as a simple adventure story. The film was made with open-source software Blender, meaning the animation isn't as smooth or flashy as your average big budget studio animation. I've seen a few reviews compare "Flow's" look to an older video game cut scene, which is valid. However, its visuals are still quite striking in their own way. The animal characters move in surprisingly realistic ways, being as cute and expressive as your own pets. "Flow's" stakes are high, about survival, and its feline protagonist is often in mortal danger. However, the film has such a laid back and contemplative mood, functioning like an exciting and compelling but ultimately serene experience. The soothing musical score certainly gives that impression. Moreover, telling this story without words means it can be appreciated by anyone, ultimately speaking to universal ideas.
"Flow" was directed by Gints Zilbalodis. He was also a producer on the film, co-wrote the script, edited it, and is co-credited with Rihards Zaļupe for the music. The film took five and a half years to be completed, furthering the idea that this was a passion project for Zilbalodis. That "Flow" was made with free software by such a small team, with one guy doing double duty in so many departments, confirming it as a scrappy indie effort. In other words, it's the kind of filmmaking we should be celebrating: Innovative, entertaining, smart, insightful, and representing the artistic vision of committed individuals. "Flow" works as both an involving mood piece, an adventure that people of any age or demographic can enjoy, and a surprisingly deep fable with lots to say. I'm glad it's been so well received by a global audience, hopefully allowing more opportunities for Latvian animators and filmmakers in the future. [9/10]
Wallace and Gromit are such archetypal creations that it's hard to imagine a time when they didn't exist. The duo first appeared in a short in 1989. I was in grade school when VHS tapes of some of their later adventures started making their way over here. I distinctly recall watching “The Wrong Trousers” and “A Close Shave” in school. I'm not surprised that the wacky but gentle comedy of the series would appeal to school teachers. Thirty-five years later, Aardman's most beloved stars are still kicking around. It's been nearly twenty years since their previous, and first, feature film. Despite all the change that has happened in that time, the dynamic that made “Wallace & Gromit” popular are still viable and beloved. “Wallace & Gromit: Vengeance Most Fowl,” a direct sequel to one of the duo's breakthrough shorts, has been well received by fans of the characters, animation nerds, and critics in general.
Some time ago, eccentric inventor Wallace and his unusually resourceful dog Gromit foiled the plot of wicked penguin, Feathers McGraw, as he attempted to steal a priceless diamond. For his crimes, the flightless bird thief was imprisoned in a zoo. More recently, Wallace has unveiled his latest invention: The Norbot, a robot patterned after a garden gnome and programmed to perfectly trim and manicure the lawn. Gromit seems uncertain about the machines but Wallace is enthused by them, soon deciding to launch a lawn care services with them. The news reaches Feathers McGraw in his cell and the villain hatches a plot to hack the robots, turn them against their master, have them cause chaos, bust him out of jail, and resume his scheme to retrieve the diamond. It's up to Gromit – somewhat assisted by his bumbling owner and a pair of clueless cops – to stop the plot.
For three and a half decades, Aardman has been getting laughs out of a surprisingly flexible comedic device: The deadpan animal reaction shot. From the very beginning, Gromit has never spoken nor shall he ever. Instead, the dog communicates strictly through wide-eyed glances, the posture of his ears, and his body language. Feathers McGraw takes this idea further. The villain has a face simpler than Gromit's, his eyes being nothing but utterly static black dots, his beak never changing position. Despite the seemingly limited range of expression that allows, “Vengeance Most Fowl” regularly generates chuckles by cutting to McGraw's blanking staring visage. Somehow, an unmoving bird face conveys sinister intent, stunned confusion, and ominous plotting. Frankly, it's a real display of the talent of the filmmakers, animators, and artists involved.
I'll admit, I have not seen a “Wallace & Gromit” film in many years. I had a tape of “The Wrong Trousers” as a lad and definitely watched it often. However, I can't say I've stay too abreast of the duo's adventures lately. Which means I may be wrong when I say this but, as far as I can remember, “Vengeance Most Foul” follows the established formula for the series closely. Wallace remains largely unaware of the threat at hand, at least for a while, while Gromit is immediately aware of it. The man's wacky inventions naturally cause more trouble than they resolve, forcing his industrious dog to save the day. As the duo attempt to undo whatever the threat might be, the slapstick escalates into bigger, goofier set pieces. In “Vengeance Most Foul,” that means chase scenes over the water and on a train that climaxes in a massive explosion. My memories of “The Wrong Trousers” and “A Close Shave” are fuzzy but I do seem to recall them having a similar structure.
In a thirty minute short, such a set-up is ideal. The laughs and wackiness gets bigger over a few minutes but the characters are simple enough to be immediately grasped in such a short package. When stretched out over a feature length runtime, it's a little harder to maintain that whip-crack pacing. This isn't to say that “Vengeance Most Fowl” isn't full of many inspired gags. The sequence the details McGraw's escape from his prison is especially amusing. However, the energy does start to falter a little by the end. That so much of the film revolves around the robotic lawn gnomes – who intentionally straddle the line between the creepy, whimsical, and antiquated – does present some diminished returns. I'll admit to not finding those guys anywhere near as appealing as the film's other characters.
There are multiple reasons why “Wallace & Gromit” have remained popular about snobby movie nerd types when a lot of other cartoons are dismissed. Aardman's continued commitment to using stop-motion animation, a more hand-made format than your usual CGI cartooning, is certainly a factor. As if the distinctly British style of slapstick employed here, harkening back to the classical physical comedy of older cartoons over the one-liner and pop culture reference heavy style of your average Illumination flick. One can, however, make the argument that the “Wallace & Gromit” shorts – and perhaps Aardman's work in general – are a little smarter and more subversive than standard kiddy fare. Many have spotted an anti-AI subtext to “Vengeance Most Fowl.” The gnome robots Wallace create render everything around them as perfectly symmetrical, geometric shapes. This horrifies Gromit and, naturally, the robots enable the villain. You could probably read into the subplot about the bumbling cops too. The older, white, male police chief insists on doing things strictly based on instinct while the younger, browner, female officer has a more evidence based approach. I don't think Wallace and Gromit say ACAB exactly but there's definitely some skepticism towards the older, traditional way of doing things here.
If “Vengeance Most Fowl” can't sustain its snappy comedic flow for its entire runtime, that still doesn't take away from the potency of its best gags. Feathers McGraw is the kind of brilliant gag that only comes along every once in a while, after all. The film definitely feels like a bit of a throwback, in a positive way, in our modern animation landscape. Perhaps the movie didn't charm me to the degree that it did many others but it's hard not to be thankful simply for something like this existing. May Wallace and Gromit be doing what they've always done for another three decades. [7/10]
