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 “COMMON GROUND” My rating: B(At the Glenwood Arts)

195 minutes | No MPAA rating:

Exhaustive and a bit exhausting, the doc “Common Ground” makes an encyclopedic case for regenerative agriculture.

If that sounds like an earnest science lecture…well, it is, sort of.  But the filmmakers (Joshua Tickell and Rebecca Harrell Tickell) knock themselves out working to keep our attention over nearly two hours, filling the screen with arthouse cinematography and a small army of familiar Hollywood faces (Laura Dean, Rosario Dawson, Donald Glover, Jason Mom, Ian Somerhalder).

Mostly, though, there’s an avalanche of information that will convince most of us that modern agricultural methods are taking us down the highway to hell.  It’s time to change our ways.

The plot, if you will, consists of an opening section about the dangers of climate change that will leave most quaking in their boots, followed by examples of how we can turn the problem around and save ourselves and our planet.

We’re told early on that this is a movie about dirt. Well, soil to be more precise. “if the soil dies, we die.”

We meet Gabe Brown, a North Dakota farmer who is a  champion of the new agriculture. A big beefy guy in coveralls, Brown is also an erudite spokesman, pointing out how his land — farmed to minimize the loss of topsoil to wind and water — looks like an oasis compared two that of his neighbor who uses conventional methods and ends up with huge patches of unproductive dirt.

The neighbor’s system, we’re told, is working to kill things, while Brown’s is working in harmony and synchrony with nature, creating profit while enhancing the ecosystem for future generations.

Over the course of the film the same theme is hammered home: no tilling , use cover crops that return nurtrients to the soil, eliminate or reduce chemical use, integrate animals into cropland (the animals eat weeds and fertilize with droppings — you don’t have to eat them but you need them to be grazing).

“Common Ground” reaches far and wide.  There’s a section on Native American farming practices, on the contributions of black scientist George Washington Carver (who advocated the use of nitrogen-fixing cover crops to replenish soil) and of African women who, coming to his country as slaves, introduced crop seeds they had intentionally braided into their hair before the horrible sea voyage. That last one is a revelation.

A big chunk of the film is devoted to roasting Monsanto for promoting the cancer-causing herbicide glyphosate (sold commercially as Roundup). Particular attention is paid to the unfortunate fates of whistleblowers and investigative scientists and journalists who have dared challenge the chemical giant.

The bee die-offs? Yeah, that’s in here, too.  Pesticides are the culprit.

We even get into the mechanics of the annual Farm Bill, which to date has barely acknowledged the existence of restorative farming techniques, 

Factory farming of food animals is addressed. It’s an ugly business (don’t worry…no gross-out visuals here), but the film also points out that most of the new meat substitutes are crammed with plants grown with chemicals with names you can’t pronounce.

Woody Harrellson narrates a segment about hemp.  No comment necessary.

if there are moments when the viewer feels manhandled by the unyielding crush of information, “Common Ground” does assert there’s hope. 

We just have to change our ways.

| Robert W. Butler

Jacob Elordi, Barry Keoghan

“SALTBURN” My rating: B-(In theaters)

131 minutes | MPAA rating: R

Good-looking but off-putting, Emerald Fennell’s “Saltburn” is yet another examination of British class warfare.

Fennell, who made a remarkable directing debut a couple of years back with the female revenge dramedy  “Promising Young Woman,” here mines a favorite plot of English iconoclasts, that of a lowly commoner “adopted” by his societal betters.

Our protagonist is the delightfully named Oliver Quick (Barry Keoghan), whose freshman year at Oxford is highlighted by a growing friendship with the beautiful, charming, rich-as-hell Felix Catton (Jacob Elordi).  

It’s an odd pairing.  Oliver, while a good student, is something of a blank-faced emotional drone, definitely not one of the handsomely entitled sort Felix usually runs with.  

They meet when Oliver does an unexpectedly generous and apparently selfless favor for Felix, and the latter decides that maybe this working-class  kid provides just the sort of down-to-earth genuineness lacking in his posh life.

Upon learning that Oliver’s father has died of a drug overdose, Felix suggests Oliver spend the summer with him at his palatial family estate, Saltburn. Good times.

“Saltburn” touches on most of the plot points and characters common to this sort of enterprise.

There’s a cousin (Archie Madekwe) who hates the low-born OIiver from the get-go; a sad, substance-abusing sister (Sadie Soverall) who offers sexual promise; the mother  (Rosamund Pike), eager to prove her open mindedness (“I was a lesbian for a while…too wet for me”) by doting on the lower-class visitor; the father (Richard E. Grant) so rich he can spend his days on his collecting obsessions.

There’s also another visitor, the freeloading Pamela (Carey Mulligan), one of Mother’s friends but now wearing out her welcome. Upon learning she has died a member of the household observes: “She’d do anything for attention.”

Mining some of the same psychological landscape as “The Talented Mr. Ripley,” Fennell’s film slowly reveals that the harmlessly bland Oliver is in fact a sort of emotional vampire (in one shocking scene he appears to be feasting on menstrual blood). In fact, he’s the human version of the cuckoo, a bird that takes over other birds’ nests, destroying their eggs and substituting one of its own.

Rosamund Pike

The results are unashamedly misanthropic. “Saltburn” satirizes the ruling class, but its avenging angel proletarian “hero” is no better than his titled targets.

Given the contempt and cynicism on display, the film is watchable enough; it certainly doesn’t hurt that most of the roles have been taken by beautiful people.

Not that Barry Keoghan is beautiful, exactly.  In the right light his potato face exudes a sort of brute animal cunning;  at other times he can seem almost handsome. It’s the perfect chameleonic approach to a shifty character like Oliver.

And the film ends with a sequence so perfect — a naked Oliver dancing rapturously through the halls of Saltburn — that I’m almost willing to blow off my reservations. A strong finish is always a good thing.

| Robert W. Butler

Annette Bening

“NYAD” My rating: B  (Netflix)

121 minutes | MPAA rating: PG-13

Athletic excellence and obsessive ambition are regular bedfellows, perhaps no more so than in this story of distance swimmer Diana Nyad,

Scripted by Julia Cox (from Nyad’s book Find a Way) and directed by Jimmy Chin and Eliizabeth Chai Vasarhelyi,  this,is a slow buildup to Nyad’s 2013 master achievement, a 110-mile solo swim at age 60 (sans shark cages and resting raft) from Havana to Key West.

It was her fifth attempt, earlier ones having been scuttled by unpredictable tides and unfavorable winds, jellyfish stings, low water temperature and sheer exhaustion creating a dissociative mental state not unlike a drug-free acid trip.

The film benefits hugely from its casting,  Annette Bening makes of her  Nyad an almost superhuman force willing to cajole, beg and borrow (if not steal) to get the funds for her expensive attempts, which required a motorized boat, kayaks and crew to man it all. 

There’s more than a little stubborn craziness at work here (one must wonder at the masochistic elements of the sport), and the film in flashbacks offers details about the adolescent Diana’s sexual  abuse at the hands of her Hall of Fame swimming coach.

In the present Nyad’s obsessions strain relations even with her best friend Bonnie Stoll (an excellent Jodie Foster), who puts her own life on hold to pitch in with the advance work and to accompany Nyad on her attempts (Stoll remains on the boat, feeding the swimmer thorough a tube but never touching her…that would violate the solo swim rules).

Viewers may wonder whether Nyad, who is openly gay, and Stoll were lovers.  The film isn’t clear on that point and in the end  it doesn’t matter. This is a film about friendship surviving just about everything life can throw at it.

Special nod also to Rhys Ifans for his portrayal of John Bartlett, a veteran Caribbean captain who piloted the escort ship on Nyad’s attempts, even as he was battling the illness that would kill him.

Colman Domingo

“RUSTIN” My rating: B (Netflix)

106 minutes | MPAA rating: PG-13

Martin Luther King Jr.’s “I Have a Dream” speech at the 1963 March on Washington may have been the single most memorable moment of the Civil Rights era.

It wouldn’t have happened without Bayard Rustin, a gay black man of outstanding intellectual power and organizational ability. 

 The march was largely Rustin’s idea, and he certainly was its greatest facilitator, overcoming obstacles thrown up not only by the white establishment but by his fellow African American leaders.

Here Rustin is portrayed by Colman Domingo as an aggressive (and often aggressively off-putting) visionary whose dreams are forever being threatened by his gayness, a chink in his otherwise impressive social armor that his enemies found all too easy to exploit.

“Rustin” is an impressive recreation of a specific time and place.  The script is by Julian Breece (TV’s “First Wives Club”) and Dustin Lance Black (“Milk”), while the insightful but unobtrusive direction is by George C. Wolfe (“Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom”).

And talk about a supporting cast!!! Chris Rock as a doubtful Roy Wilkins, Jeffrey Wright as a sneaky Rep. Adam Clayton Powell, Glynn Turman as A. Philip Randolph, and Ami Ameen as Martin Luther King, Jr.  Toss in Audra McDonald and CCH Pounder and you’ve got carefully applied star power almost everywhere you look…yet all provide just the right support for Domingo’s soul-stirring performance.

When it’s over you’ll be convinced that Bayard Rustin should be a household name.

Tommy Lee Jones, Jamie Foxx

“THE BURIAL” My rating: B (Prime)

136 minutes | MPAA rating: R

Based on a real court case, “The Burial” is a David-vs-Goliath legal drama that offers juicy roles for Tommy Lee Jones and Jamie Foxx while dabbling in racial issues.

Jones’ Jeremiah O’Keefe is the operator of a regional chain of mortuaries. But debt has forced him into bed with a gigantic funeral home conglomerate that has been gobbling up little mom-and-pop operations. Now O’Keefe is looking for a legal cavalier willing to take on the big boys (the heavy here is a ruthless corporate raider played by the ever excellent Bill Camp).

O’Keefe’s search leads him to Willie Gary (Foxx), a cocky and flamboyant lawyer who fancies himself the incarnation of Johnny Cochran. Initially Gay isn’t interested in the funeral home case. He specializes in personal injury; moreover, he proudly views himself as an African American lawyer going to bat almost exclusively for African American clients.

But despite the cultural divide separating them, Gary and O’Keefe click on a personal basis. So much so that when Gary’s black associates bail on the case, he continues to work it virtually as a one-man show.

As effective as it is as a courtroom drama (Jurnee Smollett is very fine as Gary’s opposing counsel), “The Burial” is most satisfying as an examination of two men with vastly different life experiences who evolve into something more like a friends than legal allies.

Jones has so often played the grumpy hard ass that it comes as a revelation that he here is so vulnerable and, well, decent. Similarly, Foxx is terrific at revealing the individual behind the TV-ad bravado.

| Robert W. Butler

“NAPOLEON” My rating: C (In theaters)

158 minutes | MPAA rating: R

Like Dracula, Sherlock Holmes and any number of Shakespearean characters, Napoleon Bonaparte is one of those figures ever ripe for fresh cinematic reinterpretation.

I only wish I knew what incarnation director Ridley Scott and leading man Joaquin Phoenix were going for in their big, noisy, not-very-interesting “Napoleon.”

This is less viable drama than a 2 1/2-hour illustrated history lesson.  The most memorable moments are several battle scenes that depict the grandeur/horror of Napoleonic-era warfare without ever evoking a genuine emotional response.

As for the drama, it centers almost exclusively on the relationship of Napoleon (Phoenix) and his Empress Josephine (Vanessa Kirby). Indeed, David Scarpa’s screenplay is essentially a two-hander.  Virtually every other character (among them heavy hitters like Robespierre, Talleyrand, the Duke of Wellington and assorted European royalty) has been reduced to walk-on status.

So it’s a love story…sorta.  

The film begins with the French Revolution and is basically a series of highlights of the Napoleonic legend, sometimes jumping years between scenes.  

Phoenix’s Napoleon presents as a socially inept clod who just happens to be a military genius.  He is bereft of charm or a sense of humor.  Early on  I found myself wondering if we were supposed to regard this Napoleon as being on the autism spectrum.

We see our protagonist on various military campaigns (Egypt, Austria, Russia) where he wins the hearts of his troops in spite of his personality (as long as he keeps producing victories he’s their guy). We see Napoleon use his grapeshot-loaded artillery to quell an urban uprising of Royalists, turning a  crowd  of protesting Parisians into so many mounds of ground round. 

His military prowess gives him a foothold in the new Revolutionary government, first as one of three consuls leading France and then as emperor.

Vanessa Kirby, Joaquin Phoenix

Except that there’s little in Phoenix’s performance to suggest why anybody would even consider Napoleon as emperor material.  He’s kind of a doofus and almost seems to have lucked into his imperial status. 

Maybe the film is meant to be a Trumpian allegory about a numbnuts who ends up running a country.  But that suggests a sense of satire found nowhere in the Scott canon.

Whatever sparks this “Napoleon” strikes come from the collision of our man with Josephine.  

When we first see Kirby in the role she wears her hair in a sort of pixie cut (I’m guessing the look was the result of Josephine’s long imprisonment after her husband went to the guillotine) and exudes a feral feline sexuality.

You can see why the ham-fisted Nappie is attracted, though initially she appears unimpressed by his jackrabbit lovemaking technique.  In fact, while he’s off fighting the Republic’s enemies Josephine is messing around with other fellas.

Vanessa Kirby

But over time they become a codependent team who trade insults as a prelude to copulation.  Only problem is, Josephine is unable to give her emperor a son. But even after their divorce and Napoleon’s marriage to a more fertile female (I think there’s only one shot of this second wife in the whole picture) he continues to visit his original squeeze at the country estate to which she has been exiled.

“I wish  I could quit you” might well be their motto.

That Phoenix is one of our finest actors isn’t up for debate. But here he can’t seem to wrap his head around his character, and as a result we’re all left in the dark.

Was Napoleon a power-hungry tyrant? Or was he devoted heart and soul to his country? What kind of ruler  was he? (The film offers not a clue.) 

Did he have any hobbies?  Favorite foods?  I’m grasping at straws here.

Like “The Duellists,” Scott’s first film and also set in the Napoleon Wars, this latest effort is an impressive physical recreation of a time and place.  That sense is reinforced by a score made up almost exclusively of period music.

But the duties of physically creating the film seem to have left Scott no time to contemplate what he wants to say. This director has never exhibited a strong individual style, but here the absence of a point of view is maddening.

And why oh why has cinematographer Dariusz Wolski opted for a visual style so dimly lit that even scenes set in bright sunshine seem gray? There are no bright colors — at least in that regard the visual palette reflects the general joylessness of the overall enterprise.

| Robert W. Butler

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is napoleon-2023.jpeg

“NAPOLEON” My rating: C (In theaters)

158 minutes | MPAA rating: R

Like Dracula, Sherlock Holmes and any number of Shakespearean characters, Napoleon Bonaparte is one of those figures ever ripe for fresh cinematic reinterpretation.

I only wish I knew what incarnation director Ridley Scott and leading man Joaquin Phoenix were going for in their big, noisy, not-very-interesting “Napoleon.”

This is less viable drama than a 2 1/2-hour illustrated history lesson.  The most memorable moments are several battle scenes that depict the grandeur/horror of Napoleonic-era warfare without ever evoking a genuine emotional response.

As for the drama, it centers almost exclusively on the relationship of Napoleon (Phoenix) and his Empress Josephine (Vanessa Kirby). Indeed, David Scarpa’s screenplay is essentially a two-hander.  Virtually every other character (among them heavy hitters like Robespierre, Talleyrand, the Duke of Wellington and assorted European royalty) has been reduced to walk-on status.

So it’s a love story…sorta.  

The film begins with the French Revolution and is basically a series of highlights of the Napoleonic legend, sometimes jumping years between scenes.  

Phoenix’s Napoleon presents as a socially inept clod who just happens to be a military genius.  He is bereft of charm or a sense of humor.  Early on  I found myself wondering if we were supposed to regard this Napoleon as being on the autism spectrum.

We see our protagonist on various military campaigns (Egypt, Austria, Russia) where he wins the hearts of his troops in spite of his personality (as long as he keeps producing victories he’s their guy). We see Napoleon use his grapeshot-loaded artillery to quell an urban uprising of Royalists, turning a  crowd  of protesting Parisians into so many mounds of ground round. 

His military prowess gives him a foothold in the new Revolutionary government, first as one of three consuls leading France and then as emperor.

Vanessa Kirby, Joaquin Phoenix

Except that there’s little in Phoenix’s performance to suggest why anybody would even consider Napoleon as emperor material.  He’s kind of a doofus and almost seems to have lucked into his imperial status. 

Maybe the film is meant to be a Trumpian allegory about a numbnuts who ends up running a country.  But that suggests a sense of satire found nowhere in the Scott canon.

Whatever sparks this “Napoleon” strikes come from the collision of our man with Josephine.  

When we first see Kirby in the role she wears her hair in a sort of pixie cut (I’m guessing the look was the result of Josephine’s long imprisonment after her husband went to the guillotine) and exudes a feral feline sexuality.

You can see why the ham-fisted Nappie is attracted, though initially she appears unimpressed by his jackrabbit lovemaking technique.  In fact, while he’s off fighting the Republic’s enemies Josephine is messing around with other fellas.

Vanessa Kirby

But over time they become a codependent team who trade insults as a prelude to copulation.  Only problem is, Josephine is unable to give her emperor a son. But even after their divorce and Napoleon’s marriage to a more fertile female (I think there’s only one shot of this second wife in the whole picture) he continues to visit his original squeeze at the country estate to which she has been exiled.

“I wish  I could quit you” might well be their motto.

That Phoenix is one of our finest actors isn’t up for debate. But here he can’t seem to wrap his head around his character, and as a result we’re all left in the dark.

Was Napoleon a power-hungry tyrant? Or was he devoted heart and soul to his country? What kind of ruler  was he? (The film offers not a clue.) 

Did he have any hobbies?  Favorite foods?  I’m grasping at straws here.

Like “The Duellists,” Scott’s first film and also set in the Napoleon Wars, this latest effort is an impressive physical recreation of a time and place.  That sense is reinforced by a score made up almost exclusively of period music.

But the duties of physically creating the film seem to have left Scott no time to contemplate what he wants to say. This director has never exhibited a strong individual style, but here the absence of a point of view is maddening.

And why oh why has cinematographer Dariusz Wolski opted for a visual style so dimly lit that even scenes set in bright sunshine seem gray? There are no bright colors — at least in that regard the visual palette reflects the general joylessness of the overall enterprise.

| Robert W. Butler

Michael Fassbender

“THE KILLER” My rating: B (Netflix)

118 minutes | MPAA rating: R

David Fincher’s latest is a minimalist epic about  a contract killer who appears to have no personality whatsoever.

Despite all this, it is a wildly entertaining effort.

Michael Fassbender is our unnamed protagonist, whom we meet in an under-renovation apartment in Paris.  He’s been there for days awaiting the arrival in the building across the street of his target.  We don’t know who he’s supposed to kill. or why.

All we know is that the Killer exhibits an astonishing level of patience. He passes the time scanning the street through a scope and doing yoga.

In the film he says almost nothing.  Well, that’s not quite true. In the first 30 minutes he gives us, in narration, a sort of primer on hitman etiquette.  In this he is quite chatty, holding forth on the necessity of anticipation and the dangers of improvisation.  As for the moral consequences of his actions… there’s no mention of that.  Doesn’t seem to matter.

The screenplay by Andrew Kevin Walker, Alexis Nolent and Lucy Jacamon is astonishingly straightforward.

The Paris job goes wrong. The Killer flees to his  palatial home base in the Dominican Republic only to find that rival killers from his employer have beat him there, torturing his girlfriend (Sophie Charlotte) so badly that she’s in the hospital.  

This calls for revenge.  Quickly, methodically and implacably the killer goes about eliminating the threats against him.  

Tilda Swinton

That means paying a visit to the crooked New Orleans lawyer (Charles Parnell) who hands out his deadly assignments, the Florida thug (Sala Baker) who beat up his girl, the thug’s New York-based co-killer (Tilda Swinton) and finally the impossibly rich mover and shaker (Arliss Howard) who ordered the Paris hit.

As I mentioned, the Killer rarely says anything.  Not so most of his targets, who when facing death become remarkably loquacious.  A lot of good it does them. (The only one as silent as the Killer is the hulking goon in Florida; the two of them have a mano-a-mano smackdown for the ages.)

Now this all sounds terribly grim, and it should be pointed out that “The Killer” is often slyly amusing.  For example, our protagonist has a collection of fake identities (with attendant IDs, passports, credit cards and other documentation) in the names of classic TV sitcom characters: Felix Unger, Oscar Madison, Archibald Bunker, etc.

And then there’s the Killer’s clothing choices.  In voiceover he announces that the whole idea is to be so freaking bland that nobody can remember you; for much of the film he wanders around looking like a suburban dad at Disney World.

There’s no moral to “The Killer,” hardly any plot and certainly no characters you’d want to actually meet (okay, maybe the girlfriend, but she got beat up protecting a man she knows is a murderer).

Nevertheless, it’s a fun ride precisely because of its menagerie of cooly calculating/brutal/smooth talking creeps. 

| Robert W. Butler

Dominic Sessa, Paul Giamatti

“THE HOLDOVERS” My rating: B+ (In theaters)

133 minutes | MPAA rating: R

It starts out like a misanthropic “Goodbye Mr.  Chips” and ends like a pessimist’s take on “It’s a Wonderful Life.”

But before it’s over Alexander Payne’s “The Holdovers” exhibits a humanist’s love of its characters.  It’s the perfect Christmas movie for people who hate Christmas movies.

David Hemingson’s witty and ultimately moving screenplay unfolds over the holidays in 1970 at the Barton Academy, one of those posh New England prep schools where the rich send their errant and spoiled sons for an education in the classics and character building.

Despite a fabulous reputation, Barton achieves neither of those objectives. It’s basically a holding facility for entitled idiots, a fact all too obvious to Paul Hunham (Paul Giomatti), who has taught ancient history for 40 years to bored young adolescents he dismisses as hormonal Visigoths.

On this particular snowbound Christmas, the unmarried and spectacularly grumpy Hunham has been saddled with “holdover” duty.  He’s must oversee a handful of students who will remain on campus until classes resume in the New Year.

Among these “holdovers” is the son of Mormons on missionary duty abroad, a Korean whose family can’t afford the plane ticket home, and a football Adonis has been banned from his family Christmas for refusing to cut his hair (the rebellious ‘60s have only just ended and the Vietnam War still rages).

And then there’s Angus Tully (Dominic Sessa), a smart kid with a chip on  his shoulder the size of a manhole cover.  At the last minute his recently-remarried mother informs Angus that she’s opted to dedicate her holidays to a delayed honeymoon. Surly teenage sons are not invited.

 Da’Vine Joy Randolph

In addition to Hunham and his angry/disappointed/lonely young charges, we meet Mary (Da’Vine Joy Randolph). who runs the school’s dining hall. Mary’s son Curtis grew up on the campus, studied there (free tuition for employees’ offspring) and, lacking the money for college, enlisted in the Army, dying in Vietnam.

It’s a setup rich with heart-tugging possibilities, all of which Payne and Hemingson avoid like the plague.  The dialogue is sharp, bitter and often screamingly funny. The performances don’t beg our sympathy; quite the contrary, this is a prickly bunch of angry individuals. Unlikeable, even.

Yet over the film’s two-hour-plus running time (it actually seems much shorter) “The Holdovers” finds ways to reveal its characters’ pain, yearnings and fears without ever drifting into mushy territory.  The approach is astringent, clear-eyed and sardonic.  

If you’re not careful it can break your heart.

Here’s a prediction: Expect Giamatti to land an Oscar nomination for best actor; Randolph and Sessa should score in the supporting categories.

In the meantime, watch “The Holdovers” with someone you love.  Better still, watch it with someone you’re not so sure about.

| Robert W.Butler

Riz Ahmed, Jessie Buckley

“FINGERNAILS” My rating: C+ (Apple+)

113 minutes | MPAA rating: R

From the INTRIGUING IDEA GOES NOWHERE DEPARTMENT:

“Fingernails” unfolds in an alternate reality that looks a lot like America in the 1980s.  No ubiquitous cell phones or laptops. Most of the cars are sedans, not SUVs. The TV sets are modestly proportioned.

Except that in this reality the films “Titanic” (1997)  and “Notting Hill” (1999) are already classics (the latter a key title in the Hugh Grant Romance film festival).

And a special feature of this alternate universe is a process (allegedly scientific) that allows couples to test for romantic compatability. Ideally you want a score of 50%, indicating that a couple love each other equally.  More often though, those tested discover that they’ve  absolutely no future with their current squeeze.

And what do you have to sacrifice for this life-changing information? Well, in addition to paying a steep fee you must have one of your fingernails pulled out with pliers (sans anesthesia) so that it can be microwaved along with one yanked from your significant other.  Apparently fingernails are terrific indicators of one’s emotional state.

Anna (Jessie Buckley) is the latest employee of the Love Institute, which not only conducts the fingernail tests but holds seminars and workshops and issues reports on what its researchers have discovered about romance.

Anna and her beau Ryan (Jeremy Allen White) did the fingernail test several years earlier and were told that they were a perfect match.  Except that Anna is starting to get bored with the relationship (possibly Ryan is too nice and predictable).  Anna hopes that by working as a counselor at the Institute she can gain insights into her own romantic sensibilities.

Her work partner is Amir (Riz Ahmed), and it doesn’t take a fingernail test to determine that Anna’s affections soon will be directed his way.

As written by Christos Nikou, Sam Steiner and Davros Raptis and directed by Nikou, “Fingernails” scores more points for quirkiness than for emotional heft.

And even the quirkiness is of the low-caliber variety.  There are a couple of amusing moments but the film never quite jells as either comedy or romance.  I was ready for it to wrap things up a good half hour before the end.

That said, I’m a big fan of Buckley (even with a ‘do that looks like it was styled with a weed whacker).  Ahmed and White are solid as Anna’s romantic options, and Luke Wilson very nearly steals the film as the science-nerd chief of the Love Institute.

Forget about the fingernail test.  When it comes to human emotions there are no absolutes.

|Robert W. Butler

“BODIES”  (Netflix)

A good time travel yarn can really mess you up. 

Remember how dislocated and awed you felt after seeing the original “Terminator”?

How you started asking yourself questions about the immutability of time, about the possibility of changing the past or, even freakier, our own present?

That same sort of brow-furrowing mind massage is at work in the  deep-diving Brit series “Bodies.” 

Episode One sets up the tantalizing premise.  In present-day London the corpse of a naked man is found in an all-but-abandoned alleyway.  A police detective (Amaka Okafor) is stumped as to how he got there.

The scene then jumps to 1890s London where — WTF? — the same body is found in the same alley by a bearded and bowler-hatted police inspector (Kyle Soller).

But there’s more.  In 1941, with German bombers paying nightly visits, yet another copper (Jacob Fortune-Lloyd) stumbles into the same scenario.

And then, just when you think you’re getting a handle on it, the episode wraps up with the revelation that 30 years into the future another officer (Shira Haas) is dealing with the same body in the same crumbling alleyway.

Series creator Paul Tomalin (adapting Si  Spencer’s graphic novel) takes his time setting up his reveals…before any big answers are dangled he explores societal conflicts like contemporary racism, anti-Semitism during the Blitz or the Victorian-era inspector’s desperately closeted homosexuality.

Along the way there are all sorts of tantalizing hints at a monstrously massive conspiracy, members of which invariably sign off with the superficially comforting/existentially disturbing line: “Remember, you are loved.”

Eventually the film focuses on Mannix (Stephen Graham), who exists in all of these time frames, though not always as an adult (in our present he’s a troubled adolescent). Basically he’s playing God with time…and thus with everyone on Earth.

There are several big holes here.  The methodology of time travel isn’t explored..there’s this machine, but good luck figuring out how it got made and tested. And in one possible past/future the city of London is hit by a nuclear blast…it levels everything except that darned red-brick alleyway where the bodies keep dropping. Unlikely.

But the series’ slow-build momentum is such that you don’t dwell on these shortcomings, preferring to take in the big picture.

And that big picture will leave you juggling a score of metaphysical conundrums.

“THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER” (Netflix)

With “Midnight Mass” and “The Haunting of Hill House” writer/directorMike Flanagan shot to the top of the horror world, delivering slowly-unfolding creepfests that served as anguished meditations on the human condition while delivering multiple opportunities for great acting.

His latest, the 8-part “The Fall of the House of Usher,” is a step back, in part because just about everyone on screen is a truly horrible individual. Good luck looking for someone to empathize with.

Also, horror is much less scary when those threatened are evil bastards to begin with.

That said, the series is wildly successful in cannibalizing the Poe oeuvre, not just …Usher but most of his famous poems and short stories. No doubt as you read this some grad student is working on a thesis picking apart the series’ plethora of Edgar Allan Easter eggs.

The Usher family has become fabulously wealthy after developing an opiate pain killer that has addicted a good chunk of the population. (Yeah, they’re a thinly-disguised version of the Sacklers.)

At the top is Roderick Usher (Bruce Greenwood), now in his early 70s and, thanks to several marriages, the father of six very spoiled, desperately corrupted offspring.

The series is so jammed with flashbacks, subplots and digressions that a flow chart might come in handy. Basically, in just a month’s time all of Usher’s despicable heirs will die in bizarre ways. The common thread is a mysterious woman (Carla Gugino) who serves as a sort of Angel of Death (if you gotta go, doing so at Gugino’s hands seems preferable).

The whole thing is a huge flashback, as the doomed Roderick relates his clan’s twisted history to the prosecutor (Carl Lumbly) who has been trying for years to bring down the Usher empire.

The “Dynasty”-sized cast is filled with familiar faces from the Flanagan repertory company, as well as newcomers like Mary McDonnell as Usher’s scheming sister and Mark Hamill as the Ushers’ creepy legal fixer.

Unlike “…Hill House” and “…Mass,” I never experienced fright watching “The Fall of the House of Usher,” and that lack of emotional connection percolates throughout the enterprise. There’s a certain intellectual attraction in observing how Flanagan structures his story and, as previously stated, you can spend the whole thing picking out Poe references.

But genuine terror? Nope.

| Robert W. Butler

Lily Gladstone, Leonardo DiCaprio

“KILLERS OF THE FLOWER MOON” My rating: B (In theaters)

306 minutes | MPAA rating: R

More than any film I’ve seen in a decade, Martin Scorsese’s “Killer of the Flower Moon” has left me at a loss for words.

Sometimes that’s a good thing, suggesting a cinematic experience so overwhelming that it defies easy summation.

In this case it means I left the film with mixed reactions. It’s taken days to sort them out and I’m still struggling to come to a neatly encapsulated conclusion.

The setup:

“Killers…” is a lightly fictionalized version of David Grann’s superb nonfiction study of the notorious Osage murders of the 1920s.  With the discovery of oil in Oklahoma, members of the Osage tribe who had been settled on this presumably worthless land became overnight millionaires.  

This made them targets for predatory whites who often married Osage women.  Frequently those women— and other members of their clans — died under mysterious or outright murderous circumstances, with the oil rights reverting to their white husbands.  It took a major investigation by the fledgling FBI to uncover a cabal of conspirators behind the murders of at least 30 tribal members.

Scorsese’s film (co-written with Eric Roth) is noteworthy in that it isn’t really about solving a crime (the first federal agent doesn’t show up until more than two hours into the 3 1/2-hour film, and the audience knows who the bad guys are almost from the get-go).  Its focus is split between one particular marriage. and a study of unapologetic corruption.

After serving in the Great War Ernest Burkhart (Leonardo DiCaprio) arrives in Oklahoma to work for his uncle, William Hale (Robert De Niro), the most powerful white man living in the Osage Nation.

 

Robert DeNiro, Leonardo DiCaprio

Hale is a mover and shaker who has been among the Osage for so long he speaks their language fluently.  He advises tribal leaders and maintains that the Osage are the finest people on the planet. But beneath his benevolent paternalism there’s sinister intent.

At his uncle’s urging, the slow-witted and morally anchorless Ernest marries Mollie (Lily Gladstone), an Osage woman who, for all of her family’s wealth, is a nurturing, down-to-earth individual.  They start a family.

But little by little Ernest is drawn into his uncle’s manipulative world. Early on he participates in the armed robbery of a wealthy Indian couple; before long he’s a middleman setting up the assassinations of individuals fingered by Hale. Among the targets are his own in-laws.

The yarn is thick with moral ambiguity. For even as he does his uncle’s murderous bidding, Ernest remains desperately in love with his wife. At some point he’s going to have to choose between love and his white family.

The film’s recreation of life in Oklahoma during this period is astonishingly authentic.  Tribal customs, language and attitudes have been scrupulously researched and depicted.  Some of the long shots of oil derricks and oil pools pocking the landscape are epic (Rodrigo Prieto is the cinematographer).  Costuming and set decoration are impeccable.  The late Robbie Robertson has created a haunting minimalist musical score heavy on native drums rhythmically thudding like a heartbeat.

My hangup is the film’s emotional neutrality.  I get it, intellectually.  But I felt more an observer than a participant.

Possibly it’s best to see the film without having read the book.  That way the perfidy of the “killers” comes as a shocking revelation with attendant moral revulsion. Maybe I knew too much going into the experience.

More problematic is the focus on Ernest, a stupid, easily manipulated oaf. As played by DeCaprio he is resoundingly unempathetic, a spineless sort whose only redeeming quality is that he grows to love his wife despite his many sins against her family. (I can’t recall another major actor so willing to alienate his character from the audience, so there’s that.)

Were “Killers…” only, say, two hours long, Scorsese’s sheer filmmaking bravado might well compensate for our having to spend so much time with this thick hick. But the film’s butt-numbing length stretches matters out while diluting the dramatic impact — the movie’s trailers are more effective in this regard than the film itself.

Scorsese and Roth find some grim humor in the killers’ desperate machinations as the net closes on them (Jesse Plemons portrays the main Fed doggedly digging into the murders), but the film is largely humorless.

The saving grace in all this is Gladstone, a Native American actress whose most compelling previous performance was in Kelly Reichardt’s “Certain Woman” from 2016. Her Mollie becomes the moral/emotional center of the film, a woman radiating empathy, quiet dignity, intelligence and a sort of stoic resignation as life piles on one tragedy after another. It’s damn near impossible to explain what she does here…it’s a kind of soulfulness rarely seem on the screen.

At the other end of the spectrum is DeNiro’s William Hale, a villain with a breathtaking ability to compartmentalize the conflicting aspects of his life.  In public he’s everybody’s uncle and friend; behind closed doors Hale becomes an amoral master manipulator with an unquenchable thirst for wealth and power. Anyone smarter than the thick-headed Ernest would recognize his pervasive malevolence right off the bat.

Advance word on “Killers of the Flower Moon” has the film pegged as a masterpiece, perhaps the highlight of Scorsese’s illustrious career.

Well, it’s good. It’s got its moments.  But in my opinion not enough to fill 3 1/2 hours.

| Robert W. Butler